This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.


All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.


Copyright © Carol Falaki 2008 Birth Suburbia ISBN 978-1-4092-5214-6


Pregnancy can be a lonely experience, even when you are surrounded by friends and family. You can talk about it, you can read about it, you can even watch it, but how can you really know what to expect? This is the empowering story of four friends, three pregnancies, and childbirth. It is a tale of love and courage in the twenty-first century.

The characters and events in this story are fictitious. The birth stories are grounded in reality

The opinions stated in this book are not intended to replace the advice of medical professionals. All women are recommended to seek the advice of their midwife or doctor for care during pregnancy and labour.

About the author Carol Falaki - A midwife from 1985 until 2004, is a mother of two daughters and a grandmother of four boys, two of whom were born at home. Carol lives with her Husband in Merseyside, England.


Chapter One

Friends

Debbie heard the rattle of the wheels on the pavement long before she noticed the woman, who stopped in front of her and smiled. She has her own teeth, Debbie thought, and for her age this seemed remarkable. She looked a hundred, a thin bent reed of a woman, wearing layers of clothing despite the weather.
A miniature Yorkshire terrier sat poised in her wheeled shopping basket, on top of what appeared to be a pile of vegetables loosely covered by a tartan throw. Debbie detected a faint odour, not unpleasant, like oranges and cloves, a Christmas smell on a warm sunny day. A pale knotted hand reached out and gently touched Debbie’s stomach. Debbie smiled; she was used to it.
“Mothers never leave their children,” the old woman said.
“I have no intention of leaving my baby” “Not you dear. We are all children you know.” Debbie looked past the woman, along the street, to where Chrissy was waiting for her.
“They used to burn midwives, as witches” the woman added. “I was one you know.”
“A witch?
“A midwife dear, long ago. There’s something you should know.” The woman’s look was direct, and for a moment Debbie felt like a rabbit caught in headlights.
“Your mother is with you.” The woman lowered her hand and without another word continued on her way. Debbie watched her turn the corner. The sound of the shopping basket wheels faded into the warm air. That old familiar lump in her throat, the unresolved anxiety, returned. Debbie’s mum had died three years earlier.
“Are you coming?” Chrissy called from the doorway of the bistro. Debbie turned and walked toward her friend. “Who was that?” Chrissy asked as they stepped out of the sun and into the air-conditioned entrance. Debbie stopped to catch her breath. “I don’t know… she was strange. I’m getting nervous,” she said. “I want to get it over with. Look at me, I can’t talk and walk at the same time.” Sergio greeted them.
“Good afternoon ladies. Your table is ready in the courtyard.” He guided them through the limited space between customer’s tables, past the sweltering kitchen, and toward the open door at the back of the restaurant.
“A glass of white wine please, Sergio. What are you having? You must be so hot in this weather.
Thank God I’m not you,” Chrissy said, reclining easily into her seat like a sated leopard.
“Sorry we’re late Sergio,” Debbie held her hand to her eyes against the glare of the sun.
“Want to borrow my shades?” Chrissy asked. Debbie shook her head. She thought she could still hear the fading rattle of the wheels of the old woman’s shopping basket. She sat down and worried the gold band on her right ring finger. They were in the shade, beneath the parasol, at a table in the small cobbled courtyard at the rear of the bistro. The terracotta painted walls, overgrown with ivy and clematis, and the warm breeze together with the pots of geraniums and ‘busy lizzy,’ gave the courtyard a pleasant continental feel.
“How was your antenatal class?” Chrissy asked sipping her wine.
“You know, the usual, we were scared witless with detail for the first half and then expected to practice relaxation for the second.” Debbie’s baby was expected in three weeks; on the day before her thirtieth birthday. She felt heavy and tired. The midwife’s graphic descriptions of labour raised barely suppressed fears. Listening to her had brought mixed feelings. After the class she asked her friends Helen and Liz what they thought. She wanted to know how they felt about labour and birth, if they were really afraid. They claimed to be nervous, but they seemed so confident. I’m going to give birth and I must to come to terms with it.
“Will it make any difference? The relaxation and breathing I mean, will it help? I’m not very good with pain,” She confessed.
“Is anyone?” Chrissy said.
“But what will it really be like?” Debbie looked at Chrissy with some trepidation, unsure why she had asked. Chrissy had the capacity to be brutally frank, but she was the one with experience of childbirth. Chrissy had one child, Natalie, who was almost five years old.
“Bloody excruciating, that’s what it's like,” she replied. “Have the epidural. You can’t go wrong. No pain; let them do it for you.”
“Super,” Debbie thought. Chrissy appeared to have forgotten how anxious she herself had been before Natalie’s birth. Debbie could remember her reading everything she could get her hands on in the hope of an easy passage.
“You had forceps.” Debbie’s voice was incredulous, the word forceps sounding more like blasphemy than instruments.
“That’s what I mean, Debbie,” They’ll do it for you, with the forceps.”
“And you had an episiotomy.”
“But I didn’t feel them doing it,” she replied.
“Come on Chrissy, you felt it afterwards, didn’t you?”
“That’s true, but I had all the time in the world for it to heal, didn’t I? That bastard,” she was still bitter enough to never speak his name.
Helen always referred to Chrissie’s ex as Lord Voldemort.
“I thought he had gone off sex, but he hadn’t, had he? You know what he used to say to me when I was pregnant? His excuse for not…you know, doing it? ‘I’m afraid I’ll hurt the baby.’ Him, how? Didn’t he ever look at himself? With what?”
Chrissy laughed bitterly, unable to conceal her resentment. Mildly embarrassed, Debbie looked around to see if anyone was listening, but the other tables were now empty.
She did sympathise with Chrissy, her husband had behaved cruelly to her, having an affair when she was still pregnant, and then leaving just weeks after Natalie was born, to live with an eighteen-year-old girl, who immediately became pregnant. But that was almost five years ago now and she had heard it all before, a number of times. Today there were other things to talk about.
She kept hoping Chrissy would move on and together with Helen and Liz had tried playing cupid, inviting her out to dinner with an assortment of suitable, available men, all of whom were presented to, and ultimately cold-shouldered by Chrissy, who managed to maintain an air of cynical detachment. Insect repellent could not have worked more effectively.
It was taking her a long time to learn to trust again, too long. They hoped one day she would find someone to love and trust, and start to look forward. It was Helen who one day finally said:
“Perhaps we should give it a rest. Chrissy seems happy enough, she has Natalie, a lovely home and a job she enjoys; perhaps a man would not make it better for her. If it happens, it happens. At least we wouldn’t be to blame if we introduced her to someone who made her life a misery.”
From then on finding a man for Chrissy was taken off their ‘to do’ list. Pregnancy had brought a new set of priorities into their lives.
Debbie watched Chrissy take a cigarette packet out of her bag and rummage for her lighter before deciding not to smoke. Chrissy said nothing, but replaced the cigarettes and found a pack of mints. Chrissy said, her voice now calm,
“I should have realised at the time, you know, when he started having two showers a day and doing sit-ups to get rid of his belly; and then there was the day he washed his own his underpants, he hadn’t done that before.” Chrissy laughed, suddenly conscious of the ridiculous intimacy of her comment.
“Sorry,” she said, “I don’t mean to go on.”
“Yes, on a need-to-know basis I would give that one a zilch,” Debbie said.
“Well I know that’s nothing on its own, but there were other things.” Chrissy chewed her bottom lip.
“The working late, the phone ringing and no one there, you know all the typical signs that you don’t notice when your head is in the sand, and well, in truth, you don’t want to know, do you?”
“I would want to know,” Debbie said.
“Yes, but what would you do if you found out, if Sean was, you know, seeing someone else?” Chrissy asked her.
“I don’t know, I can’t imagine Sean doing it, he doesn’t have the time apart from anything else.”
“They can all make the time Debbie, if they want to,” Chrissy said, but added quickly, “Although I wouldn’t worry if I were you, I can’t imagine Sean doing it either. He’s so bloody organised he couldn’t handle two women, too many potential complications.”
Debbie nodded. That was true, Sean made sure that everything in their life was organised. When they first met she had found this attractive, but occasionally she secretly craved spontaneity, some demonstration of her value to him; an occasional complement or affectionate word would be nice. There were times when she felt invisible.
Contrary to what Chrissy thought, Debbie wondered if being well organised would give him more opportunity for infidelity, not less.
Looking back, she realised how quiet she had been of late, and how she could cry at the smallest thing.
At home Sean had been making an effort to be patient, but Debbie knew it was an effort for him, an effort that was wearing thin. She had found safety in silence. If she didn’t talk about the things that were worrying her she avoided more tears. In private, she could sit and let the tears flow, and she usually felt better afterwards.
A sparrow ventured close to her feet searching and picking for crumbs or anything that resembled food. Debbie was struck by a sense of recognition.
That’s how I feel, she thought, pecking for crumbs. Chrissy looked at her.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine thanks Chrissy, just thinking and I suddenly feel tired, ready for a nap, must be the food.”
As they left the bistro Chrissy invited her round to her house that coming weekend.
“I’m having a barbecue on Saturday if the weather stays like this, can you make it?”
“Sounds great Chrissy; Sean will light the barbecue if you want.”
“And what makes you think I can’t light my own barbecue?” Chrissy replied, responding to Debbie’s smirking face. She knew Debbie was remembering last time.
“Paraffin marinade is not my favourite.”
“Okay then, point taken, I’m sure Nigel will give him a hand. Helen and Nigel said they’d come if she isn’t in labour, she’s due next week isn’t she?”
They walked through the small shopping mall, stopping to look in the windows on the way, and crossing the road toward the car park where they parted.
Chrissy planned to do some serious shopping before collecting Natalie from school.
Debbie’s house was situated on the far side of the green adjoining the road where Chrissy had left her car.
“Are you alright to drive Chrissy?”
“Two small glasses and that was ages ago, I’m fine, and I’m on holiday. I’m having the week off, although the beggars won’t leave me alone and keep ringing with problems, but I’m not going in until Monday and that’s final.” She smiled at Debbie.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Debbie continued her way home across the green to collect her dog Scooter. She was tired but couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in on such a nice day.
Her spirits were momentarily lifted by the sight of two very young children who were sitting on the grass picking the heads off daisies and throwing them at each other in fits of laughter. The green was white with daisies, the sun was shining. It was a beautiful afternoon. She needed to think. Sean was at work. She had to talk to him, but that would have to wait, until later.


Chapter Two

At The Beach


Debbie sat on the beach. To all outward appearances she was relaxing and enjoying the warm sea air.
“I feel so lonely,” she thought. “Why? I don’t understand it. My baby is growing and moving inside me, I have a husband who says he loves me, and I have the support of my friends.”
But she felt remote and disconnected from all of them, like everything was on hold. Like a spectator watching and waiting for the game to begin.
She tried to see her baby in her mind but could imagine no more than a generic picture like the kind you see in magazines, scan photographs. Do all babies in the womb look so alike?
She thought about her husband, Sean, and their marriage. What was going on? Something vital had changed. Nothing remarkable had happened, but something was not right.
They had stopped communicating. They were talking, but the language had changed from familiar, easy and comfortable, to brief and distant, like an invisible screen had been raised between them. The change was recent, she thought.
A few months ago, twelve weeks to be exact, they had spent a week in Cumbria together. The weather had been awful, but that had not seemed to matter at all. It had been a perfect week of romance and indulgence. They had laughed like teenagers, and made plans for the future.
The changes in Sean’s behaviour were since then, she was sure of it. What had happened? Was she no longer attractive to him? It was certainly difficult to feel attractive while heavily pregnant, or was there something more? Had she unwittingly changed her own behaviour, or was it him?
As Debbie reflected her memory dealt her a series of shuffled snapshots of her relationship with Sean these past few months.
One by one events and feelings, which when viewed singly appeared insignificant, collectively began to create a different picture. From this new picture frightening possibilities emerged, like spectres. She closed her eyes, but there was no place to hide. The spectres took form. They would not go away.
He was coming home late from work and spending more and more time at the computer, or going for long walks alone. It was true she was no longer up to the kind of walks they used to enjoy, but he had failed to come up with a compromise, suggesting Debbie should take the opportunity to put her feet up. He would walk alone.
He was not sleeping well. Often, when Debbie went to the bathroom during the night his side of the bed was empty and the light glared thinly through gaps around the office door. If she went in he closed the page he was working on.
“Just doing a bit of catching up,” he would say turning his face from the bright computer screen, his expression as secret as the dark side of the moon.
Debbie could feel the courage and self-confidence woven around her life wane. She realised it was all far from perfect.
And it was now, with the beginning of her maternity leave, she had time during her day to wonder. Debbie could see that for the past three months she had been sleep walking through her life. She had not seen and she had not thought, until now.
Today was the day Debbie realised there was something wrong in her marriage.
The day was pleasant, with a clear sky and a warm breeze. She sat on her sweater, on the sand, her back against the white solid rocks that formed part of the reinforcement erected to hold back the tides; the potential failure of which was evident in the skeletal roots of desperate trees locked in exposed clay along the coastline.
Scooter, her black Labrador, sat at her feet the warm sun on his old back generating a familiar doggy odour that was tempered with the salty breeze. She brushed the grains of sand from her tanned legs and carelessly aimed a small pebble at an abandoned sand castle, missing it by a metre. Scooter, conservative in his responses, raised one lethargic ear.
Scattered about the beach, like spots of rainbow coloured paint from a shaken brush, people, young and old, enjoyed the afternoon. All shades, from white to dark and suntanned flesh emerged from vivid beachwear, exposing body parts that in any other setting would have been carefully hidden. Voices, laughter and cries detached by space and distance, were carried on the air.
Last week Debbie had finished work. She had anticipated delight in having some time she could call her own, for a short while anyway.
Instead she found there were too many things to think about, beside her marriage. The responsibility of bringing a baby into the world, and the forthcoming labour and birth held many fears. The cost of becoming a mother was measured in more ways than just financial.
And her body, all of the 36 pounds she had gained in weight seemed to be around her middle; would she ever be the same again? How could she be?
She had no experience of handling a baby. ‘Clueless’ was how she had described herself to her colleagues, and she meant it.
“You’ll soon pick it up,” her boss, the mother of three boys had told her. “There’s no better way to learn than practical experience.”
The closer her expected date became the more fearful Debbie became. Sometimes she dreamt about it. They were strange colourful dreams.
She wondered how it could be, that despite the countless experiences of other women, their descriptions, their stories, and with everything she had ever been told or had read about it; the prospect of giving birth remained an enigma, mysterious, frightening and exciting.
Sometimes she wished to know what it will really be like. Sometimes she thought she would rather not know.
“Stop winding yourself up Debbie,” she was talking to herself again.
She tried to enjoy the scene, to relax. The sand felt warm and gritty under her bare and swollen feet. Her toes were like cocktail sausages with painted pink tips. Helen had painted her toenails for her, and she had painted Helen’s. They had joked at the realisation they could not reached their own toes.
Finishing work, in Debbie’s plans, was a marking point, a stage further. It was so frustrating. The promise of days like today with the idea of peace and relaxation had kept Debbie going all through those weeks of feeling mentally and physically too tired, almost, to go on.
The time for having her baby was drawing near, yet where was the joy she had anticipated? Instead waves of sadness threatened to drown everything.
It was something Chrissy had said, that had triggered Debbie’s feelings of concern for her marriage. Debbie tried to remember. She wanted to clarify her thoughts and make sense of things.
She directed her thoughts back to their meeting earlier that day, in the restaurant.
Lost in thought, Debbie was attempting to recall Chrissie’s words when just in front of her a small boy, aged about four or five, was knocked off his feet by an exuberant collie chasing a ball. Debbie struggled to her feet as quickly as she could; although it was impossible to move with any speed.
She reached the boy and leant over him.
“Are you all right?”
He looked up at her and she could see that he was struggling to hold back the tears pooling in his astonishingly clear blue eyes.
“Let me help you. I’m sure that dog didn’t mean to knock you over he was so busy having fun.”
The boy nodded and attempted a smile while raising his arm for a lift up to his feet.
Debbie smiled back, then, when he was standing ruffled his black hair while resisting an urge to hug him.
“Any damage?” she asked; he shook his head but rubbed his arm nevertheless. The boy eyed Debbie with curiosity.
“Have you - have you got a baby in there?” he asked. His small hand moved towards Debbie’s stomach.
“Yes I have.” He looked up with wondering eyes, gazing over the span of her stomach into her face, and asked,
“Can you tell me something?”
“Of course,” Debbie replied.
“How did the baby get in there?”
Debbie was speechless. Her wordless mouth opened and closed more than once, while a number of explanations swam through her thoughts, only to drown during their faltering attempts to surface. Finally she decided that avoidance would save her.
“I’m sure your mummy will tell you if you ask her,” she said.
“My mummy is in heaven.”
Again the boy had confounded her. Debbie was unsure how to respond but managed a whispered.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ll explain it to you, Jonathan - later.”
The voice, very close to her, startled Debbie. She hadn’t heard his approach on the soft sand. She turned to look at the man who had come to join them, to discover she was at a disadvantage; she was standing in his shadow. He was tall and the sun was in Debbie’s eyes. She tried to make out his features. His hair was dark and his eyes smiled. This much she could tell.
“What do you say to the kind lady, Jonathan? I’m Michael Powel, Jonathan’s father.”
“Debbie, Debbie Johnson.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.”
As they shook hands he held Debbie’s briefly. He seemed to be studying her. For a moment Debbie felt uncomfortable with this, but he seemed pleasant enough and the discomfort vanished quickly.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Thank you,” Jonathan whispered. Michael Powel turned his attention to the boy.
“Are you all right, did you hurt yourself?”
“No, erm, just my arm a little bit.”
He bent down to look at his son’s arm and gave him a hug. Debbie smiled down at Jonathan. Scooter nudged her leg with his dry nose.
“Goodbye Jonathan,” she said and then to his father,
“Goodbye Mr Powel.”
She turned and walked away, then smiling back at them and waving casually she waddled in the most graceful way she could, shoeless, on the soft sand, and 37 weeks pregnant, conscious of two pairs of smiling eyes following her. She collected her bag and shoes and waddled off the beach. Scooter walked after her.


Chapter Three


Sean


As Debbie walked back from the beach with Scooter trailing behind, her encounter with Michael and Jonathan Powel forgotten, she knew why she felt uneasy. Was it possible that Sean could be having an affair? Her stomach dropped like a stone in still water.
She took a deep breath, patted her bump for reassurance and was given a small responsive kick from her baby, but this had the effect of making her feel more vulnerable. There was more than just her future alone to consider.
Once inside, the house was pleasantly cool. It was, always, perfectly clean and tidy with nothing out of place; and today smelled faintly of lemon surface cleaner and peach soap. Scooter dunked his face into his water bowl drinking thirstily and leaving small wet puddles on the floor. Then he sank onto his bed where his customary snoring began almost instantly. Debbie took some chilled fruit juice from the refrigerator. The kitchen clock chimed four. She took her drink into the living room, sank back on the couch and soon drifted into a dream-filled, restless sleep.
Waking with a start she became aware the light was fading and the room was dim. Then she noticed the curtains had been drawn, the clock on the wall declared six thirty. Sean must be home. He would be sitting at the computer working, she thought. Debbie wandered into the kitchen and filled the kettle.
“Hi love,” she called up the stairs.
“I’ll be down in a moment,” Sean called back. “Put the kettle on.”
A few minutes later he came into the kitchen, fastening a clean white shirt, his hair was wet from the shower and the familiar scent of his cologne breezed in with him.
“I hope you don’t mind love, but I’m having a pint with James.”
James Seagrave was Sean’s boss and Debbie didn’t like him, although she had made an effort for Sean’s sake.
“I don’t trust him or his motives,” she'd told Sean once. “And he has such a superior attitude. He makes me feel like an idiot, and I’m not. God knows how his poor wife manages.” Now she said:
“We hardly have any time together lately, Sean.”
“I have to go Debbie, It’s a business meeting.” Sean explained. “I’ll get a bite to eat while I’m out. You look after yourself. You don’t mind do you?”
Debbie’s heart was sinking; trying to avoid sounding selfish she replied:
“What sort of business? You need a rest, not more meetings after work.”
“He wants to discuss a development, a project of his. It’s important, Debs. Do you remember when Bob English took me on a tour of his site, the block of flats at Beachside?” Debbie nodded.
“Well, something came up and it needs clarifying. I told James about it and now we need to discuss it further. You know James, nothing’s simple. I won’t be late, I promise.”
“Fine, it’s fine,” Debbie lied, hiding her despair and trying to resign herself to another evening alone. This was becoming a regular thing. He caught her expression.
“This is something that needs to be sorted love.” Debbie nodded again. What could she say?
He pecked her on the cheek.
“See you later. There’s a good movie on Channel 4 tonight, 9 o’clock,” and he was gone, closing the door carefully behind him. He had taken one sip of his tea.
Debbie sat at the kitchen table taking comfort from the warmth of her teacup. Lost in thought, she gradually became aware that the telephone was ringing. She blew her nose before answering. It was Helen.
“Hi Debs.” Helen always managed to sound happy and this had begun to make Debbie feel inadequate. It didn’t take much. Helen was lucky. Nigel treated her like a princess.
“Hi Helen, are you okay?”
“Are you okay, more to the point Debs? Have you been crying?”
“No.”
“You sound like you have.”
“Well,” Debbie tried not to sound upset, “Sean has gone out and I just felt a bit lonely.”
“Well don’t. I’m going to my mum's for an hour. Why don’t you come with me?”
“Oh no, I’m okay Helen. Thanks.”
“Come on Debs, I need you. You know what my mum’s like, and she’s been worse this past couple of months.”
Debbie accepted, reluctantly. She realised she needed to be with someone, and Helen would do rather than anyone, except Sean.
“Okay then. What time are you going?” she asked.
“I’m leaving soon, so I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
There was just time to have something to eat, a snack. No time for a shower, but Debbie washed and changed, and this helped lighten her mood; until she tried to wear a top which had fitted a couple of weeks ago and now stretched around her breasts like a size six lycra straitjacket.
“I’m not going to make a mountain out of a molehill, I’m making assumptions, there is no evidence, it’s just my imagination,” Debbie told herself in the mirror and she was almost convinced. By the time Helen arrived she managed to greet her cheerfully and without feeling she was trying for an Oscar.


Chapter Four

Retail Therapy


Helen’s mum was called Anne. She was seventy-one years old.
Anne dressed well, she was always immaculate. She didn’t own a pair of trousers, wore her white hair in a neat bob and low-heeled shoes and stockings in the house, never slippers. She refused to wear her eye-glasses out of the house, could smile like a politician, and was a difficult woman to say no to.
Her house was large, but Anne used just a few of the rooms except when entertaining, which she seldom did since the death of John, Helen’s father.
“Hello darling, the kettle’s on. Do help yourself.” Anne greeted them, “I am just in the middle of an important deal,” and rushed off into the lounge.
“Hello Mummy,” Helen replied to Anne’s rapidly retreating back. She gave Debbie a sideways glance. Anne disappeared down the hall and into the second door on the left.
As they entered the hall Debbie and Helen had to negotiate a huge box which leant against the wall. It was addressed to Anne and bore bold black lettering A.B.S. ATHLETIC BENCH SET. Helen sighed and shook her head. Debbie blinked and read it again, out loud this time, just to check. She gave Helen an enquiring look. Helen put her index finger to her lips and whispered to Debbie: “In the kitchen,” then Helen put her head around the corner of the lounge door
“Tea, Mum?” Anne nodded. She was on the telephone. Helen beckoned Debbie to follow her into the kitchen. Debbie was gob-smacked by what she saw and shot a concerned glance at Helen.
“What’s going on, Helen?”
The large kitchen was overflowing with plants and flowers jammed into trays and boxes packed like sardines all along the worktops and across the floor. The smell of earth, soil and mixed aromatic herbs greeted them. Small puddles of water had collected around the base of some of the plants. On the draining board, beside Anne’s dinner dishes, which still contained remnants of food, was an opened box containing a set of shining new garden hand-tools. A wrought iron birdbath, out of but still standing on its plastic wrapping, stood adjacent to the back door. Squashed into the corner was a small tree in a large pot with the label ‘Syringa Vulgaris, pink, thrives in a sunny site', written on it.
“In the middle of an important deal?” she whispered.
“There’s a lot of dealing going on in this house,” Helen replied. “It’s the people on the other end of the telephone I feel sorry for. They must dread picking the phone up sometimes.”
Helen, saw Debbie’s mystified expression and laughed. She made the tea, put a few milk-chocolate digestives on a plate, picked up the tray and said:
“I know why this is going on. Follow me and all will be revealed.”
In the lounge Anne’s voice was raised, her tone was patronising. She sounded like she was talking to someone with both learning and hearing difficulties. She acknowledged Debbie and Helen with a brief look and continued.
“Yes, that’s the one dear, blue, wait no pink, yes I like the pink, and I have some pink shoes dear, so yes, the pink; just a moment. Hello dear, hello Debbie, I won’t be long.”
Anne was sitting in her armchair opposite the television, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She had a pen in one hand and the telephone in the other. A small table at her side was covered with a chaotic pile of invoices. Also on the table, were a metal container full of pens and pencils and a notebook. Beside Anne on the floor lay a metal organiser and an empty china tea-cup and saucer. The metal organiser housed her set of remote controls, but appeared out of place amongst the mahogany and chintz of the room.
The volume on the television was low, just audible when the room was quiet. On the screen a shopping channel host, who looked vaguely familiar, presented his goods in car-salesman style patter.
Debbie and Helen sat on the sofa. Helen turned to Debbie and with a heroic effort asked, as if everything was perfectly normal.
“Would you like a chocolate biscuit Debbie?”
Debbie nodded, and closed her open mouth into a smile that took her whole concentration to not become a giggle.
Meanwhile Anne continued.
“My customer number, yes dear.” Anne had written a number on a sticky label and attached it to the back of the telephone. The problem with this, Debbie and Helen could see, was that Anne could not speak to the person on the other end, and at the same time read out her customer number. Undeterred, Anne read out the lengthy mix of letters and numbers two at a time, reading from the back of the telephone, then speaking into the front of it. The whole process was repeated when the person at the other end of the telephone checked the number with Anne.
“Now what is your name, dear?” Anne said finally.
“Alice? Hello Alice I don’t think we’ve spoken before, have we? No. Would you kindly speak to that nice young gentleman Brian for me?”
Anne held her hand over the mouth piece and mouthed to Debbie and Helen:
“They’re very helpful you know.” And then back to
the telephone: “Yes, it is about the bench set. Can you tell me what time they will be coming to collect it? I am very busy you know. No he told me it was an aesthetic bench set. The one he sent is not at all suitable for the garden. Yes, I’m quite sure that’s what he said. Thank you. Thank you Alice dear, I shall look forward to it. Goodbye.”
As Anne replaced the receiver, Debbie and Helen sipped tea in unison. Helen appeared to be collecting her thoughts. Anne looked well enough. In fact she appeared to be enjoying herself and, apart from the bench set in the hall and the garden in the kitchen, she seemed to be okay.
“How are you, Mummy?” Helen asked.
“Absolutely fine dear. How are you, more to the point? You are blossoming, both of you, although Debbie, you look a little tired.”
“I’m fine thank you, Anne. You have a lot of plants in the kitchen.”
“Ah yes,” Anne replied. “There are more than I expected. I think there’s something wrong with their ordering system so I have changed to a different channel.” Anne looked directly at Helen and continued. “I was going to ask Nigel, Helen dear. Do you think he would be so kind and help me put those plants in at the weekend? I was going to send them back, but it’s such a nuisance having to return things. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere suitable for them all.”
“Of course he will Mum, but are you sure you don’t
want to send some of them back?” Her voice faded when she saw her mum’s attention had been taken by the television again. A young woman was reclining on a swinging garden chair.
“Mum,” Helen said. “Don’t you think it might be awkward to get out of that?”
“For you or for me, dear?”
Helen was suitably silenced. Her mother had a point. Helen’s baby was due in less than a week and she was having enough trouble getting up out of an ordinary chair. So they enjoyed their tea and biscuits and joked together about the idea of Anne working out with the bench set.
“I mean the very idea of it. That young man told me it was for the garden. Do you think he might have been playing a joke on me?” Anne didn’t seem to mind. She was quite jolly, almost too jolly, Debbie thought. She watched Helen’s face to see if she appeared to have concerns about Anne. It was difficult to tell. Helen seemed to be taking the visit in her stride.
They were given a whistle stop tour of the shopping channels. Anne knew all of the presenters’ names. They were thinking about home, when it transpired that Anne had one more surprise to reveal.
“I’ve got an appointment, you know,”
“What do you mean an appointment?” Helen asked.
“You know dear, an appointment, on Sunday, for lunch.”
“Do you mean you have a date, Mum?” Helen looked visibly stunned.
“I suppose you might call it a date, if you wanted to, I prefer appointment.”
“Who with?” Helen asked, not sure how to react.
“William, his name is William, and I met him on the internet; meet new friends chat-lines, that sort of thing,” Anne replied. “He looked rather distinguished, I thought, in his picture.”
Debbie admired Anne’s sense of enterprise, and smiled, although it was obvious Helen was having some difficulty digesting this new information. So this had been the reason for Anne’s behaviour, she had been behaving differently from her usual, more refined self. She was excited.
“Mother,” Helen exclaimed, “You’ve got a blind date!”
“It’s not really a blind date,” Anne said. “We’ve chatted on the telephone. He was in the forces you know, a Major. I do know how to look after myself. We’re meeting in a public place and dining in a busy restaurant. I’ll be fine, dear, so don’t you worry.”
“Which restaurant, Mum? Where are you meeting this total stranger?” Helen had calmed herself down a little, but Anne was ahead of her,
“Now there is no need for you to be thinking of sending Nigel over to keep an eye on me, Helen, I will be fine. Now off you go, it’s getting late.”
Debbie smiled and Anne hugged her, whispering
“You look after yourself, young lady. You look too tired for my liking.” Then Helen raised her hands in surrender and produced a hug for her mum.
“Good night, dear,” Anne said hugging Helen tightly. “Don’t forget to ring me at the first sign of any twinge. I want to know. I need to know Helen, so I can be with you in my thoughts and prayers.”
As they were driving home Debbie said,
“Your mum will be okay.” Helen just nodded. By the time they arrived at Debbie’s house Debbie had decided that she was not getting out of the car until Helen felt better, and she told her so.
“The Major is likely to be totally harmless,” she said
“It’s not that, Debbie, I’m sure she’ll be okay. It’s something else that’s worrying her. I know what it is, but she can’t talk to me about it, not now anyway.” Debbie held her breath for a moment and waited.
“Did I ever tell you that I had a brother?” Helen said at last.
“Yes, I’d forgotten about it though. He died when he was a baby didn’t he?”
“He died at birth, Debbie. He would be thirty-seven now. His birthday is in April, and my mum still celebrates it. Hamish, his name was Hamish and he was her first baby. She had a terrible time, although she won’t talk about it, never has, so I’m not sure exactly what happened. My mum is frightened that the same thing that happened to her will happen to me. She can’t tell me that, she has spoken to Nigel, but she
doesn’t want to frighten me; instead she has gone out of her way to keep busy and distracted, hence the tele-shopping, and Major William.”
“I didn’t realise,” Debbie said. “I’ve never seen a photo of Hamish, do you have one?”
“No, Mum never saw him. They took him away.”
“Was there something wrong with him?”
“They told Mum he was perfect, but you know, it was different then. They used to think they were protecting women, and the mothers wouldn’t be able to handle it, but I think it just made it worse. She still wonders what he looked like. If she had a memory of his face I think it would have been easier for her. Instead she was left with nothing.”
“The poor thing,” Debbie said, “It must have been awful for her. I just can’t … don’t want to imagine it. She’ll be fine, won’t she, once you have had your baby?”
“Yes, I’m sure she will. I think my being pregnant has brought it all back for her, what she is doing now, all that other stuff, it’s just an escape.” Helen said. “This Major person, I’ll ring her on her mobile while they’re having lunch, mum and him, just to check everything’s okay. Meanwhile, don’t you get upset on your own Debs. Ring me anytime.” They hugged and parted. Waving Helen goodbye Debbie called after her,
“Promise to ring me if you feel fed up? It works both ways.”
It wasn’t until she walked up the path and the
familiar unspoken, sickening ache returned to her stomach Debbie realised she had not thought about Sean during her visit to Anne.


Chapter five

Helen


Nigel was home. Helen walked in to the welcome atmosphere of an affectionate cuddle in a warm kitchen diffused with the smell of hot chocolate and toast. She sat at the kitchen table and bent awkwardly to stroke their cat, Mr Tibbs, who wrapped his flexible body around her legs purring loudly. When Helen told Nigel what her mum was up to, Nigel was reassuring,
“She’s very well able to look after herself. Let her have a bit of fun, darling. I’m sure this Major bloke will be okay. I mean, your mother is hardly likely to be a victim of date rape, and she’s more likely to be bored to death than murdered. All this stuff she’s doing, well, it’s her way of coping, and of taking her mind off the imminent arrival of our baby. You know she’s worried sick about it.”
“I know.”
He agreed to dig the plants in for Anne at the weekend with one proviso. “If our little soccer star arrives before the weekend she’s not on. I hope your mum realises that.”
Helen nodded. “Chance would be a fine thing love,” she said patting her stomach. “Not even a twinge.” Helen felt a pang of guilt. Secretly she knew that their ‘soccer star’ was probably a girl, but she couldn’t tell Nigel. He was unaware that a couple of weeks earlier, during a scan to confirm their baby’s position, Helen had been unable to resist when asked if she wanted to know the sex of her baby. She hated to keep anything from him but they had agreed at the beginning of her pregnancy to keep the sex of their baby a surprise for the day. Her guilt was compounded by the way he had his heart set on a boy. She consoled herself with the knowledge that the scan is not always right. She said to him: “Girls can play football too.”
Nigel smiled. “I know love, but not as well as boys.” He kissed her forehead tenderly, as if to seal her thoughts.
“Girls can do lots of things,” she said, smiling.
Helen saw the familiar twinkle in his eye, his train of thought successfully distracted, so she was not surprised when, later, they lay spooned together in bed and with his arms around her neck and belly, he whispered to her, “You know I am going to dig those plants in for your mum at the weekend darling?”
Helen murmured sleepily, aware of the closeness of his body.
“Did I hear you mention a small reward?” Nigel whispered. She nestled into him; her guilt tempered for
the moment. He was a gentle and thoughtful lover but for Helen the imminent birth of their baby could never be far from mind.
“Perhaps it will help get things going,” came into her thoughts, like an uninvited but welcome guest. She couldn’t help remembering what she had read - prostaglandin found on the head of sperm can help ripen the cervix, soften it ready for labour, if the time is right.
Later Helen lay awake, listening to Nigel’s easy snoring, and watching the patterns of light on the bedroom wall as the breeze engaged the curtains. She rested her hand on her belly. She did this often lately, especially when she was desperately tired but unable to sleep; when there were too many things to think about. Her baby’s irregular assaults on her abdominal wall did nothing to help, and, lo and behold, her bladder felt full again.
“Hello Chloe,” she whispered to the infant child inside. Helen imagined her baby’s eyelashes, her tiny fingers and toes, her toenails, her mouth; a tear came to Helen’s eye. She accepted the tear, as she accepted everything. It was part of the covenant of pregnancy.
Her baby was living and growing in her own miraculous universe, here inside her, so close and yet strangely unreal. She turned and watched the clock until sleep came to her at last.


Chapter Six

Liz


“Do you miss London? Wellonsey must be so bloody boring after London,” Chrissy asked when she telephoned Liz to invite her to the barbecue on Saturday. Her answer was no.
“Sometimes London is too much,” Liz told her, “Like a war zone. If you’re not advancing you’re retreating. Even in the middle of the night there’s no peace. You lie in your bed and you can still hear the traffic swarming round the city, even from the outer limits, zone four, ten miles from the city centre.” Liz had no plans to move back to London. She hoped to continue with her career. She had kept in touch with her previous employer and would free-lance. Liz had thought she might ‘expand’ into costume design for maternity wear. She was fine here at her mum and dad’s for now.
Sleep did not come easily to Liz. There were questions that kept her awake at night. Had she really known Jack? How could she ever trust anyone again?
Was her baby going to grow up without a father? How could she manage on her own?
Liz had been with Jack for five years. He was not easy to live with, moody and deep, with an unpredictable temper, usually brought on by alcohol. His mood could change in a matter of moments triggered by, what were from Liz, innocent remarks. His interpretation of situations was often incomprehensible or skewed.
He knew how to upset her using secrets she had told him during their most intimate moments. Private, secret things became weapons. Escape became her one defence. He knew her well and used her willingness to forgive and to forget, her ability to see good in everyone. To Jack this was a weakness, something to take advantage of. He called Liz naive and gullible, among other things.
She realised after a few months of being with him that living with Jack was like living with two different people.
Jack was clever enough to hide the darker side of his nature from the outside world. To others, with the exception of her boss Cathy, who had intuitively sensed his true nature, he was ‘a good laugh’, clever, indulgent, even charismatic, and that was how Liz saw him at first. The good Jack. The bad Jack was manipulative and cruel.
During the later part of their relationship he had enjoyed his freedom, going out to the pub,
meeting the lads, business meetings - whatever. He always had ‘important’ things to do. Liz was not allowed to question his movements, but she had to explain all of hers to him.
He didn’t like her seeing her friends and, over time, Liz had become more and more isolated; she had even changed the style of clothes she wore; it made life easier not to provoke him. Her work took her out of their home, which at times had begun to feel like a prison.
Jack appeared to sense when she was unsettled and considering leaving him. She never had to say it. At these times he would become loving, and sometimes morbid, telling her how he could never live without her.
“I want to be buried with you, Liz. You are the only one who has ever understood me.” Crap, all of it.
Now she had escaped him her perspective had changed. She could see what he was, and she felt used; worse than that she felt incredibly stupid. Why had she stayed with him for so long?
Here, in the comfort and peace of her old bedroom, at home, she couldn’t understand it. She had loved him, but his love and his approval were like the end of a rainbow. The more you chased it the further away it went.
He had maintained his power over her by undermining her confidence, convincing her she would
never find anyone else and she couldn’t survive without him.
“Have you put weight on?”
“I liked your hair better before.”
“That colleague of yours, Sandra, she’s very friendly, does she work out?” She could see through his method so clearly now, now she had the confidence to look. The silver was off the mirror; the glass was clear. He was manipulate and selfish. He wanted her to feel insecure.
Often they would go to his favourite place to eat, a small Chinese restaurant close to where they lived. And this is how it would go.
The evening would start with pleasant conversation, good food, and romantic comments all washed down with cheap wine and swallowed like water in the desert, but followed by: “You fucking bitch, you know I hate it when you smile like that. I don’t know what you are thinking.”
Her heart would sink. Already she knew the rest of the night was set in stone. If she played it right Liz could get home first and lock herself in the back bedroom, she kept the key in a secret place in her handbag. Or she could hide. If he was drunk enough he would give up looking for her, and crash out on the couch, or the floor.
Liz remembered how he would always be so very sorry after his cruel outbursts, buying her chocolates and flowers and appearing desperate for
her forgiveness. This became meaningless when the same scene, and the same cruelty, would be repeated again, over and over; the glaring maleficent eyes inches from her face; his face threatening, exploding with anger; saliva spewing from his mouth with verbal humiliations and obscenities, followed again by the desperate apology and excuses.
“Please forgive me, I didn’t mean it. I had a shitty day at work. You always take it out on the one you love. Isn’t that what they say?”
Too forgiving, that was her weakness. Then she became pregnant.
When Liz told him he blamed her. How had she got pregnant? Had she done it on purpose?
No, she hadn’t. She was sure of that. There was no way she wanted to bring a baby into that environment. Liz had been on the Pill. The doctor said it was probably the antibiotics that caused them to fail, and Liz hadn’t realised that she needed to use extra precautions while taking them.
“I’m just not ready for kids. Can’t you do something about it?”
“What do you mean by that?” Liz asked him, stunned.
“You know what I mean, get rid of it. It’s easy these days isn’t it?”
“It’s not easy for me!” Liz yelled and threw the cup out of her hand at his head, missing, by just a few centimetres.
What Jack didn’t know was Liz had already had an abortion, many years earlier before she met him, when she was still at school.
It was something she would not do again. This was a painful memory. There had been so little time to decide what to do, then afterwards a moment of relief followed by forever to think about it. There had been one kind doctor.
“Whatever circumstances you find yourself in, in the future,” the doctor had said, “Never forget your circumstances today; things will change; your life will be different and you will look back. You are having an abortion now because of the reasons you have now.” This helped, but Liz still looked back, and wondered.
After the cup throwing Jack left the flat to go to the pub and Liz rang her mum. Before Jack returned Liz had packed everything she valued into her car and was on the motorway heading home to her mum and dad. She left him a short note.
Contact me, and you’ll end up paying for this baby until he or she is eighteen years old. Leave me alone and you won’t. Liz knew his weakness too.
That had been in February, and Liz had not heard from him since. She suffered no regrets about leaving him and was relieved at his lack of effort to contact her, which clearly exposed his feelings or lack of them. Her feelings for Jack had left her numb. Then, gradually, over the past few months, she had begun to
feel more relaxed, her confidence was returning. Liz was learning to believe in herself again.
She had envisaged problems with work but Cathy had been very understanding.
“I always said you were too good for him. Good riddance I say, but don’t you be a stranger Liz, we will miss you here. If there’s ever anything I can do, just pick up the phone.”
With her contacts in London and the reputation she had for hard work and innovative design, Liz planned to work freelance, but for now all of her energy was focused on her baby and, in a strange way, she was almost looking forward to the birth.
The pain of labour held no fear for her; although a few people had told her that she was being unrealistic. Liz knew this was not true. She was not expecting it to be easy, but it was just one day, one day of hard work and pain, with a reward at the end of it. She would know what to do when the time came.
To Liz it felt like a club she hadn’t joined yet. The ‘what’s it like to give birth club'. She wondered if it would be worse or better than she expected.
“Possibly both,” her mum, Maggie, had said, and she should know.
Maggie had plenty of personal experience of birth. Liz had three brothers, all of whom were older than her. Maggie was 55, 5 foot 2 inches in her stocking feet, possessed a swallow-tail smile and short wiry hair, cut neatly to frame her oval face.
Maggie was sharp. Her belief in the ability of women to do most things better than men, encompassed the rights of women in childbirth.
Maggie worked in the local Citizen’s Advice Bureau. After Liz had her abortion, Maggie had become a lay member of the local Maternity Advisory Committee. This decision was born from her desire to help and support pregnant teenagers.
Being on the advisory committee had given Maggie an insight into local maternity care, especially regarding areas of confliction between the hopes and expectations of women and the reality of what was available to them. When Liz told her mum she was pregnant, and she was happy to be pregnant, Maggie’s own beliefs and preferences were made very clear to her.
“Nowadays,” she told Liz, “women having a baby are considered to have a condition which requires some form of medical treatment, when often but not always, time and patience will work just as well. Birth, without intervention, has become a mystery, even to many of the so-called experts. What you need is a good midwife, support from someone you trust, and belief in yourself. You also have to be prepared for a tough day; labour is rightly named. It is hard work.”
“What about the doctors?”
“You need to be signed up for your maternity care, regular checks and all that stuff - that way problems can be identified, if they arise, but you will need a
doctor if you have problems. The midwife can, and will, provide all the care you need for normal pregnancy and childbirth. Childbirth is a dynamic aspect of nature,” Maggie told her, “Powerful creative and beautiful, something that belongs to women. It is not the manufacture of goods on a production line. Nature does not work by the clock.”
“Did you know that I have the right to choose where I have my baby?”
“Yes,” Maggie’s reply was hesitant; she thought she knew what was coming, and held her breath.
“I want to have my baby at home, Mum.”
Liz set her jaw in such a determined manner; Maggie could see she was anticipating opposition.
“Will you go into hospital at the first sign of a problem?”
“Of course I will. I just want to try and do everything right this time. I hate the idea of being in labour in hospital.”
Hospitals always made Liz feel nervous. Her boss Cathy had first mentioned the idea of home birth and immediately Liz warmed to it.
“Okay,” Maggie nodded her head slowly, like this decision had added to the weight of it. It was a test of her beliefs, of the ideals she had argued for all these years, the right of a woman to choose. Having committed herself, Maggie decided she would do her best to help Liz get what she wanted, and offered her support.
Since becoming pregnant Liz had developed an insatiable appetite for any information about pregnancy, birth, and caring for her baby. She explored every available source; books, the media, the internet and her friends and contacts. Some of the topics, particularly those about dealing with the complications of labour, left her feeling cold. Still, in order to prepare herself, she wanted to know what to expect. It was more than that. She needed to know. Somehow, she felt knowing what to expect would help protect her. It became more and more important to her to make the right choices, and to avoid the imposition of treatments or interventions she didn’t want.
Liz and Maggie spent many hours planning and anticipating. The worst thing about it all was the uncertainty.
“You are travelling from pregnant woman to mother, but it’s like spaghetti junction, there are so many routes, and any number of hazards,” Maggie said to her one day. “Remember; you are the one at the steering wheel and there are ways you can maintain your sense of control.”
“Try not to be afraid of the pain,” she continued. “I know that is easier said than done, but the pain of childbirth does have its uses, like letting you know it is time to find a safe place to have your baby, and not allowing you to think about anything else. Without the pain of childbirth women would have their babies in some very awkward circumstances.”
“The pain gets worse as the birth comes closer, so you know it is coming closer. You know you are making progress.”
“If you are standing, or kneeling, during labour the pain causes you to move your hips, you know rocking and swaying, you’ve seen women on T.V. doing it. Weight-bearing on your pelvic joints helps to make a little, and sometimes vital, extra space for the baby to get through your pelvis. The movements you make also help you handle the pain.” Maggie read the doubt in her daughter’s eyes.
“I know I am right; look it up, what do you think your pregnancy hormones do? They soften the pelvic joints so that when you are weight-bearing, standing or kneeling and moving or rocking, extra space is made for your baby to fit through. There is purpose to the pain.
“Giving birth is a right of passage, Liz. It is a life-changing event, terrible and wonderful at the same time and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
The more Liz read the more she realised that her mum’s ideas and beliefs were shared by many women, and confirmed by much of the research on normal labour.
They tried to include Harry, Liz’s dad, in their conversations, but he’d just say, “Women’s stuff, leave me out of it,” and retire into his newspaper.
Harry worked for the local council, in an office where he lived a virtual life, creating and moving
pages of emails and memos from one place to another; and where he emerged from this world, occasionally, for meetings. At home his virtual existence continued, for most of the time. Television, newspaper, dozing; at the weekend when he worked on his allotment, and had a pint or two of real ale at the Grape and Dragon, he came to life.
Harry was a gentle man, rounded in every sense of the word. Life had removed all of his edges. Maggie was sharp enough, and busy enough, for both of them.
He retained the power to surprise. One day, Harry demonstrated his own joy at the prospect of becoming a grandfather, by producing a cot, complete with blankets and a soft white teddy, without having uttered a word. Liz went into her room late one afternoon there it was.
Liz sometimes worried about being a single parent, and how it might affect her baby. So, between reading the child-birth literature, she read books and magazines about parenting by the cart-load, and she talked to Chrissy, who had almost five years experience as a single mum.
Every day Liz practiced her yoga and relaxation and took a long walk, although recently her pelvis had become painful, clicking when she walked, and Maggie had suggested she rest more and stopped lifting.
“Rest and listen to your body,” she said. And so Liz rested her body, but her mind remained busy.
The rest and relaxation helped, but the pain persisted and Liz took advice from a physiotherapist. Her hip clicking and low back pain was caused by pregnancy hormones, which had the effect of loosening her pelvic joints to help make space for her baby’s passage. Her mum was right about those hormones.
When Liz returned to her mum and dad’s home to discover Helen was still living next-door she was delighted, especially on finding Helen was also pregnant. They now had so much in common. Liz fell easily into company with Debbie and Helen. Together they could share their worries and fears about pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood. They compared their experiences, discussed what the midwife or doctor had told them at antenatal clinic and compared symptoms, heartburn, piles, constipation, stretch marks. When their babies arrived they planned to continue to support each other.
In her room each night Liz put her hands on her stomach. She lay on her bed and spent time talking to her baby, who was always active late into the night. Liz told her baby stories of her own childhood, and recited fairy tales and poems. Sometimes she would sing, or play music. Her baby always responded to Queen – I Want to Ride My Bicycle - by kicking like mad. This made Liz laugh. It was her favourite time of the day.
This was also the time of day when she imagined being inside a ‘bubble’ at the bottom of the sea. It was a trick her yoga teacher Diane, the mother of three, had suggested. Liz was practising for labour, and even though it was impossible to imagine what it would be like, still she tried.
“When the wave of a contraction approaches,” Diane said, “keep your bubble on the stormy sea bed. Don’t let it be swept away. Keep control. The contraction will pass, and you will still be where you want to be, in a familiar place, inside your bubble. The main problem is keeping it up; treating every contraction, no matter how strong it is, with the same determination.”
Liz noticed how her baby responded to her relaxing times and her anxious times. When Liz was anxious she was aware the same raised levels of adrenalin circulating through her blood, also circulated through her baby’s bloodstream. Did this mean that her baby also felt restless, or even frightened?
Liz realized she couldn’t prevent herself from being anxious some of the time, but she could balance this in the best way possible by creating some peaceful and some happy times for herself and her baby. With this in mind, as well as her favourite rock music, she also played Mozart and Beethoven, much to her father's delight.
About a month after she had come to stay with her mum and dad in Wellonsey, when she was 20
weeks pregnant, Liz had an unexpected, cathartic experience.
She was in her bedroom. The bedroom had been her own since she was two years old. She knew the dark shadowed corners, the creaking floorboard and the thin crack on the wall beside her bed, which took the shape of a seagull, a vampire bat, or twin mountain peaks; whichever it chose to be.
The crack always returned, slowly claiming its place, even when it had been filled before being painted over.
She knew about the old man, the one who had died there before her family had come to the house. It no longer worried her, but, when she was a young child she had often hidden beneath the covers, listening, and afraid to look out.
Liz was 11 when she found the photograph, wrapped in faded blue velvet, under the loose floorboard. It was a photograph of young couple. They were dressed in old-fashioned clothes; immortal in sepia, sitting closely together, but not touching, on a checked rug, beneath a spreading tree. Their shadows reached long on the ground and became one.
On the back of the photograph was written 'Darling Dora and Bill.1928'. Bill bore a remarkable resemblance to Andrew Penn, a boy from the fourth form when she was at school, who all the girls in her class, including Liz, fancied like mad.
Liz spent many hours studying the
photograph, romancing, imagining. She decided this was the man who had died, there in that room; that her bedroom had been his, and Dora was his secret love.
After this, fear of the shadowy corners left her; Bill became her ally. Liz confided in him. She gazed from the window. Had Bill stood here, watching the same trees bud and blossom, and the clouds swell and dissolve in the same sky? Now the photograph was framed and on the wall, the seagull crack beneath it, a cupboard of stored memories.
On this day, nearly four months ago now, Liz, at 20 weeks pregnant, had been sitting on her bed. Her mum and dad were at work. It was mid-afternoon and a shaft of sunlight was caught and refracted through a glass paperweight on the window ledge. The resulting rainbow settled like a multi-hued halo around another photograph on the wall.
The photograph was of Liz, when she was around ten months old. Liz had felt her own baby move, she was sure, for the first time that same week, and, while she lay on her bed watching the rainbow on the image, her baby moved inside her again.
Between Liz on the bed and Liz in the photograph was a lifetime. What did life have in store for this baby growing inside?
Liz cried, silently at first; then she began to shake, and a palpable grief swelled and grew until, in
resonant sobs, it burst out of her filling the room with her crying. The force of her grief was so powerful that Liz was rendered beyond inhibition. Sobbing became wailing and tears stung hot on her face, salty on her lips. All of the injustice and pain she had suffered at the will of Jack rolled on through her thoughts, one after the other, even forgotten things. Like a moving picture, they were all there, a dream, a nightmare from another time and place.
As the tears and the sobs subsided Liz became aware of the noise she had been making and thought about the neighbours, but this did not trouble her for more than a moment because, although she was suddenly very tired, she felt light. She was calm for the first time in years and it was wonderful. That calm feeling stayed with her for days afterwards.

Now, with five weeks to go before her baby was due, when Liz thought about Jack she remained calm. She was free.
She loved her waxing, gibbous belly and the new life developing inside. It replaced the black hole that had been her relationship with Jack. Her life had entered a new orbit.
What difference would it make if Jack had met someone else? None, she had her own life now. She knew she was free of him. Their relationship was over and in time he would be forgotten.
But her innocent baby would always be there to remind Liz of how she could never be completely free of Jack. He was, and always would be, her baby’s biological father.


Chapter Seven

An Invitation


It was Friday and Chrissy had been shopping. Everything she needed for the barbecue was in the boot of her car, except for the bread. She would buy that tomorrow.
She waited beside the school gates, with the other parents, and studied their footwear to pass the time; flimsy sandals, suede loafers, training shoes and high heels. Her own feet looked quite pretty in her new sandals. It was a shame about the blisters; they burned like glowing cinders under newly laid coal.
Some of the women were chatting. All of the men stood alone. Most eyes were fixed on the entrance. Chrissie’s feet were killing her, she had had enough. She slipped her shoes off, and the pleasure she felt in the touch of the cool grass between her toes reached all the way up to her eyes.
She watched Natalie cross the playground with amusement. She was deeply engrossed in animated conversation with a boy of her own height. Natalie was growing so quickly. Her fifth birthday was
a couple of months away. The boy was unfamiliar to Chrissy; a new friend for Natalie. His hair was unruly and black and contrasted with Natalie’s short blond curls.
“Mummy,” she called excitedly when she saw Chrissy.
“Mummy, can Jonathan come to our barbecue tomorrow? Please, please.”
“Well I’m sure he’s very welcome, Natalie,” Chrissy replied, “but we will have to ask his mummy.”
“I’ll ask my daddy,” the boy said, a delighted expression on his face, and he led them to a man standing by the railing.
Chrissie’s attempt to introduce herself in her usual business-like manner; the one she reserved for all men she had never met before; the one which meant, “I am equal to you, keep your distance and don’t give me any bullshit,” was foiled by the need to tread carefully in her bare feet, swap her shoes to her left hand in order to greet the boys father, and unexpectedly, by finding herself looking at a man with an interesting face. She decided to put her shoes on. Her feet were hot and her shoes were tight. The skin was dragged from a blister on her heel. She tried not to wince.
“Can I go to the barbecue daddy, please?” Jonathan asked his dad, and Michael Powel turned to look at Chrissy, who again surprised herself by saying:
“You are welcome to come, with your wife, of
course, if you are not sure about leaving him with me.”
“Jonathan and I would both like to come, thank you.” Chrissy thought he was smiling, but she wasn’t sure.
“Do I look alright, Natalie?” she asked once they were safely seated in the car.
“You look lovely, Mummy.”
“Flatterer.”
Chrissy did not sleep well that night. She spent half the night working through a mental list of preparations for the following day. Higher on the agenda than usual was what to wear. Chrissy dressed well, but she usually did this spontaneously and without much planning. There were far too many other things to do.
At eight o’clock in the morning Natalie came into her bed and snuggled up for a few precious minutes, before becoming restless and impatient to start the day.
Chrissy slipped into her comfortable house trousers and a tee-shirt. They ate a light breakfast together before she enjoyed her first cigarette in the garden, while Natalie watched T.V. She was cutting down on the cigarettes, but it wasn’t easy. Delaying her first one until after breakfast had been the most difficult part of the plan. Now she felt quite proud of herself, yesterday she had smoked only seven. A year
ago it would have been 25.
She had enjoyed her week away from the office, but it had passed too quickly. It was Saturday already, and Chrissy was determined to make the most of what was left of her holiday.
Luckily the weather was fine and dry. She had spent some time working in the garden during the week, so it was tidy and colourful. The first job was to ensure that there was plenty of seating on the patio, and more seating by the pond and under the goat-willow tree in the corner. Once this was done she could concentrate on the food preparation. From the bottom of the garden she could hear the muffled voice of a sports’ commentator, coming from a neighbours’ open window.
Chrissie’s thoughts took her back to her childhood when Saturday meant endless horse racing on T.V. when her father was home. She remembered, although she preferred to forget, how he would behave like he was riding his selected horse, perched on the edge of the sofa with an imaginary whip in his hand, his bottom lifting off the settee when the race neared its climax; then he would slump back, beaten, to rise from the ashes of his cigarette and make his selection for the next race. His fantasy world of a quick and easy financial fix was often interrupted by her mother's shouts of annoyance and frustration. Diffused smog of cigarette smoke, and burned fat from the previous night's chips, cooked by her father through a haze of
beer after the pub had closed, was another feature of Saturdays, cleared after the racing was finished and her father had gone out. Their chip pan ought to have been given a place in the Guinness Book of Records for fire damage, but it was not the only thing to overheat in that house. How she hated it.
Blazing arguments were the norm; and shouts, often followed by crashing, sounds of broken glass, or flying objects hitting or missing their mark. She would lie awake in bed with her sister Marie listening, waiting for peace. When it was quiet it was safe to go to sleep.
Chrissy could never ask her school friends to her home. They wouldn’t understand the ripped wallpaper, the broken window – there was always one - the chaos. They came from homes where dinner, cooking on the stove, greeted you with its appetising aroma, and the knowledge that someone was preparing for your homecoming; where the soap in the bathroom was perfumed and smooth, not soggy with dubious grey ridges. They never knew how she envied them.
As soon as she was old enough Chrissy escaped. Growing up in that environment had taught her how to survive. Before long she was able to help Marie, who was a year younger than Chrissy, leave home and join her. They helped each other through college sharing a small bed-sit, and when Chrissy started full-time work, they progressed to a flat. Their
parents had long since gone their own separate ways. Her dad lived somewhere down south, she didn’t care where. Her mum had made a new life in America, where she had married a distant uncle for her green card. Chrissy and Marie had not seen either of them for years.
Her childhood was another life, a secret life, and one that Natalie would never experience. Chrissy was determined that Natalie would have all of the chances she hadn’t had herself.
She turned her back on the sound of the commentator next door and finished sorting the garden furniture.
Inside, Natalie had gone up to play in her bedroom, leaving the cartoon characters on the T.V. screen to perform crazy antics to an empty room. Chrissy switched the T.V. off and turned on the radio.
As she prepared trifle, and fruit salad, she sang along, joining in with the selection of songs being played; humming when she didn’t know the words. She enjoyed the preparation for entertaining. Her guests were coming around four; there was plenty of time. The wine, beer and numerous fruit juices were already in the refrigerator.
Throughout the morning Chrissy washed and prepared the salads, made the marinade, set out the glasses, cutlery and crockery and sorted the lighting, including candles. Natalie came into the room.
“Can I help, Mummy?”
“Of course you can, darling. I want you to go and pick out your prettiest dress and lay it on the bed ready for later; then we are going to the supermarket to collect the bread. When we come back we are going to make ourselves look beautiful.”
“Can I be Peter Pan, Mummy, please, please?”
Chrissy smiled, Natalie had been role-playing for the past couple of years. The roles she picked were invariably male, no princesses for Natalie. A pirate - Jack Sparrow was the most recent - but she always came back to her favourite, Peter Pan. Peter Pan could fly. The outfit she planned to wear today was new, her second; she had grown out of the first.
“At least the eye patch with the skull and cross-bones on it will remain in the wardrobe,” Chrissy thought with relief.
“You can wear anything you like darling, but you must remember it’s a barbecue, and you might get ketchup on it.”
“I’ll be very careful, I promise. When I’m eating I’ll use a serviette,” Natalie said, jigging up and down with excitement.
Time passes swiftly when every minute is full. Very soon it was time to shower and change. Natalie followed her mum into her bedroom, to watch herself un-sheath her plastic dagger in front of the full-length mirror, and fence with her reflection.
“What shall I wear, Natalie darling?” Chrissy asked,
although she already had something in mind.
“I’m Peter. You are Wendy Darling,” Natalie replied, and Chrissy knew that she would be Wendy for the rest of the day, when she wasn’t Mummy.
“Of course, my apologies to you, Peter.” The telephone rang. It was Debbie.
“Do you want us to come over a little early, Chrissy, so Sean can light the Barbecue?” she asked
“No, its okay, everything is sorted. Helen and Nigel will be a bit late. They rang half an hour ago. Nigel wouldn’t explain, not over the ‘phone, so you both just come when you’re ready. Sean could light the barbecue when you arrive, if he doesn’t mind.” Then she added: “I hope everything is okay with Helen.” As she replaced the receiver Chrissy replaced a mildly nagging concern with logic.
“Nigel would have said if there was a problem,” she thought, “And they would have cancelled.”
Returning to the wardrobe she elected a stylish pink dress. It was cut on the bias. This flattered her figure, and although the neckline was low enough to allow some anticipation, it was not so low as to threaten impending escape.
“You look pretty, Mummy.” Natalie said. Chrissy finished styling her hair.
“Thank you, darling Peter, now let’s finish our preparations downstairs.”


Chapter Eight


School Friends, Old Friends


Natalie’s excitement was overflowing by the time doorbell rang announcing the arrival of their first guests.
It was Marie, Chrissie’s sister, and her husband David, with baby Emily, six months old, chubby and delectable.
“You look fabulous, Marie,” Chrissy said with delight. Marie had felt low for some time following Emily’s birth. She had put on a lot of weight when she was expecting Emily, and her self-esteem had plummeted for a while. Yet here she was, looking like her old self again. Chrissy hugged her with joy.
“Size 14,” Marie said giving a twirl in the hallway. “And Emily has started to sleep through. It’s amazing what a good night's sleep can do for you.”
“Not every night,” David added. He carried Emily in and a huge innocent and beautiful smile, from a drooling mouth, exposed the eruption of two bottom front teeth, set in pink gums.
“She gives kisses,” Marie added proudly, and to demonstrate David held Emily out towards Natalie, whose attempt to kiss her was returned with wide open slobbery lips.
“Eeeh,” Natalie complained, and rubbed her wet face with her hand. Chrissy held Natalie’s dry hand and led the way into the kitchen.
No sooner had Chrissy poured her guests a drink when, the doorbell rang again.
“I’ll get it,” Natalie exclaimed, running off down the hall. Chrissy followed her. It was Debbie and Sean. It struck Chrissy that Debbie looked tired, and so did Sean.
“You look lovely, Debs," said Chrissy. "Hello Sean, come in, Marie and David are here already. They’re in the kitchen. Come and get a drink, there’s an assortment of fruit juices. Debbie, what would you like?”
Chrissy appeared flushed, but it suited her; Debbie thought she looked radiant.
Secretly Debbie envied Chrissie’s trim figure, she felt like a blob, and she knew that Chrissy was just being nice to her by complementing her appearance. She felt unlovely and miserable, but smiled. She felt anxious, her anxiety a hunger, yearning for a taste of reassurance from Sean.
Dressing to come out was always difficult lately. Shoes were a problem because her feet were
swollen and her choice of outfit was now reduced to the few items of clothing she could fit into. She had wanted to buy a new dress but Sean had protested.
“You will only be able to wear it for a few weeks now, and with the baby coming we need to consider how we spend our money.”
He was right and she had agreed with him. So she did her best with what she had, and spent extra time on her hair and make-up.
“How do I look?” She asked before they'd set off.
“Fine,” Sean said, hardly glancing at her. He was preoccupied, Debbie knew he was, but she didn’t know why. They had not spoken in the car on the way, and she found herself fighting back tears. Sean noticed. After he parked the car in Chrissie’s road he turned on her.
“Now what?”
His words, a bitter demonstration of his impatience with her, hit her like an Arctic wind and she wished herself at home in bed. He had never been like this with her before she became pregnant and she wanted to ask him why, she wanted to explain to him how she felt, but knew he was in no mood to listen, and she was afraid of his response. Not that he would harm her in a physical sense, but that what he said would confirm her worst fears. Perhaps they could leave early, she thought. Debbie smiled at Chrissy and said: “You look lovely, too.”
Sean said his hellos to Marie and David,
admired Emily and offered to get the barbecue going
“Thanks, Sean,” Chrissy replied. “You’ll find matches in the drawer by the sink.” With that he escaped to the garden; stopping on the way to have a mock sword fight with Peter Pan in the kitchen, and grab a beer from the refrigerator.
Debbie put on her bravest front.
“Hello Marie, hello David, I haven’t seen you both for a couple of months; Marie, you look great, and Emily, just look at how she’s growing.”
“We are great, thanks Debbie,” Marie replied, and David complained that everyone was forgetting to say how great he looked.
In the kitchen Chrissy pointed to the food and drinks, instructing them all to help themselves, before proceeding to check the meat in the marinade. When the doorbell rang again Peter Pan flew past them.
“I’ll get it, I’ll get it.”
“I’ll go with her,” Debbie volunteered.
Two men stood at the door, one of them Debbie recognised was Tom, a good friend of Chrissie’s, one of the few men Chrissy gave any credence to, a colleague from the days before she had her own business. The other, younger, man looked familiar.
“Hello, Tom,” she said, “It’s nice to see you again.” Tom smiled and gave Debbie a friendly hug.
“You are blossoming, you look gorgeous Debbie. I do believe that pregnancy suits you.” Turning to his friend he said: “Don’t you think so, Leo? Have you
two met before?”
“I think so, although it was a while back.” Debbie smiled at Leo.
“Leo, you remember Debbie?”
Leo was a beautiful young man. He was dressed in jeans and a white tee-shirt. His sunglasses, resting comfortably on the top of his head, were half lost in a mop of dark hair styled in a ‘just got out of bed’ sort of way. He smiled warmly at Debbie, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. When Leo spoke she saw his tongue was pierced with a small gold stud.
“Of course I remember Debbie,” he said giving her an affectionate hug, “You’re Scooter’s mum, how is he?” And Debbie remembered when she had met him.
“Oh yes, Scooter fell in love with you, at that picnic in the park, didn’t he? He’s fine thanks, Leo, although I think he is feeling his age nowadays.”
“Aren’t we all?” Tom said. “Did you bring him?”
“I’m afraid not. He would have been delighted to see you, I’m sure, but he would have been begging for meat all evening, and his stomach is not up to it any more. You must come and visit.”
At that moment Natalie came running to them. She threw herself at Leo, attaching herself to his leg while attempting to reach her small arms around his waist.
“Uncle Leo, look I’m Peter Pan. Will you come and play with me? You can be Hook.” Leo bent down to her
for a hug.
“I’m going to say hello to everyone first, but I promise later.”
Debbie stepped back, still smiling, to allow Tom and Leo past her. Her attention was drawn to a small boy running up the path towards the house. To her surprise she recognised the boy from the beach, Jonathan. He was closely followed by his father, the man with the smiling eyes, Michael. She smiled to welcome them to her friend’s house. Natalie let go of Leo and bounced towards them.
“Jon, Jon,” she exclaimed. “Come on, hurry, I have to show you this,” and the pair ran straight up the stairs chatting excitedly.
As she greeted Michael, Debbie’s confusion must have been apparent, because words failed her. She felt self-conscious and was aware that her confusion at this unexpected meeting was not well hidden. Again he came to her rescue, while she stood with her hello still inside her open mouth.
“Hello,” he said, “We met on the beach. I’m Michael, Jonathan’s father.”
“Yes, I remember. Hello again. Debbie, I’m a friend of Chrissie’s, and she held out her hand, which he held for a moment. Then strangely it was Michael who seemed lost for something to say, or did she imagine it? After a short pause he said: “Yes, Debbie.”
“Are you coming in?” she asked, still unsure if he was dropping Jonathan off or staying for the barbecue.
“I’m coming in I hope,” and she allowed him in.
He was taller than she recalled, his clothes casual and expensive, giving an impression of effortless style. His cologne reminded her of vanilla ice-cream.
Debbie reminded herself that pregnancy had altered her sense of smell. His manner was confident. It would be difficult to imagine him anything other than calm and unruffled, in any circumstance.
She led the way to the kitchen. The room was filled with chatter and the smell of fresh coffee and strawberries. A muffled Sting was singing ‘Fields of gold’ from a small speaker hidden among flowers on the Welsh dresser.
Chrissy and Tom were hugging affectionately and Leo was shaking hands with David. Marie had gone out into the garden with Emily. Near the wall, at the far end of the garden, Debbie could see Sean’s familiar back. He bent over the barbecue, a secretive genie emerging from a growing smoky cloud as he worked at the coals. What was going on in his mind right now? Whatever it was she had no idea.
Michael followed Debbie into the kitchen, and stood in the doorway. She noticed how Chrissy quickly released herself from Tom’s hold, and lowered her eyes for a moment, before greeting Michael with a simple handshake. Was her complexion still flushed, or more flushed?
Tom sensed he had been dropped and
turned to see who or what had triggered Chrissie’s reaction. Introductions were made, drinks were poured and polite and friendly conversation followed. The men made their way out to the patio and Debbie watched Sean come over to introduce himself to them. He had met Tom before and they quickly fell into conversation.
Debbie stood close to Chrissy at the worktop where she was turning chicken pieces in the marinade. She was conscious of her friend's delicate perfume, and her femininity, she realised she had not seen Chrissy in that dress before.
“Who is he?” Debbie whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
“You’ve met Tom before.”
“Chrissy, you know who I mean.”
“You mean Michael? He is just Natalie’s friend’s dad,” Chrissy replied.
“He was outside the school, waiting,” she explained.
“It was Natalie, she wanted Jonathan, and I invited his dad too. They are new to this area,” Debbie couldn’t resist saying: “He’s widowed, you know.”
“I know, Jonathan told Natalie,” Chrissy replied, turning to scrutinise her friend. “How do you know that?”
“Jonathan told me, on the beach.” Leaving this comment in her wake Debbie picked up a tray of nibbles and took them out to the patio, she was having fun now, at her friend’s expense, but she loved Chrissy too well to tease her for long and returned to her side
to enlighten her.
“Jonathan was knocked over by a dog and I helped him to his feet, that’s all,” and she smiled. “Chrissy,” she whispered, “I do believe you fancy him.” Chrissy flashed her eyes in response.
“Of course I don’t. Do I?” Debbie laughed and put her arms around Chrissy.
“It’s about time.”
“I wonder what has happened to Helen.” Chrissy remarked, changing the subject. “Have you heard any more?”
“No I haven’t, perhaps Liz and Maggie will know when they arrive.” Sean came in for a beer,
“Almost ready,” he said. He passed in and out of the kitchen and glanced at Debbie, to judge her mood; that’s how it felt to her.
They didn’t have to wait long for Liz and Maggie, who made their entrance through the back gate, drawn by lively chatter wrapped in lump-wood and sausage smoke.
Liz looked stunning, Debbie thought, and again became conscious of, and dissatisfied with, her own appearance. The idea that she could feel envious of her friends exacerbated her misery. Liz was managing to look glamorous and sexy at 36 weeks pregnant. She was wearing a red skirt which skimmed her hips, with a short black tee-shirt revealing her smooth, tanned pregnant belly. Her shoes were skimpy black sandals, with a short stiletto heel that
was high enough to be not quite sensible for pregnancy, and flatter her long tanned legs. Her hair and make-up were perfect. The men stood up when she came into the garden. She gave Leo a hug.
“Leo Starkey,” Liz exclaimed with pleasure, “I haven’t seen you for ages.” They hugged and fell into a rapturous exchange of “How are you?" and "Where have you been?" and "What have you been doing?”
“Mum, you remember Leo; he was my best mate at school. We used to do our homework together.”
“Of course I remember Leo,” Maggie said. “He was the one who dyed all of your father’s underwear pink.” To which they both burst into laughter.
“Yes, do you remember? We were dyeing some tee-shirts and didn’t rinse out the washing machine.”
“Is your dad here?” Leo said with mock dismay.
Liz and Maggie entered the kitchen carrying a bottle of wine and some flowers for Chrissy. Greetings and kisses were immediately followed by enquiries into Helen’s well-being. Maggie explained how Nigel had knocked on her door at around 8am. Helen had thought she had been bleeding.
“What do you mean, thought?” Debbie asked, “Did she bleed?”
“Well it was a bit of a confusing story,” Maggie replied. “So I’ll let Helen explain herself. They’ll be here soon I expect.”
“Who’s the dishy guy with the dark hair?” Liz asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.
“Tom’s friend, Leo,” Chrissy answered. “You know Leo.”
“No I don’t mean Leo, you know who I mean Chrissy; where did you find him?” Liz said, glancing over to where Michael was standing, and whispering to Debbie.
“Trust us to be pregnant, Debs. Anyway I’m going to throw caution to the wind and flirt like mad, because, - well - for the fun of it,” and she strolled into the garden, fruit juice in one hand, a strawberry in the other, intent on enjoying the sunny afternoon.
“You know Maggie,” Debbie said, and she meant it from her heart. “It’s great to see Liz relaxing and enjoying herself. Remember how worried we were about her when she first came up from London. She looked so drawn and tired, and now just look at her, she looks fabulous. It must make you happy.” Maggie smiled her swallow-tail smile.
“We were worried at first, Harry and I, but you know Liz, she just got determined. She will make the best of this situation. At least she is free to be herself again. That does make me happy.”
There was a loud thud from upstairs.
“What are those kids getting up to?” Chrissy sighed. Maggie volunteered to go up and investigate. “Leave it to me, I’ll sort them out.”
Looking into the garden Debbie saw that Michael and David were talking with Sean at the barbecue. Leo was sitting next to Liz with Emily on his
knee talking to her in baby language. His fascination was returned by Emily, who was smiling from ear to ear. Tom, Marie, and Liz were already deep in animated conversation, interspersed with spontaneous laughter.
The doorbell rang; it was Helen and Nigel at last. Debbie and Chrissy greeted them with,
“How are you Helen? What happened? What did they say? What did they do?”
Helen said
“I think I need that glass of wine now, Chrissy.” She sat down at the kitchen table.
“A small one, please.”
“Help yourselves to whatever you want,” Chrissy offered, and Nigel poured Helen a glass of wine, opened a beer and excused himself, retreating to the garden with a tray of raw sausages.
“Off to join the men and leave you all to your women’s talk,” he said then glanced at, and then appeared to refer to, the sausages. “Please be gentle with me when I return.”
Maggie returned with the news that all was well upstairs. Peter Pan had fallen off the bed but was fine now, and they sat at the table to listen to Helen’s story.
“It was just so embarrassing,” she began, “Having to tell them about the tissue, you see I didn’t know, not definitely. It was when I opened the curtains that I saw it there on the floor, where I’d put it, but I didn’t know if it
was last night or this morning.”
“What do you mean; the tissue?” Chrissy asked, while Maggie smiled.
“We had done it, you know, made love, last night, and I had got up to go to the toilet afterwards. Anyway this morning we made love again; you know what he’s like.” Debbie and Chrissie’s mouths were open. No, they didn’t know.
“Well,” Helen continued, “This morning I just used another tissue and then fell back asleep.”
“I’m not surprised,” Chrissy exclaimed. “You were knackered.”
“So when I opened the curtains, there was this bloody tissue on the floor. The doctor was very nice, but she asked me did I notice any blood last night, but I didn’t because I went to the loo in the dark. She was like a detective. Nigel was scarlet. ‘Do you live in a cave?’ she asked. I think she was trying to make a joke, we were so nervous, but I never turn the light on to go to the loo at night, do you?”
“I don’t either; I don’t want to put the light on and wake up,” Debbie said
“Most importantly, are you alright, is the baby alright?”
“Yes we’re fine, thank goodness. They looked at my cervix, with a speculum thing, a bit like a smear, and they said there was no sign of any bleeding.” She looked at Chrissy who grinned and said
“Because of the sex?”
Helen nodded and continued: “They monitored the baby’s heartbeat and that was fine. My cervix was closed, wouldn’t you know. I don’t think I am ever going to go into labour.” Helen took a sip of her wine. “The whole experience gave poor Nigel a bit of a fright, and he’s committed himself to celibacy until after the baby.”
With unfortunate timing Nigel put his head into the kitchen and said: “The sausages won’t be long, would anyone like one?” They all laughed.
“Helen doesn’t want any.”
“Carry on,” he said. “I deserve it.”
Chrissy remembered she had guests to entertain, and dressed the salad, after showing Nigel the meat, fish and vegetables she had prepared for the barbecue.
“Leave it with us, Chrissy,” Nigel said. “Sean and I will sort that side of it,” adding: “Helen, don’t forget to ring your mum, tell her I’ll come and bed those plants for her tomorrow.” He kissed Helen on the cheek and whispered something in her ear.
“That’s amazing,” Debbie said, “You can still make Helen blush after all these years.” Nigel smiled, and took this as the compliment it was intended to be.
Michael came into the kitchen,
“I didn’t know you knew Mike, Chrissy,” Nigel said.
“In truth I tagged along with Jonathan,” Michael said.
“Chrissy and I met at the school gate. It’s Jonathan
who is Natalie’s guest, and Chrissy was kind enough to invite me along,” Michael explained. “Is Jonathan behaving himself? I haven’t set eyes on him since we arrived at the door.”
“They are both fine,” Maggie said. “I’ve just been up to check on them, although he was wearing a hook and an eye patch.” Michael smiled,
“Can I be of any help?”
“You just go and relax,” Chrissy said.
Nigel suggested: “Come and give Sean and me a hand, you can keep us stocked up with beer.”
Debbie took three beers from the refrigerator and passed them to Michael. Their hands touched and she allowed her eyes to meet his. Once again Debbie felt self-conscious, pleasantly confused. Chrissy handed Michael the opener.
“Shall I help you to open them?” she said. At once Debbie saw how Chrissy, who had spent the past five years of her life treating all men with contempt, seemed shy and unsure of herself when talking to him. And there was more. Her usually composed behaviour had vanished. Debbie watched Chrissy move between her guests, her eyes occasionally glancing in the direction of Michael. Helen, too, had noticed; how could she not?
When Michael left the kitchen Helen beckoned Chrissy to come and sit down. “Bring your wine,” she commanded. “We need to talk,” and
Chrissy did what she was told. Debbie and Maggie sat with them.
“First of all we need to know a little more about him," Helen said
“About whom?” this question from Chrissy was ignored.
“Nigel knows something, I’ll find out what later. Secondly,” Helen continued, “you need to play it cool, Chrissy. Don’t make anything obvious, you look great, you are lovely, be quietly confident, be mysterious, don’t gush, you’ll frighten him off.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Chrissy protested, and Debbie, Maggie and Helen disintegrated into laughter.
Liz and Marie, clutching Emily, came in from the garden.
“What’s going on here?” Liz enquired, and Helen explained, ignoring Chrissie’s protests.
“I agree, absolutely Chrissy,” Liz said. “And I’m totally jealous. He’s delicious.”
In the end they all agreed Chrissie’s best plan was to just be herself, how could he resist? But she was to try her hardest not to make her attraction to Michael too obvious to him, not yet anyway.
“Keep him guessing, sis,” was Marie’s advice, and then her attention was taken with Emily, who began pulling at her shirt, and vocalising her hunger.
Marie sat down, and deftly opened her shirt, allowing Emily to locate her nipple. Emily latched on
and was soon feeding contentedly.
“It hasn’t always been so easy,” Marie explained to her friends.
Debbie was impressed by Marie’s casual attitude to breast-feeding in public. There was no embarrassment.
“She wouldn’t latch on at first, it was awful. You start to think you are never going to get it right, and people keep telling you different things. I thought Emily was going to starve. I know better now, but at the time I worried that I couldn’t do it, that I wouldn’t produce enough milk, and I was so tired, I can’t describe how tired I felt.”
Chrissy had gone to the refrigerator for a cold drink for Marie, knowing how thirsty she became when feeding Emily.
“Thanks,” Marie continued.
For Marie, recounting her difficulties to friends helped her to resolve her own thoughts and actions, while at the same time she was hoping to help them each make their own decisions about feeding, and perhaps encourage them to give breast-feeding a try.
“What helped me the most was a kind midwife, when Emily was about four days old and I was about ready to give up. Emily was screaming. She was inconsolable. I was crying, David’s mum kept saying, 'Give her a bottle,’ but I didn’t want to, you know cow’s milk is for cows as far as I’m concerned,
and I remembered Sue, you know Sue Edmonds, she gave up breast-feeding and her baby still didn’t settle, had colic until he was four months old.” Marie checked herself, looking at her friends.
Debbie folded her arms. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do. Breast-feeding did not appeal to her, and she felt guilty. She glanced at Emily, whose eyes were closed, and saw how her little fists were clenched with pleasure while she fed.
“I’m not saying what you should do; you may not want to breast-feed. I’m just saying how I felt.” Marie went on.
“It was important to me, but still, I nearly gave up that day, when this midwife I was telling you about, Lorraine her name was, came and sat down with me. She held Emily to calm her, and then she asked if she could see her at the breast. ‘She won’t do it', I told her, but Lorraine wanted to watch. So she did watch, and Emily wouldn’t latch on and Lorraine was able to show me where I was going wrong. She showed me how to hold her to help her latch on, and she showed me different positions to try, lying down, sitting up, and how to check that her position was correct. You see, when she wasn’t on properly she could have been sucking all day long and not getting much milk at all. No wonder she was crying - she was hungry. The milk comes out when she’s positioned correctly and sucking.”
“How can you tell?” Liz asked.
Marie beckoned Liz to come closer.
“It will probably look a bit different with your new baby, Emily is an expert now and goes on and off to please herself, she likes to look around while she’s feeding and sometimes stops to laugh or gurgle.” Marie looked up to see Liz, Debbie and Helen leaning over to watch,
"What you have to look for,” she continued, “is that your baby’s chin is against your breast, like this,” and she leaned forward to show them.
“Her bottom lip should be turned outwards and a good amount of the lower part of your areola needs to be surrounded by, almost concealed inside, her bottom lip, her mouth needs to be wide open and it should feel comfortable to you.”
“Don’t your nipples get sore? It looks painful to me,” Debbie asked.
“Not necessarily; mine did a bit, at first, but that was because she wasn’t positioned correctly. Also, you sometimes feel the milk come through, the ‘let down,’ and that can be uncomfortable for a moment, but if your nipples get sore it nearly always means your baby is not in the right position.”
“Doesn’t she want to feed all of the time, though?” Debbie persisted. “And how do you know how much she’s getting, you can’t tell, can you?”
“I just feed her whenever she wants,” Marie replied. “It was difficult at first, but then it became so easy. How much she is getting is not really the most important thing, you can’t measure it like you can a
bottle, but I remember Lorraine calling breast milk ‘rocket fuel', she said you can’t compare it with cow’s milk, which is what formula milk is made from, ounce for ounce breast milk is more nourishing than cow’s milk for our babies; it’s like comparing silver and gold.”
“Marie is right,” Maggie said, “But all babies are hard work. Breast or bottle-fed they will cry, and they will wake you in the night and require attention when you are desperate for rest or sleep. Getting as much rest as you can, whenever you can, is paramount. Your health may suffer otherwise, and remember,” she added, “and I’m talking from experience here. Superwoman does not exist. That’s why you should do whatever feels right to you, never compare yourself with others, and don’t feel guilty. No-one does everything perfectly.”
Debbie knew this, but easily forgot it. She made a promise to herself to try to remember.
For Debbie there was an element of reassurance in the way in which both her individuality and her sense of belonging was supported by the company of her friends.
Still, the journey to motherhood was one that each of them had to complete on their own, and the knowledge of this permeated every aspect of her pregnancy. Debbie knew how lonely pregnancy could feel at times.
From the corner of her eye she became aware of two small figures, standing in the doorway. By now the sweet, smoky aroma of barbecued chicken had drifted across the garden and pervaded the house.
“We want a burger,” Natalie demanded, Jonathan by her side.
“Please.” Both of the children’s eyes were fixed on Emily.
“Go ask Uncle Nigel, sweetheart, he’ll put some burgers on for you,” Chrissy said, and Natalie tugged at the arm of her friend.
Jonathan was transfixed by the sight of Emily feeding. He did not move at first and he ignored Natalie, who said impatiently: “Come on Jonathan, let’s get a burger.” Debbie saw Marie glance at him and smile.
“This is how Emily has her lunch, Jonathan,” she explained. Jonathan stepped closer.
“Come on, Jonathan,” Natalie insisted putting her face between Jonathan and Marie. The spell was broken and he turned and followed her out into the garden. Once outside they ran and skipped across the lawn towards the smoking meat.
Debbie watched his small back retreat across the lawn. She felt the desire to pick him up and cuddle him. She remembered that she had, only half an hour ago, teased Chrissy with her knowledge of Michael being a widower. The awful reality was that Jonathan had lost his mother.
God forgive you Debbie Johnson.
She was surprised, by an unexpected kiss on her check. It was Sean, back from his self-inflicted exile in the garden. Debbie turned to him, relieved that their quarrel was to be ended. Her eyes met Michaels’. He had followed Sean into the kitchen.
“I’ve been having a good chat with Michael here,” Sean said. “It appears he’s acquainted with James Seagrave. Got to be careful what you say to these newspaper guys though, hey Mike?”
“We’re not all bad you know, some of us do have a conscience.” Michael said. Sean was smiling; He’s almost relaxed, Debbie thought.
“Right ladies,” he said, “There is a ton of food out there; all of it ready to be eaten. Chrissy have you got another dish with a lid?”
With her newly cultivated cynicism Debbie decided his change of mood was probably alcohol induced, but she allowed herself to unwind, a little.
She watched Chrissy pass Sean a dish and give Michael some plates to take out. Chrissy was making an impressive effort to appear cool. She had slowed her reactions and injected a deeper tone to her voice.
“We’ll be out in just a moment,” she almost whispered, then turned and screwed her face at Helen and Debbie, out of sight of the men.
“Oh, right,” Michael said, glancing around the room and retreating gracefully into the garden. Sean followed him, dish in one hand beer in the other.
“Don’t wait 'til it goes cold, ladies.” Sean called back to them.
“Stop watching me,” Chrissy hissed, after they had gone. “I am in full control.” In return for this she was given a room full of Cheshire cat grins.


Chapter Nine


In the Garden


They entered the garden and a blast of warm air enveloped them.
“Out in the sunshine at last,” Tom said.
“We don’t know how long we’ll last in it.” Helen said, already wafting her face with a napkin. Debbie put her cold glass to her neck.
“I’m hot even when it’s cool lately,” Liz exclaimed.
Tom and Leo offered Debbie and Liz their seats in the shade and moved two more around for Helen and Marie.
Emily had fallen asleep and Chrissy put a clean sheet on a sun-bed, which she placed in the shade, close to the patio. Marie laid Emily there so she and David could relax, and at the same time watch their sleeping baby. Emily’s sleep had taken her beyond the constant chattering and the background music and she slept soundly. Leo appeared to be smitten with her, and sat on the grass sipping his drink and watching her sleep. Tom strolled over to the men
at the barbecue.
Natalie and Jonathan sat together close to the pond enjoying their burgers and chattering.
Maggie fetched some cushions to support aching pregnant backs, and Chrissy brought out some tall glasses and a large jug of fruit juice rattling with ice. Debbie thought how relaxed Helen looked. She appeared to have recovered from her hospital visit. She was chatting to Liz who wanted to know everything about the labour ward.
“I only saw one room,” Helen replied, “and that was a bit glum, you know, shiny pastel-coloured paint, no window and things on trays.”
“What sort of things?”
“You know the sort of things, syringes, needles and a torch.”
“This jug is overflowing,” Chrissy said, aiming for a glass, but the fruit juice spilled out onto the table
“A bit like mine are sometimes,” Marie laughed, and beckoned them all to come closer; quietly she said: “There is something else I didn’t mention about breast-feeding.” They all leant a little closer.
“This really amazing thing happens,” Marie continued, “When David and I are making love. My body is able to separate its functions, but I don’t know how. When he kisses one breast the other leaks, and it’s never the one he is kissing. It’s really weird. We’ve even done a test, you know, trying the other one first. ”
“Do you mean it’s like your breasts know it’s him
and not the baby?” Helen asked.
“Well, my breasts are part of the whole me aren’t they? But it’s weird, because it’s not something you are conscious of, is it? There must be a hormonal response to what going on, but it’s somehow separated into a baby and a husband response. I’ve never told anyone else about this, so I don’t know if it happens to other women.” Liz said,
“Have you ever heard of it Mum?”
“I haven’t,” Maggie confessed.
“That is weird,” Liz said, and turning to Marie again asked,
“How does it feel, when you’re feeding? Is it sexual? I heard that sometimes it can be; is it?”
Marie smiled at Maggie. She didn’t know her as well as the others. Maggie said:
“Don’t mind me. I’m just interested, like everyone else appears to be.”
“No, it’s more sensual, not sexual,” Marie continued. “There’s a closeness with your baby that feels both relaxing and right, well, once you’ve got over those first few weeks and you are comfortable with it, then you feel more confident. When I’m breast-feeding and I lie down with Emily to feed her, I have a legitimate reason to stop and rest. I know this is our time together and I can allow myself not to feel guilty about resting. I love it now.”
“Oh, there is something else you ought to know about sex and breast-feeding” she added. “Remember to have a towel by the bed,” and
laughed at her captivated audience. “You all look like cats in an aviary,” she said, and they laughed together.
“When you do get back to making love,” Marie continued, “if you have an orgasm the milk starts squirting out all over the place.”
This produced a roar of laughter, followed by a few questioning glances from the men across the garden. Then Helen said, encouraged by the openness of the conversation and her own curiosity:
“Have any of you noticed that you can have multiple orgasms while you are pregnant, or is it just me?”
“It’s just you, Helen,” Marie replied with confidence. More laughter followed and Liz added dryly: “I wouldn’t know, would I?”
Debbie felt too shy to respond, but found fun in the conversation nonetheless.
“You’re not alone, Liz,” Chrissy added. “I’ve been celibate since, well, since I can’t remember.”
A deliberate cough erupted from the ground close by. Like a Wimbledon crowd they turned their heads. Liz laughed and Helen’s face coloured, they had forgotten Leo, sitting on the grass within earshot.
“Well ladies,” he said, “this has been very educational, but I’m beginning to feel like I’m eavesdropping. I might be too young and innocent to hear any more.” Chrissy laughed: “You’re in the right place here Leo; we are all young and innocent. Come and join us.”
Watching Leo get up and fetch a chair to sit
next to Liz, Debbie wondered if he and Tom were a couple.
“The conversation over there will be all football and politics,” he complained. He sat down.
“You ladies are much more entertaining.”
Natalie came over to test Chrissy about cake and ice-cream. Jonathan was lying on his stomach on the grass playing with a stick on the pond, his father wandered over to him and Debbie watched Michael sit down next to his son, their two heads together in secret, comfortable conversation.
Chrissy took Natalie into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Leo leaned back in his chair looking at each of them in turn, with curiosity; his mouth opened and closed and Liz said: “Go on, Leo, fire away, we’ll answer your question, if we can.”
“What does it feel like,” he asked, “to have a baby inside you?”
“It feels like they squashed a football stadium into a football, and my stomach is the football,” Liz said.
“It feels like someone connected my naval to an automatic air hose, one of those for topping up the air in tyres, and then it got stuck on slow, and I just keep filling up and up,” Debbie added.
Helen looked at Leo. She put her hand on her stomach. “I know the breath, which touches my lips as I breathe in, will also touch her. I know she’s a separate person, but she’s not an individual, not yet, because her existence depends on my existence. She is totally
dependent and she, or he, is a part of me for now. I am growing and protecting a living moving person.
“Are you having a girl?” Debbie asked her.
Helen shrugged and whispered: “I don’t know,” but averted her eyes, and this told Debbie a different story, tactfully Debbie continued.
“I think I know what you mean,” she said,
“I try so hard to imagine what my baby will look like, to see him, or her, to imagine a person, and sometimes when I sit quietly and close my eyes I think I can, but I don’t know.”
Helen added thoughtfully: “When do they have a soul, I wonder?” For a moment there was silence.
“Do they have thoughts like us?” Liz asked, and then answered herself. “Well, I suppose they can’t really, no language.”
“I think a baby is all instinct at first,” Helen said, “But they do respond, to music, voices, anything like that, don’t they?”
Maggie added: “In my experience babies appear to recognise their parent’s voice, I think they recognise familiar music and never startle at the bark of the family dog. They have heard the dog barking from within the uterus.”
“I know babies can cry a lot,” Marie added, “but I just love to see a baby smile, It gives me a feeling of hope for humanity whenever I see a very young baby smile, because that smile is one of the first things they
learn to do, smiling, being happy and responsive must be an essential part of them, of us.
“They must have a need for love and cuddles,” Leo said.
“Yes,” Marie agreed, “Lots of cuddles; I don’t think you can spoil a new baby with too many cuddles, they need them all. But I had to get to know Emily. The first time I saw her, I think I was too exhausted because I didn’t have that overwhelming feeling of love that you hear about, or expect. I felt guilty about that; now I know that it happens to a lot of women.” She looked over to where Emily lay and said: “Now it’s difficult to remember what life was like before she came.”
“When the baby moves,” Leo was curious, “how does it feel, does it hurt? Is it uncomfortable?”
“Yes, it is uncomfortable, sometimes, but it doesn’t hurt,” Debbie replied.
“Unless they keep kicking you in the same place, over and over,” Helen said. “It can start to feel a bit bruised then.”
“You know that movie ‘Alien’?” Chrissy had return from the kitchen and was determined to add her bit.
“Chrissy!” they chorused. But Liz agreed: “No, it does feel a bit like that sometimes, like you are about to go pop!”
“There are experiences associated with being a woman that I don’t envy,” Leo said. “The thought of giving birth, that’s one of them.”
Tom came over, with a plate of cooked
chicken. Chrissy went off to the kitchen and returned with salad and crusty French bread.
“Stay where you are, ladies,” Tom offered. “I’ll fetch some cutlery.”
Nigel made regular trips to their table carrying dishes of succulent lamb kebab and chicken hot off the barbecue. Chrissy fetched the salads.
They ate hungrily at first, the food smelling and tasting delicious in the garden air, and then, appetites sated, continued slowly to pick at the food while chatting.
The late afternoon was marginally cooler. The slight change in temperature was enough to make Debbie feel less hot and bothered and more comfortable. Every now and then she would watch Sean, who appeared to be relaxed and enjoying himself.
He had taken charge of the cooking and could be heard making requests and giving directions. She couldn’t help wondering about Michael, and found she was comparing them.
Michael was quiet, but that may be because he didn’t know any of them very well. He appeared comfortable and had been chatting to each of the men in turn. Helen was right. It seemed that he had already met Nigel. They were talking now. An occasional laugh arose out of their conversation and crossed the garden in transient waves, to be absorbed by the sounds of other voices, gentle clatter, and background music.
Jonathan and Natalie sat on the grass plotting their next adventure. A bee worked in the pot of geraniums by her feet. Debbie’s baby stirred.
“I am going to have my baby at home, I have made up my mind,” Liz announced. She glanced at her mum and then went on. “I went on the tour of the maternity unit last night; that decided me. When I saw that awful bed in the middle of the delivery room, and listened to the midwife while she presented all of this medical equipment, so matter of fact, I thought, ‘no way’. I felt I would be trapped. Having my baby would really mean confinement, on that bed, with a monitor strapped to me. I am not going to just lie on that bed, like I’m ill, and have things done to me. I am going to give birth. I have decided that I am not going to be to be confined, unless I have to be.”
“I wish I had the courage to do that,” Helen said, “But I would be so worried about the baby. What if something happened, I think I would blame myself.”
“What if something were to go wrong?” Debbie asked, looking incredulous. The thought of not going into hospital to have her baby had never crossed her mind.
“Liz has told me how she feels,” Maggie said, “And we have talked everything through. I believe that the choice must be hers, and she has a good point when she talks about not wanting to be confined to bed for labour, which is what so often happens in hospital. We are only ten minutes away from the maternity unit; Liz
can be transferred in if she has any problems.”
“Apparently,” Liz added, “It’s just as safe at home for you and your baby, providing you have had problem free pregnancy and you are well.”
“That’s true,” Maggie agreed, “but what Liz had to consider was, with this being her first baby, she is more likely to be transferred into hospital during labour than a woman who has already had a baby. Being transferred in the middle of labour is not much fun.”
“At least a one in three chance of being transferred,” Liz confirmed. “Although not necessarily because there’s a problem, it might be because you want an epidural.”
“That’s still too high for me,” Helen said
“Being in labour doesn’t sound like much fun either way,” Leo said.
“No, Leo, thank God you are a man, eh?” Chrissy was on her fourth glass of wine and was ready to throw caution to the wind. Debbie had noticed how she kept glancing over to where Michael was now standing and leaning over to Chrissy she whispered,
“Are you staying cool and mysterious?”
“It’s bloody difficult, Debs. How am I doing?”
“Super, you are beginning to sound like the television when the adverts come on. Turn the volume down, just a little.” Debbie smirked and they both began to giggle.
Talking about labour made Debbie feel anxious, but the need to know everything possible
about it outweighed all other reason. She wanted to know all there was to know; just in case it would help her on the day.
It was like watching a movie which frightened and enthralled at the same time. Debbie always went to make a cup of tea at the scary bits, but kept looking back because she didn’t want to miss anything.
“Would anyone care for a coffee?” Chrissy asked, and proceeded to take requests. Michael offered to help. Chrissy stopped to kiss Debbie’s cheek on her way into the kitchen with him.
“Cool,” she whispered.
“Mysterious,” Debbie replied, and caught her glass before Chrissy accidentally knocked it off the table.
“What about pain relief?” Helen asked. “You might change your mind about an epidural.”
“I don’t want one, you end up with a drip, sometimes a catheter, you can’t move around, and you are more likely to have interventions, like an episiotomy and forceps, or perhaps a caesarean. No thanks,” Liz explained. “And you and your baby can get a raised temperature.”
“But how do you know if you can manage without one, until you know how it feels?” Debbie asked.
“That’s the difficulty, isn’t it? We don’t know how it feels, and we don’t know how long it will go on for, until it happens. I think that must make it more difficult. Knowing how long you have to cope with the pain must be an important part of the equation. For me now the
important question is what do I want? For you the question is, what do you want? Debbie, I know that I don’t want an epidural if I can help it.”
“It depends how bad the pain is, doesn’t it?” Helen added.
“How you feel can also depend on who is with you and the environment you are in,” Maggie said.
“There are many things that will affect how you feel on the day. Not necessarily things that take the pain away, but things that help you to work with the pain and help you to get through. If you don’t want pain then you go for the epidural, but, like Liz says, that often comes with a price.”
“But having all that pain, that’s a big price to pay,” Debbie protested. “And what if it goes on for ages?”
“You have to decide, Debbie,” Maggie replied. “You must allow yourself to choose what you want and try not to compare yourself with others.
“There are as many birth stories as there are people on this planet and every one of them is different. The important thing is to feel safe, comfortable and supported.” My midwife said that at the antenatal class.” Helen added.
“And time,” Liz added. “Time is a product of culture, not nature, yet women have to labour against the clock. Have you ever considered the possibility that so much is geared towards the system, and that the some of the information we are presented with is propaganda? Being pregnant appears to mean that I have choices, but if I don’t understand what my choices really mean
to me and my baby, how can I be expected to make the right ones?”
“But there is so much information, how do you choose?” Helen wondered.
“Women used to be in labour for days on end,” Debbie said.
“I don’t advocate going back to that, I mean - providing everything is alright with you and the baby - just being allowed to wait for things to progress naturally, if you are happy with that; rather than being persuaded into things you don’t really want,” Liz explained. “You don’t question it, what they tell you I mean, do you? You always think they know best, and you feel vulnerable.”
“Or you want to get it over with as quickly as possible,” Debbie added reasonably.
“Yes and if that’s not enough there is always the, ‘It’s best for your baby, dear',” Helen said.
“But what if what they are suggesting is best for your baby?” Debbie was feeling confused. She agreed with much of what Liz was saying but there were many imposing issues to weigh, one against the other.
“Do you trust your own instincts?” Liz continued.
“I do sometimes.”
“Do you doubt yourself?”
“I do,” Debbie replied, and Helen and Leo nodded in agreement.
“Have you ever wondered why you doubt yourself?”
Liz asked.
Debbie suspected Liz had suffered, and could understand her desire to demonstrate this rekindled belief in herself, and she admired her for it, but she had her own reservations. She had grown up with the belief that a hospital was the safest place to have a baby, even though she disliked them, and also felt afraid of going into one. It just seemed that it was the proper thing to do. Michael had appeared with a tray of steaming coffee cups.
“Who’s having coffee?” Debbie moved some of the clutter from the table to make room for it.
“Thank you,” she said to him. "He has blue eyes," she thought, still wondering about the way he looked at her. Was she imagining it? She forgot to tell him she hadn’t had a cup of coffee for months.
“My pleasure,” this time he spoke quietly, it seemed to her alone; then he returned to the kitchen.
“I just believe,” Liz continued, “That I am the one who knows how I feel, better than any doctor, midwife, or anyone else for that matter and I have an overwhelming sense of protection towards my baby. I will go into hospital to have my baby the moment there is a problem that means it will be safer there than at home.”
“You would think that women could have the best of both worlds in this day and age,” Leo said. “Somewhere where you can feel at home and have emergency care on hand if you need it.”
“There are some places like that,” Maggie
agreed, “Midwifery Led Units, but they are few and far between, we looked around. Women get transferred from these units to the obstetric hospital if there’s a problem, like they would from home.”
“What can we do?” Helen asked, “You feel vulnerable when you go into hospital, and you have the baby, not just yourself, to consider.”
A distant roll of thunder interrupted their conversation. Debbie watched Sean. He looked up to the sky, then, continued talking to David and Tom, stopping every now and then to turn the last of the food on the barbecue.
“Good timing,” he called over to them indicating towards the sky as he spoke. “This is the last lot.”
“Find out as much as you want to know beforehand,” Maggie said, going back to the subject of childbirth. “Don’t be afraid to ask as many questions as you need to about why they want to do this and that to you, and remember you can say 'no', or, 'I’d like to wait and see'. Expect labour to be very hard work and painful, most are, but don’t be afraid of the pain. If your fear increases so will tension and pain. The pain is there for a reason. It’s there to tell you to find somewhere safe to have your baby, and to stimulate movements like rocking, which help the baby through your pelvis. Pay attention to it and accept it if you can. It only lasts for a while. Most of all believe in yourself and your ability to birth your baby.”
“I don’t want any pain,” Debbie said.
“But you are having a baby, Debbie,” Maggie
replied. “You can’t avoid it altogether, an epidural is there if you want it, or you need it.”
“I want to believe I can do it but it’s so difficult when you don’t know what it is going to feel like, or how long it will last,” Debbie said.
“Yes I know,” Maggie agreed. “And the contractions become longer, more frequent and stronger as your labour progresses, but that tells you that you are progressing, after all if they didn’t do that, if they just stayed mild and easy, then you would never progress and get to the end of it.
What you can do is focus on each contraction and, rest in between each one. Try not to think about how long your labour is going to last. If you can do all that, it will help.”
“That is it is easier said than done.” Marie said.
“You are all very serious over here,” Nigel had appeared at the table. He kissed Helen on the cheek.
“How are you doing, love,” he asked her.
“I’m fine,” Helen replied.
“You don’t look fine.”
“We have been talking about labour,” Debbie explained.
“I think it is all a bit scary now,” Helen suggested. “Especially after the events of this morning, you know, having been into the hospital.”
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“No,” Helen protested, “I did ask and I did want to
know, so I’m grateful for your advice. It makes sense.”
“Don’t worry love, I’ll be with you all the way,” Nigel offered.
“Would you like the pain, instead of me?”
“I would take a share of it, if I could,” he replied. Helen smiled at him.
“You can help, more than you realise,” Maggie suggested. “There are lots of ways you can support Helen in labour you know.”
“Well yes, I do actually,” Nigel said proudly. “We went to an active birth session on Wednesday night and I learnt all kinds of things.”
“Yes, Debbie, Liz, you should go, It’s a one off session, for women and their birth partners. It was quite good, made us talk about what I wanted to try during labour,” Helen said.
“Was it couples?” Liz asked.
“Mostly couples, but there were some single girls there too. There was one with her sister and one with her mum.” Helen suggested. “You could go with your mum.”
“You should get Sean to go with you, Debbie,” Nigel added. Then he stooped down to level his eyes with Debbie’s and spoke quietly to her.
“What’s the matter with Sean these days? He’s not his usual self. In fact he’s sounding a bit cynical and he looks like shit, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
This observation, coming from Nigel, was unexpected and Debbie felt her eyes fill up.
“I don’t know, Nigel,” she replied, “I have tried to talk to him, I was beginning to think it was me, you know that I was imagining it, so I’m glad you’ve noticed.”
“Look,” Nigel went on, “If the right moment comes up I’ll try and ask him. See if I can get to the bottom of it, eh?”
“Thanks, Nigel, but you’ve got enough on your plate, don’t worry, I’m sure it will pass.” I wish I really believed that.
Emily started to stir and Leo stood immediately and made to go and to see to her but was not fast enough, David got to her first.
“Hello darling, here’s your daddy,” and he picked her up.
“You’ll have to try it, mate,” he said to Leo, “Becoming a dad I mean.” Leo nodded and Liz said to him: “You can come and visit me if you like. I’m willing to bet that my baby would love a cuddle from you.”
Leo looked at her stomach and smiled: “Can I?” he said, and she took his hand in hers and placed it on her stomach. Her baby kicked an acknowledgement, his jaw dropped and he pulled his hand away, astonished and delighted. “I just might take you up on that, Liz.”
A black cloud had crept into the west, changing the sky and covering the sun so that in no time at all the garden was transformed when the
sudden reduction in the light shaded the grass and flowers. The breeze, no longer warmed by the sun, felt cool.
Emily gave a little frustrated cry and Marie said:
“I think I’ll take her in to feed her.” Marie stood, and a drop of rain the size of a mouse landed ominously on the table.
“Cats and dogs next.” Debbie said, and they all stood, collecting plates and cups to carry indoors.
Debbie struggled to get her shoes back on. She laughed when saw Helen had the same problem.
By the time they made it to the kitchen huge drops of rain had started to pelt the garden, exploding onto the ground and drumming into the garden furniture.
A sudden clap of thunder accompanied their exit from the garden, Horrified shrieks of laughter united Helen and Debbie, but they were not the last inside. Sean and Tom had tried to rescue the food from the barbecue but by the time they came in from the rain they were wet through; their clothes emitting a steaming smoky reek, made more obvious by their being crammed together with everyone in a hot cluttered kitchen.


Chapter Ten


Adjustments


Depositing the food and dishes on the draining board Sean and Tom headed for the bathroom upstairs to dry off. Natalie and Jonathan left the kitchen table, where they had been playing snakes and ladders with Chrissy and Michael, to gaze out of the patio window. Marie excused herself and she and David went off to the living room to change and feed Emily.
Helen Liz and Debbie began to clear the dishes but were stopped by Chrissy, who insisted they sat down while she proceeded to stack the dishwasher, helped by Maggie. Nigel took Chrissie’s seat by Michael. Comfortable chairs and more coffee were sought and found.
Michael, Nigel, Chrissy and the children began a game of cards, while Leo immersed himself in Chrissie’s C.D. collection, ignoring her latest acquisitions he proceeded to play his way through his choice of favourite oldies. Soon they were treated to a
mosaic of Van Morrison, the Beatles and Eric Clapton. He kept the volume low and every now and then, when he found a real favourite, and to anyone who might be listening, he would say: “You have got to listen to this one,”
Liz and Tom joined him and Leo began to reminisce, with Liz, about school days. Do you remember the time we bunked off and went swimming?” Leo said.
“And met the geography teacher with a class full of first years?” Liz said.
“Yeah, we were in big trouble, Tom,” Leo explained. “Had to see the headmistress.”
“Miss Thompson, the old dragon,” Liz added. “I was grounded for two weeks. She told me I’d never amount to anything.”
“What are you doing these days, Liz?” Leo asked her. When she told him she was designing clothes he was delighted.
“Look,” he said. “We have got to get together, come and see my little shop. I do accessories, but with a difference. You have to come and see. My boutique is called ‘Stand Out'. I have been thinking how good it would be to have some really special matching outfits, to go with the accessories, like a one-stop shop, you know the sort of thing. Buy a complete designer outfit, shoes bag, hat, and that’s just the men.” He laughed.
“Just kidding, I do women too.” Liz and Tom laughed. “I mean women’s clothes,” he added.
“Liz,” Leo went on, “come and have a look around on Monday, and bring some of your work with you. Have you got a portfolio?” Liz nodded.
The afternoon became evening and subdued by the weather, too much food, drink and conversation, and with the rain, thunder and lightening in the background, they sat around, engaging in small talk and in David’s case dozing, Debbie observed, when she went into the living room to see how Marie was doing.
“He does this all the time these days, broken sleep,” Marie explained. “I wish I could.” Debbie smiled. “I’ve got it all to come yet I suppose,” she said.
“Yes," Marie agreed, “You have, Debbie. It has taken me some time to feel like myself again, not just my body, and there are a lot of changes to get used to there.”
“Like what?”
“My shape has altered.”
“Yes but you look great,” Debbie protested.
“Still, there are changes, and it took me a bit of time to get, well, almost get back to my old weight. The breast-feeding helps with that, but I have a few stretch marks, and I was very sore for a while. I had an episiotomy you know, because of the forceps. All that and no real sleep, I think having Emily took its toll and I felt very low for a while afterwards. I didn’t know it at the time, but apparently it is very common to feel like that after the birth. You have to make sure you rest and
look after yourself,” Marie continued.
“Maggie is right. Don’t try to be super-mum, or super-wife. I had to learn that I couldn’t do everything perfectly, I just do my best and then every now and again I allow myself to not even try to do that.
“Was your labour awful?” Debbie asked.
“A lot of things happened that I didn’t expect to happen, so I was disappointed, but we are here and we are okay. I remember thinking, afterwards how happy, how sad.” Marie kissed Emily’s sleeping head.
“One of the worst things I remember was afterwards. I was so tired, and sore. The midwives on the post-natal ward had so many other things to do, I just felt like a nuisance. I didn’t get much help at all, and ended up crying all the time. It was better at home. Dave’s mum was a great help.
“Debbie,” Marie continued. “You need to get it through to Sean, when your new baby comes in through the front door, routine and order escape out the back, and the more you try to keep it the more tired you get, and it all feels worse. I have decided that for me, in the end letting go may be the easier solution.” “Letting go?”
“Yes, I try not to dwell on things, and just accept the massive changes to our way of life. This is a new part of my life and there are many wonderful things in it that I wouldn’t swap for the world. Although there are a few things that I really miss,” Marie added, “Like nipping out to the shops, or having a glass of lager in a pub, or a night’s sleep.”
Debbie felt tired. She had taken in enough information for one day, and offered Marie a cup of tea, returning to the kitchen, where she took the opportunity to suggest the active birth workshop to Sean. Sean attempted a protest but Nigel came to her rescue.
“It will help prepare you mate,” he said. “It made me feel better. I think I have a better idea what to expect, and what I can do to help Helen. Go if you can,” he urged. To Debbie’s delight Sean agreed, she planned to telephone and arrange it first thing Monday.
“I hope they have a space for us,” she said to Helen when she joined her on the sofa.


Chapter Eleven


The School Run


It was late when they arrived home after the barbecue. Debbie collected a glass of water from the kitchen and by the time she got into bed Sean was sleeping.
He was up early Sunday morning and after a shower and a cooked breakfast he decided he needed a round of golf. At around one o’clock he rang her from the office.
“I’ve just come in to sort a few things for a meeting tomorrow,” he explained. “I’ll be back about five. I hope you don’t mind, love,” he said, adding, “I’ve got a lot on.” He hung up, hardly giving her a moment to reply.
Debbie took Scooter to the beach. She watched him recapture a brief playful mood.
“Good old Scooter,” she whispered. The beach was deserted, which was how he liked it best. It was obvious that the cooler weather suited him too.
Debbie had decided to do her very best not to let her emotions run away with her. Despite, or
perhaps because of, Sean’s absence she felt more calm and reflective. Nigel’s words had helped somehow. She no longer felt that it was all her imagination, or her ‘hormones'.
There was something bothering Sean, and not necessarily another woman, although she could not rule that out. She would talk to him and find out.
When Sean arrived home on Sunday evening she had prepared roast lamb, his favourite. The table was laid and she lit a candle. She could see he looked troubled, but she smiled, gave him a welcome kiss and he made an effort to return it.
“Something smells good,” he said. “How long will it be? I just need to take a shower, wash the day off.”
“Is everything okay?” Debbie asked.
“Fine,” he cut her off. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” He went upstairs, to return ten minutes later showered and changed.
They were eating when Debbie tried again. “What’s the meeting tomorrow?”
“Meeting?”
“The one you went to the office to sort out,” Debbie reminded him.
“Oh, yes that meeting, do you mind if we don’t talk about it? I just want to relax this evening, clear my thoughts.”
Cut off again, Debbie fought away tears, disappointed in both Sean’s reluctance to talk and her
own failure to prevent the feeling of dread that was once again welling inside her. She couldn’t help wondering if it was work that was troubling him and not something, or someone, else.
Trust was a vital element in their relationship and she had never doubted him before now. She whispered a mock toast, touching her stomach with one hand, her glass in the other. “To staying calm,” this was an imperceptible whisper to herself and to her baby; all the while she was feeling like a helpless vessel on a swollen ocean. She was almost afraid to appear upset in case it would result in Sean distancing himself even more.
They finished their dinner in silence, apart from the occasional inconsequential comment, and later, with the television on, Sean fell asleep on the sofa.
Debbie had an early night. Every night was an early night these days.
On Monday morning he left for work as usual, 7.30AM, and Debbie lay in bed wondering what to do for the day. The first thing was to ring to arrange the active birth session. She would have to wait until the following week, the person on the other end of the telephone told her, and by then it would be just three days before her baby was due, there were no spaces before then.
It was a dull day and, thankfully the weather remained cool. The swelling in her ankles had
improved, and she put this down to having spent most of Sunday resting with her feet up.
She rang Helen. “How are you? Any more bleeding?” she asked. “Any contractions?”
“No,” Helen replied, “nothing at all. This baby is too happy in there. What are you doing? Fancy coming round for coffee?”
“That sounds great. How did your mum get on with the Major?”
“Okay, by all accounts,” Helen said, “Nigel went round yesterday to do the planting. She came home and wouldn't stop talking ten to the dozen about the great time she'd had. Are you okay, Debbie? Nigel was saying that Sean seems a bit strung out, are you two alright?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
Debbie finished her chores and went to see Helen late morning. She told Helen bits, but not all, and they spent a while speculating about what could be at the root of Sean’s behaviour, but Helen couldn’t come up with anything Debbie hadn’t already thought about.
“I miss my mum,” Debbie said, and her eyes filled with tears. They stood in Helen’s kitchen, holding each other in an awkward fashion, their pregnant bellies obstacles, preventing them from being close and comfortable. Spontaneously tears became laughter.
Helen showed Debbie the nursery, she and Nigel had finished decorating the week before, and they chatted about Chrissy plotting ways in which they
might help her get together with Michael.
Nigel knew him through a colleague, Helen revealed.
“He is a journalist; works for a national tabloid and writes a regular column, some sort of political slot. Apparently he works from home mostly, but commutes into London a couple of days a week. I’ve told Chrissy all I know, and I think she’s smitten.”
“What happened to his wife?” Debbie asked, “Does Nigel know?”
“Well, he’s not sure. What he heard was that it was some kind of accident, a car accident I think. When Jonathan was a baby.”
Debbie felt unable to confide in Helen about the way Michael looked at her, and the effect this had of unnerving her. She speculated that it was because she knew that Chrissy was attracted to him and she didn’t want to spoil anything for her, but she was unsettled about her own feelings and didn’t trust them, she felt confused.
During the course of the following week Debbie made a number of failed attempts to engage Sean in open conversation, while managing to keep the swelling magma of her worries to herself, but he remained distant and preoccupied. She remembered how, in times past, he would always offer her comfort if she became upset, but recently he seemed unable able to handle her tears, so she resolved to keep them to herself, and she had succeeded. Her determination
crumbled to nothing when she was alone, however.
She was not sleeping well, and when she did her dreams were filled with strange and vivid images. In one, she dreamt that she had been called into a room to someone who had just given birth. The woman held up the baby to show her, and the baby had hair that reached down its back. Then she saw the baby had no mouth, and she was the woman.
Debbie woke with a shout, obviously distressed. Sean held her close and stroked her hair. It was the first time he had shown her any real affection for weeks.
There was still no sign of Helen going into labour. On Friday night she had eaten a hot curry followed by a whole fresh pineapple and rang Debbie from the toilet, laughing. She was now a week overdue and told Debbie that she had tried everything she could think of to get herself going, except, after what had happened the previous week, sex.
“I’m going to the hospital on Monday,” she said, “I think they’ll give me a date to start my labour off, but I’d prefer to start it myself, I’ve heard it’s so much better. But on the other hand, how long do you think they’ll leave me?”
On Saturday morning Chrissy rang.
“Debbie, please could you do me a big favour and collect Natalie from school on Monday at 3.30PM? I
have to work and Jenny, who usually collects her for me, is sick.”
“Of course, no problem, Chrissy, but you had better give me your work number in case of emergency, I’m 39 weeks now, you know. If anything happens, though, I’ll let you know in good time.”
“Okay, that’s great, thanks.”
“Any news on Michael, have you seen him at all?” Debbie ventured.
“No, nothing Debs, and I’m on pins. I feel like a wretched schoolgirl with a crush,” she confessed. “What should I do?”
“You could get Natalie to invite Jonathan for tea, or to come and play,” Debbie suggested,
“Yes, I thought of that, but don’t you think it would look a bit obvious?”
“Not if Natalie came up with the idea, and pestered you.”
“You could have a sleepover.”
“If only,” Chrissy said, laughing, “You are brill,” she added. “I’ll drop Natalie a little hint. She’ll be delighted to come up with the idea. Thanks, I’ll collect her from yours at around 5.30PM on Monday, thanks again for doing that for me.”
Monday came around, and still Debbie was no further with Sean. He had worked most of the weekend, bringing some of it home with him. Debbie began to feel a sense of desperation; the birth of their baby was imminent. Her expected date was now less
than one week away. She kindled hope that the active birth session on Wednesday would provide opportunities for discussion between them. At least it would bring him home early and they could spend the evening together.
Helen telephoned. Her appointment was for 11 o’clock.
“Still here,” she said. “You know me, always in a hurry, never on time, and what’s the betting that you and Liz will both have your babies before me.”
“Have you spoken to Liz? I haven’t seen her all week,” Debbie said, “Although I have telephoned and left a message. I wondered how she was and if she had successfully managed to book her home birth.”
“Yes,” Helen replied, “I think she has been doing some last-minute shopping, and she has met Leo a couple of times. She’s planning to work with him after the baby is born and I think he’s very much into becoming an adopted uncle, from what she tells me. He keeps buying gifts for her and the baby. Everything went okay with her midwife and the home birth is all arranged. Fingers crossed, eh?”
“Part of me would love to do what Liz is doing and stay at home for the birth,” Debbie said. “But I’m very nervous of the idea, and in any case, can you imagine what Sean would say? He's so house-proud. I think he would be worried about the furniture and carpets getting ruined.”
“I can imagine it, Debbie; you would be pushing, and he would be straightening the plastic covers to protect the furniture and carpets.”
“And setting the timer,” Debbie laughed. “Do you think Tom minds Leo paying all that attention to Liz?”
“No, I think that anything that makes Leo happy is okay with Tom.”
“Good luck at clinic. Are Nigel or your mum going with you?”
“Nigel, he’s meeting me there. Mum’s off out again.”
“Ooh, the Major. I bet they’re at it like rabbits,” Debbie suggested, and could hear Helen gasp.
“If that doesn’t start me off, nothing will,” she laughed. “I’ll keep that thought in mind all day; although on second thoughts I’d better not tell Nigel you said that, best not to mention anything to do with sex, it makes him feel badly done by.”
“Phone me later, Helen; let me know what’s happening.”
It was raining heavily at 3.20PM when Debbie drove up to the school. She was able to park quite close to the school gate, and sat in the car with the radio on until half-past. The rain was so heavy, her lightweight jacket was already wet through by the time she had walked from the car to the gate.
The children started to come out. From where she was standing she could see them all, some trailing bags, others fastening coats. She was so intent on looking for Natalie’s blonde curls between umbrellas and beneath the many rain-coat hoods she failed to notice a figure come close to her side, until a bright golfing umbrella had encapsulated them both. It was Michael. Debbie jumped.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. You looked like you were getting soaked.”
“Thank you, I was.” She replied and to her dismay she sounded breathless.
“I did give you a fright, didn’t I?”
“I think you need to put some squeak in your shoes, or learn to whistle.” Debbie smiled carefully, trying not to show too much pleasure at seeing him. Again she felt the need to lower her eyes, but resisted and looked straight at him, curiosity getting the better of her.
“I am collecting Natalie, for Chrissy,” she explained. She could smell his skin, he was so close. This was both pleasant and disturbing. Soft thumps of rain covered the umbrella.
“We haven’t had much rain,” Debbie said, conscious of the silence, “So I wasn’t prepared for it.”
“Here they are now,” she could see them both, their heads together, whispering and laughing.
“They appear to have become good friends,”
“Yes, Jonathan never stops talking about Natalie, they are very alike. In nature I mean, obviously not in looks.”
“Daddy, Daddy,” Jonathan called when he saw them. He looked at Debbie with that same wondering expression she had experienced on the beach.
“Hello,” he said to her.
“Hello, Aunty Debbie.” Natalie smiled up at her.
“Hello you two;” they were all squashed together under the umbrella out of the heavy rain.
“Would you mind holding this for a moment?” Michael offered Debbie the umbrella while he attempted to help Jonathan fasten his jacket.”
“It’s alright Daddy, I’ll stay under the umbrella.”
“You’ll be soaked through,” Michael responded.
“I can give you a lift if you’d like,” Debbie offered. What the hell was she doing?
“No it’s fine; it’s not very far,” Michael said. “But thank you for the offer.”
“No Daddy, it is miles, and my head is leaking.” Rain was dripping down Jonathan's face, and he looked up at Debbie, pleading for her support. How could she resist?
“It’s no trouble,” she said, “and I’m a very careful driver.”
“Thank you,” Michael conceded. “We would be very grateful.”
With the children belted into the back seat, Michael sat in the front and directed Debbie. The rain persisted. The children sang, “It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring.”
“School summer production on Saturday afternoon, before the summer holidays,” Michael explained.
“It’s about the weather. Jonathan has a part in it, even though he has just started at the school. He’s been practising all week.”
“Will you be going?” Debbie asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replied with a broad smile.
It wasn’t too long before they arrived at Michael and Jonathan’s home; a smart 1930s semi, set back in a long front garden with a black two-seater sports car on the drive. Debbie parked on the road in front of the drive.
“Would you like to come in for a coffee?” Michael asked her, and Jonathan jumped at the opportunity to have Natalie’s company for a while longer,
“Yes, yes come in for coffee,” he insisted.
“Can we, Aunty Debbie?” Natalie asked. “Please?”
Against such odds Debbie found it impossible to refuse. She stepped into a hallway that was square, and bare; devoid of a woman’s touch. There was a single framed photograph of a woman on the wall. Jonathan and Michael took their shoes off as they entered the house and added them to the collection of men’s and boys' footwear piled carelessly by the door. Debbie removed hers and indicated to Natalie that she should follow their example. The cool oak floorboards creaked as the wood-grain met her feet. Debbie’s eyes were drawn to the photograph. There was something familiar about the woman, something about the way she stood, and she wore her hair in the same way as …
“Aunty Debbie,” Natalie tugged at her hand and Debbie turned and saw that Michael was leading them
into the kitchen, while firmly closing the door of the room on their left as they went by.
“Secrets,” Debbie thought, “There are secrets here.” He took their wet coats and hung them on the kitchen chairs.
“Tea or coffee?” he asked.
“May I have a cold drink please?”
“Come and sit in the conservatory,” Michael offered. “It’s more comfortable in there and we can listen to the rain.” So Debbie sat on a small sofa with a cushion behind her back. Listening to the rain on the glass, while taking in the surroundings, she felt unable to relax, so sat forward to watch Jonathan retrieve a box from behind a chair. He pulled books and games out of it.
“Natalie, have you seen this?” He held up a small radio handset. Then he found the second.
“We can talk to each other, if I go in the other room, you stay here, you just press this to talk, and this to listen,” he showed her and off he went. In a short while the handset started to crackle and Natalie pressed the buttons, awkwardly at first and then more easily. It became obvious that they could hear everything Jonathan was saying, or rather shouting, without the aid of the radio, and he in return, was struggling to hear Natalie’s quiet responses.
“What? Natalie, press the green one, what?” came through the walls. Debbie maintained a serious expression, matching Natalie’s, although it wasn’t
easy. She watched Michael in the kitchen. He was pouring orange juice and seemed aware she was watching him, because he looked up and smiled. Debbie knew then that they would be friends. She relaxed and returned his smile.
Jonathan gave up after a few minutes and returned to show Natalie again, collecting a beaker of juice on the way through. Michael brought their drinks to the conservatory. He was returning to the kitchen for his own when the telephone rang.
“Excuse me.”
He didn’t pick it up in the kitchen, but went through to a room off the hall. His muffled voice could be heard in quiet moments between the children’s chatter. Debbie sipped her drink and looked about. The conservatory was sparsely furnished but comfortable, and the kitchen was clean and tidy. A boxed supermarket pizza was on the worktop close to the cooker, and a selection of salad leaves and vegetables was piled onto a cloth on the draining board. Natalie commanded Debbie’s attention. She had found a book she liked, a pictorial edition of Peter Pan.
“Will you read this to us, Aunty Debbie?” she pleaded and sat herself down, next to Debbie, on the sofa.
Glad of something to keep herself occupied Debbie agreed, and asked Jonathan if he would like to listen. Jonathan nodded his head and Debbie
patted the sofa, inviting him to sit next to her, which he did. Debbie began to read and the children snuggled in close to her. After a few minutes Jonathan rested his small hand on her stomach. Debbie’s baby responded with the long slow stretch of a limb, which resulted in a palpable ripple and the visible movement of Jonathan’s hand. He took his hand away for a moment, smiled up at her and then returned his hand to the same place.
“He likes you,” Debbie said, then continued to read. “And Captain Hook’s cabin was full of clocks, but not one of them was ticking.” She paused for a moment when she became aware of Michael, standing half in and half out of the kitchen, watching her. He whispered something to himself, but Debbie couldn’t make it out.
“Pardon?”
“I’m sorry,” he replied, and shook his head, his voice subdued and distant. Then he spoke more clearly.
“My editor,” he explained. “I have to take a few notes. I’ll only be a couple of minutes if you’ll excuse me.”
“Would it be better if we left?”
“No,” the children echoed simultaneously.
“No, please don’t go just yet,” Michael said, “This won’t take long.”
Debbie continued with the story. Now and then Natalie would interrupt, unable to contain herself
before the next exciting event in a story she knew off by heart. Debbie felt comfortable. Jonathan maintained his closeness, sitting motionless, listening, or so she assumed. It was not until Michael returned to the conservatory five or ten minutes later that she realised he had fallen asleep.
“He has not been sleeping well,” Michael explained, “I wondered if there could be something going on at school, him being a new boy there.”
Natalie sat up straight. “It’s one of the big boys, Billy. He said to Jonathan, ‘You’ve got no mummy, your mummy left you'. My mummy says he’s called Billy the bully and I should take no notice of him. He told me I was a big sissy, just because I cried when he pulled my hair.” This outburst came in one passionate breath after which, Natalie, innocently asked, “May I watch television please?”
There was a small T.V. in the kitchen, by the table, and Michael went to switch it on for Natalie and she sat down to watch.
Once again Debbie felt a great tenderness for the motherless child cuddled and sleeping at her side. She stroked his hair. Michael returned and sat opposite her.
“What do I do?” he asked. “Should I go and talk to Jonathan’s teacher?”
“I think so, they will have some kind of procedure to follow and maybe keep an eye on Jonathan in the
playground and watch Billy the bully,” Debbie said. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, do you talk to Jonathan about his mummy, so he understands what happened, and why she is not with him? Make sure he knows that she didn’t leave him on purpose. I think that is important.”
Michael nodded his head but said nothing and looked with tenderness at his sleeping son. Debbie wondered, but did not feel it was appropriate to ask, what had happened to Jonathan’s mummy. Not now, but some other time, she would ask Michael.
They sat quietly for a minute or two. In the kitchen the T.V. droned on. The windblown rain spattered the conservatory glass in waves. Michael broke the silence.
“When is your baby due? He asked her.
“On Saturday, this week. I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl, I’m quite anxious about it all,” she replied, although she was unsure why she should confess this to him, then, her words began to spill out.
“No one talks about dying when you’re pregnant,” she said, while thinking to herself ‘where did that come from?’ Then, she found there was more she had to say. “It’s as if everyone thinks that talking about death might make it happen, but it feels more close and real to me now than it ever has before, more even than when I lost my mum. I don’t mean that I think I am going to die,” she added, “and I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he replied, “I understand, I think it might be something to do with protecting your baby, survival of the species and all that. You know that your baby’s survival depends on your survival, and also that for mother and baby, birth is a risky business. People don’t want to remind you of it, that’s all.”
“I know,” Debbie replied, “I can’t talk to Helen and Liz about it for the same reason. I don’t want to worry them, but I’m sure they must think about it sometimes. Being pregnant can be isolating.”
“I have read somewhere,” Michael went on, “that for women, in Western civilisation anyway, this is the safest time ever to have a baby. I don’t think that’s the same for some Third World countries though. Having a baby in the bush and getting up to carry on working in the field; I don’t hold with that. I think we are very lucky here,” Michael said, anxious to reassure Debbie.
“We have excellent medical back-up, if problems develop, unlike some of those developing countries, but I know it’s easy for me comment, I don’t have to go through it all.” He lowered his voice and looked down, speaking to the floor.
“I remember Sandra, my wife, she was very anxious, I didn’t realise,” he confessed. He looked up at Debbie. “How does your husband feel about it all, becoming a father I mean? I’m sorry perhaps I shouldn’t ask. Don’t feel you have to answer.”
Debbie was tired, tired of pretending to Sean
that she was okay, of keeping it all to herself. This question, which came from man who was, until an hour before, little more than a stranger, allowed her to speak. She had permission to say how she was feeling. And so she described how Sean had been behaving, and how difficult real communication had become between them, but she could not put into words the one fear that she could barely acknowledge to herself; the fear that he might be having an affair.
“I think he is keeping something from me, and my imagination is running wild with it. Whatever it is I can’t get him to talk about it and I have tried everything I can think of. It’s making me feel more anxious about the birth and about what it’s going to be like afterwards, with the baby. I don’t know what to do.”
“How did he feel about your becoming pregnant?” Michael asked.
“He was excited, delighted, that’s why I don’t understand his behaviour now. It’s almost as if he’s pretending it’s not going to happen. Well, that’s not entirely true, he has decorated the baby’s bedroom, but that was a few months ago.”
“Could it be work related?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know, although I don’t think so, because I think he would be able to talk to me about something like that. He’s never been like this before, he has always talked about problems at work, we used to talk about everything,” she added.
“And then there’s the telephone, sometimes he
takes it to another room to talk, and someone has been hanging up when I answer. He always prided himself on his honesty, but now I’m sure he’s keeping something from me.”
“He works for PANER, doesn’t he?” Michael asked.
“Yes, he’s a building engineer,” Debbie explained, he has been there for about a year. He seems to get on well with his boss, but I think he finds some of the meetings stressful. He doesn’t say, but I can tell. He always used to enjoy his work even when working all the hours God sends, but now he just looks worn down.”
“PANER,” Michael echoed thoughtfully.
“You have heard of heard of them?” Debbie asked.
Michael nodded. “Don’t read too much into the telephone hanging up. You know the operators at these call centres, they’re always trying to sell something or other, they dial a few numbers together and if you pick up a fraction after someone else they just hang up on you and deal with the first person to answer. Either that or it’s automated.”
Debbie nodded.
“Would you like another drink?” he offered.
“No thanks,” she looked at her watch. “It’s time I left. Chrissy is collecting Natalie at 5.30PM.” She tried to settle Jonathan by putting a cushion at the end of the sofa for his head, but he stirred and woke. She struggled to her feet, Michael moved forward to offer her a hand but she declined,
“I’m fine thanks,” she said, “I’m used to this now, and not long to go, thank goodness.”
At the door they put their shoes on. “Thank you for listening, I’m sorry to have burdened you,” she apologised. Once again she found her eyes drawn to the photograph on the wall… and she understood. He followed her gaze.
“My wife.”
Debbie nodded.
“Thank you for your advice too,” he said, and smiled at her again with his blue deep eyes. There was an understanding between them. She felt comfortable with this. He bent and kissed her cheek. Debbie smiled and opened the door. Michael stood with his arm around a sleepy Jonathan’s shoulder. She turned to say goodbye and they waved and closed the door. The rain had stopped.


Chapter Twelve


Active Birth?


Debbie felt lighter during the drive home, but when she turned the car into the drive her anxiety returned. Despite this, she smiled at Natalie as they made a dash for the front door. The rain had started up again, although less persistent than earlier. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. Her mascara had been washed from her eyelashes onto her upper cheeks. Her hair hung in tails. There was a message on the answer machine from Helen. Debbie sat Natalie in front of the TV with a drink and a biscuit and returned Helen’s call.
“I’m going in on Thursday, for induction,” Helen said.
“What did they say?”
“Well my cervix is not ripe, apparently it ripens before it can start to open - sounds fruity to me - but really it should go softer and shorter and change position. Mine is long, firm and posterior. Anterior is better.”
“Who told you that?”
“I asked the midwife, after I had an internal. It was uncomfortable. I suppose it wasn’t that bad. I just pretended it was a smear, closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then afterwards they give you a score and mine was three. I don’t think it was a good score because she said only three.”
“Perhaps they were scoring you for how well behaved you were for the internal,” Debbie joked.
“Should have been a ten out of ten for that,” Helen said. “But what it means is before they can break my waters to start me off I need to have my cervix ripened. That’s done with a pessary, which they put inside you. The worst thing is it can take two or three days for it to ripen, and if it doesn’t work they resort to a caesarean section.”
“So you might not have your baby on Thursday?”
“No, but it’s possible, because the pessary works quickly for some women. There’s a chance that my cervix will ripen anyway between now and then.”
“You could try some curry.”
“I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. How are you Debbie?”
“I’m okay, thanks. Come round for coffee tomorrow if you’re up to it, and bring Liz if she’s free,” Debbie said. She had already decided not to mention her visit to Michael’s house, not yet. Helen might read something into it, knowing the insecurities she was experiencing with Sean.
When Chrissy arrived Debbie offered her tea,
“No thanks, I’d better dash, nothing prepared for dinner.”
“Mummy, we’ve been to Jonathan’s house,” Natalie said.
Debbie fetched Natalie’s coat but placed it on the chair when Chrissy said:
“I’ll have that cup of tea, if you insist.”
“I do,” Debbie laughed.
“Tell me everything,” Chrissy commanded.
“Okay,” Debbie told her everything she needed to know, but not everything. She described Michael’s house, what she had seen of it, painting a big picture with small details, like the shoes in the hall and the salad on the draining board. She told Chrissy about Billy the bully and then she remembered the summer show.
“Saturday afternoon. You must go, Chrissy,” she whispered, out of Natalie’s earshot, Michael is going to be there, to watch Jonathan.”
“I am going, but I’m working. I’m planning to make it there in time for Natalie’s song. What do you think of him, Debbie? Is he a nice guy, or what? You’re a good judge of character, do you think it’s worth me dreaming or shall I forget it?”
Debbie took a breath in, watching Chrissy, she framed her words carefully.
“I think he is a nice guy; deep. I would trust him, although there’s sadness and he’s not going to come
without baggage, but I think you could do a lot worse, Chrissy. Go for it, that’s my advice.”
At the door Debbie said,
“Keep me posted,” adding, “By the way, I forgot to tell you, Helen is going to be induced on Thursday, unless anything happens before then, so its fingers crossed all round.”
After she waved Chrissy and Natalie off, Debbie felt lonely. She had no idea what time to expect Sean home, but returned to the kitchen to prepare a meal.
Three days felt like 30 for Helen, each day brought anticipation with twinges and aches in all the right places. On Tuesday evening she had a few contractions when she was preparing for bed. She fell asleep and when she awoke they were gone. Her tummy was soft, and her baby a Karate expert, she told Liz over coffee on Wednesday afternoon.
Liz spent a lot of her time lately kneeling on all fours, or sitting on her birth ball with her thighs low in an attempt to keep her baby in an anterior position, she told Helen.
“It’s quite comfortable and I don’t know if it will work or not, but the concept is logical, someone at antenatal class told me about it,” she explained. “And what have I got to lose? The aim is to bring the weight of your baby’s back forward, keep it there and give the baby a better chance of settling into the best position
for when you go into labour. I’ve been doing this since I was 34 weeks. I try not to sit in an armchair with my feet up because reclining like that might encourage my baby to lie posterior.”
“I’m not sure what position my baby is in,” Helen said, “although her head has engaged at last.”
“Her head?”
“Please don’t say anything to Nigel, to anyone. I’ve known that it’s a girl since I had a scan, weeks ago. It’s been awful keeping it secret. Nigel has no idea. I haven’t told a soul, although I think Debbie guessed, at the barbecue, but she knew about our decision to wait until the day and hasn’t pressed me about it.”
“What will you call her?” Liz asked
“Chloe.”
Liz smiled. “That’s lovely. It’s so hard to pick a name. I still can’t decide. I think I’ll wait until I see what name suits him, or her.”
“You know, my bag’s been packed for five weeks. I’ve no idea what’s in it any more, and I’m too tired to have look and check.” Helen complained. “And going out to the shops is torture. If anyone else asks me ‘are you still here?’ I’ll hit them over the head with… anything. I can’t wait for it to be all over and done with. Thank God tomorrow’s Thursday.”
“I’ll go bananas if I go overdue. I’ve had enough already. I’ll come into the hospital and see you.”
“Ring the ward before you come; I’m really hoping to not be in there for very long.”
Debbie was looking forward to the active birth session, which started at seven. Sean promised to be home for six. She prepared a light meal and waited, hopeful they would talk about the baby, at least.
He was late.
“I was hoping to have a shower, but no time,” he said He made a sandwich from the meat on his plate. Complaining,
“Why can’t they do these things a bit later? I mean seven, doesn’t give you a chance to get home.”
Debbie stacked the dishes. Sean finished his coffee.
“I hope it’s worth the effort,” he said “and I hope there’s some other men there.”
To make it worse, Debbie dropped a glass when they were about to leave. It shattered into a hundred pieces covering the breadth of the kitchen floor. Sean fetched the vacuum cleaner while Debbie collected the few larger pieces. It was all cleared in a matter of minutes but was followed by a strained and silent journey to the hospital. By the time they found the room where the session was held the midwife had already started. The room was full and extra chairs had to be found for them.
Debbie was glad to see there were a lot of other men in the room. A quick glance sideways and she could see the relief on Sean’s face.
The chairs were set in a circle. A large blue ball was in the centre of the room and there was a doll
and what appeared to be a real skeletal pelvis resting on a chair next to a woman, who, Debbie guessed, was the midwife. Then they spotted Liz with Leo and Debbie waved.
Another sideways glance told Debbie Sean had relaxed. Together they listened to the midwife’s description of the initiation of labour, watched while she demonstrated with the doll and pelvis, which she assured them all was not part of a real person; how the baby’s head, leading the way, was flexed and rotated through the pelvis by the power of the contractions. Debbie found the explanations of the process of labour, and the potential effects of fear and the birth environment on labour, interesting, and this helped to build on the information she had already acquired through her own reading.
The second part of the evening was more fun. They all, men included, practised some pelvic rocking, disguised as gentle belly dancing movements, and accompanied by middle-eastern music. Then they crawled around the floor, ‘to help the baby into an anterior position.
“You can get a lot of back ache in labour if your baby is in a posterior position,” the midwife explained. “And your labour can be longer.” At this point they were kneeling next to Liz and Leo, who appeared to be having a great time.
“Now, I’d like you all to imagine you are drawing a pear with your bottoms,” the midwife said with a smile on her face, illustrating her expectations of the group's
reaction to this request.
“I think I’ll have to practise this at home,” Leo remarked to Liz, “to make sure you don’t forget, love.” He was playing his role to the full and Liz was laughing until her sides ached. She had to concentrate on laughing silently, so as not interrupt the session.
“Don’t worry, Liz,” the midwife said to her. “I have met ladies who have found laughter, even in labour, very good for helping them to relax.”
The women tried different positions for use in labour, one of which included a standing hug with your partner, where you were encouraged to rock your pelvis. They also learned some simple massage techniques, focusing on the sacrum, the triangular shape bone at the bottom of the spine.
“There are some shiatsu pressure points in the sacrum, and massaging can help relieve your pain,” the midwife said.
“Shoulder massage during labour can help relieve tension and can make you more comfortable. It’s very difficult to imagine right now, how you’ll feel during labour. We are doing all of these exercises in a pain-free environment, and it is likely to be different for each of you,” she continued. “But remember a woman in an environment where she feels free and safe to move around will not spend most of her labour on a bed. She will instinctively rock and move into different positions, eventually she may come to a point where she feels so tired that she wants to lie down. If it helps she might
also moan or shout; she should feel free to do what comes naturally to her.”
The session ended with Debbie and Sean sitting on the floor, Debbie in front of Sean’s open legs. She leaned back and rested against him and they both had their hands on Debbie’s stomach. Gentle music played in the background. This included the sound of flowing water and unfortunately reminded Debbie of a need for the bathroom, but she managed to relax and melt into the visual journey of looking at and connecting with her baby. Debbie felt the satisfaction of knowing that Sean could feel the movements of their baby beneath his hands.
“Can you feel that?” he said.
“All the time,” Debbie smiled to herself.
There was a queue for the toilets after the session. Couples were chatting and holding hands. Debbie and Sean walked over to their car with Liz and Leo.
“I haven’t laughed so much for ages,” Leo said, “any idea why a pear and not any other fruit?”
“Glad it wasn’t a banana,” Sean said.
A rapid deterioration in the tone of their conversation followed, with Sean adding the only pair he could concentrate on belonged to the woman kneeling opposite him, and melons were the fruit they brought to mind. Debbie scolded him.
“Just kidding,” he claimed.
Liz changed the subject by complementing Leo on his massage technique, and Sean wanted to know how he had measured up.
“You were fine,” Debbie said, her tone was positive. In fact his efforts at massage had felt half-hearted and had irritated more than soothed. She hoped they could make more of this experience together. “And when you’ve been practising you’ll be brilliant.” An innocent remark but Sean lowered his head; Debbie bit her lip and silence came between them again.
“Mum was working so couldn’t come, and I didn’t want to go on my own,” Liz explained, when they reached their car.
“It was Tom who suggested Leo should come with me, he was working late. We are just going to collect him from the station, then we are going to the pub. Fancy coming?”
“No thanks,” Sean said, “I have to be up at six.” He took Debbie’s hand in his for the short walk over to their car.
The silence of their journey home was thoughtful and Debbie was comfortable with this. Just feeling comfortable was progress, and she had no desire to risk spoiling it by saying the wrong thing.
They had tea and toast before bed, and limited their conversation to familiar and simple practicalities, an unspoken pact; neither of them appeared to want to raise any issue that might cause

dispute. They lay in bed and Sean turned to her and held her close, his hand on her stomach for the second time that night.


Chapter Thirteen


Induction


Nigel was very nervous. They arrived at the hospital, and he made finding a parking space an excuse to leave Helen at the entrance, while he drove around the hospital car park to calm himself. Helen knew what he was doing and waited patiently by the door. There was a bench to sit on and the sun was shining. It was eight thirty in the morning. She had butterflies in her stomach, and began biting her lip. Her feelings were a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
Nigel kissed her and they walked up to the ward in silence, Nigel carrying the bags, Helen a bottle of mineral water. She was entering a world where the business of having babies was conducted. She put on a brave face and tried to suppress her fear with thoughts of an ending. This was it, soon her baby would be born and she could go home.
On the ward Helen was shown to a bed and asked to sit down and wait for her midwife. She was in a bay with four beds. It was clean and pleasant, but
clinical, with a desk and storage area containing equipment in one corner, bedside lamps and lockers and brightly coloured curtains at the windows. Two of the beds were empty with the sheets turned back expectantly. The bed next to Helen’s was occupied but the curtains were drawn around it and voices could be heard from inside.
Helen was torn between curiosity, and an awareness of the need for privacy, not least her own. She couldn’t help but overhear what was being said. The woman behind the screen was being monitored, and for Helen this was the beginning of a period of time when the constant hypnotic droning of a baby’s heartbeat was to be the audible focus of this part of her stay in hospital.
Now, it was obvious, the woman behind the curtain was having an internal examination, and was finding the experience discomforting, although her words were a combination of apprehension and hope. “Yes that’s okay, can you tell? Is anything happening?” the woman said to her attendant.
Nigel took Helen's hand and pulled her up to stand next to him. They stood at the window, his arm around her shoulder looking out onto the busy hospital grounds, watching people and traffic coming and going, while they stood still.
“Helen?” It was a friendly voice. They turned to see a young midwife, who greeted them with a smile. She introduced herself as Sue and asked Helen to go with
her “for a minute” to have her “wee” tested, and to show her the showers, toilets and dining room.
“I’ll go and buy a paper.” Nigel grabbed the opportunity for escape. “I’ll be back soon.”
By the time he returned from the hospital shop, Helen was reclining on the bed attached to a monitor, and the sound of their own baby’s heartbeat was competing for attention with the heartbeat of the baby in the next bed.
“Is it okay?” he asked Helen, eyes fixed on the machine. “One hundred and forty, is that alright?”
“Fine, the midwife said it's fine.” Helen replied.
“What happens next?”
“I have to be monitored for a while to check that the baby is okay before they can give the Prostin. This is used to soften the neck of my womb, my cervix. It’s what the midwife will insert into my vagina. She has to do a vaginal examination to put it in,” Helen explained.
“When she does the internal she will be able to tell if my cervix has ripened since Monday. It has to be soft and ripe before they can break my waters and start me off. When it’s done I have to stay on the monitor for a while longer to check that the baby is okay.”
“Then what happens?”
“Nigel, we’ll have to wait and see. Try and be patient if you can, we are in for a long day. You know that.”
“Yes, I know, but it’s difficult when you don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“But we do know we are going to have our baby.”
Helen watched Nigel open his newspaper with a bemused indulgence. He skimmed through a few pages, stood up examined the radio and earphones, poured a glass of water, took a sip and then offered the plastic glass to Helen, examined the monitor again, looked out of the window, sat down, opened his paper and closed it for the second time, all in a matter of a few minutes. She took his hand in hers, this big strong man who, in his working life, was deputy-head of a large comprehensive school, and was used to responsibility and making difficult decisions. Today he appeared lost.
“We’ll be fine,” she said.
“I know, love,” he replied, and leant over to kiss her forehead.
Sue came behind the curtain carrying a small container. “Do you want your hubby to stay in while I do this?” she asked, but Nigel was already standing at the curtain’s edge, ready to go.
“I’ll wait over here,” he said.
“You need to slip your pants off, Helen,” Sue said, her voice was soft with a faint Irish lilt. “And sit back with your legs bent and heels together.”
Helen knew the position to take from her previous experiences. She did her very best to relax, while Sue put her gloves on, applied some lubricant to her fingers, and then proceeded to find and assess Helen’s cervix.
“It’s still quite posterior. That means it is pointing towards your back passage,” Sue remarked. Helen breathed out slowly again.
“It makes it a little more awkward, I’m sorry.” Helen nodded and smiled at Sue, although she felt vulnerable.
“Once you are in labour your cervix will be more central and easier to reach. It should be easier next time you are examined,” Sue explained. “Right now though, I have to make sure that I put the Prostin behind your cervix, and that’s not easy to do when your cervix is posterior.”
The Prostin was inserted using a plastic applicator, which Sue guided with her fingers.
“Now, you must stay here on the bed while we monitor your baby for a while longer, about 45minutes, just to make sure everything is all right. After that you can do whatever you like, have a walk around, a bath, whatever.
“What score did you give my cervix? It was three on Monday.”
“I’ll just work that out for you now,” Sue replied, taking her gloves off and putting them in the tray. She covered Helen’s legs with a small sheet and then went to her notes to work out her assessment using a chart.
“Well, you have made a little bit of progress,” Sue said, “But not a lot. Your Bishop’s score is four. The score is worked out by how far down your baby’s head is, and by the position, length, and consistency of your cervix, and whether or not it has started to open. You
need at least a seven or eight before we can break your waters.”
Helen felt a pang of disappointment. She had hoped that she would be ready, or at least closer to being ready.
“What happens next?” she asked.
“This afternoon we do the whole thing again,” Sue replied. “I’ll check your cervix; if I think we could break your waters and the labour ward is not too busy we can take you down to start you off. We can’t start your labour until your cervix is ripe. If it’s not ripe then you can have another dose of Prostin.” She explained. “Have you thought about pain relief at all?”
“I’m not sure,” Helen replied. “I thought I would decide as I go along. I don’t think I want an epidural, but it depends how it goes.”
“You may get some pain from the Prostin,” Sue advised her. “A couple of paracetamol and a warm bath might help, but if you get a lot of tightenings or each tightening seems to last a long time let me know. The Prostin seems to affect some women more than others.” Sue checked the monitor and turned the volume down. Helen’s baby’s heartbeat quietly and steadily mumbled on. The call button was on the bed. Helen nodded and Sue left them.
“How long is a long time for a tightening?” Nigel asked, returning from his retreat by the window.
“You heard all that then. I don’t know, but I suppose I’ll have an idea when it happens, and I can always
ask,” Helen suggested.
“How does it feel?”
“I’m a bit uncomfortable after the internal,” She replied. “But otherwise nothing much, but I will let you know, don’t worry about that.”
While Helen was being examined another woman had been admitted to the bed opposite. She was also being induced. Helen recognised the same verbal routine above the rapid gentle beat of her baby’s heart, even though they were talking quietly; they could hear the woman’s midwife as she explained the induction process to her.
Helen was taken off the monitor about three quarters of an hour later. “That looks fine,” Sue remarked and then she was gone.
Helen and Nigel decided to take a walk across a courtyard over to the hospital shop, holding hands, where they browsed for a while, bought a magazine and some chocolate, and then sat in the courtyard. The sun was shining and people were going about their business. This was a strange time, for both of them. It felt unreal, suspended.
Nigel flicked through the magazine, unable to read, sensitive to Helen’s every movement; while for Helen each little twinge created its own expectancy and sometimes came with an involuntary pang of fear.
They wandered back to the ward. The woman from the next bed was sitting on a birth ball
rocking and, at times, would make laboured breathing sounds. Helen found her obvious discomfort disconcerting, like watching a preview of what was to be her own experience.
She had lunch, and then, for want of something better to do, a bath. Nigel came with her. Their surroundings became more familiar and his anxiety settled. He appeared to be resigning himself to waiting. Helen had become aware of a discomfort, an ache low down in her belly, close to her baby’s head, and like a toothache it left her unable to settle comfortably. The bath helped, but as soon as she was out of the water it was the same as before, so she asked for some paracetamol.
When she returned to the bay the woman in the bed opposite smiled at Helen.
“Hi my name is Vicky,” she said. “Is this your first?”
“Yes it is,” Helen replied, “And I’m finding it all a bit scary.”
“Are you overdue?”
“Yes, I seem to have been pregnant forever.”
“Me too, at least something’s happening now. This is my second baby. Last time I went into labour at 39 weeks so this pregnancy has been almost three weeks longer, although it feels more like three years” Helen sat on her bed and tried to relax for a while. Nigel picked up a magazine.
At 2.30PM a different midwife came to connect Helen back onto the monitor. “Sue went to the
labour ward,” she explained. “It’s mad busy down there. There are more women in labour than there are midwives to look after them!”
This midwife was business-like and quick. She introduced a new element to Helen’s experience, efficiency without empathy, although she was not unpleasant. She moved so quickly Helen couldn’t read her name badge. Helen tried not to feel anxious.
After she'd finished with Helen, the midwife went over to Vicky and connected her up to a monitor.
“Do you think she will be doing my next internal?” Helen whispered to Nigel when she had gone.
“She’ll be quick at least,” he replied. “She’s like a pike. We may not see her coming next time.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Helen said.
The woman in the next bed was called Lynn. Lynn had come in to hospital in early labour during the night. Time went on and she began to moan softly with each contraction. Her moans sounded involuntary; she was not fussing, in fact she continued chatting with her friend, in between contractions.
Every now and then a newborn baby could be heard crying from another bay. The ward was an antenatal and post-natal mix.
Half an hour went by and the efficient midwife returned, with her tray and gloves. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself before, I’m Sally,” she said. “Did Sue explain? I need to check to see if you need more Prostin.”
Helen nodded. She looked nervous and Nigel stayed to hold her hand this time. Sally was quick, but gentler than Helen expected. “You do need another Prostin,” she said, and Helen nodded while trying her best to breathe out slowly and relax. Sally sat on the bed to record her findings in Helen’s notes. “Your Bishop’s score is five, Helen,” she said. “We will monitor you now, and again later on this evening. Let us know if anything is happening, or if you need anything. Tomorrow morning we can give you another Prostin if you need it, but with a bit of luck this one might do the trick.”
“What do you mean, if anything is happening?”
“If the pain gets too much, we can give you something; or if you start having regular contractions, or contractions that seem to last a long time; or you feel wet, you know, a sudden gush or a trickle of fluid.”
“How long is a long time?”
“Each contraction should last a minute or only slightly longer. Also, you might have a small ‘show,’ a spot of mucous and blood, after the examination, that’s to be expected.”
Helen nodded. Nigel took hold of her hand, and they resigned themselves to a long wait. It seemed unlikely that anything would be happening today.
About an hour after this second Prostin Helen became very uncomfortable. She began to experience
sudden sharp pains, which appeared abruptly with tightening of her stomach and lasted about 15 to 20 seconds.
“If I had some sort of warning each time the pain was coming, I think I could prepare myself, like they told us in the class,” Helen explained to Nigel. “But they are so sudden, and take me by surprise each time.”
While this was happening Helen was in pain, whatever she did. She tried different positions, walking around, sitting on the birth ball. All of these things had only short-term benefits. A bath helped, but she couldn’t stay in the water for the whole afternoon. Other people wanted to use the bath, and her fingertips were corrugated from so much exposure to water.
“What’s labour going to be like, Nigel/ I’m not even in labour yet and the pain is already hard to bear.” This was the most worrying thing.
The next couple of hours were long and painful. Anne came in to visit in the early evening. The pain Helen felt earlier had subsided, to some extent. Still, she found it difficult to chat about trivia.
Anne had not been there for more than ten minutes when there was a commotion at the next bed. Lynn’s waters had gone, creating a large puddle from her bed on to the floor. The pool of liquor crept under the drawn curtain, bringing with it a slightly metallic aroma. The midwife came to her call bell, and there was a loud exclamation from behind the curtains.
“Well, you’ve really come on,” Sally said, and
rushed off for a wheelchair to take Lynn to the labour ward.
Lynn’s main concern was that her husband was not there. “He’ll be on his way, in the car, so won’t answer his phone.”
“I’ll get someone to telephone him right now, and leave a message. If he comes up here first we’ll send him straight down to the labour ward,” Sally promised. She helped Lynn into the wheelchair. In a few minutes Lynn was on her way. A nurse came to clean and make her bed.
“I wish,” Helen remarked, looking after Lynn’s rapidly retreating back. “I don’t think this baby wants to come out.” Helen caught her mother’s expression. Anne looked so worried Helen felt her mum was the one who needed reassurance.
“We are going to be alright, the baby and me,” and when we come home you are going to make the best grandmother ever.” Looking up from his paper Nigel noticed the tears welling in Anne’ eyes
“Is everything okay?” he asked. “Is this something to do with the Major, because if it is I’ll sort him out for you?”
“No need Nigel thank you,” Anne replied confidently, “I’ve sorted him out myself.”
By the time Anne left, a couple of hours later the pain had settled and Helen felt sure nothing was going to happen that night.
They watched TV, Helen had another bath,
and by ten thirty Nigel decided to go home to bed. There was no point in him sitting there all night; he might as well have some sleep, and allow Helen to do the same if she could. He could be back in fifteen minutes if needed. On their way to the lift they met Lynn. She was on her way to the bathroom.
“A little boy,” she said, “At seven-thirty, nice and quick, eventually, once I got going. I only just made it to the labour ward. Come and see him.”
“That is wonderful,” Helen said her feelings a mixture of delight and envy. “I’ll come and see him when I get back. What about your husband, did he make it in time to be with you?”
“Yes, we were lucky. He was waiting for the lift and I was coming out of it in labour.”
“Nice and quick, eventually,” Nigel repeated, when they were alone. He was tired and felt a mixture of guilt for leaving Helen and relief to be leaving the hospital.
“That’s a contradiction if ever I heard one.”
Standing beside the doors of the maternity unit, they held each other close. Nigel was reminded of a terminal, where people parted for a journey, only he wasn’t really going anywhere, only home.
“I’ll keep my mobile on,” he said, “I can be here in next to no time.”
“Don’t worry, love. I’ll make sure they let you know if anything happens. See you in the morning.”
When Nigel walked into the hall the house felt
unbearably empty. He put the TV on for company but was not inclined to watch it. He made coffee and a sandwich, listened to the answer machine, went upstairs, and looked at the large empty bed; he went downstairs, picked up his keys and mobile phone, and went out leaving the TV on.
The evening was still and the air was warm. A large Cheddar moon lay low on the eastern horizon. The streets were quiet. Nigel walked, and felt a sense of oneness with the world; with the universe. For a moment he wondered at the amount of time and effort he had spent in avoiding being alone. At this moment he felt powerless and small, but the sense of wonder he felt was as vast as the sky above him. Tomorrow he would be a father.
He walked for 20 minutes or so, close to home, not wanting to stray too far from the car in case he was called back to the hospital. He had no plan, just followed his feet. Before long he found he was in an unfamiliar part of his neighbourhood, a place where there were big old trees on the pavement, and in the gardens. He turned into a narrow lane beside a small churchyard, set with shadowed gravestones of crooked, still, dark shapes, some of which were recognisable as figures, angels with wings. The scent of jasmine swept over him, immediate and palpable. At almost the same time a bird, hidden in the dusk, but stirred by some secret event, began to sing. A blackbird he thought, whose song began with a few half-hearted notes then rose into full song,
wholehearted and beautiful; a gift in the night. Nigel allowed himself to cry, just a few silent tears.
Friday morning came and awake early, at six fifteen, Helen went to make herself a cup of tea. She had slept on and off, disturbed by the intermittent, short, sharp pains she had been having, and the strangeness of unfamiliar surroundings. She was now on her own in the bay.
There had been a lot of noise and fuss at 3am when Vicky had been rushed off to the labour ward, nine centimetres dilated. Once again she felt a twinge of envy. Why wasn’t it happening to her? She longed to be in labour, making progress, instead of in this torturous limbo. She felt alone, the ward staff were too busy to pay her much attention. She watched the clock, waiting for Nigel. By far the worst thing was her fearful anticipation; this prevented Helen from relaxing.
After breakfast, and two paracetamol, which did nothing at all to tackle the mounting pain, Helen had another bath. This helped, until she got out of the water.
When she got back to her bed, she was glad to see Sue back on duty, and by the time Nigel returned to the ward Helen was on the monitor again. At eight-fifteen, a doctor came to see her.
“This is Helen,” Sue said, “Primigravida, term plus 12, cephalic, engaged, two doses of Prostin yesterday. She has been having Prostin pain but no regular contractions.”
“Hello, Helen, I’m Dr Banstead,” he said, glancing at the monitor. “Mr Smith’s registrar. I need to examine you and possibly give you another Prostin. Is that all right with you?”
Helen nodded, but was thinking how young he looked he must only have been about 28. Nigel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Dr Banstead examined Helen’s stomach, feeling for the position of her baby, and gave a firm squeeze of her baby’s head above her pubic bone.
“Mmm,” he said.
“Do you want your husband to stay in while I examine you, or would you rather he waited outside?” he asked.
Helen looked at Nigel. “What do you want to do, love?”
“I’ll wait outside,” he volunteered. Sue held Helen’s hand while Dr Banstead examined her. Helen looked at the ceiling, partly to hide her embarrassment and partly in an effort to concentrate on trying to relax.
“Try to relax, Helen,” Dr Banstead said. He felt like he was reaching for her tonsils.
“Why am I 'Helen' while you are 'Dr Banstead'?” she wondered, glancing at the top of his head, noticing his hair was beginning to thin on top, all the while feeling helpless and very uncomfortable. At last it was done.
“I’ve inserted another Prostin, Helen, because your Bishop’s score is still only five. Has anyone explained to you what the course of action will be if this does not ripen your cervix?”
Helen hesitated. She wanted Nigel to listen. “Is my husband outside?”
“I’ll fetch him,” Sue said, but Dr Banstead continued to speak. “If this fails to ripen your cervix we may have to consider a caesarean section. Your cervix must be ripe in order for us to break your waters and start you off in labour. However I think the Prostin will work. There have been some changes and your cervix is softening. Your baby looks fine by the look of this heart trace. If nothing has happened by this time tomorrow we will review you and decide then.”
Nigel came behind the curtain. Dr Banstead finished writing in Helen’s notes.
“Right, Sue,” the doctor said, “Who else have you got for me?”
“I’ll come back in a few minutes if you want to ask anything,” Sue said to Helen, and followed the doctor.
Helen felt thoroughly dejected. She told Nigel everything Dr Banstead had said. She didn’t want to have a section, they would have to wait and hope.


Chapter Fourteen


An Eventful Day


It was ten o’clock on Saturday morning, before Liz started to wonder about her wet knickers. She'd had no pain at all, and at first she thought the wetness was a spot of wee - a little bit of overflow due to the pressure of her babies head. At her last antenatal appointment the midwife had told her that the baby’s head was very low. In fact Liz felt she was sitting on it sometimes. Now she found that even after going to the toilet she continued to trickle when she moved, so she went back to the toilet to inspect her knickers carefully It looked like water only there were a few whitish traces of mucous. The other thing she noticed was a faintly metallic smell. Butterflies came to her stomach. She was all at once nervous and excited.
Her mum was out shopping, her baby was moving, and she felt fine. She decided to wait for her mum, but got all her books out to read about ruptured membranes meanwhile, and although she had read it all before, this helped to clarify her thoughts.
The colour was important, she read, and it was fine, clear not green, which would indicate that the baby had had a poo and might therefore be distressed. Head engaged - yes, that was important too. She was sure she would be fine waiting for her mum. There was no hurry.
She picked at another bowl of breakfast cereal, more to pass the time than anything else. Her dad was watching the sport on TV so she didn’t disturb him. He would only fuss. He had already taken some convincing about her plan to have a home birth so she decided to let him be.
Leo called at eleven thirty. He was perturbed at the idea of Liz just sitting there drinking tea and doing nothing, and he was excited about the potential arrival of ‘his’ baby. Unable to sit still, he dried a few dishes and managed to drop one. Clearing it up kept them both busy until the arrival of Maggie.
They called the midwife, but she was busy and would not be able to come for a few hours.
“I think we had better go up to the maternity unit and get you checked over,” Maggie decided after following Liz to the bathroom and examining her knickers. Liz agreed. She knew there would be a time limit on how long she would be allowed to wait, now that her waters had gone, for her labour to start. She also wanted some reassurance that everything was alright. Apart from the fluid leaking there was no sign she was about to go into labour. Leo offered to drive
them, but Maggie declined.
“We might be there a while,” she said, “and you are too distracted to drive us safely.”
Reluctantly he gave Liz and Maggie a hug and went to watch the sport with Harry in the living room.
“Women’s stuff,” Harry said. “Best let them get on with it.” Liz kissed her dad and collected her bag while her mum telephoned the labour ward.
When they arrived the labour ward was fairly quiet, the midwife told them. Liz was monitored for half an hour or so. The baby’s heartbeat was fine. Liz was wearing a sanitary pad, given to her by the midwife when she put her on the monitor; An hour or so later it was wet. The midwife looked at it and confirmed Liz did not need speculum examination to prove her waters had gone, because it was so obvious.
“Definitely spontaneous ruptured membranes, I’ll have to get the doctor to see you,” she said.
“Why’s that?” Liz asked her mum, after the midwife had gone.”
“They may offer to start you off, with a drip, to get your contractions going, because you’re not having any.”
“I don’t have to though, do I?”
“No, you don’t,” Maggie stressed.
“The midwife said your baby is fine from the look of the trace, and she said most women with pre-labour rupture of membranes will go into spontaneous labour
within 24 hours. You want to be at home, don’t you?”
“Yes I do,” Liz said. “I don’t want the drip if I can help it. I’ve heard that the contractions can be harder to handle, and I’d have to spend my whole labour on a monitor. I’ll go home and wait.”
The doctor was very pleasant when she came and explained to Liz her options. She could come into hospital and they would start her off, with a syntocinon drip, or go home and come back the following day if nothing was happening, or before if she was worried about anything. She seemed especially concerned to make sure that the fluid, or liquor as she called it, was not smelly and that Liz did not have a temperature, explaining that any sign of infection, such as those she described, would warrant action.
“It has a metallic smell,” Liz said
“That’s fine,” the doctor reassured her. “What I mean is a bad smell, a sign of infection. If you are not sure call your midwife or come in to have it checked.”
While they were waiting in the admission room Liz remembered that Helen had been admitted to the unit that day to be induced.
“Can you find out if she has had the baby yet, Mum?” She asked Maggie. “I know nothing was happening yesterday because I saw Nigel at the front of the house. He looked quite glum.”
Maggie went to investigate and when she discovered that Helen was still upstairs waiting for her
labour to really get going they decided to go and visit her for a few minutes.
“Won’t it be strange of we are both in labour at the same time?” Liz asked her mum.
“ I think Helen might be a little fed up by now, Liz, and if she thinks there’s a chance you might have your baby before her, that is certain to make her feel more miserable.”
“You’re right. Perhaps if we just pop in and wish her well but not say anything about my waters having gone, we can take her some flowers from the shop here and just say we were passing.”
By this time it was two thirty. Liz and Maggie, flowers in their arms, met Helen and Nigel as the door of the lift they were waiting for opened. They stepped out of the lift. There was a midwife with them. Helen looked very uncomfortable and leaned forward to support herself on a rail during a contraction. It was a daunting moment for Liz, although Helen was unaware. Liz lost her voice; she touched Helen’s arm.
“We are going to the labour ward,” Nigel announced proudly; his face looked drawn. “Helen is three centimetres at last.”
“Well done, Helen,” Maggie said, and Helen, having recovered from the contraction, whispered: “It’s about bloody time. You can swear when you’re in labour, can’t you?”
“Is that the best you can manage?” the midwife asked.
“No, I’m saving the best for later.” Then she was off again with another contraction, leaning on Nigel this time.
Maggie gave the flowers to the midwife to hold.
“We’ll be thinking of you. Don’t forget to let us know, when you can,” Maggie said, and they watched them enter the labour ward.
By the time they arrived home Leo had left, with a promise to come back later, which he did, with Tom, a bottle of wine, and some chocolate.
It was a strange evening. No one could settle. They played scrabble and kept the TV on. Every time she felt a trickle Liz would go to the bathroom to inspect the colour of her liquor. Leo was on full alert and reminded her of a hawk, and she told him so.
“You are watching me even when you are facing the other way, your eyes have moved to the side of your face.”
Tom thought this was hilarious and called him Hawkeye all night. Leo was not amused. “I am just concerned, I’m looking out for Liz,” he said.
Liz telephoned Debbie, who knew Helen had gone to the labour ward, but was astonished, and envious, to realise that Liz was also going to have her baby before her.
“How is Debbie?” Maggie asked.
“She sounded okay, but I think she is good at putting on a brave show. I’m sure she must be really fed up.”
“You should have asked them round,” Harry said.
“I did, Dad, but Sean was working at the computer. They are going out Monday evening to celebrate Debbie’s birthday.”
It was eleven thirty, and only after Maggie had insisted, before Tom managed to drag Leo out of the door.
“Liz needs to get some rest,” Tom said. “She’s got a big day coming.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as anything happens,” Liz told him. “If it does, Leo, you can come and boil kettles if you want, but you’re not coming in to where the action is, you’ll have to stay with Dad in the kitchen, or wherever I’m not.”
“It’s a deal. See you later or tomorrow.”
Liz was exhausted, but there was still no sign of a contraction. The only thing she managed to do through the night was trickle clear liquor, and poo for England.
“Where the hell is all this coming from?” she said to the bathroom mirror when she woke to go to the loo for the fourth time at three thirty a.m.

Three thirty a.m. and Helen had just had her epidural sited. She felt like she had entered heaven after being in hell. Numb from her stomach down and only just able to wiggle her toes, she looked around the room. It was like seeing it for the first time. The lights
were on full and the room was littered with the debris of the epidural procedure, which Amy, her midwife, was tidying away. Her bag and shoes were on the floor in the corner and there were a couple of trolleys containing packaged equipment and a large machine which, Amy had told her, was the baby rescuscitaire; adding that it was quite common for a baby to “need a whiff of oxygen" when it comes out.
Helen had a drip connected to her arm and another drip taped down her back to where the epidural had been put in.
The one in her arm was to strengthen her contractions, and the other, into her back, was to stop the contractions hurting. They were being run through two machines on a stand beside the bed, and had been set to regulate the drugs as they were pumped into her. In addition there were two bands around her stomach for the monitor recording her baby’s heartbeat and her contractions, and the catheter that the midwife had put in to empty her bladder because she had not been able to wee.
She had no knickers on, and had been dribbling fluid constantly since the midwife had broken her waters, not long after she had arrived on the labour ward.
Her TENS machine lay discarded on the window ledge and the gas and air mask hung over the chair. She didn’t need them any more.
Nigel reclined in a large chair next to the bed,
sipping hot tea. He looked exhausted, but Helen knew he could in no way be as tired as she was at this moment.
When she was told that she was three centimetres and could go down to the labour ward she had felt almost elated. Suddenly, with the knowledge that she was actually in labour, Helen felt better able to cope with the contractions she was having, even though they were regular and strong. Then, since coming to this room, on the labour ward, she had worked so hard to try to remember her breathing techniques, to relax, and do all the things she had read about. She had spent the past 13 hours hoping that there would only be a few more contractions to go.
With the syntocinon drip, used for induction of labour to stimulate contractions and which had been started after she had come to the labour ward, her contractions were now coming every two to three minutes and lasting for what felt like a long time.
Some time back, she couldn’t remember when, she had been given a diamorphine injection, which Nigel told her had caused her to talk gobbledegook. She didn’t care. It had helped her through a few hours.
She had tried to change position a number of times but found it too painful to move. When she did move, Amy had had difficulty trying to record her baby’s heartbeat, and she was finding it increasingly difficult to cope with the contractions.
The decision to have an epidural had been made after Helen’s last internal examination.
“I’m afraid you are only seven centimetres,” Amy had said. The negativity of her statement fed Helen’s sense of disappointment. She had been six centimetres three hours and a lot of contractions ago. Amy explained how a graph was used to chart the progress of labour and the graph was demonstrating that Helen’s labour was progressing slowly.
The doctor had come in to see her after that, and she'd had to endure another internal examination, so he could be sure of her baby’s position. “Your baby’s head is still a little high and needs to move to an anterior position, Helen,” he had told her. “It may be some time before you deliver. Have you thought about having an epidural?”
“I really hoped I was further on, don’t know if I can stand this much longer,” she said. At that moment the thought of an imminent end to the pain of the contractions was like the vision of an oasis in the desert. “What do you think love?” She asked Nigel. “It’s you going through it Helen. I can’t say, but I hate to see you in pain like this. How long is it going to go on?” And so she said “Yes.”
She drifted off to sleep but was woken, not much later, by an awareness of a change in the rhythm of her baby’s heartbeat. Instantly alert, she saw Nigel
had noticed it too. He was standing by the machine. Amy wasn’t in the room.
“Is that all right?” Nigel asked.
“I don’t know, press the buzzer.”
Their baby’s heart rate had slowed down. The machine, which had been reading a steady pattern of 130 to 140 beats, was now recording only 90.
Amy came in and looked at the monitor. She adjusted the drip and then asked Nigel to help her turn Helen onto her side. Gradually the gentle thud of heartbeats gained speed and Amy relaxed.
“That’s better," Amy said. We’ll keep an eye on it for a bit and if it happens again I’ll ask someone to come and check it. She checked Helen’s temperature, pulse and blood pressure. “All fine.”
Amy sat on a stool close to the monitor, and recommended to Nigel that he should try to rest. Nigel obliged her by sitting in his chair and leaning back, but Helen could see he was tense, although he was trying not to show it.
When it happen again about 20 minutes later he catapulted out of his chair and stood behind Amy, willing his baby’s heartbeat to be all right, with all the rational energy he could muster. He leant over and took Helen’s hand, she grasped his tightly. After what seemed like an age, but was probably less than a minute, the heartbeat recovered. Helen and Nigel exchanged glances. They watched Amy turn the drip
off, and then write something on the paper on the monitor trace; Nigel saw it was the time and Amy’s signature.
Amy examined Helen again, although it was only an hour since her last examination.
“Vaginal examinations are usually every four hours if everything is all right, but I just want to see if you have progressed since the last one,” she explained. “Sometimes the baby’s heart drops if there is sudden progress.”
Helen watched her expression carefully while she performed the internal examination, hoping for a miraculous full dilation verdict.
“Eight.” Amy said, “Well done.”
“Well at least it’s not still seven,” Helen replied, wanting it all to be over.
After the examination the baby’s heart rate dropped again. For a full minute a rate of 80 beats a minute was displayed on the front of the machine before returning to 120. Amy left them for a few minutes to go and contact the doctor.
Nigel stood holding Helen’s hand. He kissed her forehead and said, with deliberate conviction: “It will be okay, Helen, try not to worry.”
The doctor arrived. He appeared calm and after a brief acknowledgement, proceeded to study the monitor trace; then he sat where Amy had been sitting and watched it for a few minutes.
Their baby’s heartbeat dropped again, this time not so dramatically. Dr Shah introduced himself and spoke to both Helen and Nigel. “Your baby’s heart trace is showing signs that he or she - do you know if you are having a boy or a girl?”
“No,” Nigel answered sharply. At that moment the sex of their baby was not a concern to him at all.
“Right,” DR Shah continued. “Your baby’s heart trace is showing signs that he, or she, might be getting a little distressed. I say might, because we can’t be sure by just looking at this trace. Because you are progressing now, Helen, your baby may simply be responding to his head being squashed. He addressed Amy: “Is the liquor clear?”
“Yes, it is clear, and I have examined Helen, she’s eight centimetres, minus two, ROP.”
“Okay, now what I’d like to do, Helen, is take a little blood from your baby’s head. That will tell us how well your baby is coping.”
“How do you do that?” Helen asked.
Dr Shah explained: “It’s quite simple. I will use a speculum and a small light to look into your vagina, prick your baby’s head, and collect a few drops of blood from his scalp. Amy will feed the sample into a machine and that will tell us how well oxygenated your baby is.”
Turning to Amy, he said: “Would you get everything ready please?” But she was already on her way out of the door and Nigel could hear her call down
the corridor
“Fetal blood sampling, room three, can someone get the machine ready please?”
“What if the baby is distressed, what then?” Nigel asked.
“If the result shows clearly that your baby is distressed then we would want to perform a caesarean section; if it is border-line, I’ll repeat the same test in half an hour. If the result is okay you can carry on in labour and we’ll keep an eye on you both. Now that you have shown some progress during the past hour, that’s hopeful.” He smiled.
Despite their anxiety Helen and Nigel appreciated a friendly face, and having things explained to them in clear terms. All the while they were aware of the gentle thud of their baby’s heart.
Helen stayed on her side for the procedure, which took about half an hour, during which another midwife ran back and forth with a couple of samples for the machine, which was located somewhere on the delivery suite.
Dr Shah maintained his position at the bottom of the bed, and Amy passed him instruments and cotton wool, while they chatted in a friendly, light-hearted way.
At last the midwife returned with the result. Dr Shah read it and said:
“This result is all right, but only just, so I want to repeat the test again in half an hour, to be sure. In the
meanwhile I’d like to apply a clip to your baby’s head if you don’t mind. We can connect the clip to the heart monitor and that will give a more constant reading of your baby’s heartbeat. We are less likely to lose contact when you move.”
Helen looked at Nigel, and then nodded to Dr Shah. She felt vulnerable and afraid for her baby, but powerless to do anything but trust the medical staff. They were doing this sort of thing every day, so must know the right thing to do.
The doctor and midwife left the room and the baby’s heartbeat appeared stable again so Helen dozed for a few minutes, despite everything, because of the tiredness, which swept over her in great waves
“Where am I going to get the energy to do this?” she asked Nigel. Nigel held her hand and waited, feeling lost. At five forty-five Dr Shah returned to repeat the fetal blood sampling. He appeared satisfied with the result when Amy returned with it, but stayed to talk briefly to Helen and Nigel.
“Amy is going to keep a close eye on your baby and let me know of any concerns she may have. We have started the syntocinon drip again because we need your labour to progress, and will watch how your baby reacts to this. I have great hope that next time you are examined you will be fully dilated.”
“Has my baby turned round yet?” Helen asked.
“Your baby is still posterior, but I hope some good strong contractions will change that.”

It was six forty and Liz was in the shower, still trickling clear fluid, but with no contractions and only a mild ache in her back; it felt similar to the beginning of a period. She was due to go back to the labour ward later this afternoon for a check-up, if nothing was happening by then.
It was too much like waiting for the pot to boil, she thought, and decided to go for a short walk. She left a brief note on the kitchen table and took her mobile phone, making sure it was topped up. She had a couple of spare sanitary pads and some drinking water in her bag.
She took the car to the beach, which was cool and deserted. Except for another early walker and his dog in the distance, Liz saw no one. The sound of the waves was exhilarating and quelled the dark worries of the previous night. She took her shoes off and wandered along the water’s edge, allowing the clement waves to take the tension from her feet and ankles. With each step, soft sand filtered between her toes, gently massaging and soothing her feet. She turned to face the sea and was taken by the beauty of what she saw, sky and sea, and land beyond.
“We’re here,” she shouted and lifted her voice over the horizon. “My baby is coming into the world today. World, get ready for her, she is going to amaze you.”
Overhead gulls screamed at each other, wild and free on the air. The setting moon, full and pale in the morning sky watched silently. During her walk back to the car Liz had her first contraction.


Chapter Fifteen


A Baby at Last


Saturday morning and Debbie was up at 6.45am, drinking tea in the kitchen. She hadn’t slept well. Her baby was due tomorrow and still she had not found the comfort and reassurance from Sean she so desperately needed. Last night she had woken from a nap on the sofa to hear Sean’s muffled voice from the kitchen. He had closed the kitchen door.
“I think it’s better if you don’t call me at home again,” she heard him say.
“You’ve got my mobile number, haven’t you? Debbie is suspicious of something, and I don’t want her to know about this, especially not now.”
When she opened the kitchen door he continued: “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” and replaced the receiver. Then he made her some tea and hugged her, a sure sign that he was feeling guilty about something?
Now her courage failed her and she decided not to ask him about what she had just overheard,
although why she should need courage to talk to her husband she did not know.
She turned her thoughts to Helen, Nigel had promised to ring with news, no matter what the time of day or night. Should she telephone the labour ward, or wait? She opened the kitchen door and took her tea into the garden. The breeze was pleasant and its play on the grass and flowers, along with the arrival of a chubby industrious bee, alighting for a moment to investigate her dressing gown, unexpectedly brought a sense of continuity and peace. Her tea was hot and soothing.
“Get a grip, girl,” she said to herself. Today, she would talk to Sean. It had to be done, clear the air, and prepare the way for their baby. It was the right thing to do.
At seven o’clock she went back into the house to telephone the hospital. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any information on the telephone,” the voice at the other end said. “I will let Helen know you have telephoned, and ask her husband to ring you with any news.”
It was only after the telephone was gently clicked back into place that it occurred to Debbie that Scooter hadn’t got out of his bed. His usual habit was to go straight to the back door as soon as either she or Sean came down in the morning. She went over to his bed, and he looked up at her with sorrowful eyes, moving his front paw. Still, he made no effort to get up.
“What’s the matter, old fella’?” Debbie asked him, suddenly concerned. His skin felt hot, his nose was dry and she noticed his breathing was faster than usual.
Scooter had been her pet for nine years and had been through so much with her that she couldn’t bear to think of loosing him. It never mattered to Scooter what she looked like or how she behaved, unless she was cross with him - he loved her no matter what.
She brought his water over to him and he made an effort to sit up, he was definitely unwell. She would ring the vet's when it opened at eight thirty. Thank goodness Sean was home, he would be able to carry Scooter out to the car.
Debbie made a fresh cup of tea and sat in a chair, next to Scooter, with her foot inside his bed resting gently against his hot belly and wondering what next.

Ed was a midwife with many years' experience of the delivery suite. She went along to Helen’s room and met Amy coming out, an expression of concern on her face.
“Ed," Amy said with relief, “Will you look at this trace for me?” Ed followed Amy into Helen’s room.
Helen was lying on her side, and the syntocinon drip had been stopped again. Her baby’s heartbeat was 180 beats per minute and Ed could see that there had just been a short, but deep deceleration. The rapid heartbeat and the deceleration together
were a sign of foetal distress.
She said hello to Helen and Nigel and asked to look at Helen’s sanitary pad. “I’d like to see the colour of the liquor you are draining, if you don’t mind.” Helen nodded. She felt frightened. She could hear the change in her baby’s heart rate.
“It’s quite fast, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Have you done a VE?” Ed asked Amy.
“No, I was coming to call the doctor first,” Amy replied.
“I’ll ring him you examine Helen. Yes” Ed replied to Helen, “It is quite fast. We are going to get the doctor to come back to see you.” Then she left the room.
Helen was gripping Nigel’s hand. She buried her face in her pillow, too afraid to look at the expression on his face.
“You are still eight centimetres, Helen,” Amy said when the internal examination was over. “Also, your baby has opened its bowels, there’s meconium in your liquor which means it might be getting distressed. The doctor will be here shortly.”
Helen could only nod. To speak might mean losing the thin thread of control that held back her mounting sense of panic.
Dr Shah was with them in minutes, although it seemed an age, during which Helen focused on her baby’s heartbeat, willing it to be okay.
“What’s the position of the baby?” he asked Amy
“There’s a suture line in the transverse and the station is at the spines,” Amy said.
“What does that mean?” Nigel asked.
Dr Shah did not attempt to answer this question. Instead he nodded at Nigel and asked Helen if he could examine her again. “I know that Amy has just done that, but I need to be sure of things before making the decision about what to do next.”
Helen nodded and Dr Shah began to examine her.
“I can’t hear my baby’s heartbeat!” Helen proclaimed suddenly.
“It’s because I have taken the clip off your baby’s head for a moment. Amy, would you find the FH abdominally please?”
She did. It was still there, still very fast.
When he had finished examining Helen, Dr Shah answered Nigel’s question.
“Amy is right about the position. What it means is while your baby has been trying to turn to an anterior position the widest part of his or her head has become wedged against your pelvis. You are still not fully dilated. In view of this, and your baby is showing signs of distress, I think we should perform a caesarean section, Helen, but I need to talk to my boss, Miss Charles, to confirm this.”
The time was five minutes past seven AM.
Helen felt frightened, and Nigel later told her
she appeared to panic. Her fear, she remembered, was for her baby, not herself, and for the lack of control she had over her circumstances. Yet inwardly Helen experienced a sense of calm and of separation, as if it was someone else was experiencing all of this, and not her.
Dr Shah left the room. Amy was there, and the senior midwife, Ed, who had been in earlier, and other people came in; people she had never seen before.
Amy tried to reassure Helen, but her words were diluted by the actions, and words, of the unknown others, who introduced themselves briefly and then did things, like take blood from her arm, shave the top inch of her pubic hair, and ask her to sign consent for a caesarean section. It appeared Dr Shah's boss had agreed with him that that was what she needed.
Another person, the anaesthetist, checked her epidural; asking Helen if she would like to be awake for the section, and when she told him she would, he sprayed something, which he said was cold on her stomach and asked her to move her legs, which she couldn’t. Then he adjusted something on the machine at her side.
“It seems okay but I’ll check it out in theatre,” he explained. “If the epidural block is not adequate, though, I will have to give you a general anaesthetic.”
Amy took Helen’s nightdress off her, trying her best to maintain some of Helen’s modesty, while at
the same time threading her drips through the sleeve, and dressing Helen in a white cotton gown.
Although her legs were numb Helen was aware that they were being tugged and pulled, and glancing down she saw a young girl, possibly a student, struggling with a white stocking which she eventually pulled up to Helen’s thigh, the girl then smiled at Helen and said: “One down, one to go,” and started to apply the second stocking.
“Is she catheterised?” Ed asked Amy.
“Yes”
“Have you checked her arm band?”
“I’ll do that now.”
Ed then gave Helen some sticky clear medicine from a pot.
“It’s an antacid," she explained. “Don’t worry we’ll have your baby out very quickly. It will all soon be over.”
At the same time someone was moving the bed. There was another stranger, a smiling man in blue theatre clothes, pulling the bed and unlocking the room door to allow the bed out. Amy and the student pushed the drips.
“My baby,” Helen said.
“We have unplugged the monitor until we get you into theatre,” Ed said. “As soon as we are in there, we’ll listen in again. Nigel, bring your camera, just in case they have to put Helen to sleep; so you can get some photographs of your baby in the first few minutes for her.
“Bye the way,” Ed added, “that is Bob at the bottom of the bed, good at steering isn’t he? He’ll be in theatre. There’ll be a lot of people in theatre.”
There were lots of people in the operating theatre. Nigel was asked to wait outside while they got Helen ready. He was given a green gown and some disposable plastic overshoes to wear. Bob explained they were to keep his shoes from spreading bacteria into the theatre.
Back in the theatre, the student midwife, who introduced herself as Gemma, stood by Helen and held her hand while the anaesthetist adjusted her epidural.
“You can ask me anything and I’ll try to explain,” she said to Helen.
Amy used a sonic aid to listen to the baby’s heartbeat while at the same time the anaesthetist sprayed Helen’s stomach and lower chest asking all the while:
“Can you feel this? Is it cold? You shouldn’t feel any pain at all,” he told her reassuringly. “But you must let me know if you experience any discomfort and I’ll have you off to sleep as fast as you can wink.”
A screen was raised, between Helen and her stomach, by tying a sheet to the drip stands either side. All around her people were busy. Then she felt herself being tilted sideways, towards her left side; the operating table was moving.
“You’ll stay slightly tilted like that to prevent postural
hypotension,” Gemma said, and then decided to abandon the medical terminology, she added: “It’s to help stop your blood pressure from dropping.”
“Has someone bleeped the paediatrician?” Helen heard someone call, and looked at Gemma, who explained: “We always have the paediatrician in for an emergency section.”
“Can my husband come in?” Helen asked, feeling a sudden pang of fear for her baby, and the need for Nigel’s hand.
“I’ll get him,” Bob said, and placed a stool beside the theatre table, close to Helen’s head.
Dr Shah, now in his theatre gown, came and said hello, followed by Nigel, but Helen had to look twice before she realised it was him - he looked like another one of the theatre staff. He sat down next to her and leant over to kiss her cheek.
“How are you doing, love?” he asked.
“Okay,” this was not the truth; she was scared. By now Helen could feel there was something happening behind the screen.
“What are they doing?” she asked Gemma.
“The surgeon is cleaning your stomach now, he’ll start in a moment,” Gemma replied.
Amy came to say hello. “I may have to take your baby straight to the baby doctor she said, before bringing him, or her, to see you, it just depends how your baby is. The paediatrician is here, over in the corner by the rescuscitaire.”
Helen and Nigel nodded simultaneously. There was too much to take in, Helen was aware of bright lights, busy people and music, something classical and vaguely familiar, but drowned by voices and the many unfamiliar sounds, like the humming of machinery, and the occasional gentle clunk of metal on metal. She noticed a blurred reflection of green movement in the large theatre light above her, and deliberately averted her gaze, along with all thought of what she might see, or imagine she could see, in that reflection. She felt slightly cold and nauseous,
“Are you okay, Helen, you’ve gone a bit pale?' Nigel asked.
The anaesthetist, who had introduced himself as Dr Thomas, made an adjustment to her intravenous infusion and the nausea settled quickly. Nigel bent his head to kiss her cheek. He smelt of fresh sweat and cologne, reassuringly familiar, reminding her of home and safety.
Helen could feel some tugging and pulling, her body moved, swaying very slightly from side to side with the efforts of the doctors. Then she had a sensation, which in her imagination took her back to her childhood, to one Christmas when she was about six or seven years old.
She had awoken to find her Santa sack at the bottom of the bed. It was crammed full of presents, but the one she really wanted was at the very bottom. So she had put her hand in and reached as far as she could and rummaged around until she felt the familiar
shape beneath the paper, which she grabbed and then tugged. It had got a bit stuck on the way out and everything else in the sack was shoved and pushed out of the way. Determined she would not let go, and then success! She had pulled and wriggled her present out of the Santa sack. The Christmas wrapping came off in one go, to reveal a baby doll, with eyes that opened and shut and a sweet rosebud mouth. Helen still had the doll; she had kept it all these years.
“Seven twenty seven,” she heard a voice call, and then the most fantastic sound she had ever heard in her life. A quiet watery gurgle, accelerating instantly, to a full throttle release of primordial indignation; it was her baby’s cry.
Tears filled Helen’s eyes, she looked at Nigel, he was crying too. Amy came around the screen with a chubby pink baby with a mop of black hair.
“What have you got?” she asked them, displaying their naked angry infant.
“We’ve got a bloody beautiful baby girl!” Nigel exclaimed.
“Is this your camera?” Bob asked.
Nigel nodded, and the flash startled the infant girl.
“I’m just going to show her to the paediatrician and wrap her in a dry towel,” Amy said. “Then I’ll bring her straight back. What are you going to call her?”
“Chloe,” Helen replied, glancing at Nigel who
nodded his approval.
“Shall I weigh her?” Amy asked.
“Can we have a cuddle first?”
“Of course, I can weigh her when I put her identity bands on later.”
Nigel held Chloe in his arms, he felt clumsy at first but Gemma showed him how to support her head and positioned Chloe so that Helen could see her face.
It took more than half an hour for Dr Shah to sew Helen up. When the suturing was nearly complete Nigel was taken out, with Chloe, to the recovery room to wait for Helen to come out of theatre.
Helen was in the recovery room for a while, during which time she had her first real cuddle with Chloe, who had weighed a huge nine pounds and half an ounce.
Amy and Gemma were going off duty, the day staff were coming on, and so it was another midwife who helped Helen to give Chloe her first breast feed.
This was difficult at first. Helen was unable to sit up, and the drips and wrist attachment for patient-controlled analgesia were getting in the way, but Chloe latched on well, eventually, and fed, all the while gazing up at her mum, with wide and wondering indigo eyes.
Ed came into the recovery room to see Helen before she left for home at the end of her night shift.
“Congratulations,” she said enthusiastically. “You did really well, what a beautiful chubby baby, and look at all that hair.”
“I’m sorry to have been so much trouble,” Helen said.
“We’ll have no more of that,” Ed said with a change of tone, which caused Helen to tighten her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears again.
“What in the world have you got to apologise for?” Ed said kindly and gave Helen a hug.
“Thank you,” Helen said and smiled.
At nine 'o’clock on Saturday 17 July, Nigel began his announcement telephone calls. Anne was his first call.


Chapter Sixteen


At Home


Liz drove home slowly. She had to stop twice on the way when she was gripped by two more contractions. The pain was similar to the horrid period pains she had suffered as a teenager, only as well as radiating from her lower back to her abdomen this pain reflected along the front of her thighs.
It was usually a ten-minute drive, but took Liz twenty; fortunately the roads were clear so she could stop when she needed, without annoying other motorists. Her mum was at the door when she arrived home, watching for the car, and went to Liz on the path when it became obvious Liz was having a contraction.
“That’s four in thirty-five minutes, Mum,” she said. “Hallelujah.”
“Are you all right love?” Maggie asked her. “Are you managing?”
“I’m fine, Mum, when I’m not having one, that is; you can’t exactly ignore them, can you?”
“No, Liz, that’s what they’re there for, to let you
know it’s time.” Liz went into the house and headed for the bathroom to change her pad and check her amniotic fluid loss was still clear.
“Mum,” she called after a couple of minutes. “Come and look at this, is it okay?” Maggie checked her pad. There was a large blob of blood-stained mucous on it, although the fluid she was losing, in trickles and occasional gushes, was still clear and watery.
“That’s fine, there’s a lot more mucous than blood, it’s your ‘show', and it’s a good sign that your cervix has been ripening, and may even have started to open.”
“Only started to open?” Liz was worried. “These contractions are so painful - are you telling me they're going to get even worse?”
Maggie smiled, she looked calm, but later confessed to Harry that she had felt quite anxious about the idea of watching their own baby, Liz, go through all that and would have rather given birth herself.
“Liz,” she said. “You have had less than half a dozen contractions, it’s going to take a lot more than that to birth your baby. You need to think about using your time now; doing what makes you feel the best you can in the circumstances. Rest if you can. Believe me, you will need all the energy you can muster for later on.”
“Should we contact Rachel?” Rachel was her midwife. She had been to the house a couple of times to discuss Liz’s home birth and had brought a green plastic bag full of soft equipment, like pads, protective
sheets and a delivery pack.
“I’ll ring her, just to let her know, but I don’t think she needs to come rushing round just yet,” Maggie said.
Liz decided to have a bath, but first her mum insisted on washing the bath thoroughly, telling Liz it was to avoid infection.
“Because your waters have gone, and we don’t know how long you are going to be yet,” she explained. “And you should have the water comfortable, not too hot; we don’t want to overheat our baby.”
The bath was very relaxing and Liz had been in it for twenty minutes or so before she realised she hadn’t had another contraction. She decided to have some breakfast and then rest.
Downstairs in the kitchen everything looked like a usual Saturday morning. There was an aroma of fresh coffee and bacon, her dad was reading the sports pages and her mum was spreading butter generously onto toast.
“You Know when I was born they weren’t expecting me,” her dad said. “I was the second twin, they didn’t have all these scans and things back then and I gave my mother and the midwife a bit of a surprise. They were expecting the placenta and they got me!
“Oh dad that sounds awful, I’m glad you are you and not a placenta, but I’m also glad there is only one baby in her,” Liz said, patting her stomach.
“It was in the middle of the night,” Harry continued,
and when she saw me arrive your grandmother said, ‘Put the light out you’re attracting them.’ ”
“I’ve phoned Rachel,” Maggie said, ignoring her husband’s remarks, "She is coming later, after her calls, to see how you are doing, unless we need her earlier of course. We can contact her on her mobile if we need to.”
Liz was hungry. She ate a bowl of cereal and some toast and marmalade.
“I’m going to see if I can relax for a bit,” she said, “Although I feel too excited to relax. Mum, the contractions have gone off. I haven’t had one for nearly half an hour.” Almost immediately, she felt the now familiar low backache. It swiftly radiated around her stomach and down the front of her thighs.
“Spoke too soon,” she said, and her grip on the back of her chair tightened.
“Try to keep your shoulders low, if you can,” her mum said. “I know it’s not easy but it does feel better if your muscles aren’t all tensed up.
Harry looked up, uneasily, from his paper.
“I hope you’re doing the right thing here,” he said, “Staying at home for this,” and glanced over to Maggie, who again pretended he hadn’t spoken and continued to watch Liz.
Liz had to use all her powers of concentration to keep from tightening her muscles, because when she felt the pain rise she tensed up with apprehension. It was a full minute before she was able to answer him.
“Don’t worry, Dad, we can get to the hospital pretty
quickly if we need to. I feel good here. It’s where I want to be.” Her baby gave her a reassuring thump.
“Thanks little one,” she said. “I know you’re there.”
After breakfast she went up to her room where she played some music and tried to rest. She managed to doze for a few minutes, but was unable to sleep because of the backache and irregular contractions. Maggie had put a new decorator's sheet over Liz’s mattress, and under her bedding, some weeks earlier. It had disposable plastic one side and some sort of soft paper on the other.
After an hour of attempted rest, a small burst of excitement came to her. This is really it, she thought. Oh hell.
She decided to try sitting on her birth ball. Liz had found this to be quite comfortable lately. It caused her to sit up straight, eased her back and gave her a little more room under her ribs. When a contraction came she found that rocking on the ball helped.
Her mum opened the bedroom door cautiously. “I thought I heard you moving around. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, this rocking helps.”
“Why don’t we bring it downstairs? You can watch television or chat to me if you want. A little diversion might be good for passing the time, and take your mind off waiting for the next contraction. Let me know when you are ready to put your TENS on.”
“Okay. Another contraction’s coming. I think I’m
ready for this one.” Liz said with a grimace. When it subsided she asked,
“Is there any news about Helen yet?”
“Nigel rang half an hour ago, they've had a baby girl. Chloe, she was nine pounds and half an ounce. He was thrilled, but very tired. They'd had a long night.”
“How is Helen? How was her labour?”
“Helen is fine, she had an emergency section. I wasn’t sure whether to tell you or not. I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Poor thing, I bet she is worn out. But she’s okay, you are sure?”
“Yes, she’s fine.”
Liz didn’t know why Helen had needed a section, and she didn’t want to think about it, not right now. She had read that at home, where there are no hospital staff and no machinery, there would be less likelihood of any interference with the process of her labour. That’s what she wanted, and that’s why she was here, sitting on a large blue ball in the middle of her bedroom.
“Hearing what happened to Helen makes me so sure that I want to be at home to have this baby, if I can mum,” she said.
Liz went downstairs and found that the kitchen was a good place to be when she had a contraction. There she could lean over the worktops, or a chair. Harry came down in his allotment clothes.
“I’m getting out the way,” he said. He had not been
with Maggie for the birth of Liz and of her brothers, who had been born in hospital at a time when the presence of the father in the delivery room had been discouraged.
Today he was unsure if he could handle seeing his little girl in pain.
Liz kissed her dad goodbye and attempted to reassure him.
“Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll be fine,” she said, speaking for herself and her baby.
During the course of the morning Liz took a few short walks around the garden, enjoying the air and the flowers and smiling in acknowledgement at the blackbird busy digging her beak into the ground for grubs and worms to take home to her young. Liz also spent time resting on the settee, and the birth ball, in front of the television. At this stage of her labour distractions did help pass the time.
Liz found that some things helped her to cope with the contractions more than others, like leaning forward, or rocking, but every now and then she would have a contraction so powerful that it took all of her powers of concentration to stay calm, to acknowledge and accept it for what it was, to let it happen and let it pass. Then she was waiting for the next contraction. Rachel called in at 12.30PM and Liz was glad to see her. Rachel was about Liz’s, in her late twenties, friendly and easy to talk to. To Liz the most important element in their relationship was that
Rachel listened to her, and respected her wishes. Liz felt she could trust Rachel. She had spoken to friends who had not felt the same about their midwife.
Rachel checked Liz over, taking her blood pressure, temperature and pulse; she then felt her abdomen, first for the position of the baby, then for the contractions. After a contraction she listened in to the baby’s heartbeat. Liz said a silent prayer through all of this. More than anything she wanted to stay home to have her baby, any problems and she would have to go to the hospital.
At last Rachel said: “Everything seems fine,” and Liz and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. “So far,” Rachel added.
“It is time to examine your cervix again, Liz, if you don’t mind,” Rachel said. “Those contractions are quite regular now, and they feel fairly strong to me.”
Liz couldn’t help saying: “Only fairly strong?”
Rachel smiled, but said nothing. She knew that Liz’s contractions would become much more powerful, but all being well this would happen over a period of time. This would allow Liz to become accustomed, to work with them, and to adjust, accept and not resist.
“You are doing really well,” she said finally, to Liz, when the examination was over.
“Four centimetres, thin central and well applied, station minus two. That is all good. I’m not sure of your baby’s position. I could only feel one suture line and no
fontanel, but judging from what I felt on your tummy, I think he or she, is left lateral and that’s okay.”
“What makes it hurt so much?” Liz asked her.
“It’s thought to be the stretching of the cervix that causes most of the pain. The contractions pull the neck of the uterus up and the baby’s head stretches it, like the neck of a tight polo neck sweater. The neck of the uterus is sensitive to being stretched and that is why you feel the pain. Tensing your muscles can make it feel worse, although relaxing is very difficult in the circumstances,” Rachel explained.
“Sometimes the position of the baby can cause extreme backache. If that happens, kneeling and leaning forward and rocking, like you’ve already been doing, can take some of the weight and pressure off your back. Massage can help, although you might come to a point when you don’t want to be touched.”
Rachel still had some post-natal visits to do, so she had a cup of tea and left, after first making sure they had her mobile number. She promised to return after the rest of her calls, sooner if Liz needed her.
“Any problems, don’t hesitate to call me,” she said. “Or if things suddenly start to hot up.”
“You mean if I want to push?”
“Yes, definitely that,” Rachel laughed, but also if you want some pain relief, like an injection of pethidine.” Rachel had left a box which she assured Liz had everything they would need in it; she had also brought a large blue canister of nitrous oxide, complete with mask and tubing. “Gas and air,” she explained, “this is
for much later on,” This sounded ominous to Liz, who was already thinking of time in terms of how many more contractions.
Rachel seemed to pick up on this because her parting words for Liz were: “Don’t think ahead if you can, just work with what is happening now.” Liz nodded and made herself a promise that she would try.
Liz was leaning over the kitchen cupboard rocking her pelvis, while practising the breathing techniques learned at the active birth session a few weeks earlier, when Leo arrived to see how she was. It was two o’clock.
At first he was visibly shocked to realise that Liz was really in labour; to see she was in pain, and he suffered a brief moment of fear, for Liz, for her baby, and for his own helplessness. Then, the contraction he had just witnessed subsided, and he found his voice.
“How are you doing?”
“Bloody awful,” Liz said. “It hurts; it seems to involve the whole of me. Don’t expect me to talk to you when I’m having one.
“You could put the kettle on, Leo,” Maggie said.
“Do you need the hot water already?”
“If you want to do something useful, make us all a cup of tea.”
“For tea,” he said, and Maggie whispered to him,
“I’m anxious just like you.”
Maggie had been massaging Liz’s back
during the past few contractions, and Liz found this to be a soothing distraction, although it didn’t take the pain away.
“Have you eaten?” Leo asked.
“We had breakfast, but I’m not really hungry at the moment,” Liz said. “Although I’ve just remembered those ice pops in the freezer, I could manage one of those.”
Maggie fetched her one and suggested to Leo that he could make them both a sandwich. She gave him directions round the kitchen while she massaged Liz’s sacrum through the next contraction.
“Do you mind me being here?” he asked Liz when it was over.
Liz was wearing her loose fitting track suit, and felt she looked respectable enough.
“No it’s nice to see you. You might take my mind off things for a bit. Perhaps we could try a game of cards or something.”
He made himself and Maggie a cheese and tomato sandwich, and a cup of tea. Then he fetched the cards from the dining room. They tried playing snap at the kitchen table, and it was a bit of a farce. Two kings were laid on the top of the pile, which constituted at least three-quarters of the pack. Liz had a contraction. She protested vehemently when she missed the snap. Maggie complained too. Her focus had been on Liz, and when to start with the next massage.
“It’s not fair,” Liz cried. “How am I supposed to snap, and concentrate on keeping relaxed through the pain?”
They carried on anyway and passed another half hour of her labour, before they gave it up.
Maggie made Liz a hot water bottle, which she held closely against her lower abdomen. It was difficult to keep in place during a contraction, especially when she was leaning forward, but Leo tried to hold it there for her and the effort was worthwhile because the warmth of it helped to ease Liz’s pain.
By the time Rachel came back Leo was massaging Liz’s sacrum.
“Hey you’re good at that,” Rachel said, watching how he applied pressure to Liz’s sacrum at the start of the contraction. He kept it up until the pain subsided.
“This is great,” Leo said, “I can remember lots of the stuff we learned at the class. Keep those shoulders low Liz.” He said when another contraction started.
Rachel wondered about Leo, but said nothing. She knew that Liz lived with her mum and dad, and had left her partner. At first she thought that this was her partner returned, but Liz introduced Leo as her old school friend. Watching him with Liz, it became apparent to Rachel that he was, indeed, a true friend. He was thoughtful and considerate towards Liz, and supported her as well as any doula.
Rachel had brought her student Gemma with her. Although Gemma had been on night duty, and was
tired, she had not had the opportunity to see a home birth yet, and had left her number with Rachel with a request to be called.
Rachel called Liz earlier to ask permission to bring Gemma and Liz didn’t mind at all. She had already met Gemma at antenatal clinic.
It was now four o’clock and Liz was beginning to wonder whether the TENS was having any effect at all. This was getting awful. She wasn’t sure how long she could cope for. The contractions were coming every couple of minutes. The time without a contraction was only equal to the time with one. She had even been ratty with Leo, who took it all in his stride. He knew this was expected, the midwife had talked about it in class.
He and Maggie took turns with the massage, which was hard work in itself, but nothing could compare with the work that Liz was doing, and Liz was getting tired of trying to cope. Concentrating on watching and accepting her contractions was becoming increasingly difficult and she was just worn out.
Rachel regularly listened in to the baby’s heartbeat, and it was fine.
For Gemma, after watching women in labour in hospital, being with Liz in labour at home was like arriving at a holiday destination at siesta time. It was lovely being there. There was so much she felt she should be doing; only she had to wait. So she watched
and waited, absorbing the differences between hospital and home. She was used to intervention, equipment and clock watching. Here, though, everything seemed to be going at a slower pace, and that took a bit of getting used to. She and Rachel were waiting, not really doing much, or so it seemed to her.
However, it was no siesta for Liz. She was working harder than she had ever done in her life before. The contractions had been building gradually and now they were relentless and unbearable. One after the other they came and went, hardly giving her time to recover. She was aware of a voice, her mum’s.
“Try not to tense up, allow it to happen, breathe out slowly.”
Liz felt like shouting, I’m trying. I’m doing my best, but she knew her mum was right, it did hurt more if she tensed up, but it was so difficult not to, not when you could feel the contraction coming. Anticipation created fear of the pain. It was too easy to tense up to prepare yourself.
“It’s just my cervix; it’s just my baby,” she told herself over and over, and tried to focus her attention on a knot in the pine floorboard. “A branch grew out of there one time,” she thought, “With leaves, and birds, swaying with the wind.”
“I can’t do this,” she said finally. “It’s too hard. I’ve had enough, and Mum, that bloody bubble of yours has burst.”
“Why don’t you try a warm bath?” Rachel suggested. Liz nodded. She would try anything.
Maggie went up to run the bath, while Leo continued to massage her sacrum and hips; Liz wouldn’t let him stop.
“I’ll examine you when you are in the water,” Rachel said. “That way you will be lying down already and you might feel more comfortable. The water will help you to relax.”
Leo helped Liz up the stairs, and into the bathroom. She had two powerful contractions on the way.
“I’ll give Tom a ring, and then I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, and left Rachel and Maggie to help Liz undress and climb into the bath.
Ten minutes passed before Maggie came downstairs with the news. “Eight centimetres, she is eight centimetres; she’s doing well, isn’t she? Touch wood.
“Eight centimetres,” Leo relayed to Tom down the phone, and then said to Maggie: “Tom wants to know is that good?”
“Nearly there,” Maggie replied.
“Nearly there, Tom,” Leo said, the phone under his chin while he poured hot water into the coffee pot. The smell of fresh coffee and the knowledge that Liz was progressing well infused him with hope, but caution held him back from saying more.
“I’ll keep you informed, bye Tom,” Leo replaced the receiver thoughtfully, and looked at Maggie.
“Is she going to be okay?” he asked. “Are they
going to be okay?” Despite his tanned complexion Leo’s cheeks were flushed. His eyes held hers with all the concern Maggie would have hoped to have seen from the father of her grandchild. The baby’s father would not be around, but they would all make sure this baby lacked nothing else.
“So far so good; let’s hope so,” she said. “I’ll make something to eat and then go and relieve Rachel so she can have a break.”
“I’ll cook,” Leo offered. “Or we could have a takeaway. I’m not hungry just yet, are you?”
“I’m not, but Harry will be home soon and he will be ravenous.”
“You look after Liz and let me sort out the hunter-gatherer,” Leo said. So Maggie returned to the bathroom where Rachel was pouring warm water from a jug over Liz’s stomach.
Liz was lying in the bath with the water up to her neck. Her stomach and breasts an archipelago in a small calm sea. She appeared more relaxed. She looked at her mum and nodded, but said nothing. Maggie recognised the signs. Liz was drawing into herself, using all of her reserves and her concentration to focus on the job in hand. There would be no more conversation, until her baby was born. From now on, Liz would only talk when she wanted to state her needs, and she and Rachel were to be guided by Liz; unless any problems arose.
Maggie took over the pouring of the warm water, while Rachel listened in to the baby’s heart, and
jotted down some notes.
“Go and get a coffee. Leo will look after you - and have something to eat,” Maggie said to her, and Rachel went willingly, she was in need of a break. She took Gemma downstairs with her.
Leo made her and Gemma a sandwich, and poured some coffee.
“You look tired,” he said to Rachel.
“I only came off night duty yesterday morning. We get one sleep day and then back to it the following morning. Your body clock gets mixed up and it takes a bit of adjustment at first. And Gemma, she was on duty last night, and today should be her sleep day, but she didn’t want to miss the chance of a home birth.
I’ve some holidays coming up in a couple of weeks,” Rachel added, “Can’t wait.”
“Have you any got children?” he asked her.
“Two daughters, seven and four years old.”
“How do you manage?” Leo asked, “It must be tough sometimes.”
“Weekends aren’t too bad; their dad is home then, and I do have a weekend off every now and again. Today they went swimming. My mum helps too, collecting them from school, that sort of thing. It is difficult at times; perhaps I’ll win on the lottery.”
“Do you like being a midwife?”
“I do, I love it, but it can be frustrating at times, in the hospital especially, and of course it’s not all cute babies, like some people seem to think. Things
happen and many births are not straightforward. The responsibilities are huge, the job is hard work, and the hours are unsociable. You have to love it or you wouldn’t stick it.”
“I couldn’t do this everyday, I feel like a flea on a whale’s back.”
“Don’t, what you’re doing to support Liz is bigger than you think,” Rachel said.
“Liz is doing all the work,” Leo said, “all I can do is create a brief distraction, like an annoying itch. The worst part is, although you know what’s going to happen, you can’t be sure, can you? I mean I know she’s going to have her baby, but I’m not sure exactly when or how, and I’m not sure if I can handle it. It’s like being in the dentist’s chair all day.”
“Like I said, don’t underestimate the value of your support to her; I think you’re helping Liz a lot.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I do, but when it comes down to it, it’s her baby and no one can do it for her. Keep on doing what you’ve been doing. It will be worth it, and remember, this is just the start of it. Liz will be glad of your support after she has had her baby too. That’s when the real work begins. As vital as it is, this is still just one day.”
She smiled at him and thanked him for the sandwich before heading for the stairs.
“It’s my first home birth too,” Gemma confided to him. She stood up to follow Rachel, “So I know how
you feel. Thanks for the sandwich.”
On the stairs they could hear Liz’s laboured breathing. Rachel looked in on Liz and Maggie to make sure they were okay and asked Gemma to listen to the baby’s heartbeat. Then she went to the bedroom, where everything was laid out ready for the birth.
There she rechecked the syntometrine injection, just in case it was needed, and made a final check of her equipment. Gemma came into the room.
“Its okay,” she said, “One hundred and thirty beats per minute, with a brief acceleration to one fifty.”
“Good,” Rachel replied. “Liz has asked for a physiological third stage of labour,” she explained to Gemma. Gemma knew this meant no injection of syntometrine immediately after the birth of the baby’s shoulders; that syntometrine, when given, would facilitate a quick delivery of the placenta, usually after about ten minutes. The injection of syntometrine was given routinely in hospital, to help prevent haemorrhage after the birth, which it did, but it did cause some women to vomit. Liz did not want this, Rachel explained. Without the injection it might take up to an hour for the placenta to deliver. Liz knew this and was prepared to wait, but they would keep the injection nearby, just in case it was needed.
Back in the bathroom Liz gave an involuntary grunt with her next contraction and complained that she wanted to go to the toilet.
“Just wee in the bath,” Maggie said - to save getting in and out of the water.”
“It’s not a wee I want mum,” she insisted.
“That’s wonderful, you are progressing; and that is a definite sign,” Maggie said,
“Remember what we talked about, this may be the second stage now.”
It was then that Maggie saw the small red show of blood in the water. She called Rachel.
Rachel observed Liz for the duration of another contraction, then put a glove on and briefly examined her internally. “Your baby’s head is just sitting there,” she said smiling down at Liz.
“Is it?” Liz exclaimed with relief. “You mean I’m fully dilated?”
“And I’m fully delighted,” Maggie added with a smile.
“What time is it, Maggie?”
“It’s five twenty.”
“We need to get you out of the bath, Liz,” Rachel explained. “It’s not suitable for having a water birth. It’s not deep enough.”
Liz nodded, and breathed a long “Okay” with her out breath. Her contractions had changed. She didn’t like that feeling of wanting to have a poo, and she had a sudden fear of soiling herself. This, in turn, was inhibiting her reaction to the overwhelming urge to push. So much so that she realised that she was resisting.
“Can I go to the toilet?”
“To wee?” Rachel asked.
“No.”
“We are not having this baby born into the toilet, Liz, so I think it is not a good idea. Please try your hardest not to worry about your bowels. The baby’s head is so low now that it is pressing against the nerve endings on your back passage. The same nerve endings that let you know when you need to open your bowels. Try to ignore that thought, so that when you start pushing you are not wasting all that effort because you’re afraid of a little bit of poo. It’s your baby’s head you can feel. Now let’s help you out of the bath before the next contraction.”
It was awkward, climbing out of the bath, and no sooner was the soft white bath-sheet wrapped around her than Liz had another very strong contraction. This time the urge to push was more powerful and she could feel her baby’s head moving downwards. The pain in her lower back was unbearable.
“You’re doing really well, Liz,” Maggie said, her voice quivering slightly despite her efforts to hide her own feelings. Seeing her daughter like this made her feel so proud and yet fearful. It was far from being over, and Liz was now entering another crucial part of her labour. She would have gladly changed places with Liz and taken all of her pain.
“If you can manage to walk to the bedroom,
between your contractions, you could try the gas and air. This bathroom is so small we couldn’t swing a cat.” Maggie and Rachel coaxed and encouraged Liz along to her bedroom where she grounded herself on the covered futon mattress they had prepared on the floor. There she stayed on all fours. Rachel brought her the gas and air.
“Start breathing it in the moment you feel the beginning of the contraction, that way it will be in your system and working by the time the contraction reaches a peak,” she explained.
Liz couldn’t hold the mask and lean forward and rock at the same time, so Maggie helped her. “Mum, my sacrum, can you press on it?” Maggie tried, but it was difficult to manage the massage and the mask.
Gemma swapped the mask for a small mouthpiece, like a pipe, which would enable Liz to breathe the gas in. She held it for Liz. In one of the spaces between contractions Rachel asked Liz if she would mind if Gemma helped with the delivery. Liz said no, not at all.
“How many deliveries have you had?” Maggie asked her.
“Fifteen, but none at home so far,” Gemma replied. She looked slightly nervous, but Maggie reassured her.
“I’m sure Rachel will look after you.” Rachel was opening the delivery pack. She tried to listen in to the baby’s heartbeat between the contractions, but
sometimes this was difficult to find, “Your baby’s head is so low now,” she explained, “It is often difficult to find the heartbeat at this stage.
When she did find the heartbeat, it was good. Rachel and Maggie exchanged a brief smile.
The gas and air made Liz’s head swim. She didn’t like the feeling at first, but was encouraged to "get used to it", which she did. Then later, when the time came to concentrate on pushing her baby out and Rachel asked her to put it down, she didn’t want to part with it.
With each contraction Liz could feel her baby’s head moving very slightly forward. When her effort stopped, at the end of the contraction, she could feel the head slip back a little.
“It’s like two steps forward, one step back,” Rachel explained, “but that’s how it is and you’re making progress, Liz.”
Maggie applied direct pressure down onto her daughter's sacrum each time a contraction started. This helped to ease the pain and Liz wouldn’t let her stop.
“I can see some dark hair,” Rachel said, “You are doing really well Liz, it won’t be long now.”
“How much longer?” Liz managed to ask, between contractions that seemed to be so close together now there was no time in-between to rest.
Then it came to her that the deep-throated
shouts she kept hearing were her own. Now, each time a contraction came it took the whole of her, enveloping her in an ecstasy of pain. The urge to push her baby out was completely overwhelming. The energy of her voice matched the expulsive energy of her whole being. She had not imagined the power of it, and she had not expected the sensuality of the pain. When Rachel poured warm water over her genitals it was almost pleasurable; then immediately the pain of the next contraction claimed her.
Downstairs in the kitchen Leo fed the goldfish – possibly enough to kill them - and Harry turned the volume up on the television, and poured himself a whiskey. Elizabeth was his baby girl, he knew what was happening up there, and he couldn’t bear it.
Liz felt burning. Her perineum stung. This is the ‘ring of fire’ they talked about in class. Her baby’s head was crowning.
“Fucking hell,” she said, because at that moment that is how it felt. Then: “Sorry mum.”
Maggie smiled, “I’ve heard worse.”
“I want you to listen to me carefully now, Liz,” she heard Rachel’s voice, from somewhere. “Pant now, just little pushes, no more big ones, let’s have your baby’s head out nice and gently. Would you like to feel your baby’s head?”
Someone took Liz’s hand and helped her to reach down to feel the crown of her baby’s head, warm, wet and motionless between her legs. Another
contraction started.
“Pant, a little push, pant,” this time it was Gemma’s voice. She was helping deliver Liz’s baby. Liz felt like she was about to split in two. Then there was amazing relief. Her baby’s head was out. Liz was kneeling, holding on to the end of the bed. She looked down and could see the back of her baby’s head moving, turning to face her right leg, until the wet dark hair rested against her left leg and a dainty, perfect ear was uppermost framed by Liz’s pubic hair.
And there they waited for the next contraction, for a minute, maybe two; five people were held suspended by a thread of time.
The contraction came and a wet, blue-tinged infant was swept up in front of Liz’s stomach and into her arms where she was cradled for the first time by Liz, her mother.
Rachel gave the towel to Maggie who dried the baby while Liz held her, resting back on her heels. The infant took her first breath and roared into life with a cry from the bottom of her newborn lungs. Liz cried tears of joy and relief. Maggie’s eyes were full of the same joy, and Gemma, who would later tell the tale of her home birth experience to her envious classmates, was stunned by the miraculous simplicity of it.
“A baby girl,” Liz proclaimed, “I’ve had a baby girl.”
Rachel was relieved and happy. It was six twenty in the evening. She glanced towards the door. “There are two men outside the bedroom door.
They heard everything and now they want to see.”
“Give us a few minutes,” Maggie called.
“Let me put my dressing gown on, and then they can come in for one minute, I’m not finished yet, am I?” Liz asked.
“No, you’re not,” Rachel had a hand on Liz’s lower abdomen.
“I’m just checking your uterus. Good, feel that Gemma.”
They helped Liz into her dressing gown, one arm at a time, while she held her baby against her skin, the umbilical cord hanging limply from her baby’s naval, a connecting thread which reached deeply into the heart of her uterus, once priceless, now of little value. It had stopped pulsating.
“Would you like to cut the cord yourself?” Rachel asked her.
“No, I don’t think I could. Mum you do it?” And so it was that Maggie cut the cord.
Gemma placed some pillows behind Liz’s head and she rested back against the end of the bed, still on the futon on the floor. Her warm fleecy dressing gown was wrapped carefully around her enclosing her baby in a nest of warm skin and soft towelling.
“She is rooting already; we’ll have her on the breast before we let the men in, I think,” Rachel said.
“What are you going to call her, Liz?”
“She is called Arian.”
“That’s unusual,” Gemma said.
“It’s from a Celtic legend. Arianrhod spins the thread of destiny from the tower of inspiration and this baby has changed my destiny,” Liz said, smiling down at the wide bright eyes of her baby.
“Hello Arian,” she whispered.
Rachel helped to aim Arian’s mouth in the right direction and in a few minutes she was sucking vigorously at the breast. “This will help with the expulsion of the placenta,” Rachel explained to Gemma. “The breast-feeding will trigger the release of oxytocin, which will cause the uterus to contract, and this will help to curtail bleeding.
“I’m sorry about all the noise,” Liz said.
“What noise?” Rachel asked her.
“I was shouting.”
“Did it help to shout?”
“It did actually.”
“Then what are you sorry for?” Rachel said, and Liz smiled.
“Can we let your dad in for a moment?” Maggie asked.
Liz looked down at herself, she was decent, Arian was breast-feeding and Liz was revealing less cleavage than with some of the dresses she had worn this summer. There was a bit of blood on the mattress and she asked her mum to cover it with a sheet. She nodded. “Let him in,” she said, and Leo, we can’t leave him out.”
They came into the room, cautiously, unsure
of what they might see. Instantly, their uncertain facial expressions were transformed to expressions of delight.
“Thank God", Harry said.
“Look at those fingers, and hair, she has hair.”
Leo’s eyes brimmed full. Harry kissed Liz on the forehead and gazed at Arian. “Well done, love,” he said. “Your friend Debbie just telephoned; can we ring her back and let her know?”
Liz nodded: “Tell her we’re fine and I’ll speak to her tomorrow, or later on.”
Then Harry said: “Come on, lad,” to Leo, who had sat on the floor next to Liz and looked like he was settling in for the duration. “I think we had better go and sort those goldfish out, and let these ladies get on with their job. Anyone fancy a cup of tea?”
“Yes please.”
“Not for Liz, just yet,” Rachel said. She whispered to Leo: “Now can you see why we do this job? Incredible, isn’t it?”
Leo smiled, nodded, and gave her a hug.
When they had left the room Rachel came to Liz to look for a small trickle of blood from Liz’s vagina. This would be a sign that the placenta was separating.
“Don’t despair, Liz, you’ll get your cuppa once your placenta is out,” she said. “You deserve one more than the rest of us.”
Maggie took Arian from Liz, a reluctant Arian, who would have been happier to stay on the breast.
“You can go straight back to your mummy in a minute or two, darling,” she said, enjoying cradling her grandchild for the first time. Rachel fetched a small low stool and together, she and Gemma helped Liz to sit on the edge of it, creating a short drop to the floor, just in front of Liz’s vagina.
“A bit of gravity can help,” Rachel explained.
Gemma saw the cord lengthen.
“I can feel it coming,” Liz said. She had a mild backache, like a period pain, but it didn’t really hurt.
“Give a little cough,” Rachel said. Liz gave a voluntary cough and her placenta, a soft bloody organ the size of small doughy pizza, slid out of her and onto the floor, followed by a trickle of blood. Gemma collected the placenta and put it aside for her and Rachel to check; they would ensure that it was complete.
“A small piece left behind might result in heavy bleeding or infection,” Gemma explained.
Then they asked Liz to lie down while Rachel checked her uterus again by placing her hand on Liz’s stomach. “Lovely, just like a cricket ball,” she said, and asked Gemma to feel Liz’s well contracted uterus again.
“I want to examine you now to see if you need any stitches, Liz, but I’m afraid it might be a little sore so you may want to use the gas and air while I check. I need to have a good look inside,” Rachel explained.
Liz was not really prepared for this, she thought that it was all over at last, but Rachel assured
her this examination was necessary, and so she took the gas and air and tried to relax while Rachel checked her perineum for tears.
“You weren’t kidding Rachel,” Liz said. “It stings even though I can tell you’re trying to be gentle.”
“You will need a few stitches,” Rachel pronounced eventually, “but I will put some local anaesthetic in so it shouldn’t hurt. You must tell me if it does, and I’ll put more local in.”
“Do I have to have stitches?” Liz asked.
“No, you don’t have to have anything you don’t want, but I would advise it because there is a tear in the muscle and it is bleeding, not a lot, just a little trickle, but the suturing will stop this.”
So Liz agreed. Having the local anaesthetic put in was painful for a minute.
“It is similar to what they do at the dentist," Maggie explained, “Once you are numb it will be fine.” She was right.
Afterwards, when she was all done, Arian was brought back to her mum for another feed. This time Gemma helped her to latch on.
While Arian was enjoying her feed Liz glanced up at the sepia photograph of Bill and Dora on the wall; another memory for this room.
Liz had a wonderful restful bath while Rachel and Gemma finished their notes and cleaned up. Arian was taken downstairs for communal cuddles. She had weighed in at a respectable seven pounds nine
ounces.
By seven forty-five, Liz was sitting up in bed, relaxed, comfortable and happy, cradling baby Arian who just one and a half hours earlier had still been inside her. "Incredible," she thought. She knew she had been fortunate. Throughout the whole of her labour any one of a number of things could have happened that would have had her taken off to the hospital, such as failing to progress, asking for an epidural, meconium in her liquor and other signs of fetal distress, but now she also knew that for her, staying at home was the right choice.
Downstairs, in the kitchen phone calls were made, tea, coffee and an occasional scotch were imbibed. Maggie suddenly felt very tired.
Rachel and Gemma said their goodbyes. They would call tomorrow.
Leo and Harry helped to load Rachel’s car. Gemma couldn’t wait to call her friends and tell them her wonderful home birth story, and exhausted but satisfied, Rachel went home hoping to spend time with her children before they went to bed.


Chapter Seventeen


Last But Not Least


Debbie decided to wait until eight 'o’clock to wake Sean. Meanwhile she sat with Scooter reminiscing about the times they had spent together, talking to him, feeling he could understand everything she said. She recalled the time, when he was a puppy and she woke him to take him out to the garden to wee. He was just beginning to learn how to cock his leg and was so sleepy, when he lifted his back leg he fell over into the wet ivy. How she wished she had had a camera. Then there was the time when he had panicked, thinking he had lost her on the beach, daft thing. She watched him run back to where they had started their walk. He ran the whole length of the beach, Debbie calling his name frantically, and Scooter running off in a panic in the opposite direction. She had caught up with him eventually and scolded him, but she could never be cross with him for long. He was too good at looking sad.
When she first met Sean, he and Scooter took to each other straightaway and they became
great friends. Together the three of them were a family.
When Debbie woke Sean, he got out of bed immediately and ran down the stairs in his shorts, to see Scooter.
“Hello, old man,” he said to Scooter, gently patting the top of his head. “Debbie what time does the vet open?”
“Eight thirty I think, although it’s Saturday, so I’m not sure. There was an emergency number, but I didn’t think he was bad enough to call them out.”
“No but he needs to be seen today, and let’s hope it’s not too serious,” Sean said.
“Okay, we’ll take turns to sit with him and get ready, and try the phone again at eight thirty.” At nine twenty, when Nigel phoned to announce the birth of baby Chloe, he was surprised to get the answer machine. Debbie and Sean were already in the car with Scooter, on the way to the vet.
“I will have to do some blood tests,” Mr Davies told them, when they arrived at the surgery.
“He has a temperature, so I will give him an intramuscular antibiotic and some tablets to take home, one three times a day for five days.” Scooter was dehydrated.
The vet decided to keep him there for the day, wait for the test results and make sure that he had some fluids, although he explained that if Scooter refused to drink they would give the fluids intravenously.
“Telephone later this afternoon and hopefully you
can pick him up this evening, all being well.”
On the way home they went to the supermarket where they bought essential groceries and stocked up with dog food, including Scooter’s favourite treats.
“Do you remember the time we took him to Scotland camping? He wouldn’t come into the tent at first. It was windy and the canvas was moving. He wouldn’t trust a house with moving walls. When he became used to it he loved it, didn’t he?” Sean said, examining the array of dog toys in a display and placing a squeaky bone into the trolley.
Debbie allowed herself to buy some powdered baby milk,
“I thought you were going to breast feed,” Sean said.
"Just in case", I may never use it.” She had avoided buying formula feed until now, but her worry about Scooter somehow nullified the guilt she had previously attached to it. I’m not sure I even want to breast-feed, she thought.
They entered the house and could hear the answer machine bleeping. Sean pressed the play button and Nigel’s voice, a mix of emotion and joy said:
“Where are you both? We’ve had a baby girl, Chloe. She gorgeous and weighs a hefty nine pounds and half an ounce, loads of hair. Helen is fine. She had an emergency section so will be a bit out of it today; come and see them tomorrow, ward 37. I’m knackered so going to bed. Speak to you later.” And he was
gone, leaving Debbie and Sean standing in the kitchen. It was only eleven thirty and already the events of this day were gaining momentum. Debbie filled the kettle. Thank God they are alright, she thought.
“Do you want tea or coffee?” she said. Sean sat at the kitchen table: “Coffee, thanks love.”
“Sounds like they are okay; a little girl, that’s a surprise. Nigel was sure they were having a boy.”
“Yeah, he sounds all right, doesn’t he, relieved and all,” Sean said. “How long will Helen be in for?”
“Four or five days I think, sometimes they let you out earlier these. Nine pounds, that’s big. Poor Helen, lucky Helen, can’t wait to see her, I’ll bet Chloe’s lovely. I’ll get some flowers this afternoon, before we go back to the vet.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said, “Perhaps we can have our lunch out. I’ve got the mobile so we can ring the vet while we’re out.”
Debbie nodded, she smiled, they would spend the day together and it would be like it used to be.
The day was clouded by their concern for Scooter. Their conversation was subdued but comfortable, Sean was quiet, and Debbie kept on safe ground, talking about Scooter and asking Sean’s advice about their gift for baby Chloe. Occasionally she found herself wondering about Helen.
The news from the vet was mixed. “He has mild diabetes exacerbated by a chest infection,” the
vet said
“His blood sugar levels have improved dramatically since this morning. He can come home but will need careful watching and the vet would show them how to check his blood sugar. Scooter’s diet also required some adjustment. It was difficult to know what kind of recovery he would make.
They collected Scooter at five thirty. Despite his size Sean cradled him in his arms and carried him to the car. Debbie sat in the back with his head on her knee for the journey. Once home he was taken to his bed, but wouldn’t lie there until he had roamed about the ground floor of the house.
“He’s checking everything is in order,” Sean said affectionately, “That we haven’t changed things in his absence.” Then Scooter wandered into the garden, pausing by the clematis to wee.
“I think he is a little better,” Debbie said hopefully, “He couldn’t do that this morning.”
After Scooter was settled they had a light meal and Sean went upstairs to work on the computer. Debbie felt more relaxed than she had for some time now, and she decided to telephone Liz, she wondered if Liz had spoken to Nigel, or to Anne.
Harry answered the phone:
“Hello Debbie, you’ve rung at a very exciting moment. We’re biting our nails here. We’ve just heard the baby cry upstairs.”
“The baby? Liz has had her baby?” Debbie sat down.
“Have to go Debbie love, I’ll ring you back shortly,” and he hung up.
Debbie replaced the receiver, bewildered for a moment, then it sunk in and she grinned. Lucky old Liz, she thought. I hope she’s okay. I wish it was me. She went out into the garden and began to walk in slow circles around the small lawn, her deliberate steps following those trodden by Scooter less than half an hour ago; she stepped around the clematis.
In a corner of the garden was a young apple tree, already bearing small green fruit. She thought of her mum, who gave them the tree when they first moved to the house. How did you feel mum? How did you feel when I was born? Debbie had been born at home. Her mum was very young, only nineteen and Debbie was her second child. Debbie’s brother, John, a year older that her, was named after her father. He lived and worked in Leeds. They saw each other a few times a year and kept in touch with weekly telephone calls.
Her father had died twelve years ago. He had been a drinker and a smoker and when he became ill it was a painful and traumatic time for them all. He was a small man, five foot seven and weighing around nine stone. He was generally mild mannered, although he did possess a temper; she could only remember him losing it twice.
What she remembered most about him were his hands. They trembled like a fledgling’s wings when
he held his pint, and if he made an attempt to carry it when it was full, the beer would spill over the side of the stormy glass, so he would take a sip from it while it stood, still on the bar, in the working men’s club that was his home from home. “Waste not wants not,” he would say, and a snowy froth would collect between his top lip and his moustache.
Her dad was a painter and decorator by trade, apprenticed in the old way. The most amazing thing was when he held the paintbrush in his hand, full and oozing with paint, and put it to the wall, his hands stopped shaking and he could cut the straightest line without ever spilling a drop.
They'd scattered his ashes beneath his favourite tree, an ancient oak in a nearby country park. The one with roots like spaghetti hoops.
Debbie and her mum had always been close, almost like sisters. She could tell her mum anything. When she was a child her mum played tennis with her in the park, and they would go swimming together. When she was fifteen they'd had jiving lessons and when she was twenty they'd learned French together. Once they even went to Jujitsu.
Then her mum became ill, a long illness, until finally they had scattered her ashes close to her father's.
Debbie needed her mum now, at this moment, more than ever. “Mum," she said to the sky between the branches of the apple tree. “My baby is
due tomorrow, I’m thirty on Monday, and I think Sean and I are in trouble. I miss you so much.” She remembered the old woman with the shopping trolley. ‘Your mother is with you’ she had said. It was small comfort. She returned to the house and up the stairs to Sean.
He was on the internet, and closed the site when Debbie entered the spare bedroom, which doubled as an office.
“Liz has just had her baby,” she announced.
“I thought it wasn’t due for a few weeks. How do you know?” “I just rang her. It was all happening, just then. Harry is going to ring back later.”
“So you don’t know what she’s had or anything?
“No,” Debbie wasn’t sure what reaction to expect from Sean at this news, but he just said,
“Any chance of a cuppa’?” This was her cue to leave him alone.
“Okay.”
She went back downstairs, filled the kettle and sat in the kitchen with Scooter, who was sleeping peacefully. His breathing was now coming at a more regular pace, but his nose was still dry and warm.
The television was a distraction, for half an hour or so. She waited until she could wait no longer then picked up the phone to find out how Liz was. This time it was Leo who answered. Debbie was surprised to hear his voice.
“Leo, it's Debbie, what’s happening, how is Liz?”
Leo gave her the details and Debbie was genuinely delighted for Liz, ignoring a rush of uninvited envy; now Liz and Helen had their babies and she was to be the last of the three.
“Give her our love, Leo, and tell her I’ll come and see her tomorrow, if that’s okay, I’ll ring first to check.” She would telephone Chrissy later - right now she would be at the school summer show watching Natalie and Jonathan sing. Debbie would call her after the show. Michael would be there and Debbie was curious to know of any developments between them.
Half way up the stairs, to tell Sean, she could hear talking. He was on his mobile phone. She listened for clues. Who he was talking to? But his voice was low and the door was now closed. Among the muffled phrases and words Debbie was able to make out “Yes, you’re right, it has to be done,” and “Chrissy, what about her?”, then “No she doesn’t know anything, yet.”
Debbie stood still, gripping the stair rail tightly. Her heart felt like it was in her throat.
Sean paused listening to the person on the other end of the telephone until finally he said:
“Yes, about half an hour.”
Debbie heard his chair move and so carried on up the stairs, although at first it felt that her legs might not bear her weight. She pushed open the door and in a voice barely loud enough for him to hear, she said:
“Liz had a girl.” His tea was making splashy waves in the mug she now held between two hands. For a moment she was again reminded of her dad. She put the mug of tea down carefully, beside the computer.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, they are both fine.”
“There you are. I told you there was nothing to worry about. You’ll be fine too.”
Sean’s dismissal, of Debbie’s worries about childbirth was unhelpful. He thought he was saying the right thing to her, by telling her not to worry. Perhaps for some women that would have been true, but for Debbie an acknowledgement of the reality of what she was going to face, and some responsive support was what she craved.
But she was thinking, Chrissy, what about her? What could he mean? Was ‘her’ Chrissy, or was it herself? He had said "No she doesn’t know anything – yet", but about what? She needed time to consider what she had overheard. Above all she wanted to prepare herself, she wanted to be ready and in charge of her emotions. She wanted to think clearly. What did Chrissy have to do with it? Chrissy was her friend. She was going to be with Michael, wasn’t she?
“That’s wonderful news, isn’t it?” Sean and then, “Debbie, I have to go out for a couple of hours.”
“Tonight? Now? Why?” this time Debbie’s dismay was only too obvious. She began to cry. Sean stood up and went over to her,
“Debbie, we are going be all right.” He held her close to him, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head. “Please trust me. I will explain tomorrow, I can’t explain now, and I have to go out tonight.”
He collected a jacket from the bedroom and was gone before she had time to ask him anything more, leaving her confused and alone at the top of the stairs.
The remainder of the evening passed quietly. Debbie sat with Scooter for much of the time. There were too many things to think about and she was very tired.
Sean returned home late to find her asleep in the chair. He woke her gently and helped her up to bed where she lay sleepless for the rest of the night.
On Sunday, Debbie spoke to Nigel. Helen and Chloe were doing well. She decided to visit Chrissy that morning, to look for clues. She would visit Helen and Liz in the afternoon. She planned to shop for a gift for Liz before then.
Sean was busy, nothing new in that.
“I’m taking you out this evening, so don’t be late back,” he'd said to her when she left the house. Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten her birthday tomorrow after all.
A sense of abstraction had come to her, like a blessing, during the long sleepless night; but only after she had come to a point where continued
speculation was too painful.
Debbie had no idea what she was going to ask Chrissy, and when she discovered Chrissy was not at home she decided that focusing on Helen and Liz would help her through the day. She spent the morning shopping, and had her lunch in the supermarket cafe.
Helen had a side room. When Debbie entered the room, the first person she saw was Anne. She was sitting in the corner in a large green chair, wearing a matching cream and green outfit. She was cradling Helen’s baby in her arms. Anne reminded Debbie of a Madonna and child painting she had once seen in a gallery in London. She looked ten years younger than when Debbie had seen her last. It had been only a few weeks ago, but now seemed an age.
By contrast Helen appeared tired and flushed. Her eyes had lost their mischievous sparkle.
“Hello you, how are you feeling?” Debbie gave Helen a long hug and then was drawn to Chloe,
“She is absolutely gorgeous, the spit of her dad, “That’s a contradiction in terms if ever I heard one,” Helen retorted, holding her stomach. “No-one can look like Nigel and be gorgeous.”
“And all that hair, look at it - it’s standing on end at her crown. It looks electrically charged!”
“I know, it won’t lie down, though we’ve tried.”
“How are you?” Debbie asked again, but she also meant, how was it?
“I’m good, really. It only hurts when I laugh, or cough, or sneeze for that matter. Glad it’s over with. A bit sore, but I have this watch-thing here. Morphine apparently, it helps a lot, but makes me woozy.”
Debbie put the flowers she had brought in a vase then sat and held Helen’s hand.
“The flowers are for you, this is for Chloe.” Helen opened the gift Debbie had brought, a beautiful dress, white with pink rose-buds, age nought to three months.
“You can take it back if you don’t like it, or you if need a bigger size. I bought one similar for Liz.”
“Liz?”
“She had her baby yesterday, at home. I thought Nigel would have told you?”
“Nigel doesn’t know. He mustn’t have spoken to them. He’ll be back soon. He’s gone home for some spare nightgowns and knickers. I hadn’t planned to be staying in hospital for a few days. Is Liz still at home, did she have to come in?”
“She’s home, I’m going to see her later.”
“Give her my love, lucky girl.”
“You’re lucky too, Helen.”
“I know, Debbie, I’m lucky that we’re both here, safe and sound, but, there’s this feeling, difficult to explain really, especially when I feel I should be ecstatic. It makes me feel guilty somehow.”
Debbie watched a tear form in Helen’s eye. It swelled and spilled onto her cheek, rolling down and melting into a small blue flower on her nightdress.
“I didn’t finish it. I wanted so much to do it myself. I didn’t finish the job.”
Debbie squeezed her hand. She was not sure what to say.
“That feeling will pass, dear,” Anne said. “I know it will. It’s so confusing. Disappointment, relief, and you keep thinking about what happened, wondering why? You have been through a major event, Helen dear. Now you must rest and recover, at your own pace. I’m just so relieved that you are both here.” Anne looked down at Chloe and stroked her hair.
“I know mum but I can’t help thinking.”
Debbie squeezed Helen’s hand. She thought of her own absent mum. She decided not to ask Helen for details of her labour. It was all too close for comfort.
Helen joined this conspiracy of silence, to protect both of them; Debbie from the detail, and herself from talking about things she didn’t have the energy to deal with right now. Would words and description make it better or worse for Debbie, Helen wondered? She didn’t know the answer to this question. Today she felt like yesterday’s beer, tired and flat. Tomorrow she would tell herself it was done, she had done her best, and it was time to learn about living life, as a mum.
Nigel returned to the hospital at three o’clock and Debbie left at three thirty.
“Give Liz our love,” Helen said. “Oh and happy birthday tomorrow; Nigel, in my bag there’s a present
and a card.”
Nigel lifted it out and presented Debbie with her birthday present and a hug.
“Not to be opened until tomorrow, strict orders.”
“Thank you, you really shouldn’t have, not today.”
“I got it ages ago, Debbie. Have a lovely birthday.”
Liz was in the front room on the settee. Baby Arian, dainty with fluffy brown hair was nestled in her arms sleeping. Maggie made tea and Harry sat in the armchair reading his paper.
“Would you like to hold her?” Liz offered, and between the two of them they managed awkwardly to transfer her to Debbie’s arms.
“We’ll both be good at this soon,” Liz laughed, “We’ll be chucking them all over the place, like professionals.”
Arian rested on the top of Debbie’s pregnant stomach like a dish on a tray, and was soon pushed and prodded by the unborn infant.
“That’s early infant rivalry if ever I saw it,” Liz was laughing. She reclaimed her baby.
“You look so well. How was it Liz?” Debbie wanted, from Liz, answers to the questions she had not been able to ask Helen. “I hope I have a normal birth, I don’t want a caesarean. What’s the secret?”
“There’s no secret really Debbie. It’s hard and it hurts. You have to work with it and try your hardest to remember the pain has a purpose, even though it’s
awful. Try not to back off from it. I found it helped me to sink into it to try and relax, but it wasn’t easy, and relaxing didn’t take the pain away, although it did help. I learned that it got worse when I tensed up. You can feel it coming, and you know what it will feel like, and that apprehension can make it worse, don’t let your apprehension take you over. Stay with it and believe you can do it. Just do one contraction at a time and it will come to an end.”
“What about the things we learned in class?”
“The slow breathing out, the rocking, and the massage – I found all of those helped to pass the time. Diversions really, but they helped. Leo was good at the massage, and so was my mum. The warm water helped a lot. Rachel, the midwife was great. The student midwife was lovely, Gemma. I think she was nearly as delighted as I was. And being at home, that was good.”
Liz smiled down at baby Arian and stroked her hair. After a moment’s thought she continued. “There came a point, near the end, when I really believed I couldn’t go on, but knowing that you’re nearly there, that keeps you going. It’s really difficult when you don’t know how long it will go on for, or how much worse it’s going to get.
When it came down to it though, my body was doing something that was beyond my thoughts, and it knew what it was doing. I had to allow it, I think that acceptance of the contractions, for what they are, and what they are doing, is important. There is no
point in resisting. Resistance can’t stop the incredible power of it. You just have to get on with it.”
Debbie nodded and chewed her bottom lip. It was still a secret, but she would know the answer soon enough.
Liz noticed Debbie’s heavy eyes, which she interpreted as pregnancy related. She wanted to make Debbie feel better, not worse. “You could have an epidural; that’s up to you,” she said. Then for fear of sounding patronising, which she hated, said: “But that was not what I wanted. It’s an incredible experience. I’m so happy I’ve done it,” while thinking, "I’m even happier it’s over."
Maggie came in with the tea and biscuits. “Have you had any backache, Debbie? Any signs that you’re ready to go into labour?”
“Not really. The head has been engaged for three weeks now and apart from the occasional bit of low backache, which is muscular, I think, there’s been no sign at all. Perhaps I’m going to go over like Helen.”
“How is she by the way? I spoke to Nigel about an hour ago. It sounds like she had a hard time, poor thing. Although he said they are both well.”
“Nine pounds, mum, no wonder,” Liz said.
“It’s not always the size of the baby that makes the difference Liz.”
“Do you have any advice for me, Maggie, before I go in?” Debbie asked her.
“Yes. Ask why, to things you don’t understand. Say
no, if you don’t agree to something, or you don’t feel it is right for you at that moment, and remember to keep an open mind. There are those who are not so good at accepting that you and you alone, are the one with the knowledge of how you feel at any given moment in time, and there are those who know this but forget it sometimes. Sometimes you need to tell people how you feel, because otherwise they'll never guess it.”
Debbie was not so sure what Maggie meant, and she thought of Sean, he used to know how she felt. He used to be good at understanding her
“I can see by your expression that I’ve not made myself clear,” Maggie went on. “If they want to break your waters, for example, and there is no real reason for it that you can tell, ask why, and ask what will be likely to happen if they do it? Then decide if you will allow them to. Don’t be afraid to say what you want.”
Debbie nodded and drank her tea. She looked at Liz, Liz who had her baby, and her mum; and thought of Helen, she too had her baby and her mum.
Then a thought struck Debbie like a lightning bolt, ridiculously, like it was something she had not been aware of until this moment. She was going to be a mum, and that thought shone, like a candle through the swelling miasma surrounding her. Debbie felt her courage rise. “I’m going to be a mum,” she said out loud.
“God help you,” Harry said from behind his newspaper and they laughed, because he didn’t know, and they did.
Chrissy was home. Her car was parked outside her house. Debbie took a deep breath and rang the doorbell for the second time that day.
Chrissy looked the same as usual; no guilty look. She appeared no different from the usual Chrissy. She looked surprised and delighted to see Debbie and gave her a hug. Debbie did not know what to think.
“Debbie, I wasn’t expecting you. Have you heard about Helen, and Liz, have you seen them? I haven’t had a chance yet, been so busy.”
Debbie followed Chrissy into the kitchen. “I’ve seen them both this afternoon; they are good, and both babies are lovely.
“I’ll go tomorrow, what do they look like?” So Debbie described everything she had seen on her visits that she thought Chrissy would want to know, all the while thinking, How can I approach this and not make her think I don’t trust her? She would ask about last night, the school summer show and see where that took them.
“Michael came back here, for coffee," said Chrissy. "I think we did fine, Debbie. I found him so easy to talk to; only he had called and asked if Jonathan could sleep over. Natalie was delighted, of course, and Jonathan is still here. Michael telephoned this morning and asked if I would watch him until later on today, he has had to go to London, for work. There is a big story breaking and he has been working on it. Sean …”
“Mummy, Mummy, Jonathan has gone all funny, and he fell over,” Natalie screamed into the room and both women were out of their seats in moments.
Chrissy ran up the stairs, and Debbie followed
“No, Mummy, no,” Natalie cried.
“Where is he Natalie?” Debbie asked.
"He’s in there.” Natalie pointed to the dining room.
Debbie reached him first and what she saw when she entered that room was to stay with her for the rest of her life. Jonathan was on his back, his face grey, arms by his side limp and lifeless.
“What were you doing? Natalie, what were you two doing?” Natalie was sobbing and Debbie bent down to her level and took her by the arms.
“It’s not your fault, Natalie but I need you to tell me what you were doing,” and then Debbie saw the paper bag on the floor. Inside it were pear drops. Without another thought she picked Jonathan up and put one hand on his stomach, below his ribs. She turned him over and leaning the full weight of his body forward, so he was almost upside down, she slapped his back hard and the boiled sweet flew out of his mouth and landed on the floor.
Jonathan gasped just as Chrissy came into the room.
“I’ve been through the bedrooms,” she stopped. “Christ,” she said, “is he breathing?”
Debbie knelt on the floor and was holding him in her arms and rocking him. She nodded. Chrissy
checked his pulse. To their relief Jonathan’s colour began to return. Chrissy turned to Natalie, who was sobbing in the corner of the room.
“Come here darling,” Chrissy said to her. “He is going to be all right,” and they sat on the floor next to Debbie so that when Jonathan opened his eyes he could see they were with him.
Chrissy telephoned Michael, but it was an answering service, so she decided not to leave any detail, just asked him to call her back.
They took Jonathan to the out-of-hours doctor to be checked over and bought ice-cream on the way home.
Michael telephoned and was on his way over. Debbie decided not to wait. Sean would be waiting for her.
“I went to a nice place. A lady sent me back.” Jonathan told Debbie. He was standing with Chrissie at her front door. Debbie bent to kiss his forehead.
“I think the lady was you, or my mummy,” he said.
“Yes, darling,” Debbie said, but thought no more of it.
It was later than she had planned. Sean was home. He greeted her at the door. “I was beginning to wonder if I should call the hospital,” he said. There was something different about him. He wasn’t cross with her, in fact he was smiling. He kissed her cheek.
“I have been to the hospital, but not for that reason,
with Jonathan. Do you remember the little boy at the barbecue?”
“Of course I do, Michael’s lad, Jonathan. What about him?” It struck Sean that that Debbie had mentioned going to the hospital, and he stopped in his tracks, halfway along the hall. He appeared unduly concerned, Debbie thought, considering he hardly knew them.
“What happened? Is he okay?”
They went into the in the kitchen and Debbie was gently reminded of Scooter, by the nudge of his head against her leg. He was looking better, and got out of his basket to greet her.
“How’s Scooter been?”
“He’s been fine. I think he’s going to be with us for a while longer. Like the proverbial creaking gate.” He bent to stroke Scooter’s head. “I hope so, Scooter, old fella,” Scooter in turn gazed at him with doleful eyes and gave his tail a lazy wag.
“Now tell me about Jonathan, and then let’s go out for something to eat.”
Debbie was tired, but eating out meant no cooking and no washing up, so she was glad of it. Sean was smiling, again, and seeing him more like his old self produced in Debbie a kind of wary expectancy. She hoped this was a sign that they could go back to their old familiar ways, but expected disappointment.
She told him what had happened at Chrissie’s then went to change quickly. What to wear
was not really a problem; there was little choice, nothing fitted any more. Sean brought the car round and they drove.
“Where are you taking us?” she asked. They were driving out of town.
“It’s a surprise, you’ll have to wait and see.”
Debbie settled into her seat and Sean put some music on. Eric Clapton, Tears in Heaven. Debbie felt herself relax. The song also saddened her, reminding her of her mum. She thought about her mum a lot lately. She closed her eyes and dreamed briefly. She was running in a field. The grass was tall and someone was waiting for her but the sun was in her eyes; all she could make out was a silhouette.
Moondance - now Sean was playing Van Morrison. It was their song. Debbie felt the car slow and turn. When she opened her eyes they were driving through trees, in a place she recognised. Thornton Lodge, the hotel where they were married.
“I would have booked us in for the night,” Sean apologised, “but I thought we’d be worrying about your waters going, the hotel bed and all, and I wasn’t sure if you would be comfortable, so it’s just a meal I’m afraid.”
“Sean, it’s a lovely surprise, and you did the right thing. I wouldn’t have been comfortable in a hotel room tonight.”
He helped her out of the car. They walked into the hotel holding hands and Debbie began to wonder if she was still dreaming.
“I have some explaining to do, Debbie,” Sean announced after they had ordered their meal. He took a sip of wine. Debbie took a breath in and held it. “There has been something going on with work. It’s a serious business and I’ve been so afraid to worry you, with the baby coming.”
“Work?”
Like the opening of a parachute after searching for the cord in freefall, Debbie’s relief was tangible.
“I will have that glass of wine after all,” she said, and sat back while Sean told his story.
“Do you remember a couple of months ago? I went on a tour of a site with Bob English?” Debbie nodded, she vaguely remembered, but she had still been at work herself then and there was so much going on.
“He was showing me around, proud of his new development. Those flats are his first enterprise of this sort. He was in advertising before; so he didn’t see what I saw. In some areas of the site the builders were using the wrong materials.”
Sean could see that Debbie was puzzled.
“I’ll explain what I mean. The specifications for the materials are agreed during tendering, this is to ensure the safety of the building when it is complete.”
“But the building inspector checks it out, doesn’t he? Surely he’d notice.” Debbie asked, and then remembered. “That project is one of PANER’s, isn’t it?
“Yes, so I went to James and told him.”
“You didn’t tell Bob?”
“No, I thought I could sort it without affecting PANER’s reputation, and that was my mistake. James said, ‘Leave it with me', and I trusted him.”
“You know my feelings about James,” Debbie couldn’t help retort.
“Yes and you were right. You see, Bob has a partner, and he’s in local government. I didn’t know this until I had a drink with him the other week. Then I went back to the site, on the pretext of looking for Bob. Nothing had changed. They were still using unsuitable materials.”
“Did you tell James?”
“I did, he tried to bribe me with that rise I’ve been after.”
“And you refused it?”
“I did, and then he threatened to implicate Bob. He’s innocent, knows nothing about the scam, and he’s got three kids to think about. So it left me in a predicament. If I reported it I couldn’t carry on working there. In fact it’s likely that exposing this will ruin the firm. We have the baby coming. It has been driving me mad. I have been looking around for another job, I was worried about you, and the new mortgage we have. Then I met Michael.”
“Michael?” this was a revelation.
“You remember the barbecue at Chrissie’s. We got talking. He knew some things I didn’t about James, and Bob’s partner Herbie Hebson, the one in local government. I met Michael, and Bob after that. There’s
a lot more been going on, it involves millions of pounds and we’re going to expose them, tomorrow.”
“How?”
“In Michael's newspaper. I know it’s not much in epic terms, but it’s been one hell of a journey for me. So you see I’m sorry, love. I know I’ve behaved badly. It wasn’t intentional, I was so worried, I didn’t realise how I was affecting you, but I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
Sean took a thoughtful a sip of his drink. No, he hadn’t realised how much his behaviour might have affected Debbie, and it had taken someone like Michael to point it out to him. He thought back to last night. He had been standing in the hallway in Michael’s house when he saw the photograph.
“My wife,” Michael had said. “She died when Jonathan was only six months old. She was knocked down by a car. I had been so wrapped up in work. I hadn’t spent the time with her I should have, she had been through pregnancy, birth and the first months of motherhood, and she was struggling with it, only I was too busy to see. If I could go back in time, I would make it up to her.”
Sean remembered Michael’s words, but did not repeat them to Debbie. Instead he said: “You should see the picture of his wife, Debbie. It’s amazing. Talk about a doppelganger. She was the spitting image of you.”
Debbie had not told Sean she had been to Michael’s house. It had been a secret to which she had
felt entitled, almost tit for tat, but now that she knew Sean’s secret she felt guilty for not having been open with him. Not that she had lied, or done anything wrong.
“I went …” she began, but was interrupted by Sean producing a small square package from his pocket, which was quickly followed by an envelope from another pocket. He placed them both on the table, in front of her plate.
“I know its a few hours early, Debbie,” he grinned like a child in a sweet factory. “But I couldn’t wait. Happy birthday.”
Debbie opened the card. There was a large 30 on the front, that was a bit of a shock, but it was a beautiful card with the sentiment ‘To my darling wife on this special day’, and a picture of red roses, her favourite. Inside Sean had written,
"Debbie, my only love, happy birthday, Sean".
Debbie looked at him. Had he known what she had been thinking? But now, it didn’t matter at all. His grin had become a gentle loving smile.
“Open the present, I’m excited. I hope you like it,” he said, but Debbie could hardly see what she was doing for the tears welling up in her eyes. She fumbled with the knot in the ribbon, tore at the paper and opened the box to reveal a shining gold bracelet. It was delicately engraved with a rose and leaf design, but that was not all, engraved on the inside of the bracelet were the words ‘Debbie - Till all the seas run dry – Sean’.
Sean got up from his seat and came to her,
first to wipe away her tears with his napkin, then to kiss her tenderly on her lips. It mattered little to either of them that they were in the middle of a busy hotel restaurant, and consequently, they did not notice the smiling attention of the other diners.
When they returned home there was a large bunch of yellow roses on the doorstep. The card read: ‘To Debbie, words will never be able to describe our gratitude, fond regards, Michael and Jonathan’. There was an envelope inside addressed to Sean.
“Tomorrow,” Sean said, reading his note. “That’s when it hits the fan. What’s going to happen after that, I don’t know.”
“How will you go into work, with all that going on?” Debbie said. “It’s going to be very difficult for you.”
“Don’t worry about tomorrow, it’s your birthday and you never can tell what tomorrow may bring,” Sean replied prophetically.
The evening had been so full of revelations and joy that it was not until she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth that Debbie became aware that she was having intermittent backache. It was different from the usual discomfort she had become so accustomed to, because her tummy was tightening with it. Although mild in its nature Debbie realised with a pleasant lurch of excitement that it had been going on for some time. When she went to the toilet she saw that she had had a show, the mucous plug that had been at the neck of
her womb had fallen away, this surely was a sign that her cervix was doing something, if only ripening. She told Sean.
“I think we should both try and get some rest,” he said; “looks like tomorrow is going to be a big day.” He brought her two paracetamol and a glass of water and they cuddled up together in bed. Very gently, they made love.

At 1am Debbie was awakened with backache. “Feels like a period,” was her first dreamy thought followed by “Oh yes! Oh hell.”
By 2am she was sure this was it! She woke Sean. “I’m in labour, Sean.”
“What? Are you sure?” then he saw her face. Another contraction had started. “What shall we do? Call the hospital? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, love. I’ll call them, because I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want to go in too soon.
Sean went to the bathroom and she could hear him swilling his face to wake himself up. Her call was answered quickly.
“Hello, delivery suite, Rose Tatton speaking. Can I help you?” A woman’s voice, in an efficient drawl, with an accent Debbie could not place.
“Yes, I think I am in labour,” Debbie said weakly. Although she knew that she was.
“What’s your name please?”
“Debbie Johnson.”
“Address?” They proceeded through all the demographic details, establishing that her pregnancy had been problem free, and during which, Debbie had to stop for a whole minute while she breathed through a contraction. By this time Sean had come to sit next to her on the bed and began rubbing her back. Finally the midwife came to Debbie’s signs of labour.
“How often are they coming?”
“It varies, there were only five minutes between the last one and the one before, but sometimes it's ten minutes, and I’ve had a show.”
“How are you feeling, Debbie? Are you coping so far?”
“I’m all right now, at this moment I mean. I just don’t know when to come in.”
“Has your baby been moving?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Debbie, I would suggest that you have a bath, don’t come in too soon, take some paracetamol.”
“I have already had some, but I’ve got a TENS machine.”
“Okay, have your bath and then put your TENS on. Come in when your eyes are watering, or ring us again if you’re not sure, or any problems. Is that okay?”
“Okay,” Debbie replied and then Rose hung up.


Chapter Eighteen


Edwina: The Night Shift


Edwina Campbell sat at the cluttered desk in the labour ward office. Glad to rest her aching legs she waited for the page to open then, tapping the keyboard lightly with the fingers of one hand, she began to record the birth of the baby she had delivered in room seven only twenty minutes earlier.
It was a warm night and the office was stifling. Leaning forward, with one cheek sandwiched between the palm of her hand and her heavy head, Ed’s left elbow pained at the point where it pressed into the desk; she leaned back in the chair. The computer screen glared at her, interrogating, intruding, even through closed lids. Bed, its white sheets and soft white pillows beckoned but a moment later, this image retreated to the remoteness of the artic circle when a bell rang and a voice was hurled out from a delivery room down the corridor
“Room four, take a baby; bleep the paediatrician” She sighed, her tiredness the familiar tiredness of a
succession of night shifts in a busy unit short on staff and long on hours. Ed had not slept well that day. She never could. Frustrated, she felt like a sow with more piglets than nipples
Ed picked up the receiver, made the call and rushed to room five, where a light flashed urgently above the door. Inside she glanced at the monitor, nodded discreetly to Jacqui her colleague, checked the rescuscitaire, and prepared to receive a baby whose heart trace showed evidence of distress. The woman, in advanced labour, was on the narrow bed on her back with her knees bent and legs open. Her face was contorted. The effort of pushing her baby into the world jig-sawed from her open mouth, cutting through clenched teeth and filling the room with its immediacy. Within minutes the baby was born; a big chubby boy who lay still on the green sheet staring, eyes round and deep, mouth tense and silent. One voice spoke quietly; it was Jacqui. She rubbed down along the baby’s chest with a dry towel and blew her own breath over his face.
“Come on you big fellow” she whispered. She continued to dry and rub the baby.
“I’m just giving him to my colleague. He needs a whiff of oxygen,” she explained to the silent woman and her motionless partner.
In a timeless moment Jackie clamped and cut the cord and handed the baby to Ed. Ed laid him on the rescuscitaire, checked his heart rate - good
100 plus, dried him and gave him oxygen via a mask.
“He’s pinking up,” she called over, “And his heart rate is good. What can you see with those big eyes?” The baby responded with a squeak then took a breath and cried. It was a quiet lonely cry, bubbling with mucous and brimming with the confusion of a new voice. Real time began again. Ed noticed her hands were shaking. It happened every time, but always after and never during the event. The paediatrician arrived, baby Justin was given to his mum, skin on skin, while the new father smiled, cried and felt in his pocket for the comfort of his mobile phone. Ed went back to the computer to finish her notes and her cold tea.
“Is your lady ready for the bath?” Tanya, the Health Care Assistant was at the door of the office
“Yes, if her baby has finished at the breast. Thanks Tanya.” Sandy, the midwife in charge, strolled into the office dropped a pile of notes onto the table and turned to look at Ed. Ed could tell, because Sandy was smiling, that she wanted something. The only time Sandy ever smiled was when she wanted something. Ed sighed and began to tap the rhythm of ‘Scotland the Brave’ on the keyboard, but Sandy, as smart as she was, apparently failed to notice.
“Ed, there’s a primip’ term plus one coming in, sounds like she’s doing something, would you mind taking her when she arrives?”
“Sure, if someone can sort my room out; I need to get these notes done.”
“Thanks, her name is Debbie Johnson, full term, no problems and Ed,”
Ed noticed that Sandy was still smiling.
“Yes Sandy?”
“Would you take a student midwife? I’ve had to send Barbara home she’s sick, leaving her student with no one to look after her, names’ Gemma, nice girl, good student from what I’ve heard.”
“Okay, send her along. I’ll take care of her.” Ed didn’t mind too much. Having a good student to work with could be useful and it meant staying in teaching mode all night. No time to remember how tired you are. Ed finished her notes and took ‘her lady’ and baby girl up to the post-natal ward handing her care over to the midwife there. By the time Ed returned to the labour ward office Gemma, the student midwife, was waiting for her. She shyly introduced herself to Ed.
“Hello, I think we met for that emergency section the other night.”
“Yes we did. Have you had a break?”
“Not yet”
“Is Debbie Johnson in?” Ed asked Rose, one of the midwives who was sitting at the desk busily compiling her notes
“No, she hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Who took the call?”
“I did, about an hour ago; she was having contractions one in five to ten, said she was okay and might have a bath first.”
“Rose?”
“Yes?”
Rose was a fervent believer in women staying at home for as long as possible during the earlier stages of labour. Ed knew she had a good point, but she knew that occasionally women took Rose’s idiosyncratic turn of phrase too literally.
“What did you say to her?”
“The usual, you know.”
“You told her to come in when her eyes were watering?”
“Yes.” Rose turned to look at Ed, her attention caught by Ed’s apparently amazing telepathic powers.
“How did you know that?” Ed touched the side of her nose and smiled.
On the way to the staff room with their microwave pasta dishes and mugs of tea Ed said to Gemma,
“After we’ve had our break we’ll give Mrs Johnson a ring. The last woman Rose advised to ‘wait until her eyes were watering’ came in fully dilated.”
A warm night breeze drifted through the staff room diffusing the smell of burnt toast.
Joan, a theatre nurse, sat in an armchair in the corner of the room, her feet up on the chair opposite. She appeared to be sleeping; her tea-cup, half-full and balanced with one hand, rested precariously on her knee.
Ed eyed Gemma with interest. She saw a young woman, in her early twenties, who seemed
pleasant and not too full of herself.
“How far into your training are you Gemma?”
“I’m just in my second year.”
“Enjoying it?”
“Mostly, although it’s really hard work, especially with having to find time to study. I like the labour ward best.”
“How many deliveries have you had?” Ed knew Gemma needed forty deliveries before she could qualify as a midwife.
“Sixteen so far including a home birth yesterday. That was something else, it was amazing,” Gemma replied.
Ed nodded
“I thought she was brave choosing a home birth. I was petrified at the idea of not being in hospital; until afterwards, when I knew everything was okay.”
“It’s a difficult choice for any woman.” Ed agreed. “Many don’t even know they have a choice.”
“I know there’s always an element of chance. You might have to get transferred in during labour” Gemma said, “but you can predict problems, can’t you?”
Ed nodded, and took a sip of her tea before saying,
“There’s less intervention at home.
Animals birth their babies on familiar territory, not people though. We’re too clever for that aren’t we? All stuffed with the notion that science can control nature.”
“Yeah,” Gemma agreed. “My aunt is a vet, and she told me that if you take a cat, who’s in labour, out of the bed she has prepared for herself, and place her in a room with strangers, bright lights and unknown smells, her labour stops, because she is afraid. Instinctively her body reacts to danger by perceiving it is no longer safe to have her kittens. My aunt says her labour coming to a halt is linked to an instinct for survival.”
“Do you think we are different from other animals?” Ed said
“In some ways,” Gemma replied. “And in a hospital you feel like a patient and you’re treated by strangers, mostly.
“And we wonder why things don’t go smoothly.” Ed sighed, and paused to take another sip of tea. “Chemistry,” she said. “Think about the chemistry of lovemaking. Imagine a young virgin.” Gemma smiled.
“Okay, put yourself in her place if you can.” In the corner of the room, Joan’s head turning was almost imperceptive. She opened one eye to look at Gemma then closed it again. Ed continued.
“Imagine Gemma, it is your honeymoon. You are in a hotel.”
Ed took a sip of tea, eying Gemma over the rim of her cup.
“What would happen if people, experts who knew how it should be done, decided to come into the room, unannounced and at regular intervals, to see how you
and your new husband were getting on? Imagine,” Ed peered over the top of her glasses.
“Oh I see, only reached the petting stage, carry on, we’ll come back later. You should at least have your knickers off by then.” Gemma laughed.
“It would put me off.” Joan opened her eyes, and added, “Having said that, I’d rather have a cup of tea.” Ed continued.
“The point is, we disturb the chemistry of childbirth with our technology and interference. Joan drink your tea, before you spill it.”
“What helps create the right chemistry for childbirth?” Gemma asked.
“Respect, support, privacy and safety, is the stuff of successful childbirth, and allowing time; not making her feel like she is having to race against the clock. They cost nothing, and you, the midwife, have the power to give it or the power to take it away”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then it was time to move.
Gemma was the first, and got up to wash her cup. In the corner of the room Joan drained her cup stretched and stood up. Ed fetched her cup, and while washing it found she was comparing Gemma’s neat young hands with her own well worn pair.
“Come on Gemma, tonight is Debbie Johnson’s night. Let’s see what we can do to help bring the right chemistry to her labour shall we?” Gemma dried her hands straightened her uniform and followed Ed.


Chapter Nineteen


Time to Go


Debbie had a long bath, making sure that the warm water covered much of her stomach, so it was high enough to be effective. Sean came in with a mug of tea for her, and after she had finished the tea he used the same cup to pour warm water over her stomach, aiming the stream at her belly button, which had been an ‘outie’ for the past couple of months.
“Will it go in again, or will it stay like that?” he asked.
“Pouring water over it isn’t going to make any difference is it? Now if you’re going to do this, do it properly. Pour it slowly over all of the part that’s out of the water and stop messing about.”
Debbie smiled; she could tell Sean was both excited and nervous. The contractions were what she had expected, except stronger and more painful, but the strange thing for Debbie was that she didn’t feel afraid, and she had expected that she would. There was an apprehension, which came with the start of
each one. It was at this moment that she had to steel herself to relax and accept. She tried to remember what it was that Liz had said to her.
“Stay with it, Debbie, and believe you can do it. Just do one contraction at a time and it will come to an end.”
What was this next one going to be like? Some were stronger than others, some lasted longer, and some were quite short and sharp. All of them began with what was now a familiar ache in her lower back, which soon gripped her stomach and then took the whole of her. When the pain was gone it was gone, and she would have minutes of pain-free time to talk and joke with Sean.
She felt happy. She thought ahead for a moment and her stomach churned. To feel happy seemed quite ridiculous in view of what she was about to go through. After all that had happened today between me and Sean, of course I feel happy. Just do one contraction at a time Debbie. It will come to an end. She would try.
Sean helped her out of the bath, and that was a struggle. Debbie would have found it amusing had she not found herself suddenly gripped by another contraction. She remembered the slow out breath and regained a sense of control. “They are getting stronger,” she said to Sean. He dried her back and they went to the bedroom where he applied her TENS machine, following the instructions and diagram from the package.
Scooter had wandered up the stairs, curious at the unusual amount of activity for the middle of the night.
“Hello, old fella. You must be feeling better,” Sean said to him and patted his head. “Your bag is by the door, Debbie, but I think we will have to get a taxi. I drank too much to drive. I’ve put a spare key and a note through next door’s letter box to ask them to pop in and let Scooter out for a pee. Is there anything else I can do?”
“No, thanks love, just rub my back when I get the contraction, like they showed us in the class. Shall we go downstairs and put the television on, or try and rest a bit up here?”
“It’s your call, Debbie, you decide.”
So they watched TV in the bedroom, although neither of them were able to recall later what had been on, except for one brief moment when Sean trawled onto an old series about a vet, unfortunately at the moment when a calf was being pulled into the world by rope tied around its feet. He quickly switched channels, but wasn’t sure if Debbie had noticed. He said nothing and went for a glass of water and a slow out-breath of his own.
“I can do this,” Debbie said to herself, because doubts came, like snowflakes, at the beginning of a contraction, followed by the threat of an avalanche as each contraction neared its peak; disturb it too much and it would all fall down taking her resolve, with it. She
knew instinctively that she must tread carefully, stay calm and breathe each contraction gently away. “I can do this,” Debbie said to herself again.
When Sean returned to the bedroom she was leaning over the dresser, rocking her hips. He took her in his arms and held her close. They rocked gently, side to side, together.
“Don’t you think we should go now?” he asked her.
“Are my eyes watering?”
“Did she mean for us to take that literally?”
“I don’t know, perhaps we should ring again.” Sean nodded and stroked her hair. There was contraction coming again. Slowly they rocked from side to side again. Scooter barked, startling them both from another world.
Sean took him out to the garden, which is what he wanted. Then when he came up to find Debbie in the throes of another contraction, he decided it was time to ring the labour ward again.
“Every three to four minutes,” he told the midwife on the other end of the telephone. “Okay.” He replaced the receiver and picked it up again to dial a cab.
The realisation that it was time to go to the hospital marked another phase. For Debbie this meant a rise in her level of anxiety. She made her way to the bathroom again. Sean came in. Debbie was coming to the end of yet another, increasingly powerful contraction. He helped her to put her knickers on.
The taxi had arrived. Sean had to reassure
the driver that Debbie was not going to ‘drop one’ on his newly upholstered seats. He avoided the driver's eyes when Debbie stopped, halfway along the drive, to hold onto the wall, while gently rocking her hips in the grip of a contraction, all the while wishing they had gone to the hospital earlier. The petrifying vision of himself delivering his own baby in the back of a taxi brought him out in a cold sweat.
“My pillow,” Debbie said in a panic, “Have we brought my pillow?”
“Yes, I’ve got it,” Sean said. Debbie had told him she wanted to bring something from home, with familiar smells and associations. “You’ve got me don’t forget.”
“I have, haven’t I?”
“We are going to be fine,” he said to Debbie, but loud enough for the taxi driver to hear, who Sean noticed was mopping his forehead with a cotton handkerchief.
“We have plenty of time yet,” he stated; as much to convince himself as anyone else.
The TENS machine was on full by now, and Debbie used the booster for each contraction. She had three during the ten-minute drive to the hospital.


Chapter Twenty


Debbie Johnson’s Night


Ed and Gemma were preparing Debbie’s room when Sandy took the message and advised Sean to bring his wife in.
Ed had moved the bed, from its central position in the room, up against the wall and brought in the floor mattress, a beanbag and some cushions. She set the lighting to low and asked Gemma to put on some soothing background music.
This was very different from what Gemma had experienced with other labouring women she had cared for in hospital.
“Remember what we were talking about at break? How fear and an unfamiliar environment affect the labour hormones? I always try to make the room feel more homely, if there’s time,” Ed explained. “That’s why it's important to Make it appear less clinical. Some hospitals do try to make their delivery suites
more homely.
The problem is, although many of the midwives have a lot experience caring for women in labour using monitors and all the other equipment, they can lose their confidence to work without the technology. It is a difficult situation, with the present shortage of midwives, and they all are bound by hospital protocol, by fears of litigation, as well as being stressed and tired from the day-to-day pressures of the job itself - you can see why they're not always inclined to let go of those crutches and let the woman's body do what its supposed to naturally.”
Ed checked the rescuscitaire and continued,
“Being a midwife means, supporting the woman in labour while being aware of all potential problems, and acting on them, if and when they arise. It means believing in her and helping her believe in herself. Instead too many women are left on their own, unsupported, attached to a machine.
“What music do you want?” Gemma asked.
“You choose, but don’t forget to ask Debbie if she approves, or if she has brought something of her own to listen to. She may just want peace and quiet.”
Debbie had seen Gemma in antenatal clinic, and it was nice to see a familiar face in the tiny, windowless admission room, which was bare, save for a trolley with some worrying clinical packaging on it. She had never met Ed before and thought the midwife
looked a little stern at first, but was reassured by her gentle voice and her unhurried approach.
“We need to palpate your abdomen to assess the position and lie of your baby,” Ed explained, between contractions. Debbie was now kneeling forward on the bed. It was too painful for her to lie on her back.
“We will also listen in to the baby’s heart and check your blood pressure, temperature and pulse. After that we need to examine you vaginally, to see how you are progressing, is that okay?” Debbie nodded, silently praying that she was not going to be just two centimetres dilated after all this.
“Don’t worry about how far on you are,” Ed said, prompting Debbie to wonder if this midwife was a mind-reader. “In this game you could be three centimetres and have your baby in an hour, although for a first baby that would be unusual, but not unheard of, or you could be eight centimetres and still take a number of hours. You never can tell.”
“I need something for the pain,” Debbie grimaced, descending from a contraction while trying her utmost to maintain some sense of equilibrium. “The pain feels worse, suddenly, since I came to the hospital.”
“That happens to a lot of women,” Ed explained, for Gemma’s ears as much as for Debbie's.
“It’s the change of environment. It affects the hormonal balance of your labour. Arriving at hospital causes your adrenalin levels to rise and as a consequence the endorphins, which were helping you to cope, lose some of their effect. It may take half an
hour or so for you to achieve that sense of equilibrium again; so try to bear with it if you can. We will sort you out with some pain relief as soon as we get you to your room. What did you have in mind?”
Debbie had imagined that she would have been desperate for an epidural by now, but she surprised herself. Although the pain was worse than she had expected, now she was in it, she felt she could manage for a while longer, but she didn’t want to rule it out. An epidural was her ‘insurance policy’, there if she needed it.
“How far on do I need to be before it is too late for an epidural?”
“I think if you get to fully dilated, well, by then you might as well get on with it. Up to then, with a first baby, there is usually enough time, provided the anaesthetist is not in theatre or busy working through a queue of epidurals. Do you want one, Debbie?”
“What about the injection, pethidine, can I still have an epidural if I have that?”
“Yes you can, and the gas and air.”
“Okay, I’ll go for the injection for now, and see how well it works.”
The examination necessitated Debbie lying on her back for the abdominal palpation. Ed needed to confirm the position of her baby. This was difficult, not least because this was the least comfortable position for Debbie.
The abdominal examination consisted of the
same routine as the antenatal examination Debbie was used to. Ed endeavoured to make this brief, and worked between Debbie’s contractions which were coming every 2 to 3 minutes.
Then came the vaginal examination, and once again Ed worked between the contractions.
Sean held Debbie’s hand. Debbie did her best to relax while she was examined. This helped to reduce her discomfort. When at last it was over Debbie held her breath for the verdict.
“Well, you are seven centimetres Debbie. That’s great. You have done really well. You have a bulging bag of waters there, so I am not able to define the position of your baby, but the baby’s head is very low, and all of this is good news. Do you mind if Gemma examines you briefly?” Debbie shook her head.
“Now take care, Gemma, not to rupture her membranes. Debbie and her baby are doing just fine with them still intact. I just want you to feel them, and the edge of Debbie’s cervix, to assess the dilatation.” Ed smiled at Debbie
“What time do you go off duty?” Debbie asked.
“Seven-thirty.”
“Do you think you will deliver my baby, Ed?”
“Well that would be nice. What time is it now? Four fifty. You never know. I really hope so. Come on, let's get you to your room”
Debbie attempted to walk slowly round to her room, supported by Sean, but she only managed halfway before it was decided that a wheelchair would
be easier. Once in her room Debbie gladly knelt with her upper body over the birth ball and with her knees on the mattress on the floor, while Sean continued to rub her back. Ed went for her injection.
Ed reached the door. She called Gemma to her and said quietly. “I want you to stay with Debbie and talk her through each contraction, keep her as calm as you can by reassuring her, she is doing very well, isn’t she?” Gemma nodded.
“Make sure she knows it, and Gemma, see if you can listen in to the baby for a full minute after the next contraction, without making Debbie lie on her back.”
“Okay,” Gemma turned and surveyed the room. This was a very different set-up from what she had experienced in this hospital up to now. Most of the ladies she had attended in labour here had been semi-recumbent on the bed in the middle of the room. The lights had almost always been on full, and the sound of the baby’s heartbeat had dominated the room with a gentle rhythmic pop, pop, pop emitting monotonously from an electronic monitor. This new experience was strange but exciting, and reminded her a little of the home birth she had attended for Liz only the day before.
Sean had given Gemma a CD to play, and quietly, the crystal clear voice of Enya singing Harry’s Game, permeated every part of the darkened room, so that even the air seemed to close in and focus with calm intent on the woman kneeling on the floor.
Debbie, in the ordinary sense of being present, was no longer with them. She was in a world of her own. Her whole being, every part of her, was focused on the birth of her unseen infant.
Gemma could see there were similarities in the way that Debbie moved. Rocking her pelvis, just as Liz had done at the home birth, changing position between contractions. Both women demonstrated a freedom of movement that Gemma realised was impossible to achieve on a small hospital bed. She picked up the sonic aid. A Pinard's stethoscope would be no use at all with Debbie in that position.
Her contractions had become so intense that Debbie had not been aware of Ed’s return to the room. The gas and air made her feel dizzy, she was not sure she liked the feeling, but it gave her something to focus on at the beginning of each contraction; something to think about other than how bad is this one going to get? This was excruciating, all consuming; everything she had heard was true.
“Here’s your injection Debbie.” Was she in a dream? Did someone speak?
“I’ve put an anti-emetic in it, to help stop you from being sick.” Debbie gave a small nod and said then to Sean, to anybody: “Don’t stop. Rub my back, lower, there, yes harder.”
Another contraction. “God help me. I can’t do this.” Then woozy, spaced out: “Yeah, sleep, so tired, so very, very tired”
For a short while, after her injection Debbie dozed,
aware of the contractions. They still hurt but seemed displaced, distanced somehow, and then gradually, like a ship at anchor being drawn beneath the mounting waves by the chain binding it to the sea-bed, Debbie felt a mounting urgency to act, to surface and to survive. She knew what she had to do, but she was afraid.
A powerful contraction, urgent and fiercely intense, came to her like a pouncing tiger propelling her thoughts with its deep roar, so that for a moment, Debbie saw herself, there on the black mattress on the floor. There was her beloved Sean, one hand on her back, the other on her shoulder and when she looked up to the corner of the room the light was so bright.
There was someone standing in the light. “Mummy, mummy it’s you, you’re here.” She’s smiling at me, Debbie thought, I must be all right, why else would she smile? And the woman standing with her, she’s smiling too.
“Debbie, you have work to do.”
“Yes, Mum, I know.” Then they were gone.
“Get on with it Debbie,” she told herself. “You have some work to do. Just do it.” Then out loud: “I want to push.”
Ed smiled at Gemma,
“It looks like we might catch this baby before we go off duty, Gemma,” she whispered.
“Is this good? Are we nearly there?” Sean asked. He felt a small wrench in his gut, and a huge desire to
be away, out of there, with Debbie and their baby, somewhere else, home, with everything okay.
“I hope so, Sean, let’s wait and see.” Ed said.
Gemma listened in to the baby’s heartbeat again. Sean gave Debbie sips of iced water between contractions.
“For some women the second stage of labour is the hardest part, they become afraid, the sensations are so powerful,” Ed explained to Gemma. “For others, the second stage is the best part, because they know they are near the end of their labour. They can feel their baby moving down. It all depends. Knowing that your efforts are worthwhile, that you are making some progress, is the important thing; the knowledge the contractions are having an effect, that it will come to an end, which of course it always does, and importantly, knowing that your baby is all right.”
There followed a lull, a period of calm. Debbie had a ‘rest and be thankful phase’ of around fifteen minutes, during which her contractions, apart from one or two niggles, stopped.
Gemma looked anxiously at Ed, with visions of a syntocinon infusion and other interventions looming through her thoughts, things she had watched happen for other women when their contractions ‘went off'.
“Just be patient, everything is fine,” Ed reassured her.
At 6.30am the contractions started again, powerful, expulsive and noisy. Debbie found her voice,
and with a gush of clear fluid her waters had gone.
“Sorry about the shouting,” Debbie said to Ed, between pushes. She had returned to the all fours position and was demanding pressure on her sacrum for the duration of each contraction. Gemma had become quite good at this. Meanwhile Sean bathed Debbie’s forehead with a wet cloth.
This pain felt like it had purpose to Debbie. She could feel her baby moving. Vocalising the pain seemed to help, but it was hard. She was pushing for almost an hour. The contractions were relentless with not much more than a minute between the end of one and the start of another. She was worn out to the point of exhaustion. At times Debbie was oblivious to her companions, yet when she was aware of them, she was reassured by their presence.
In desperation she found the energy to ask: “How much longer, I’m so tired?”
Someone knocked on the door and a displaced voice intruded into their space. “Are you all right in there?”
“We’re fine,” Ed called and under her breath whispered: “Go away," then, “I can see dark hair Debbie, plenty of dark hair.”
Sean raised his head, he wanted to see the dark hair of his baby, but could not leave Debbie’s top end. She would not let him. Debbie didn’t want him looking. There was still that fear, in the back of her mind, that she would soil herself, even though she
knew it was her baby’s head she could feel pressing on her back passage.
She found that she needed to focus on allowing her baby to come and not hold back. She could feel her baby coming down, stretching, burning and stretching, and then for two contractions there was no movement.
“Aaahh, dear God.”
Ed helped her to lie on her left side. “Pant, Debbie pant,” Debbie did it. Her eyes watered and her perineum burned- how it burned- then, incredible relief.
“The head is out,” Sean told her, excitement and fear in his voice. They waited. Sean watched his infant child’s head rotate. Restitution allowed its shoulders to settle in the wider diameter of the outlet of Debbie’s pelvis. Their baby’s face was now facing her right thigh.
Ed guided Gemma’s hands to the warm head of the infant, who was poised for life, waiting, for the last contraction, the one that would push his body into the world. The contraction seemed to take an age. The baby’s mouth, wet with mucous, moved in a grimace, without breath,
“Come on, Debbie,” Ed said, “You can’t go to Asda like that.”
Debbie always said, afterwards, that Christopher was such a happy child because he was born into the world with laughter.
“I laughed him out,” she would say.
“We were all laughing, it was brilliant. The pain, it
went out like a light; that was the amazing thing, how it just stopped.”
The best thing was Christopher, being put on my bare chest straight after he was born. Sean cut the cord and I couldn’t resist trying to breast-feed him. It just seemed the thing to do. I hadn’t planned it, he was there and then he was sucking my nipple and gazing into my face like he knew me. I think he did know me already. I’d been talking to him enough, when he was inside me. He knew everything.”
Debbie had decided to have the syntometrine for the third stage of labour. This would speed up the delivery of the placenta and help prevent bleeding. Her placenta was delivered after ten minutes. Although she was sick afterwards, her blood loss was minimal.
Ed told her she would have a vaginal blood loss, which would gradually fade during the next few weeks.
Debbie was disappointed that she needed some stitches, just when she thought it was all over, there was still that to go through. Lying there, with her legs in stirrups, she felt exposed and helpless, but it needed to be done and she was really too tired to care at that moment.
Sean took the opportunity to telephone the office, before anyone had arrived.
“Won’t be in, had a baby boy, taking paternity leave,” was all he said to the answer machine.
He felt relieved, and very happy. He would find another job. Michael had said he had some contacts. Sean felt confident, things would work out.
“Superb timing, Debs,” he said, when he came back from the phone. Debbie was having her legs put down on the bed. “I won’t need to go in until this is all out and sorted, if the firm is still up and running.”
She smiled at him; there were tears in her eyes. “My mum was here, Sean, I think I had one of those out of body experiences, I saw my mum, and she wasn’t alone.” Sean nodded, and kissed her on the forehead.
It was Sandra, she thought, Jonathan’s mum who was with her.
Debbie couldn’t tell Sean, not now, that she had seen the photograph in Michael's house, this was not the time or place for that discussion, but Debbie was sure, she recognised her from the photograph. Sandra was there, with her mum, and she had come to thank her. Then she recalled the words of the old woman. The retired midwife she met outside the bistro. It seemed like so long ago. “Mothers never leave their children.”
Debbie’s thoughts turned to Helen, to Liz, and to Chrissy.
“We are all mothers now,” she said, smiling down at the baby in her arms.
Ed and Gemma handed Debbie’s care over to a midwife from the day shift, to complete the
documentation and see Debbie safely up to the post-natal ward.
Gemma was tired but happy, her weekend had been very busy and she had a lot of sleep to catch up on, especially after having worked a night shift on Friday, with an emergency caesarean section with Helen, then being called out of her bed on Saturday afternoon for the last couple of hours of Liz’s home birth. She didn’t mind, it was an opportunity she had not wanted to miss.
Now with Ed she had witnessed a hospital birth just how it should be. A hospital birth which had left the power where it belonged, with the woman in labour; and she had learned so much. She would sleep all day, and all night if she could. There was so much to think about.
She said goodbye to Debbie, Sean and Christopher, who was now sleeping in his father’s arms, and thanked Ed, hoping she would have the opportunity to work with her again.
Ed said her goodbyes. Tired and stressed, still, she had to admit to herself, there was something about this job that was deeply satisfying at times. As if embroiled in the ups and downs of a tumultuous love affair, she was hooked and ready for her next encounter.
“See you tomorrow, seven-thirty,” she called as she walked down the corridor and off the labour ward.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 08.12.2008

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Widmung:
To my mum Jo