by Sarah Clarke
Dan leans in as close as he can get, the narrow hospital bed almost taking his weight as he lowers down beside me. He strokes our baby’s fuzzy head and kisses me. ‘He’s so perfect, just like his mum.’
I look into my husband’s adoring eyes and sigh with relief; it’s going to be okay after all. I kiss him back, the warmth of our son radiating through both of us.
‘Please remember there is major surgery going on down this end.’
The stern voice wafts over the thin blue curtain separating us and I wonder at the craziness of modern childbirth. As Dan and I celebrate being parents for the first time, the consultant surgeon is doing his best to sew up my insides. I’d always thought I’d give birth naturally; I’d practised the breathing, written a birth plan, tried to mentally prepare for the hours of pain. But our son had had other ideas, and adamantly refused to turn from his breech position. So we’d booked in for an elective caesarean section, and I’d tried not to feel too relieved.
Never comfortable either breaking the rules or being chastised, Dan apologises and straightens up. I see how hard it is for him to pull away though, and the fear that’s tied me in knots for the last nine months relaxes even more. It was the Christmas before last when I first brought up the subject of children. I knew it wasn’t a good time; Eloise was just born, and Dan hadn’t really warmed to his baby sister. But her birth had the opposite effect on me, hitting me with this crushing maternal urge. Suddenly I needed to be a mum, a better one than my own. And with Dan, I knew I could be. So I’d suggested it, and then watched him grapple with the idea, his desire for convention pitted against his apparent lack of paternal instinct. By February he was on board, and two months later I was pregnant. We’d celebrated the news together, but that niggle of doubt – that I’d forced his hand – never quite left me.
‘He’s gorgeous.’ The midwife smiles down at me. ‘I just need to take him for a moment, weigh him and so on. You’ll have him back in two ticks.’
I’ve only been holding him for a couple of minutes, but I feel his absence and follow the midwife’s actions impatiently. But when she finishes her checks, she doesn’t give him back to me.
‘Would Dad like to hold him?’
Dan nods with only the smallest hint of hesitation. He carefully takes our son from the midwife, positions him in the crook of one arm, while keeping his other hand underneath our baby’s head. The look of concentration on his face is absolute as he carries out this manoeuvre. It’s not natural, I realise with a pang of disappointment, but he’s trying, and that’s what really matters.
The surgeon appears around the side of the curtain. ‘All done. The team will take you up to the ward now. Oh, and congratulations.’
I start to say thank you, but he’s disappeared again, pulling off his surgical gloves with a thwack, thwack. It reminds me that childbirth is both momentous and entirely routine.
‘What are you going to call him?’ the nurse asks, bouncing along next to my bed in light blue scrubs and trainers as the porter wheels me into the lift. It’s a little disconcerting being so public again, my nakedness under the blankets apparent to me, if not to anyone else. For most types of surgery people look away out of a sense of respect. But with a new baby in your arms, people want to stare, to smile their congratulations. I feel like a celebrity caught popping out for a pint of milk in their pyjamas.
‘Charles. Charlie,’ Dan says with certainty.
I feel of stab of disappointment that Dan didn’t look towards me first, check I was still happy with Charles before announcing it out loud, but I have no second thoughts. I like how solid the name sounds, dependable. A normal name. A regular family.
*
‘He won’t stop crying.’
‘Have you tried feeding him?’ The heavyset nurse checks my pulse but doesn’t look at Charlie.
‘I haven’t stopped trying to feed him. He’s not really interested. But then he screams when I put him back into the cot.’
‘Are you swaddling him the way I showed you?’
‘Yes, exactly the way you showed me.’ I know I sound rude, but it’s past 3 a.m. and I’m exhausted; I just want to get some sleep.
She pauses then, but still seems more interested in my health than my newborn’s. Perhaps this is the way it works, maybe I am the vulnerable one. ‘Why don’t I take him to the nurse’s station for a while,’ she suggests. ‘Try him with a bottle and give you a chance for some rest.’
I look at Charlie, writhing and wriggling in the clear plastic cot beside me. Anger etched into his tiny face, all red with the effort of screaming. I imagine that noise gradually dying away as the nurse disappears down the corridor with him, of closing my eyes and letting myself drift off; my son’s welfare in the capable hands of someone much more qualified than me.
‘No thanks.’
‘Are you sure? It’s just that …’ She pauses for a moment. ‘It’s just that the other mums seem to be struggling to sleep too.’
I look around the room for what feels like the first time. My world has shrunk so much today, and I’ve been oblivious to anyone but Charlie for the last few hours. There are three other beds and cots in here. A curtain screens the bed next to me, but I can see both mums on the opposite side of the room. One is trying to sleep, her baby silent next to her, and I feel a stab of guilt. But the woman directly opposite me is sitting up, her baby snuggled into her arms. ‘Don’t worry,’ she mouths. ‘We’re fine.’ I smile my gratitude and as she smiles back, I feel an unfamiliar sense of sisterhood.
‘I’ll try feeding him again,’ I say, hoping that this will be enough to persuade the nurse to leave us alone. She gives me one final look of concern before shrugging her shoulders and bustling out of the room.
When I’m certain the nurse isn’t coming back, I lean over and pick Charlie out of his cot. I undo the cocoon of swaddled blankets, and an arm pushes out, fist curled. This is what he needs, I realise, a bit of freedom. I try feeding him again, but he pulls away after a couple of minutes. I can’t blame him; the sticky yellow colostrum milk is hardly appealing. Reluctantly, I start to wrap him in the blanket again, albeit with looser folds. I don’t know what else to do.
‘Don’t put him back in the cot.’
I look up at the woman opposite me, her baby asleep on her chest.
‘This one’s my fourth. I learned with my second that they don’t like being that far away from you.’
‘But the nurse said—’
She cuts me off. ‘They worry that the baby will fall out of the bed. That you’ll go to sleep and loosen your grip.’
‘Maybe I would?’
‘Look, you can put pillows down the side, just in case. But I promise you won’t let him fall. It’s instinctive; awake or asleep, a mother will always keep their child safe.’
I look down at Charlie’s contented face, so different from the scrunched-up anger I’d seen only a few minutes earlier. It makes sense, of course. He’s been feeling the rhythm of my heartbeat for the last nine months; it’s not surprising that it comforts him now. But am I putting Charlie at risk if I listen to this stranger instead of the nurse? I know what Dan would want me to do, the man who functions on a clear set of rules. Then I think about Flora; no doubt she would have relinquished me to the nurse’s station as soon as the offer was made. But what do I think is right?
I pull one of the pillows from under my head and position it down my right side. I shift down the bed until I’m lying flat, Charlie still resting silently on my chest. Seven pounds exactly, the midwife had called out earlier, clearly enjoying the roundness of the number, and I feel that weight now, anchoring me down. This is so natural, I realise: us nestled together in our den of starched sheets and hospital blankets.
‘I’ll always keep you safe,’ I whisper to my sleeping child. ‘You and me, against the world.’ Then I close my eyes and let myself drift away.
Chapter 10
NOVEMBER 2019
Phoebe
Six hours la
ter I’m back at the school gates. It was watching a group of pre-school children singing nursery rhymes in the back section of a café that helped me decide. With continual maracas shaking and the odd episode of outraged bawling, it was hard to tell what tune they were singing a lot of the time. But then the lady with the wide smile and honey-coated voice started, See the little bunnies sleeping, ’til it’s nearly noon, and suddenly everything went quiet as twelve 2-year-olds lay down and closed their eyes.
I closed my eyes too, but only to stop the tears escaping again. That had been Charlie’s favourite song at playgroup when he was their age, and he would respond with the same astounding obedience. Of course it wouldn’t last long; we would get to, Hop little bunnies, hop hop hop, and Charlie would be jumping up and down with his friends again. But he loved the anticipation of that moment; eyes screwed closed, waiting for the command. And I loved watching him grapple with his constrained energy.
That was the moment when I decided I couldn’t walk away. But I need to take things slowly. Suddenly announcing I’m his mother is too risky; what if I’m a disappointment to him? Or even worse, if I cause the wrong memories to flood back? There’s the social worker’s words to consider too, of course. The laws I’m breaking. So I will find him, discover him, but keep my distance. Not disrupt his life. Who knows what will happen in the future, but as long as the possibility of us reconciling is there, that’s enough for now.
The bell goes, signalling the end of school, and I don’t have to wait long. In less than a minute, Charlie appears, walking quickly through the crowd of younger children, seemingly desperate to escape. Perhaps school isn’t such a wonderful place after all. As he turns left out of the gates, I follow.
Just before he reaches the bus stop, a female voice calls out from behind me. ‘Hey, Ben! Wait up a second.’
Charlie pauses for a moment and then turns his head to look. Ben, of course. I keep forgetting that’s his name now. As he waits for the girl to catch up, I study his expression; there’s fondness there, but also a trace of annoyance. I can’t work out whether he’s pleased for the interruption or not.
‘Hey, Rosie. You heading home?’ His monotone response doesn’t give anything away. I edge a bit closer.
‘Yes. Think so. Mimi’s invited me to hers for a movie night sleepover thing but there’s talk about nicking a bottle of vodka from her parents’ drinks cupboard and I can’t be bothered with the fallout.’
Rosie sounds nice. I wonder vaguely if she’s Charlie’s girlfriend.
‘Jesus, Rosie, ever heard the phrase live a little?’
Or maybe not.
‘Oh, while you’re living it up serving skinny lattes to yummy mummies, you mean?’
‘Trust me, if I had mates offering me free vodka, I wouldn’t hesitate.’
Charlie’s hard words send a cold shudder through me as I wonder if I’ve passed on my parents’ alcohol addiction. But he’s nearly 18. Drinking straight vodka is a rite of passage.
‘You do have mates, little brother,’ Rosie says in a softer voice, and slips her arm inside Charlie’s.
Little brother? The realisation takes my breath away. Of course they’re siblings, their conversation was pure brother-sister bickering. But for all the hours I’ve spent wondering what his new mum and dad were like, I never thought that there might be siblings too. My eyes burn with the effort of forcing back the memory of Charlie’s real sibling, but I manage it. This is too important.
I continue to follow but their voices are too low to make out now. Rosie is still hanging on Charlie’s arm, while his body language shows that he wishes she wouldn’t. Why can’t she let him go? Either she’s needy or controlling, neither of which are good. She’s talking constantly too, not letting him get a word in. No wonder he bites back every now and again.
As the streets become quieter, I hang back a bit. Even after living in the borough for most of my life, I’m not familiar with this part of Wandsworth. But in many ways, it reminds me of my old street, just a grander, more polished version. It has the same tree-lined roads and pretty Victorian houses, except with lots of shiny black four by fours parked in front of them.
After walking for fifteen minutes, the pair of teenagers pause outside a house on Milada Road, still talking in low whispers. If the frontage is anything to go by, Charlie’s new parents suffer from a severe case of OCD. Three identical bay trees line up in square pots against gleaming black railings, shimmering with tiny fairy lights. The traditional black and white hexagonal pathway is shiny and smooth, and uplighters give the gunmetal grey front door a regal glow. A bit different from Paul and Flora’s ramshackle frontage, with overgrown weeds sprouting through the cracked paving slabs and the collection of rubbish blown in from the street. I’ll tidy that up tomorrow.
Eventually the two of them walk inside. Charlie seems a bit reluctant as he follows his sister with his head down. Perhaps things aren’t as good as they appear on the outside. The door closes behind them and, absurdly, I feel abandoned. I can’t bear to go home now, but equally I can’t just stand here staring at a closed door. Rosie had said something about making lattes. Does Charlie work in a café? Is he going to reappear soon, having swapped his suit for a barista’s apron? If so, could I risk ordering a coffee from him?
I jump suddenly as the quiet is broken by a high-pitched crash, like glass smashing against tile. I see now that the large front window is open a couple of inches. Raised voices spill outside. It’s hard to make out exactly what’s being said but it’s clearly an argument between him and his adoptive mother. She’s screaming at him now. A ruined jacket. No respect. Why is she being so harsh on him? Does she not remember what he’s been through?
There’s plenty more muffled shouting before a young man’s voice rings out with much more clarity. ‘JUST FUCK OFF!’ it screams, followed by the thudding of footsteps up carpeted stairs. Silence follows, except that I can just make out the heavy breaths of a woman crying.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, rooted to the spot. But it’s long enough for the daylight to disappear. As I shiver in the darkness, I hear movement again. More thuds on the stairs. Then the front door flies open and Charlie hurtles out, a look of fury etched on his face. I look away quickly – I don’t want to be caught staring – but he doesn’t notice me. He storms past, a rucksack held between two white-knuckled fists, and disappears down the dark street.
Without thinking, I follow. His long legs and urgent pace mean I have to jog to keep up, and we’re soon beyond the residential streets and heading down the hill towards Wandsworth’s central hub. The streets are busy here so I can move much closer to him. The bag is on his shoulders now. Anger still shows on his face, but I can see pain too.
He hesitates for a moment, then takes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. I watch him light one up with shaking hands and suck deeply on its filter. I find myself drawing a big breath too, like I’m smoking it with him. The hit has given him something, because he ups his pace again, skirting behind a row of brightly lit shopfronts. This back street is darker and my heart rate quickens. Shadows start dancing around my head, but I bat them away. I need to stay focused on my son.
A sprawling park comes into view, and, as I realise that’s where he’s heading, my apprehension grows. I remember this park. In the daytime, it’s got a lot to offer – playground, football pitches, open parkland – but the place has a more sinister reputation after dark. I brought Charlie here plenty of times when he was little, but I’d never stay beyond the end of the school day. I feel the urge to run now, but I fight it. I can’t leave Charlie on his own.
I see a group of teenagers in the far corner of the park. A couple of the younger ones are on BMX bikes, trying, and failing, to get the attention of their older peers with their tricks. It’s hard to make out much more than silhouettes in the night sky, but they don’t look friendly, so I’m shocked when Charlie walks straight up to them, bold as anything. I move as close as I can without being noticed. The
y don’t seem happy about the intrusion.
‘Yeah?’ one of the older boys says, not politely.
‘Wondered if I could borrow a bike. Take it for a spin.’
What the hell is he doing?
‘You fucking high or something, man? Why the fuck would we do that?’ The rest of the group sniggers but there’s menace in their laughter.
‘It’s not for me. It’s for your mates.’ Charlie speaks slowly, as though he thinks they’re stupid. He’s the stupid one.
The kid swaggers over to Charlie, stands so close their noses almost touch. ‘Oh yeah? How’s that then?’
‘I can show them how it’s really done, can’t I? I reckon they need a few lessons.’
‘You fucking bitching me?!’ a new voice shouts out, stunned fury adding a new level of danger. The two cyclists throw down their bikes and stride over to where Charlie still stands, seemingly oblivious to the shitstorm he’s creating. They’re younger than him, shorter too, but God knows what weapons they might be carrying. The weird thing is, he doesn’t seem to care; it’s almost like he’s enjoying it.
The sting of a slap rings out and I gasp in horror. I know this is just the start. I can’t stand by and let him take a beating, or worse. But my feet won’t move. Don’t let him down, my head screams, not again.
But I’m so scared.
With a silent warrior cry, I force my body into action, lunging forward. And it works. One by one, I take stiff strides towards the group.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I shout, trying to drown out the wobble in my voice by turning up the volume.
‘Piss off, old lady.’
I need to find the upper hand, and quickly. ‘That’s DS old lady to you,’ I counter, emphasising the police title. ‘Let him go, or I’m calling it in.’ I pray to God that he can’t spot my shaking hands, now shoved into my pockets.
The boy pauses for a moment, so I keep staring, desperate to hold my ground. They’re just kids. Fifteen at the most. I spot a trace of confusion in his eyes, and I realise with a growing euphoria that he’s not going to risk it. I swallow the urge to laugh. He may think he’s tough, but he hasn’t lost the naivety of childhood yet.
