Birdsong

by Sebastian Faulks

  The child rolled and kicked inside her. The skin of her abdomen was subject to sudden bulges and rippling distortions as it stretched and turned. Her back ached and, as the summer wore on, she longed for cold winter days when it would all be over and she could breathe again.

  Sometimes she would sit naked on the edge of her bed with the windows wide open to catch any breeze that might be passing. She held the weight of the child in the palms of her hands beneath the swell of her belly, where a thin brown line had appeared, running down into her groin. Above the hipbones the skin had stretched into small white scars, though nothing as bad as she had occasionally seen on the ravaged abdomens of women in the changing cubicles of shops. Most of the questions at the prenatal class had been concerned with what the women called getting their figures back, and the resumption of sexual relations with their husbands. Elizabeth found that neither question was at the front of her mind.

  She was preoccupied by an intense curiosity about her child. While she felt protective and maternal toward it, she also felt a respect that sometimes bordered on awe. It was a separate being with its own character and its own destiny; it had chosen to lodge and be born in her, but it was hard not to feel that it had in some sense preexisted her. She could not quite believe that she and Robert had created an autonomous human life from nothing.

  After several days of complicated deceit, false trails, and cunning use of his answering machine, Robert managed to arrange matters so he could join Elizabeth for the week before the birth. He intended to stay with her afterward until she was fit enough to go down to stay with her mother. His wife believed he was travelling to Germany for a conference.

  He had no desire to be present at the birth itself, but wanted to be on hand in case she needed him. He rented a cottage in Dorset, near the sea, where Elizabeth could relax for the last few days while he looked after her. They planned to return to London three days before the due birth date.

  Robert was still edgy about the arrangement as they drove in Elizabeth’s car through the Hampshire countryside. “Suppose it comes early?” he said. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Nothing,” said Elizabeth, twisting awkwardly round from the passenger seat to look at him. “Just keep the baby warm. Anyway, first labours usually take about twelve hours, so even at the speed you drive we should be able to make it to the hospital in Poole or Bournemouth. Also first babies are very seldom early. So let’s not worry.”

  “You’ve become quite an expert, haven’t you?” he said, accelerating a little in response to her criticism of his driving.

  “I’ve read some books. I haven’t had much else to do this summer.”

  The cottage was situated by a track on the side of a hill. It overlooked deep countryside and was about fifteen minutes from the closest town. The front door opened straight into the living room, whch had a large stone fireplace and worn, chintz-covered furniture. There was an old-fashioned kitchen with a greasy cooker attached to a cylinder of gas, and cabinets with sliding glass doors. The back door led into a sizeable garden, at the end of which was a large chestnut tree.

  Elizabeth was delighted by it. “Do you see that little apple tree?” she said. “That’s where I’ll set up my chair.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Robert. “I’d better go and get some food before the shops shut. Do you want to come with me?”

  “No, I’ve made a list. I’ll trust you.”

  “I was thinking in case you went into labour.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s not due for another eight days. Just stick a chair up there if you don’t mind, and I’ll be fine.”

  As the last sound of the car vanished down the track, she began to feel short, sharp contractions. They were like the cramp she sometimes had in her leg at night, but situated in or near her womb.

  She breathed deeply. She would not panic. She had been warned that there were often false starts over a period of weeks. They were named after the doctor who had identified them. Braxton Something. Nevertheless, there was no harm in finding a telephone directory and writing down the number of the nearest hospital.

  She went into the living room and found what she wanted. There was a list of “Useful Numbers” on a piece of paper stapled to the front cover of the directory. Both the hospital and a local doctor, only five miles away, were listed.

  Relieved, Elizabeth went back into the garden and sat down under the apple tree. There was another sharp contraction that made her gasp and put her hand on her belly. Then the pain receded. It drifted away and left her feeling calm and oddly powerful. The life was knocking inside her. By her own endeavours she would bring forth a child to carry on the strange history of her family. She thought of her grandmother, Isabelle, and wondered when and how she had given birth. Had she been alone and frightened in her disgrace, or had someone—Jeanne perhaps—been there to help her? Elizabeth became quite anxious as she thought of Isabelle alone with this frightening pain. No, she told herself. She would have planned for it. Jeanne must have been there.

  Robert returned an hour later with the shopping and brought a drink out to her beneath the tree. He sat at her feet and she ran her hand through his thick, tangled hair.

  The airless heat of August had gone, and it was a warm September evening. “In a few days nothing will ever be the same again,” said Elizabeth. “I just can’t imagine it.”

  Robert took her hand. “You’ll manage. I’ll help you.”

  ———

  He cooked dinner following instructions she called out from the living room. It was dark by the time they ate, and there was enough chill on the air for them to light a fire. The smell of wood smoke filled the room as it billowed out from the grate. By leaving the front door ajar, they were able to drive it back up the chimney, but the resultant draught eliminated the benefit of the fire.

  Elizabeth went to fetch a cardigan, and, as she climbed the narrow stairs, felt another contraction. She mentioned nothing to Robert. He was sure to want to take her to the hospital, where they would either keep her for days or, more probably, send her away again. She liked the cottage and she treasured the few days she was able to spend alone with Robert.

  She slept badly that night. It was difficult to find a comfortable position in which to lie. The cottage bed was deep and soft, with a heavy eiderdown. She was glad when the dawn came with a loud, discordant sound of birds. Later, she slept.

  ———

  Robert looked at her sleeping face when he brought her tea in the morning. She was the most beautiful woman, he thought. He stroked back a strand of dark hair from her cheek. He felt sorry for her in the ordeal she was about to undergo. Her compelling confidence had not allowed her to understand how painful and exhausting it would be. He left the tea by the bed and went quietly downstairs.

  He walked in the garden, up to the chestnut tree, and back to the house. It was a sunny morning, with the sound of a tractor coming from a nearby field. Although he was calm, he felt his life had entered a brief period over which he would have no control; it was as though it was on railway tracks, under its own momentum. He would be tested.

  That night Elizabeth had more contractions. He saw her bent over in the living room as he came through from the kitchen.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “It’s just a Braxton thing.”

  “Are you sure? You look very pale.”

  “I’m fine.” She spoke between clenched teeth.

  They went to bed at midnight, and Robert fell asleep. At about three in the morning he was awoken by the sound of Elizabeth gasping in pain.

  She was sitting on the side of the bed. He could just see her face in the moonlight that came in through the curtains.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” he said.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “They’re painful, but I’m not sure how regular they are. Have you got a watch? I want you to time them.”

  Robert turned on the light and watched the second hand crawl round the face of his watch
. He heard Elizabeth gasp again. Six minutes had passed.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I don’t know. This might be it. It might be.” She sounded distraught. Robert wondered at what point the pain and fear would make her knowledge and instinct unreliable and compel him to follow his own judgement instead.

  “Leave it for a bit,” she said. “I don’t want to go to hospital.”

  “That’s silly, Elizabeth. If you—”

  “Leave it!”

  She had warned him that she was likely to become irritated. Many women used language they had barely heard before.

  An hour passed, and the contractions became stronger and closer together. Elizabeth walked about the house, and he left her alone. He guessed she was trying to find some comfortable position in which to brace herself against the pain and she did not want him with her. He could hear her going through different rooms of the cottage.

  He heard his name called, and ran to her. She was in the living room, resting her head on the sofa. “I’m frightened,” she sobbed. “I don’t want it to happen. I’m frightened. It’s so painful.”

  “All right. I’m going to ring the doctor. And the ambulance.”

  “No. Don’t.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m going to.”

  “Not the ambulance.”

  “All right.”

  A man’s voice answered at the doctor’s. “It’s my wife you want. I’m afraid she’s out on a call. I’ll tell her directly she gets in.”

  “Thank you.” Robert swore as he put down the receiver.

  “It’s coming! I can feel its head. Oh, God, it’s coming. Help me, Robert, help me.”

  Robert breathed deeply. His mind, under the pressure of the panic, became suddenly clear. The child was only flesh and blood; it was designed to survive.

  “I’m coming, darling, I’m coming.” He went into the kitchen and then up to the bathroom. He grabbed armfuls of towels, which he brought down and laid on the carpet beneath Elizabeth’s knees as she leaned over the sofa.

  “The towels,” she sobbed, “you’ll stain them.”

  He gathered a pile of newspapers from the fireplace and spread them on top.

  He went and knelt by Elizabeth. She had rolled up her nightdress to her waist. As she squeezed her eyes tight and moaned again, he saw blood and mucus pour from between her legs.

  “Christ, it’s coming, it’s coming,” she said. She was beginning to weep again. Her upper body contracted and heaved once more, but produced only blood.

  “Go away,” she shouted at him. “Go away. I want to be alone.”

  Robert stood up and went through into the kitchen, where he poured Elizabeth a glass of water. It was starting to grow light outside. From the window he could see down to a small cottage in the valley. He envied its inhabitants. He wondered what it must be like to be living a normal life, not on the edge of death and drama, but calmly asleep with the prospect of breakfast and an ordinary day ahead.

  “Robert!” Elizabeth screamed, and he ran through to her.

  He knelt down beside her in the blood.

  “I don’t know,” she moaned, “I don’t know if I’m supposed to push or not. I can’t remember.”

  He put his arm around her. “I think if you want to, then you should. Come on, darling, I’m here. Come on, now. Push.”

  Another huge spasm ran through her, and Robert saw the flesh divide between her legs. Blood spurted downward and he saw, in the lamplight of the living room, the top of a grey skull begin to pulse and push at the unlocking entrance to her body.

  “I can see the head, I can see it. It’s coming. You’re doing well, you’re doing marvellously. It’s almost here.”

  There was a pause as Elizabeth leant forward on the sofa, waiting for the next contraction. Robert looked down at the newspapers beneath her, one of which was open, appropriately he thought, at the Announcements.

  Elizabeth gasped and he looked to where the top of the skull pushed and bore down again, demanding entrance. The body split and parted for it; the head emerged, whole, streaked with blood and slime, trapped around the neck by Elizabeth’s divided flesh.

  “Come on,” he said, “come on, one last push and it’s there.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I have to wait for a contr …” Her voice failed. He put his face close to hers and kissed her. Strands of hair clung to her cheek, stuck down by sweat, as she buried her face in the chintz cushion of the sofa.

  He took the baby’s head between his hands.

  “Don’t pull,” she gasped. “See if you can feel the cord round its neck.”

  Robert gently probed with his finger, but feared to stretch the bursting flesh further. “It’s all right,” he said.

  Then Elizabeth opened her eyes, and he saw them fill with a determination he had never seen in any human face before. She threw back her head and he could see the sinews of her neck rise up like bones. Her wild eyes reminded him of a horse that has finally scented home and clamps his teeth on to the metal bit: no power on earth could stop the combined force of muscle, instinct, and willpower as it drove on to its appointed end.

  Elizabeth screamed. He looked down and saw the baby’s shoulders driven out behind its head. He reached down and took them in his hands. Now he was going to pull.

  The baby’s shoulders were slippery between his palms, but as he increased the pressure, it suddenly burst free with a sound like a giant cork being released. In a rush of blood it slithered down into his hands and let out a single bleat. Its skin was grey and covered with a whiteish substance, thick and greasy about the chest and back. He looked down to the angry purple cord that looped back beneath Elizabeth’s blood-smeared legs, then to the baby’s genitals, swollen with its mother’s hormones. He blew into its face. It cried, a jagged, stuttering cry. It was a boy.

  He could not speak, but he found a towel less bloodied than the others, in which he wrapped the baby. He passed it back beneath Elizabeth’s knees into her hands. She sat back on her heels amid the newspapers and the blood, holding the child to her.

  “It’s a boy,” said Robert hoarsely.

  “I know. It’s …” She struggled on the word. “… John.”

  “John? Yes, yes … that’s all right.”

  “It’s a promise,” she said. She was in a storm of weeping. “A promise … made by my grandfather.”

  “That’s fine, that’s fine.” Robert knelt with Elizabeth and the boy; he put his arm round both of them. They stayed in this position on the floor until they were disturbed by a knock at the door. They looked up. A woman with a briefcase had let herself in, then knocked because they had not heard her.

  “It looks as though I’m too late,” she smiled. “Is everyone all right?”

  “Yes,” gasped Elizabeth. She showed her the baby.

  “He’s lovely,” said the doctor. “I’ll cut the cord.”

  She knelt down on the floor. She looked up at Robert. “It’s probably best if you go and get a bit of fresh air now.”

  “Yes. All right.” He stroked Elizabeth’s hair and laid his fingers against John’s cheek.

  ———

  The sun was up outside. It was a fresh, clear morning, overpoweringly bright after the darkness and panic of the cottage.

  Released from the need to be calm, Robert heaved his shoulders up and down and forced out several long, sobbing breaths.

  He walked a few paces up into the garden, and then the joy overwhelmed him.

  He felt it coursing through his arms and his legs; the top of his skull began to crawl and throb as though it would lift off his head. The feeling that rose up inside him was like taking flight; his spirit lifted, then, as the confines of his body would not contain it, seemed to soar into the air.

  He found that in his rapture he had walked to the top of the garden. He stopped and looked down. His feet were ankle-deep in chestnuts, which had fallen overnight from the tree, the glossy fruit bursting from the spiky green shells. He knelt down
and picked up two or three of the beautiful, shining things in his hand. When he had been a boy he had waited every year for this day. Now here was John, his boy, another chance.

  He threw the chestnuts up into the air in his great happiness. In the tree above him they disturbed a roosting crow, which erupted from the branches with an explosive bang of its wings, then rose toward the sky, its harsh, ambiguous call coming back in long, grating waves toward the earth, to be heard by those still living.

  SEBASTIAN FAULKS

  Sebastian Faulks worked as a journalist for fourteen years before taking up writing full-time in 1991. In 1995 he was voted Author of the Year by the British Book Awards for Birdsong. He is also the author of Human Traces, On Green Dolphin Street, Charlotte Gray, The Fatal Englishman, The Girl at the Lion d’Or, Engleby, and the James Bond novel Devil May Care. He lives in London with his wife and three children.

  www.­sebastianfaulks.­com

  Also by Sebastian Faulks

  The Girl at the Lion d’Or

  A Fool’s Alphabet

  Birdsong

  The Fatal Englishman

  Charlotte Gray

  On Green Dolphin Street

  Human Traces

  Pistache

  Engleby

  Devil May Care (writing as Ian Fleming)

  ALSO BY SEBASTIAN FAULKS

  CHARLOTTE GRAY

  In blacked-out, wartime London, Charlotte Gray develops a dangerous passion for a battle-weary RAF pilot, and when he fails to return from a daring flight into France she is determined to find him. In the service of the Resistance, she travels to the village of Lavaurette, changing her name to conceal her identity. Here she will come face-to-face with the harrowing truth of what took place during Europe’s darkest years and will confront a terrifying secret that threatens to cast its shadow over the remainder of her days.