The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days

by Juliet Conlin

  ‘What?’

  ‘The wee one. She’s nae moving.’ She began to cry again, very quietly, covering her face with both hands.

  Alfred crouched down beside her and put his hand on her knee. ‘Perhaps she’s just sleeping. She can’t move about all day, can she? Aye, she’s just sleeping, getting ready for the big day, that’s all.’ He spoke to comfort himself as much as her.

  Isobel dropped her hands into her lap. ‘I even tried a hot bath,’ she said, gesturing towards the bath that stood in a corner of the room. ‘Took me ages to get the water warm enough. Usually that wakes her right up, it does. But . . . ’ She began crying again, her face all screwed up and blotchy. ‘Nothing.’

  Alfred fought against the panic rising in his gut. He said, trying to keep his voice steady to hide his anxiety, ‘I’ll fetch Amy, how about that. She’s been through it. She’ll put your mind to rest.’

  Isobel nodded without looking up. Alfred hurried out of the house, glad to be doing something, and rang Amy’s doorbell. He waited one minute, two, three, then began banging loudly on the door.

  ‘What the hell – ’ he heard and the door opened. Amy had her hair tied up in a scarf, and her son, James, was standing behind her, holding onto her leg. ‘I’m right in the middle of – ’ she said, and then stopped. ‘Alfred, what is it?’

  Alfred explained breathlessly, expecting her to wave his concerns away with a gesture or a laugh. But instead, her face turned grave. ‘How long?’

  ‘What?’ he asked, as she picked up James and hoisted him onto her hip.

  ‘When’s the last time she felt it move?’

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ he said, feeling more nervous with every moment. They rushed next door. Isobel was still sitting where he’d left her; the expression on her face was distant, as though she weren’t quite there. Amy flicked on the light switch.

  ‘Isobel,’ she said, putting James down on the floor and crouching down beside Isobel, much like Alfred had done minutes earlier. ‘It’ll be fine. Don’t get yourself upset, that won’t be doing anyone any good. Least of all your little lass here.’ She stroked Isobel’s belly. ‘Now, when’s the last time you felt her move?’

  ‘I cannae be sure,’ Isobel said, her voice no longer tearful, instead, Alfred thought, rather cold. It frightened him. ‘A few days. Mebbe a week. I just thought – ’

  Amy straightened up. ‘Right. I’ll pop over to Angela’s and make a call to the doctor. Alfred, you . . . make Isobel a cup of tea or something.’

  She picked up her son and swept out of the kitchen.

  A few minutes later, she returned. ‘Dr Cummings is on his way. He said to lie down and not to panic.’ She tried a smile. ‘Here,’ she reached into her apron pocket, fished out a packet of cigarettes and shook one out. ‘Have one of these, to calm your nerves.’

  But Isobel declined. ‘I think that’d make me sick,’ she said.

  It was a mere ten minutes before Dr Cummings arrived at the front door, but to Alfred it seemed an age. The doctor, a tall, well-spoken Englishman with horn-rimmed glasses, shook Alfred’s hand briefly and asked for Isobel.

  ‘In the living room,’ Alfred said. ‘She’s lying down, like you said.’

  Dr Cummings placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Lead the way then.’

  Isobel was lying on her side on the couch; Amy sat on the armchair opposite with James on her knee, smoking a cigarette. Without wasting any time, Dr Cummings unbuttoned his jacket and went over to Isobel, kneeled in front of her on the floor and snapped open his black case.

  ‘Lift your dress for me please,’ he said, adding, ‘I would normally ask you to leave the room, Mr Werner, but under the circumstances . . . ’

  Isobel lifted her dress up to expose a large pair of cotton underpants with an elasticated waist, which she had made herself from a spare bed sheet. She wore long woollen socks pulled up over her knees; her suspender belt hadn’t fit around her waist for a while now. She pushed the waistband of her underpants down so that the doctor could see her stomach and lifted her forearm to cover her eyes. A faint dark line ran along the curve of her belly from her navel to her pubic hair. Alfred hadn’t seen her undressed for many months, and felt uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed on her behalf.

  Dr Cummings took a wooden Pinard horn and warned, ‘This might be a bit cold,’ before placing the wide end of the horn on Isobel’s exposed stomach and leaning forward to listen through the other end. He listened for a moment, and then placed the horn slightly to the left and listened again. He continued to reposition the horn across her belly, eyes closed, his face giving nothing away. Once, James started grizzling on his mother’s lap, and Dr Cummings held his hand up and flashed a fierce stare in the boy’s direction. Amy shushed him and he quietened.

  The tick-tock of the clock on the mantelpiece was maddening, louder than it had ever been, it seemed to Alfred, and he wondered briefly whether he should move it to the kitchen, but was afraid even the slightest of movements might prevent the doctor from detecting the baby’s heartbeat. Finally, with the horn positioned just beneath Isobel’s left breast, the doctor nodded.

  ‘Yes, got it,’ he said, and Alfred could hear the relief in his voice. Dr Cummings straightened up and removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked at Isobel. ‘It’s there, but it’s very weak, I’m afraid. You’ve two, three weeks to go?’

  Isobel pulled her dress back down and cleared her throat. ‘Two weeks,’ she said hoarsely.

  Alfred took a step forward. ‘But you heard it, didn’t you? The heartbeat? So the baby’s all right?’

  Dr Cummings put the Pinard horn back in the case. ‘I don’t want to worry you unduly, but if the baby hasn’t moved in several days, and the heartbeat is indeed as weak as it sounded, I think one should consider taking measures. Also, I’m not an obstetrician, but the location of the heartbeat leads me to believe that it hasn’t turned yet.’ He took Isobel’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘And you don’t want it coming out feet first, believe me.’

  He stood up and buttoned up his jacket. Then he pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered it around, but Amy was the only one to take one. He lit his own.

  ‘My advice would be to go to hospital immediately,’ he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. ‘They can examine you properly and make a decision then. If you like, I can take you in my car.’

  Alfred ran upstairs and hurriedly packed a small case: Isobel’s nightie, a bar of soap, flannel, talcum powder, hairbrush and toothbrush. Then he helped Isobel into the back of Dr Cummings’ car and took a seat next to her. The nearest hospital was in Cumnock, some seven miles away, and they arrived there just fifteen minutes later. Dr Cummings went ahead to inform the resident physician of Isobel’s condition, while Alfred helped her out of the car. She followed his instructions wordlessly, as if in a daze, keeping one hand clamped around the lower part of her stomach. When they reached the entrance door, Isobel suddenly grabbed him and dug her nails into his arm.

  ‘I’m so frightened, Alfie,’ she said in a whisper. Then she began to cry.

  Alfred placed his arm around her shoulder. ‘I know.’

  Once inside the hospital, things went very quickly: a nurse whisked Isobel away in a wheelchair, the consultant obstetrician explained in a few sentences that he would examine Isobel, but that if Dr Cummings’ diagnosis were accurate, they would have no time to lose. They would fetch the baby immediately.

  Alfred was left standing in the reception area, still clutching Isobel’s small case in his hand. He was too stunned to cry; instead, a sticky nauseous feeling stole through his body, and he was afraid that if he moved, even an inch, he would be sick right there on the hospital floor.

  He must have stood there for a good twenty minutes, before he became aware of a sudden bustle and commotion around him. He was almost hit by a stretcher, ‘Get out of the way!’, ‘Quick, down there, theatre one’, then saw another two stretchers being unloaded from a
n ambulance just outside the glass door.

  He heard a voice on his right, ‘Sir, please step out of the way. You need to make room for the ambulance men.’

  Alfred turned. It was the reception nurse. ‘Come along please, sir. You can wait just here.’ She took his arm and he let her guide him to a row of wooden benches that reminded him of church pews. ‘You can wait here,’ she repeated softly.

  ‘My wife . . . ’ Alfred began, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘How long will it be?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ she said. ‘Mr Werner, isn’t it? I’m sure she’ll be just fine. Fretting won’t help, will it? Now you just wait here and I’ll see about getting you a cup of tea.’

  She walked off.

  The waiting area was draughty and smelled sharply of disinfectant. An elderly woman was sitting a few yards away, crying quietly and occasionally blowing her nose on a handkerchief. Alfred shifted the case from his lap to the floor.

  ‘Where are you?’ he called silently, but there was no response. ‘Please. Tell me if she will be all right.’ He thought he heard a soft moan, or a whimper, and he closed his eyes and held his breath, reaching out with his hearing, but then the old woman blew her nose again and the sound was lost.

  The nurse didn’t return with his cup of tea; either she’d forgotten, or she was too busy. Alfred gathered from the commotion coming from the reception that there had been a serious car accident with several casualties on Muirkirk Road. He sat on his hard bench, numb and abandoned by his voice-women, trying to quash a growing feeling of self-pity and instead attempting to picture Isobel, sitting in a hospital bed with a smile on her face, tired, but holding their small pink baby in her arms. He lifted his hands to his face and rubbed it vigorously, until the skin tingled almost painfully. Finally, the noise outside died down, and the nurse returned.

  ‘Mr Werner? Your wife is out of surgery. If you’d follow me, please.’

  Alfred tried to read her face, but she turned away briskly. He followed her to a small room leading off a long corridor. A sign above the door read: Recovery Room. The smell in here was, if anything, even more pungent than outside, and Alfred felt his eyes watering as it hit his nostrils. The light was dull; someone had drawn the curtains. Isobel was lying on a bed, pale and still on her back, her hair matted with sweat. The anaesthetic mask had left a red mark around her mouth and nose. A large machine stood in the corner of the room, fitted with two bottles of gas.

  ‘She’ll be awake any moment,’ the nurse said. ‘But she’ll be feeling a little groggy. And sore, from the stitches. Call me if you need anything.’ She went to leave.

  ‘And the baby?’ Alfred asked, not taking his eyes off Isobel.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ the nurse told him quietly, ‘but perhaps you should put off giving her a name just yet.’

  She left the room on hushed soles, leaving Alfred to ponder for several moments what she had meant by her comment. The understanding, when it came, was crushing. He turned to look at Isobel, who had yet to wake from the anaesthetic. She was blissfully unaware of what was happening and he almost envied her. Swallowing repeatedly to keep back his tears, he decided that no child should go unnamed, so he chose – in secret – the name he wished his daughter to have. It was his mother’s middle name: Brynja.

  Brynja hadn’t, in fact, survived being pulled from her mother’s womb, but it was only the following morning during the doctor’s rounds that Alfred and Isobel were informed of this. At first, Isobel just shook her head briskly, as though shaking water from her ears. From a distance, Alfred heard sobbing, and Oh, she’s gone, the poor babe. She’s gone! And then silence. His heart began to throb painfully until he thought it might explode.

  ‘Where is she?’ Isobel asked suddenly. Her voice was unnaturally bright. ‘Can I see her?’

  The doctor looked at her blankly. Then he said, not unkindly, ‘But the body has already been disposed of. I’m sorry.’

  Isobel let out a queer, strangled noise and broke into tears. Alfred, for the moment, had no tears. He sat down on the bed and took Isobel in his arms, holding her fast as her body began to shake uncontrollably. After a long while, exhaustion overcame her, and she lay limp, slumped against his chest.

  ‘I love you,’ Alfred said. ‘I was so frightened you might – ’ He stopped. He couldn’t finish his sentence. He lowered his face to her hair and breathed in her almondy smell. ‘And we’ll always have each other,’ he said. He heard the limpness of his own words.

  She looked up at him for a moment, her eyes dull with grief, and then lowered her head again, pressing her face against his shoulder. ‘But Alfie.’ Her voice was tight. ‘It’s just nae enough, is it?’

  Nineteen Ninety-Six (Part II)

  On the plane. Sabine is sleeping beside you, her face slack with three miniature gins and the jowls of a woman the wrong side of forty. You close your eyes. Breathing in one, one, one, breathing out two, two, two. The woman in the seat on your left moves her arm and bumps your elbow off the shared armrest. Disrupts the breathing exercise. The woman reaches up and presses the call button and within seconds, the flight attendant appears. The woman asks for water and you close your eyes again. The little girl’s voice in your ear, singing, off key la, lala, la, la laaaa

  Breathing in one, one, one, breathing out two, two, the singing fades, drowned out by the sound of the engines. The flight attendant reappears, places a plastic cup with iced water on the woman’s tray, retreats back to behind her curtain.

  Lufthansa stewardesses are the tallest in the industry, you once read. Five feet seven and a half inches, on average. You are tall for fourteen, taller than your girlfriends back home. Tall is good, your mom said when you stood in front of the mirror a couple of weeks ago, complaining. I wish I were taller, your mom said. Besides, you’ll fit right in when we get to Germany.

  You hope so.

  Six weeks earlier, you returned home from school to find your mom happy-drunk, light on her feet but swaying only slightly, clearing out kitchen cupboards, the table piled high with plates, cups, silverware, incense stick holders, linen napkins yellowed along their creases.

  Sit down, Bryn, she said, rushing over and taking your bag from your shoulder and flinging it to the floor. I’ve got some news. Great news.

  She took a bottle of Zinfandel from the refrigerator and filled – refilled – a glass. What would you say if I told you we’re moving to the greatest city in Europe? Huh? Bryn? She took a large sip of wine.

  You remained standing. I, um . . .

  I’ve got a job, Bryn! In a birthing house, well, it’s an interview, but I’m through to the second stage and they’re desperate for midwives over there. And with my qualifications and experience – she waved the hand holding the wine glass, golden drops sloshed over the rim – they’ll take me. I’m sure. And besides, we’re going nowhere here, are we? Hmm? This fucking place, this fucking, motherfucking country.

  She was no longer happy-drunk.

  You felt numb. Numb and dizzy. It wasn’t just the pills, the pills that gave you smelly discharge and swelled up your breasts, making phys ed humiliating and painful. You rubbed at the fresh scars on your arm. Your mom noticed, put her glass down and came over.

  Hey, liebling. Shush. Don’t do that. Pulling your hand away from your arm. Wine fumes on her breath. She put her arms around you, her body heat mingling with your body heat. We’ll be good, I promise. We’ve talked about this, right?

  You’d talked about it. Sabine had talked about it for years. Since you’d first moved here from San Francisco, shortly after your father had left for New York. That’s what he’d told Sabine, anyway. And that’s where you and your mom had followed him to, ten years ago. Sabine never found him, although she spent that first year sober and searching. And since then, since you were four years old, your mother had never stopped planning your escape – to Bali, India, Venezuela, Toronto. As though it would be that easy just to leave all the shit behind. But maybe i
t was. What did you know?

  But what about school? you asked.

  What about it? You’ll go to school there. In fact, you can take some time off, huh? A couple of weeks. She smiled conspiratorially. Give you a chance to get your tongue round the language first. But it’ll come quickly, you’re such a clever girl. It’s all good, Sabine said smiling, her mood tipping back instantaneously. She started busying herself again with the cupboards. She paused and looked up at you. Her t-shirt clung to the sweat on her back. And it might be nice to come home, what do you think?

  You are bumped awake as the aircraft touches the runway in Berlin. Your mouth is dry, your limbs stiff.

  Morning. Sabine is looking at you through dry, puffy eyes. Sleep well?

  I guess.

  Okay. The first thing we do is go for coffee. Then we find the hotel – no, shit. First I gotta sort out the paperwork at customs. But maybe I’ll come back and do that later. All that stuff. Hey, maybe we’ll just buy all new! As soon as I get my first pay check. What do you think? Look, the sun’s shining! Specially for us.

  But you aren’t listening. No, that’s not true. You are listening, but not to your mother. You are listening out, to be precise. You want to be prepared. It’s difficult to tell so far, because the cabin is full of voices, passengers chatting, coughing, groaning, yawning. Sit down we all have to wait in line at passport control anyway don’t forget your book all over the place I’m dying for a cigarette watch where you’re stepping I’m trying it’s stuck taxi or bus take care thank you for flying Lufthansa. But none of them are your voices, and you dare, timidly, to think of your dream, the one where you wake up and they’re gone. Vanished. And you’re free, and normal, and not crazy, and you can think and talk and sleep and read without the voices cutting into your brain. And then you hear the little girl singing and you gasp because you almost had it, you were almost free but stupid, stupid to think it would be that easy and you gasp again, out loud, because you realise that the singing is coming from a REAL GIRL two rows behind you, and you realise that maybe maybe your mom was right and you just left all the shit behind.