‘He needed a little help with his breathing when he arrived, and he had to be warmed slowly because he was so cold. He’s got an NGT,’ I overhear the nurse saying. ‘That’s the tube in his nostril that goes down into his stomach so we can feed him. He hasn’t got his sucking reflex together yet.’ She pauses. ‘Perhaps Mum would like to have a go at expressing …’
Mum? My heart does somersaults, my emotions flipping from elation to fear at the reality of my situation. Mum. That’s me.
Alex takes a small step away from me.
‘Well, Maz?’ he says.
‘I’ll have a go,’ I say, glad to delay the moment when I’ll have to meet my baby properly, face to face.
‘He’s due a feed soon,’ the nurse says. ‘I’ll show you to the quiet room.’
Alex stays with the baby while the nurse takes me through in the wheelchair, and gives me a container and instructions. I’m thinking milking parlour on a dairy unit, rows of black and white cows, and the regular pulse of the milking machine, and milk by the gallon … I fail miserably. I look at the tiny volume of milk in the bottom of the container. I knew it – I knew I wouldn’t be a good mother.
Embarrassed, I hand the container to the nurse.
‘Not bad for the first time. Don’t worry about it – it does get easier. Now, I’m going to feed Baby then dress him so you can hold him.’ She seems to pick up on my reluctance. ‘Babies are tough little creatures – you won’t break him.’
‘I might drop him,’ I say, trying to make light of it.
‘In a day or so, it’ll be second nature,’ the nurse says. She has that quiet but stubborn way about her, which reminds me of Izzy when she’s convincing a client that it’s perfectly possible to bathe a St Bernard and leave the shampoo on for ten minutes without them getting soaked through too.
‘I haven’t got any clothes for him. It was all too sudden …’
‘Oh, we’ve plenty here on the unit. Most of our babies are prems.’ The nurse detaches him from the monitors and takes him out of the incubator, placing him on a changing station in the corner of the room to change his nappy and dress him in a white sleepsuit. She picks him up and comes straight to me. I can feel my pulse racing, my palms growing hot and damp, and all I’m thinking is, How can I get this chair in reverse …?
‘Y-y-you hold him, Alex,’ I say. ‘I don’t feel so good.’
‘He wants his mum,’ Alex says, raising one eyebrow.
‘I’ve met lots of new mums like you. Don’t be scared – it takes time to get to know someone,’ the nurse says, bending down and holding him out to me. ‘It’s important for Baby to know he’s loved.’
Convinced that I can’t possibly love him and putting off the moment of truth for as long as I can, I stare down at my feet, at the rather tatty slippers in the form of fluffy dogs with lewd tongues which Alex must have dug out from my possessions in the Barn.
‘Arms out, Mum,’ the nurse says brightly. ‘I’m due to check on one of my other patients, and I’d appreciate it if you’d look after Baby for a while. I won’t be long.’
I’m vaguely aware of her exchanging glances with Alex as she lowers the baby into my arms, and then I find I’m too busy concentrating on how to hold him securely to think of anything else.
He’s heavier than I expected, more substantial. I gaze at his features, finding a hint of Alex’s nose and my mouth, maybe. It’s amazing. A miracle. The sight of him takes my breath away.
The baby stares back at my face, his eyes a deep ultramarine beneath a fringe of dark curls, and I’m lost, consumed by a rush of love, and it’s just me and him, and nothing else matters. I slip off his hat, revealing his pointed, pixie skull, and lift him closer, pressing my nose to his forehead, inhaling his scent of newborn baby, milk, talc and fabric conditioner.
‘Hello, Bean.’ Smiling and wondering how I ever thought I wouldn’t bond with him, my beautiful child, I touch his cheek. He twitches and screws up his face. I touch his hand, noticing his veins through the thin translucence of his skin. His fingers wrap round my forefinger. One of his delicate, papery nails is curling away and coming off, but his grip on both life and my finger is a firm, Fox-Gifford-like one. He opens his eyes, the rapid rise and fall of his ribcage stops, and he yawns.
‘Is he all right?’ I ask anxiously.
Alex pulls up a chair and sits beside us.
‘He’s fine, Maz. I think we’re boring him,’ Alex teases, his arm around my back. ‘You know, we can’t keep calling him Baby or Bean. I’ve been trying to think of something to remind us of his arrival. I wondered about Noah, but I expect there’ll be a flood of those this year.’
‘How about River? Or Ocean?’ I test them out in my head. ‘They won’t do for the Pony Club.’
‘The Pony Club isn’t at all elitist, Maz. My mother makes all pony-mad children welcome, although she’s most insistent we choose a name that befits her new grandson’s station.’
I keep my eyes fixed on my baby’s face. My breasts start to leak.
‘How about George?’ It sounds manly, a name a boy could grow up with. ‘George Alexander.’ I hesitate. I know how much Alex wants it, and it seems mean to deprive him. Whatever the name on the birth certificate, he’s my baby. ‘George Alexander Fox-Gifford.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘He looks like a Fox-Gifford.’ I smile to myself, fearing that my maternal ambition is already driving me to push my darling son forward, to put him first. With a double-barrelled name that marks him out as a member of one of the oldest families in Talyton St George, he’ll do well.
Supporting George on one arm, I slip the other around Alex’s neck and pull him towards me, pressing my lips to his, tasting salt and coffee.
‘Thank you, Maz.’ Alex’s voice is hoarse, his eyes gleaming with tears. ‘You – and George – you’ve made me the happiest man alive. And you needn’t worry any more: you’re going to be a great mum.’
From the moment the nurse placed him in my arms, George becomes the centre of my universe. I find myself laughing to myself, sometimes crying, when I recall that I thought I could never love him. It seems so ridiculous now.
Within another twenty-four hours his nasogastric tube is removed and I take over, learning how to breastfeed him. Off the drip, I start to feel stronger myself and the shock of the birth and the blood loss begins to wear off. I’m so sore I can hardly sit down. My nipples feel as if they’ve been sucked inside out, but I reckon I could provide enough milk to fill a tanker and I’m loving it.
Alex is with us most of the time, except when he’s running errands, fetching baby clothes and breast pads and fielding phone calls. He brings newspapers – copies of the Chronicle – to show me the headlines on the front: ‘Vet Rescue.’ The story of local vet Maz Harwood rescued from the flood with her newborn baby. Photos of Sally being reunited with newly engaged couple Penny and Declan. A double spread of ducks on the water at a submerged Market Square. Comment on ‘The Big Clean-up’ and ‘Who Is to Blame?’
It is as if the outside world is gradually intruding.
‘My mother asked to come and see the baby.’ Alex chuckles. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Maz. I’ve told her to give it a couple of days. And while we’re talking mothers, if you don’t get in touch with yours, I’ll do it for you.’ As I open my mouth to protest, he continues, ‘If she decides she doesn’t want to have anything to do with her grandson, fair enough. It’s her loss. At least you won’t have it on your conscience.’
I don’t want to think about it. I pick up one of George’s tiny sleepsuits, which is covered with blue clouds and chicks, and fold it up neatly.
‘Emma phoned again,’ Alex says, changing the subject.
‘Emma?’ I glance up.
‘I thought you’d like to know.’ Alex pauses. ‘She was the first to call to find out how you were.’
‘I notice she didn’t put herself out to visit, though.’
‘That’s a bit much to ask, considering …
’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Izzy’s back from her honeymoon too. I’ve seen Chris – he says they had a great time.’
‘I’m glad. She deserves it.’ Thinking of Emma and Izzy and work, I put the sleepsuit aside. ‘I’ve got to get back to the practice.’
‘Not yet,’ Alex says in a tone that brooks no argument. ‘You need to rest.’
How can I rest not knowing what’s happening at Otter House?
There’s a demanding, Fox-Gifford-like cry from the cot, which has been moved into my room in the hospital, and I’m on my feet, collecting George for his next feed. I sit in the chair and nurse him while Alex looks on.
‘Everyone’s waiting for you to come home,’ he says.
‘I want to go home,’ I say. I want to show George where he’ll be living. I want to show him the cats, the horses and the hens, and I want to sleep in my own bed, so I convince Alex and the doctors that I’m ready to leave the hospital. Alex brings a car seat for George, one covered with brightly coloured zoo animals.
‘It was the closest I could get to a vet theme,’ he says proudly.
‘Do you know what happened to my car?’ I ask, remembering when I last saw it, beached in the hedge by the river.
‘Ah, I’m sorry about that – it washed up in one of our farmers’ fields. It’s a write-off this time.’
I’ll miss it, I muse, but it’s for the best. Alex was right. There’s no way I’d happily let George travel in the front of anything but an armoured tank.
I let Alex carry George out to his car, where he straps him into the back seat. I insist on sitting in the back too, afraid his head’s going to flop forwards and he’ll crush his windpipe, or the clip will unfasten and he’ll fall out, or he’ll get too hot under his blanket.
‘What day is it?’ I ask Alex as he drives us away.
‘Friday. Why?’
I’ve lost sense of time … instead of being marked out in ten-minute slots for appointments, it’s punctuated by feeds and nappy changes. I’m no longer in control of my destiny. It’s George who’s controlling me.
‘Can we stop by at Otter House?’
‘What, now?’ Alex pauses. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’
‘Has the place fallen down without me, then?’ I say lightly, aware of the heartbeat throbbing at the back of my throat.
‘It’s in a bit of a mess,’ Alex admits.
‘How do you know?’
‘Emma told me.’
‘I’d like to see it for myself.’
Alex takes us into Talyton St George, where, from the outside, the place looks much like normal except for the debris at the sides of the roads left by the floods, a few stray sandbags and traffic cones. There’s also a skip on Market Square and scaffolding at the front of the ironmonger’s, nothing to warn of what’s to come as we reach Otter House, where there are No entry signs on the pillars at the entrance to the car park, and an arrow painted on cardboard, reading, Pedestrians, this way. Beyond that, there’s a tatty mobile home in green and cream livery that looks as if it’s been dragged up from the campsite at Talysands.
Alex parks on the pavement.
‘I’ll wait here with George,’ he says. ‘Go on, Maz,’ he adds, when I hesitate. ‘I’ll take care of him.’
‘Come with me.’ I feel in need of moral support, unsure of what I’m about to face.
Alex takes George out of his seat and carries him against his chest. Outside the car, there’s a strong scent of sewage and floodwater. On the way to the metal steps that lead up to the open door to the mobile home, I take a moment to peer inside the entrance to Otter House. The doors are locked and I must have lost my keys when my car disappeared down the river, so I can’t do any more than rattle the handles. Through the gloom, I can see the chairs are scattered and the floor covered with a fine silt along with the contents of the display stand: collars and leads, toys and dog-tags. It looks abandoned and unloved. I wonder if Emma felt the same wave of sadness when she saw it.
If she’s seen it …
I step up inside the mobile home, into the bedroom end, where I find Frances sitting at a picnic table with the daybook and phone, and a laptop with wires trailing everywhere, a Health and Safety officer’s nightmare.
‘Hi,’ I say tentatively.
‘Maz.’ She looks up, smiling. ‘How are you? Oh, Alexander. And the baby,’ she goes on, spotting them behind me. ‘How wonderful. Would you like some tea or coffee?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, but Frances is on her feet.
‘This way,’ she says. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. The others will be over the moon to see you.’
We walk down the narrow corridor, entering what should be the living area of the mobile home but which has been arranged to form a temporary consulting room/staffroom/prep area/Kennels. Emma has her stethoscope in her ears, listening to a puppy’s chest. Mrs Dyer holds the puppy, an oversized one in a deep slate blue, on the table. Shannon is writing out a label while Izzy digs around in a cardboard box in the recess between the oven and the sofa.
Emma looks up, and my spirit lifts because she’s here. She came back.
‘Let me finish here,’ she says. ‘I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’
We wait as she gives the new puppy his first vaccination and gives Mrs Dyer wormers and flea treatments for him. Mrs Dyer then has to get past us to reach the corridor and the way out.
‘Where do I settle up?’ she calls back to Emma.
‘Don’t worry about that now. I’ll put it on the tab for next time.’
Mrs Dyer stops to introduce me to the new puppy, Nero, and we have a spell of mutual admiration of each other’s new babies before she takes Nero home for his lunch.
Frances fills the kettle at the sink and lines up several mugs on the worktop under the window, which looks out through net curtains at the entrance to the practice. The decor in here is chipped oak veneer, bobbled beige chenille and torn vinyl wallpaper, but there isn’t a single crumb or grain of sand anywhere. It’s been thoroughly and professionally cleaned.
Izzy and Shannon move up to greet me, then turn their attention to George. Alex sits down on the sofa and takes George’s hat off so they can see his face. (I insisted he should wear his hat – it isn’t cold, but I don’t want him getting a chill.)
Shannon bends down and talks to him - George, that is, not Alex. Izzy, not to be outdone, kneels on the floor to get closer. Her trip to Australia has given her a healthy glow.
‘How was the honeymoon?’ I ask.
‘Fabulous. I’ve never seen so many sheep.’ Izzy turns back to George and Alex winks at me, and I realise this is how it’s going to be for a while, and I’m pleased so many people want to welcome him into the world.
I look towards Emma, trying to read in her expression how she feels about me turning up with the baby. Does she think I’m here to rub her nose in it?
She raises one eyebrow and glances towards the door into the corridor.
I know what she means. We need to talk.
I join her outside Otter House. She slips her hand into the pocket of her scrub top – a new one covered with cartoon cats – and pulls out a set of keys. She unlocks the doors and lets me through. We walk in silence through the practice until we reach Kennels. I bend down, pick up a piece of sodden bedding, then let it fall again.
‘What a mess,’ I say quietly.
‘It is, but Otter House – well, it’s just a place,’ Emma says. ‘It’s the people that matter.’
‘I thought you’d lock it up and throw away the key.’
‘It did cross my mind. When I said about the divorce – I meant it at the time.’ Emma pulls out a piece of tissue and wipes her eyes. ‘You were right, though – about me being obsessed. When you rang and gave me that ultimatum I thought, Why bother? Then, when I heard you’d gone missing – Frances called me – I knew I had to pull myself together and take responsibility for the practice. Maz, I’ve been such a bitch.
Can you forgive me?’
‘It’s you who should be forgiving me,’ I say, biting back tears. ‘You’ve been through hell during the past few months and I wasn’t there for you, not properly, because I was too preoccupied with my own problems, because I’ve always assumed you could cope with absolutely anything, because I felt bad that I was – you know – pregnant and you weren’t.’
‘You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, you know,’ she says. ‘I haven’t changed.’
‘You’ve lost a baby, a daughter,’ I say in a low voice. ‘You’ve had two failed attempts at IVF, and we’ve never really talked about it.’
‘We called her Heather,’ Emma says. ‘We called her Heather because of her eyes. I held her in my arms. She was so beautiful …’ Emma’s expression hardens. ‘You didn’t come to the funeral.’
‘I lied … about there being an emergency.’ There, I admit it. ‘I’m sorry. I was a coward. I didn’t think I could bear it.’
‘You have been to the grave, though? The flowers …’
I nod.
‘I knew it. Ben didn’t believe me.’ Emma goes on, ‘I don’t want you to feel you can’t talk about George, or bring him to work with you. I don’t want you feeling sad on my behalf. It’s supposed to be a happy time. You are happy, Maz?’
‘I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. I never expected to feel the way I do about him.’ I touch Emma’s shoulder. ‘I just wish …’
‘I know.’ Emma looks from one empty cage to another. ‘I’ve decided to take a break from the baby stuff. I’m going to leave it a year or so to give you a chance to get to know George.’
‘Emma, you don’t have to do that on my account.’ Now I have my own baby, I’m only too aware of what she’s missing. It seems like too great a sacrifice.
‘IVF – it’s like being trapped in a giant hamster wheel.’
‘I thought you were afraid your biological clock was ticking, that time was running out?’
‘Maybe it already has. Maybe I’ll never have a child of my own. I’m not sure I’ll ever accept it, but I can bear it. Don’t feel guilty about it, Maz. I’m doing this for many reasons: the future of Otter House Vets, my sanity, my marriage.’ Emma pauses. ‘I want my life back.’
Must Be Love Page 36
