by Beth Moran
Forget the blackened eye, the split and swollen lip, the purple palm print decorating her forearm for now. This woman was having a baby.
Like, now.
I gripped the door frame, shook the buzzing out of my head, and yelled for Marilyn.
Chapter Fifteen
An hour later, the paramedics tenderly loaded Polly and her tiny pink baby girl into the ambulance. The midwife had arrived just in time, while the person on the end of the phone gave me instructions to relay to Marilyn, playing interim midwife due to her having actually given birth before.
“It looks a lot different from this end!” she panted, squeezing Polly’s hand as another contraction wracked her poor, smashed-up body.
To our shuddering relief, everything had gone smoothly. Polly was too dazed to ask questions. She cradled her baby girl while slow, silent tears spilled out of her puffed-up eyes.
Marilyn and I cleared up the mess while the midwife did her stuff.
“Usually, we’d give Mum a cup of tea and some toast, followed by a shower. Given the situation…” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Given the situation, we’re admitting her straight away.”
“Can we come too?”
“You can follow behind. We’re taking her to City Hospital. Perhaps you can bring her a bag of things?”
Nobody mentioned a possible father, despite the numerous photographs of Polly and Tony hung up around the house. Nobody expressed the slightest concern for the broken window, despite the light rain now falling. There were questions to be asked, and authorities to be contacted, but right now, all anyone cared about was getting Polly and her baby out of that house.
The paramedics, both men, shut the ambulance door and made one last scan of the horizon. Shoulders flexing, jaws locked, they appeared to be half hoping Tony would come zooming up in his testosterone-powered, midlife-crisis machine, so they could show him what they thought of men who beat up pregnant women.
I did not half hope it. I wholly hoped it. And for that, I am finding it really hard to be repentant.
“I can’t believe it,” Marilyn hiccupped, as we sat in her car, about to drive off. “There was a whole new person. There wasn’t a person, and then there was. A. Whole. New. Person. Bam!”
“Bam?” I laughed through my tears. “More like aaaarrgh! Grrrr! Hhhnnnnn! Then a whole new person. And when you did it, there were two new people!”
“Yeah, but watching someone else do it is totally different. A new person. Out of nowhere. A teensy-tiny, perfect, rosy, sweet-smelling, yawning person.”
“You forgot pooping.”
“I didn’t forget. My skirt is ruined. I just didn’t want to lower the tone. Why would you lower the tone, Faith? That was a hooten tooten, bona fide miracle.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to lower the tone.” My voice hitched. “But I’m so, so scared for them. She’s so small, and helpless, and beautiful. The thought of that precious baby living with that terrible man. It can’t happen. I won’t let it happen.”
“Shall we burn the house to the ground?” Marilyn started the car.
“He’d take them somewhere we can’t find them.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, as she pulled away.
“I don’t know.” I glanced in the wing mirror, making one last check for Tony.
“Surely she won’t go back? She’s a mother now. That changes everything.”
I thought of my mother, the faint scent of lavender, the tickle of her soft, auburn hair on my cheek as she bent to kiss me. Her gentle voice singing me to sleep.
I shook my head, watched the tears plopping onto my lap. “I just don’t know.”
I called Hester. The choir were at the concert hall, about to go onstage.
“I’m so sorry. All that work, and now you’re two short,” I commiserated.
“Not important! A baby has been born! Why are you talking to me instead of taking care of Polly?”
“We’re on our way to the hospital now.”
“Good. Make sure you tell that girl what’s what. After telling her how much we love her. And that we are all going to stand with her, and do whatever it takes. And take some pictures on your phone. Send them over.”
Someone interrupted. It sounded like April. “Hester! We need to go.”
“Well, what are you waiting for then?” she huffed. “Go and be spectacular.”
I called out my best wishes, and have a fantastic time, and knock ’em dead, but they’d gone.
“Are you gutted to be missing it?” Marilyn asked, as she snuck through a light just as it turned red.
“Remember the whole new person? How could anyone be gutted about that? Besides, we have a job to do. I’ve got a feeling things might get ugly before all this is over.”
Things got ugly about seven that night. Ugly, as in a curled-up lip, bulging veins, and hairy, flaring nostrils.
We were choosing a drink from the vending machine in the hospital reception when Tony strode in. The woman on reception, no doubt used to stressed-out men swinging their weight around, patted her silver bob and repeated the question.
“Who are you here to see?”
“My wife. She’s been here all day, and no one even bothered to call me. Don’t you have rules about informing next of kin?”
“I presume your wife has a name?”
“Polly Malone.”
“One moment please.” She narrowed her eyes. “Sir.”
“Uh-oh.” Marilyn and I sidled across to stand behind a nearby pillar. I faced the reception desk, with Marilyn as my shield, and peeked out to see what would happen.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.” The receptionist pursed her lips.
“What are you talking about? I know she’s here. My neighbour told me.”
The woman’s eyebrow rose a millimetre, clearly indicating what she thought Polly not telling him herself implied.
“If we did have a woman here of that name, it would be her choice whether she wanted to see you or not.”
He laughed, but it sounded uneasy. “She’s my wife. Of course she wants to see me.”
“I’m afraid not.” Her face set in an instant, like quick-drying cement, as she glanced over Tony’s twitching shoulder. “But they would like a word.”
During the few short minutes the police attempted to restrain the husband of Polly Malone, witness reports confirmed his deliberately aggressive and violent behaviour resulted in his face smashing into a pillar, breaking his nose.
Nobody, and especially not the two witnesses, cheered under their breath, clapped, did a little jig, or saluted the receptionist when she muttered, after the scuffle had moved into the car park, “You had a girl, by the way. I hope she never has to meet you.”
Harsh? No harsher than Polly’s hammered – yes, hammered with an actual hammer – fingers, cracked eye socket, and broken teeth.
We broke the news to Polly during visiting hours in her private room. She said nothing, gazing at the warm, sweet bundle of new life in her arms and nodding softly when we asked if she wanted us to fetch her things and move them to a safe place.
By ten o’clock, we were at Marilyn’s house, drinking hot chocolate and waiting for the buzz of adrenaline to subside so we could stop shaking and go to bed. A suitcase and a laundry basket full of Polly’s meagre possessions waited in Marilyn’s spare room. We’d left most of the baby paraphernalia behind. Polly needed a new start, and with all of the twins’ kit still strewn around the cottage of chaos, there was plenty to go around.
“It’s a bit different from Polly’s house.” Marilyn winced.
“Her house wasn’t a home. She’ll probably love the noise, and the company. And the cake.”
“She needs some cake in her.”
“She needs a lot of things. It’s good of you to let her stay.”
Marilyn chewed on her lip. “To be honest, with James gone I could do with the company too.”
The doorbell rang, making us both jump.
“Police?” Marilyn asked.
“No. The police wouldn’t call at this time unless it couldn’t wait.”
“Right. I suppose we’d better answer it then.”
The bell rang again, swiftly followed by several loud knocks.
She frowned. “Sounds like it can’t wait.”
Well, how could the runners-up of the East Midlands heat of the International Community Choir Sing-Off possibly wait to crack open the bubbly, coo over the photos of Polly’s baby (not of Polly, we kept her bruises quiet), and describe everything that happened – the lights, the applause, the moment Janice tripped up and her wig slipped off? Quite obviously, they couldn’t.
Once everyone had piled in like dwarves in a hobbit hole, eating nearly as much and singing twice as loud (waking Nancy, but not Pete, who would sleep through the battle of five armies), we toasted the choir, the judges, Hester, the NHS, new beginnings for Polly and her daughter, awesome women everywhere who find the courage to tell scumbag men they can’t visit them in hospital, the handsome driver, Dylan (who looked totally at home sitting up against the wall with one leg stretched out, surrounded by overexcited women), brawny policemen, tight-lipped receptionists, Hester again, and the choir again. Then the champagne ran out.
Somewhere around two I heaved myself up from a beanbag covered in dinosaurs and stumbled to the door. “I give in. I can cope with breaking and entering or delivering a baby, no problem. But not both in one day. I’m pooped. See you all soon.”
I slipped on my shoes, and started walking down the path towards home. It was a cold night, the stars were out, and the world was draped in moonlight. I huddled into my coat, thoughts turning back to Polly, safe for now, but alone and afraid, facing life with scars I knew would take a long, long time to heal.
The slam of Marilyn’s door echoed through the night as someone else left the party. Looking back I saw Dylan jogging up behind me, shrugging into his leather jacket.
“I’m walking you home.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
He moved alongside me, the village path so narrow he had to walk on the street. “Well, my job description was to see all the choir members home at the end of the competition, so actually, I do.”
“Ah, just doing your job.” I smiled, and glanced over at him, grateful for the distance he’d placed between us, lessening the intimacy of the darkness.
“Yes. But when I ask how you’re doing, that’s as a friend. Not part of my job.”
We walked in silence while I thought about it. After our conversation on New Year’s Day, I wanted to take the opportunity to answer honestly. I’d be an idiot if I pretended today hadn’t triggered some deep, nasty memories.
“I’m okay. At the moment. Seeing Polly was pretty horrendous. But if we hadn’t got there – hadn’t found where she lived, or managed to get there in time? There are so many what ifs my head spins when I think about it. But we did get there, and she’s made the right decision, for now. I feel grateful for that. And grateful I made the right decision, too, when it was my turn.”
I pressed my hand against my stomach slash-scar. “I’ll have nightmares tonight. And probably for the rest of the week. But I’m okay. At least the nightmare stops when I wake up these days.”
We were quiet for a minute or so, before Dylan started telling me more about the day. How Hester had dedicated the performance to Polly and her daughter. How the women had thrummed with pride when they got a standing ovation. How he shamelessly cried when Rowan sang her solo.
We reached my little front path, and I let out a long sigh.
“Sorry.” Dylan grimaced. “I’m rubbing it in.”
“No. I want to hear. I’m so darn proud of us all. And I’ll be there for the second round. Someone else can take care of any emergencies next time.”
He grinned. “They’d struggle to do as good a job as you.”
“You didn’t hear me squeal when her waters broke.” I pulled out my key and unlocked the door.
“Thanks for walking me home, Dylan.”
“You’re welcome.” Turning sideways, hands tucked tightly in his pockets, he nudged my arm with one elbow. “Don’t have nightmares. Please.”
He strode off into the night, and I quickly closed the door behind him. Leaning back against the frame, my heart thumping, I held my breath, reluctant to exhale the scent of battered leather. I think my arm might have been on fire. I think my whole body was in danger of bursting into flames.
What was I doing? Was this really what a crush felt like?
I had to stay away from Dylan.
My phone beeped with a text:
Just got back from the conference. How’d it go? Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. I love you xxx
I did have nightmares that night, but not about what I expected.
I dreamed about a wedding, and the Ghost Web, and running through the blazing corridors of HCC, choking on billowing smoke as I searched for the fire escape.
Good gracious. I had to stay away from that man.
Despite her newfound fitness levels, I felt increasingly concerned for Marilyn. I spoke to Hester at choir practice.
“I have an idea for another choir activity.”
“Go on,” she said.
“Polly comes out of hospital in a few days. Marilyn still hasn’t cleared out her spare room. James has been away for months and the house is more chaos than cottage. It’s gone way beyond homely clutter. I’m worried about her. I think she’s overwhelmed, and doesn’t know where to start even if she had the time or the energy.”
“Have you offered any help?”
“I still babysit Nancy and Pete while she trains with Anton. I hang out a load of washing when I can, or chuck some toys in a box, but when I bring it up she changes the subject.”
Hester nodded, her mouth a flat line. “Leave it with me.”
Thursday morning, the text went round:
Choir meeting Marilyn’s, Sat 9am. Don’t tell Marilyn.
Thursday afternoon, I had a phone call.
“Faith. I need a really, really big favour. I’ve won Anton’s trainee of the month. It’s a spa day. Eight hours by myself, in a spa, being pampered and steamed and encouraged to wear a dressing gown in daylight hours! But it’s this Saturday.”
I smiled on the other end of the phone. “What time do you need me?”
“Eight-thirty. If you’re sure? You’re not working? Or walking? I know it’s a big ask.”
“I can bring the twins on my walk. Show them the river.”
“They’re exhausting. And a handful. And quite stressful at times, when they decide to cry in sync.” Marilyn couldn’t keep the bubbling hope from her voice.
“Your babies are beautiful, and lovely, and hilarious, and I love looking after them.”
“I’ll pay you, of course.”
“I’m pretending you didn’t say that,” I said.
“You know I hate asking for help.”
I pretended to be annoyed. “Do you know I hate not being asked to help when my friend needs it? I have a gaping help-hole in my life right now. I’m going to look forward to spending a whole day with my best buddies Nancy and Pete. Maybe I should pay you for the privilege.”
Sixteen choir members, bin bags and dusters in hand, surveyed the mountain of mess open-mouthed. They had thought the skip Hester hired a little over the top, but not any more.
“How long have we got?” Melody asked, stretching out her rubber glove and letting it ping back with a thwack.
“Eight and a half hours and counting,” Hester barked.
“What do we even do with all this junk?” Rowan boggled. “We can’t just throw away someone else’s stuff.”
“We can, and we will,” Hester ordered. “Five piles. Skip, recycling, give away, keep, don’t know. The don’t know pile will be the smallest, followed by the keep pile. Two sub-teams. Sort and Clean. Sort will complete the first phase in each room, Clean will then follow. Each sub-tea
m splits itself into pairs.”
“Sub-sub-teams?” Millie asked.
“If you insist. Each pair –”
“You mean, each sub-sub-team?”
“Each pair tackles one room at a time.”
“I thought you said we could call them sub-sub-teams?”
“Call them what you like!” Hester beetled her brows. “Just get going! It is time you ladies learned how to distinguish between what you need to keep hold of, what other people need to take off you, and what nobody wants or needs. Too many of you have cluttered up your life with junk. Unhealthy! Hindrance! Go and master the art of prioritizing. Go!”
No doubt sensing the sizzling tension between us, Hester paired me up with April. We started in Nancy and Pete’s bedroom, letting them play in one of the cots together while we sorted through the piles of baby clothes, toys, broken equipment, and four hundred and thirty-seven parenting magazines.
April was a ruthless machine. She displayed no hesitation in chucking away someone else’s belongings, refusing to acknowledge the “don’t know” pile. We filled two bin bags with clothes that needed washing and two with rubbish. We created an enormous pile of tiny clothes for Polly’s as yet unnamed daughter, and made significant contributions to the recycling and give-away piles.
I nearly gagged at the state of the carpet we uncovered. It reminded me of my bedsit in London.
We took down the curtains to wash, changed the cot sheets, wiped the walls with baby-friendly detergent and disinfectant, and scrubbed every other surface until they sparkled.
Two hours later, Hester poked her head in the door. “Are you ready for the Clean team yet?”
“We’ve already done it.” April’s face shone pink. “All that’s left is cleaning the carpet, but we didn’t want to do that with the babies here.”
Hester’s eyes flicked over every corner of the room. Pete laughed and threw his stuffed kangaroo over the top of the cot bars.
“Right. You’re scheduled a fifteen-minute tea break. Then you can start on the conservatory. Good job.”
