by Ian Mcewan
As the contraction passed they took a deep breath together. Julie cupped her hands over her mouth to counter the sickness of hyperventilation. She said something, but her words were muffled. He waited. She dropped her hands and smiled wryly. They returned to the room, and to themselves, as though emerging from shelter after a storm. He could not recall what they had been talking about, or whether they had been talking. It did not matter.
‘Do you remember it all?’ Julie said. She was not asking him to reminisce. She wanted to know if he knew what to do.
He nodded. He would have liked to take a peek at one of Julie’s books. There were precise stages of labour, as he half remembered, different breathing techniques associated with them, time to hold back, time when it was important to let go. But there was a long day ahead. There would be leisure for that. And he remembered the last time clearly enough. He had been brow mopper, telephonist, flower man, champagne pourer, midwife’s dogsbody, and he had talked her through. Afterwards she had told him he had been useful. His impression was his value had been more symbolic. He dressed, then crossed the room and found a pair of Julie’s socks to put on.
‘Where’s the midwife’s number?’
‘In my coat pocket, hanging behind the door. Put the kettle on as you go out. Make two hot-water bottles when you come back. And a pot of jasmine tea. Both the fires need building up.’ He remembered too these husky commands, the mother’s absolute right to order her own domain.
Outside the dawn was still confined to the eastern sky. The clouds had disappeared entirely and for the first time he saw stars. The moon was still the main source of light. He walked quickly up the brick path in his wet shoes, noticing that Julie had taken the precaution of sweeping the snow clear. The phone box on the corner had no light inside and he had to feel for the numbers. When he got through, he found he was talking to a receptionist in a medical centre in the nearby town. He was not to worry. The midwife would be contacted, and would arrive within the hour.
On the way back, as he walked the short stretch of road he had run along less than an hour before, he slowed and tried to take the measure of the transformations; but he was incapable of reflection; he could think only of details, of tea, logs, and hot-water bottles.
The cottage was quiet when he returned. He prepared the tea tray, fetched wood from a lean-to outside, built up the downstairs fire and filled a basket for the one upstairs. He scanned Julie’s shelves without success for books on birth. To buck himself up with a show of competence, he stood at the kitchen sink for several minutes scrubbing his hands.
Balancing the tray on the basket, and holding the hot-water bottles under his arm, he tottered upstairs. Julie was sprawled on her back. Her hair was damp and clung to her neck and forehead. She was agitated, querulous.
‘You said you wouldn’t be long. What have you been doing?’
He was about to dispute with her when he remembered that irritability could be part of the process, one of the markers along the route. But surely that should have come later. Had they missed out some stages? He gave her the tea and offered her a massage. She could not bear to be touched, however. He arranged the bedclothes for her. Recalling how furious she had been before when the midwife had spoken to her like a child, he adopted the tone of a soft-spoken football coach.
‘Move your leg, this way. Good. Everything’s looking good. We’re on course.’ And so on. She was not really mollified, but she complied, and she drank the tea.
He was blowing on the embers, encouraging a flame across a handful of twigs, when he heard her call his name. He hurried over. She was shaking her head. She made as if to place her fingers over her belly, and then gave up.
‘I’ve been up all night. I’m too tired for this, I’m not ready.’
His words of encouragement were cut off by a long shout. She fought to inhale, and there was another, a prolonged hoot of astonishment.
‘Ride it out, ride the wave …’ he began to say. Again, his words were cut off. He had lost his place. Exhortations to rhythmic breathing were now inane. A gale had torn the instructions away from him. She held his forearm with both hands in a fierce grip. Her teeth were bared, the muscles and tendons of her neck were stretching to breaking point. He was lost. He could give her nothing more than his forearm.
He called out to her, ‘Julie, Julie, I’m here with you.’
But she was alone. She was drawing breath and shouting again, this time wildly, as though in exhilaration, and when she had no more air in her lungs, it did not matter, the shout had to go on, and on. The contraction lifted her off her back and twisted her on to her side. The sheet was still gathered up to her waist and had knotted itself round her. He felt the bed frame tremble with her effort. There was a final click at the back of her throat and she was drawing breath again, tossing her head as she did so. When she looked at him, past him, her eyes were bright, wide with purpose. The brief despair had gone. She was back in control. He thought she was about to speak, but the grip on his arm was tightening again and she was away. Her lips shivered as they stretched tighter over her teeth and from deep in her chest came a strangled groan, a bottled-up, gurgling sound of colossal, straining effort. Then it tapered away, and she let her head fall back against the pillows.
She took deep breaths and spoke in a surprisingly normal voice. ‘I need a cold drink, a glass of water.’ He was about to stand when she restrained him. ‘But I don’t want you to go away. I think it might be coming.’
‘No, no. The midwife isn’t here yet.’
She smiled as if he had made a joke for her benefit. ‘Tell me what you can see.’
He had to reach under her to get the sheet clear.
There was a shock, a jarring, a slowing down as he entered dream time. A quietness enveloped him. He had come before a presence, a revelation. He was staring down at the back of a protruding head. No other part of the body was visible. It faced down into the wet sheet. In its silence and complete stillness there was an accusation. Had you forgotten me? Did you not realise it was me all along? I am here. I am not alive. He was looking at the whorl of wet hair about the crown. There was no movement, no pulse, no breathing. It was not alive, it was a head on the block, and yet the demand was clear and pressing. This was my move. Now what is yours? Perhaps a second had passed since he had lifted back the sheet. He put out his hand. It was a blue-white marble sculpture he was touching, both inert and full of intent. It was cold, the wetness was cold, and beneath that there was a warmth, but too faint, the residual, borrowed warmth of Julie’s body. That it was suddenly and obviously there, a person not from another town or from a different country, but from life itself, the simplicity of that, was communicating to him a clarity and precision of purpose. He heard himself say something reassuring to Julie, while he himself was comforted by a memory, brief and clear like a firework, of a sunlit country road, of wreckage and a head. His thoughts were resolving into simple, elementary shapes. This is really all we have got, this increase, this matter of life loving itself, everything we have has to come from this.
Julie was not yet ready to push. She was recovering her strength. He slid his hand round to the face, found the mouth and used his little finger to clear it of mucus. There was no breath. He moved his fingers down, below the lip of Julie’s taut skin, to find the hidden shoulder. He could feel the cord there, thick and robust, a pulsing creature wound twice in a noose about the neck. He worked his forefinger round and pulled cautiously. The cord came easily, copiously, and as he lifted it clear of the head, Julie gave birth – he saw in an instant how active and generous the verb was – she summoned her will and her physical strength and gave. With a creaking, waxy sound the child slid into his hands. He saw only the long back, powerful and slippery, with grooved, muscular spine. The cord, still beating, hung across the shoulder and tangled round a foot. He was only the catcher, not the home, and his one thought was to return the child to its mother. As he was lifting it across they heard a snuffling sound and a sin
gle lucid cry. It lay face down with an ear towards its mother’s heart. They drew the covers over it. Because the hot-water bottles were too heavy and hot, Stephen climbed into bed beside Julie and they kept the baby warm between them. The breathing was settling into a rhythm, and a warmer colour, a bloom of deep pink, was suffusing its skin.
It was only then that they began to exclaim and celebrate, and kiss and nuzzle the waxy head which smelled like a freshly baked bun. For minutes they were beyond forming sentences and could only make noises of triumph and wonder, and say each other’s names aloud. Anchored by its cord, the baby lay with its head resting between its closed fists. It was a beautiful child. Its eyes were open, looking towards the mountain of Julie’s breast. Beyond the bed was the window through which they could see the moon sinking into a gap in the pines. Directly above the moon was a planet. It was Mars, Julie said. It was a reminder of a harsh world. For now, however, they were immune, it was before the beginning of time, and they lay watching planet and moon descend through a sky that was turning blue.
They did not know how much later it was they heard the midwife’s car stop outside the cottage. They heard the slam of its door and the tick of hard shoes on the brick path.
‘Well?’ Julie said. ‘A girl or a boy?’ And it was in acknowledgement of the world they were about to rejoin, and into which they hoped to take their love, that she reached down under the covers and felt.
ALSO BY IAN McEWAN
First Love, Last Rites
In Between the Sheets
The Cement Garden
The Comfort of Strangers
The Innocent
Black Dogs
The Daydreamer
Enduring Love
Amsterdam
Atonement
Saturday
On Chesil Beach
