‘That’s the baby,’ said the midwife. The room was emptying again. Rose listened to the beat. It was so fast. She was filled with terror. It was coming. She wasn’t ready. There was really a baby in there—a being that she was solely responsible for. She closed her eyes and let the pain wash through her.
Danny watched the curtain of rain pouring off the roof of the station a metre in front of his bench. Beyond the veil of water were the inlet and the hills, dark shapes, reflections in the wet evening. He’d been here for perhaps an hour, but it was only just occurring to him that there was something wrong. No trains had come through at all, in either direction. There was no one else on the platform. He had been sitting here, remembering his mother, as though she was dead. She used to try to protect them by teaching them to anticipate the old man’s moods. She was so used to doing this herself, from the way he parked the rig, his footfall on the verandah; these signals were enough to make her stiffen on the sofa, her boys either side. ‘Go to your room,’ she’d say quietly. ‘Put your pyjamas on and jump into bed. I’ll be in soon.’
Danny remembered his mother as beautiful, not the way women now were beautiful, in their strength and confidence. She was the opposite; she didn’t want anyone to look at her. Kept herself tidy and clean and nothing more, and yet she always smelled sweet and soft to Danny, and her blonde hair shone in waves, and her clothes moved like a dream when she walked. He didn’t know if other people would have considered her out of the ordinary, and he had no photo to test her beauty with now. Perhaps he remembered her this way simply because she was something precious that he’d lost, or because his father guarded her like a soldier with a gun outside a palace.
When she had assessed his father’s mood, sat him down with his steak and his beer, she’d creep quietly down the corridor to their room. They slept in bunks and swapped beds every night, neither able to give up a minute of their share of the spot on the top. You felt safer there. It was your ship, you were the captain. It made no difference, but you had to imagine what you could. There’d be a chink of light at the door and the smell of her perfume. You could feel her standing by the bed. If you were on the top bunk, she did not have to bend to kiss your forehead. You’d pretend to be asleep, and she’d lay her hand on the side of your face. Sometimes she’d whisper things to you. ‘I’ll take care of you, Dan. I’ll keep you safe. You’re my boy. He’ll have to get through me to get near you.’
And he did. She was like the wall of water in front of him. He just walked straight through. What could she or anyone do in the face of the mad force he was, the raging, solid core of violence he carried around with him? He was the only one who could hold himself back. There was a time when he’d try, you could see the struggle in him, the hung-over shame at breakfast, but as the boys got older he seemed to stop caring enough to bother.
Danny stood and walked along the wet platform to the ticket office. He peered through the window. There was a man at the back of the office with a long blond mullet leaning back in a chair, laughing into the phone. He spotted Danny and turned his back, continued his conversation for another couple of minutes. Eventually, he approached Danny slowly, like he wouldn’t want anyone to think he was going to too much trouble.
Danny sighed. ‘Something wrong with the trains, is there?’
‘Could say that.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘What isn’t the problem?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe you could give me a hint.’
‘All right, mate. No need for that. Lightning put the signals out. Now there’s a tree on the line up on the ridge. Bastard of a spot to do much about it.’
‘When do they think it will be sorted out?’
The man shrugged. ‘Not tonight.’
‘You couldn’t have told me that before I sat on the platform for an hour?’
‘Not my business what people are doing on the platform. You might like the view.’
Danny shook his head and left the window. It was dark outside. Hell of a row home. She’d be there for a few days, anyway. He’d ask Maggie to drive him up in the morning if the trains were still down. Rose had been bent over on Tom’s boat. Her hair was in her face. There was something odd, though. Something apart from the contractions. She wouldn’t look up. Wouldn’t look at him. Like his mother; she never looked people in the eye, was always looking at her feet or her hands. She was like a little kid playing hide-and-seek, believing if she couldn’t see other people they couldn’t see her.
He rowed home in the rain. He thought about the baby, wondered if it was in the world yet. He remembered when Maggie’s younger one was born. Standing by the bed, not knowing where to look while she fed it. Afterwards Rob handed her to him. She was light, and warm, and asleep, but her little fingers gripped his large one when he tapped her palm. The world was a wild place. The baby was so small. But you couldn’t help but be excited for her, for everything her life might be. He looked at Rob, a meaty bloke, fat around the gut, muscled arms from driving the rig. Fond of a beer, fond of a meat pie. Tears were running down his face. ‘You old sook,’ Maggie said. ‘Look at the state of you.’
He’d only ever seen Abby briefly, a glimpse of a pretty brown girl inside the pram as he passed her mother in the street. She would only stop for a moment, glancing nervously about her; there was always one of her brothers, somewhere, never far away. There was a feeling that hung around for days after he’d seen her. He would wake from dreams of kicking, blood, gouging, always so close to his assailant he didn’t know who he was, just that if he stopped fighting he would die. Then he would lie awake and watch the patterns on the ceiling, wait for hours for the feeling to drain from his blood.
His loft bed in the shed on the island was close to the rain on the tin roof. He closed his eyes, imagined rowing Rose across the river on a sunny morning to their house. Her yellow hair, the baby bundled up in a wrap in her arms. The rain was so close it filled his head and his body. He fell asleep filled with it, trickling, pouring through him, his veins alive with falling water.
‘You have to push, Rose,’ the midwife said.
‘I can’t. I’m tired.’ Her eyes were closed. She didn’t feel like pushing. She wanted it to be over, but it couldn’t be time yet. She just didn’t feel it.
‘Nearly there. You have to do it.’
There was so little between contractions now. Another one came, hot and fast. There were five staff in the room but she lost the sounds of all of them. She could no longer hear the midwife ordering her to push. She could see nothing. All she could hear was the beeping of her monitor. She went to a place inside herself away from the pain, away from her memory. She knew she was dying for a moment. She knew she would come back. It filled her with a terrible stretching feeling. In this silent place, she could feel her father. She did not want to go back. A sudden, squeezing pressure returned her to the room. ‘Push now!’ the midwife was saying to her. She pushed. ‘OK, stop for a second.’ The midwife was watching her face. The doctor was watching the monitor. He said something quietly to the midwife. ‘Now, Rose. Do it again.’ Rose screamed, and pushed. She felt something, an emptiness in her stomach, a lightness, and then all the activity, all the people in the room moved their focus to what was happening between her legs. The doctor was holding something and then he pulled it clear. A bloody mass. A baby. The midwife cut the cord, and there were people everywhere. Rose caught glimpses of feet, an elbow, over on the counter. They were weighing it, checking it. There were two of them in her way. Then they brought it to her and there was a wet bundle of tiny limbs, a head on her empty belly. ‘It’s a girl, Rose,’ the midwife said.
Rose nodded, her throat thick. ‘Look at her ears,’ she said.
‘I know,’ smiled the midwife. ‘They’re perfect. Like little shells.’
Rose nodded again. She was afraid the slippery little parcel would slide off her, that she’d be cold. She drew her closer. After all that time imagining, trying not to imagine, here she wa
s. She was an alien creature thrust into a new world. Her chin, her mouth, were Rose’s mother’s—how they were in the photographs. She had a widow’s peak just like her dad’s. All she could do was stare, and try to get her grip right, try to make sure she didn’t lose hold of her without clasping her so tight that she crushed her. She needed to sleep. She needed to watch the baby. She was starving. She looked at the clock. ‘It’s OK,’ the midwife said. ‘We’ve written down the time. Do you want some dinner?’ Rose nodded. ‘Well done, Rose,’ she said. ‘Good girl. Time to rest.’
Chapter 19
The next morning the trains were running again, but the water taxi was busy. It was still squally, though the rain was intermittent now, and people weren’t trusting their own boats. Just as he’d think he was close to the end of his shift he’d get another call from Alf for a pick up, and the cliffs were dulling with the last of the light before he could get away. He climbed out of the boat, thankfully, slipped the keys under Alf’s door and walked across the car park to the station, briskly, head down. He’d seen glimpses of Jesse working at the marina café all day as he zipped back and forth out of the channel. No chance of her not seeing him on his big white boat. When he absentmindedly glanced in her direction he caught her wounded gaze.
On the train, he saw in the fading light where the tree had come down. It was chopped up in massive chunks by the side of the tracks, glistening from the last shower an hour or so ago. The sky was clear now, the first of the stars appearing in the purple sky over the canopy of the national park. Why was he going to see her? Would she even want to see him? He didn’t know. There didn’t seem to be any choice about any of this. He was on rails, moving towards a destination without panic or decision.
His phone rang; it took him a moment to realise it was his. He answered it quietly, always self-conscious when it rang on the train. He didn’t recognise the number, but as he said hello he realised why it seemed familiar. It was a number from where he’d grown up, but not his parents’ number—he wouldn’t forget that. ‘Danny?’ It was Jackie, Abby’s mother. Her voice, as she spoke softly, tentatively, brought back a world he had forgotten. It was not just his house and everything that happened behind its walls, but who he was, where he’d grown up, in a suburb around faces that were familiar to him, that grew older at the same pace as his own. There was happiness in the feeling her voice carried. She’d been a good mate, before all this. ‘Your mum gave me your number,’ she said. ‘She came round this morning. She was so happy to have it.’ His dad must have got hold of it when he was down here. Danny looked out the window, at the people around him. His heart was full of who he used to be. Nothing around him was real.
‘How are you, Jack?’ he said softly. ‘How’s Abby?’
‘We’re all right. We’re good. I’ve got a nice fella. Dan, Abby wants to see you. She’s eight now. She’s asking about you all the time. She makes up stuff, about who you are, to her mates.’
‘What about your bloke? Doesn’t he mind?’
‘He’s a nice man. He’s all right.’
‘That’s good, Jackie,’ he said, barely above a whisper. He didn’t want these people around him to know, to even imagine, what was happening to him. It wasn’t for them.
‘Can she see you, Danny? Your mum says you’re only down at the river. If you don’t want to see me, maybe your mum could bring her down, on the train.’
‘You could bring her. Mum, too.’
‘That’d be nice, Dan. It’s been a long time.’
‘I’m sorry, Jack.’ He dropped his voice again. ‘I’ve been worthless to you. You never deserved it.’
‘I knew you had to go, Danny. It was no secret, about your old man. And my brothers. It was sort of a relief. I thought they were gonna kill you. Honestly.’
He said goodbye as the train pulled into the station. He looked around him in wonder. The sickly green of the walls of the railway carriage; the long metal sheds beyond the window, spreading out from the station; the lanky bloke in front of him holding up his bike, ready to get out. Everything seemed different. There was something strange in the air, affecting sound, or light. He’d been forgiven. He hadn’t known what he’d been missing, until she gave it to him. And his mum, she was the one who’d given her his number. She would come, too.
It was a good walk from the station to the hospital— ten minutes or so up a fairly steep hill. It was a cool evening, after the rain, but he felt sticky, unappealing, by the time he arrived. He noticed a florist’s as he walked through the car park to the maternity ward. There was a woman closing up as he approached, flipping the sign on the door. When he peered through it, it was dark inside and she was slipping on a jacket, picking up her handbag and keys. He smiled through the glass. She smiled back and put down her things. ‘I don’t have much left,’ she said as she opened the door a crack. ‘I was going to throw this stuff out. We’ve got a fresh delivery coming in the morning.’
‘Anything,’ he said. He felt the need to have something in his hands when he went in there. ‘Just something pretty. Whatever’s left.’
She rummaged around in the darkness at the back of the shop and came back with a deep pink box filled with different coloured gerberas. ‘How much is it?’ he asked.
‘Don’t worry about it. I was going to throw it away.’
‘But it’s still OK, isn’t it? I should give you something.’
‘It’ll be OK for a couple of days, if that’s all she’s staying. But she couldn’t take it home.’
Danny looked at her. She was a little bit older than him, older than he usually took an interest in. Pretty, or carrying the memory of it, from what he could see in the dark shop. She was probing him. He knew the form. He smiled, out of habit. ‘Thanks. It’s nice of you.’
And he was walking away with the box clutched in his arm, trying to see the flowers in the poorly lit car park, wondering if they would look all right under the harsh lights of the ward. At the desk an incredibly tall, broad-shouldered woman was holding a sleeping baby while she spoke on the phone. The baby had a shock of black hair, and a white dummy seemed to take up most of the lower half of its face. Is that her baby? he wondered. To the left was a glass wall looking onto the nursery. There were five or six babies in clear perspex cribs under bright strip lighting. Who would know?
After an age, the woman came off the phone and showed him to Rose’s room. It was the first door on the corridor; he’d been just a few metres from her. She was there, in the bed closest to the door. The other was empty. Between the beds was one of the clear cribs. It was small, but the bundle of baby in wraps took up only a tiny portion of it, tucked neatly into the lower part of the tilted cradle. The room smelled of fruit, and flowers about to spoil. Someone else had visited then. The baby was asleep, its face impossibly small and serene; Rose was reading a magazine, her mass of blonde hair falling over her face. When she looked up, it was with a jolt, until her face settled into recognition of Danny. She saw the flowers he brought and relaxed against her pillow again.
‘Visitor for you,’ the midwife said gently. She seemed to pause for a moment, gauging Rose’s reaction, before leaving. As he drew closer to put the flowers on her bedside table he realised why. Across her cheek was a purple and yellow bruise. You could actually make out the shape of fingers in it. For a moment, he could see nothing, had to stand still for a moment, wait for the blood to stop pounding in his head. He held out the flowers, dumbly. She took them and put them on the bedside table.
‘Thanks,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you want to see the baby?’
He nodded, unable to look away from her face.
‘Would you pick her up? I did something to my back during the birth. I can’t get her out of the crib myself yet.’
He continued to stare at her. He was having trouble reacting at a normal speed. Eventually he stood, and put his hands on the baby, the hot, living bundle. ‘She’s sleeping,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to wake her.’
‘It’s OK. Th
ey said they wanted to feed her soon. She doesn’t weigh much and my milk hasn’t come in yet.’
He was afraid to handle her, but he lifted her gently. She was lighter than he’d imagined and it felt like he was raising her abruptly into the air. ‘Do you want her?’
‘No, it’s OK. You can hold her. I’ll take her if she wakes.’
He sat on the edge of the bed, cradling her. She was warm and smelled good, like fresh laundry and clean skin, but then something sweet, too. He looked at Rose. He couldn’t say what was in his head. Something was erupting in him, surging. He fought it down, in case it touched the baby, disturbed her as she lay against his body.
She looked out of the window at the darkening sky. ‘Someone’s brought you flowers, and fruit,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘They were the other woman’s. She left them for me when she went home.’
‘Has anyone been?’
She shook her head. Her face was still except for a softness in her chin, her lower lip, as she stared out the window into nothing.
‘Hasn’t your sister been in?’
‘No. She’s in a bit of a state. She’s split up with James.’
He wondered about that, but let it go. ‘Have you got your phone? Can I get it for you so you can call your mates? Is it at the house?’
‘I left it out in the rain. It’s on Maggie’s dinghy. I’d say it’s stuffed.’
‘I’ll check for you.’
‘I don’t want anyone. Not yet.’ She looked him square in the eye.
The baby made noises against him. He tore his gaze away from Rose’s face to the baby’s. She did look like her mother, something about the mouth, though it was so tiny.
‘When are you coming home?’
‘They’ve said I should stay for another couple of nights because they can’t send a midwife out to me on the river, and she was a bit early. They want us to get feeding before I go home. Thursday, I think.’
The baby whimpered and then let out a sharp wail. He instantly held her out to Rose. She looked quite nervous herself about the prospect of dealing with a crying baby. ‘Shall I get the midwife?’ he asked. She nodded. He was glad of a task, committing himself to it with more urgency than it required. There seemed to be no staff in the nursery. Anyone could take those babies. He went back out to the desk, where a new midwife he hadn’t seen before had appeared and was leafing furiously through some papers. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Rose, in that room over there. She needs help with the baby. I think it needs to be fed.’
The River Baptists Page 18
