Valerie smiled gratefully. ‘You’re a good lad. We’ll get through it somehow. Don’t think it’ll be too long now.’
‘Do you want me to stay for a while?’
‘If you were my boyfriend, too bloody right.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘But since you’re my thirteen-year-old brother, no, I’ll be fine. Thanks all the same.’
Greatly relieved, he left her looking better and hopped back downstairs to make himself a mug of tea and several rounds of toast. As he did so he thought of Ben and Meg out in the shed. It would be nice to have them in the house but there was no way he was venturing back into the blizzard. They had been fed, they would be fine until the morning. It would be good to have the fire going too, but he was too tired even to think about it and pulled the rug round his shoulders like a shawl. He carried his tea and toast to the living room and slumped on the settee. They tasted good but after the hardships of the night his eyes were closing. And before he knew it, the slice of toast he was eating fell butter-side down in his lap and Peter was conquered by sleep.
It was a sleep so profound that for two hours he did not stir. Even Valerie’s shouts, as the waves of pain came faster and faster until it was all one continuous agony and she tried to push her baby out into the world, barely reached him.
But at last, a little after five o’clock, a cry so loud and long it might have woken their father out there on the snowy moor, made him sit up with a start. For a moment he was dazed. A sickening jolt to his ankle brought him back to the present. Something had woken him. What was it? A movement at the window caught his eye. It was still snowing. He sat still and listened. From upstairs there was no sound at all.
‘Val? … Val?’ He called loudly but there was no reply. ‘Valerie, is everything OK? Are you all right?’
The house remained silent. Then there was a sound. A thin, coughing cry like a mewling cat.
Peter felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck.
The crying grew louder.
He threw back the rug and hopped towards the stairs.
28
Daisy
PETER STOOD OUTSIDE the bedroom door. All was silent but for the rush of wind in the skylight and the sound of a baby crying. He tapped and waited, scared what he might discover if he just walked in. There was no reply. He tapped again, harder.
‘All right, all right, I can hear you.’ Valerie sounded different.
‘Can I come in?’
‘You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you above this bloody noise.’
‘I said, is it OK for me to come in?’
‘Give us a few minutes. And bring some clean towels. And a whisky, for God’s sake.’
He waited a little longer. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a panda, what do you think?’
‘I mean is it a boy or a girl?’
‘Pete, I’m just too tired.’
Five minutes later, clutching an armful of towels and trying not to spill the drink, he hopped back up the stairs. The baby had stopped crying. He heard Valerie whispering, ‘There! Sshhh!’
When he knocked she was ready for him. ‘OK, come on in.’
He pushed the door wide.
Valerie sat up against the pillows. She looked in a state of shock. Her face was white, her hands and wrists streaked with blood. On a towel in her lap, the first thing he saw, lay a newborn baby. It was a tiny girl. Her face was crumpled, her skin red and blotchy. Valerie had cleaned her eyes, mouth and nose but the rest of her was streaked with blood and some sort of creamy white stuff. An ugly twisted cord, about two centimetres in diameter and pulsing with blood, ran from her belly and disappeared beneath the duvet.
Peter stared in amazement. Ever since Valerie came home her belly had been enormous, like a beach ball. Out of it, all at once, had come this perfect little girl, messy in a way he had not imagined but absolutely complete: two skinny legs and feet fringed with ten toes, two arms and tiny fingers clenched into fists, lots of dark hair, slitty eyes, a button nose and pretty red lips. It was a miracle.
He set the drink on the sea-chest Jim had used as a bedside table. ‘Can I touch her?’
‘Well, she’s not going to break.’ Valerie reached for the glass. After what she had been through over the past few hours she thought she deserved it, never mind what they’d told them about alcohol at the clinic. ‘In fact you can do better than that. Which is the softest of them towels?’
Peter felt them and handed her a pink one.
‘Yeah, that’ll do.’ She passed it back. ‘Wipe off some of the gunge will you. Give her a bit of a clean up.’
He was taken aback. ‘What about – ?’ He indicated the umbilical cord.
‘Oh, yeah. That’s got to be cut.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Did you boil up the kettle and a couple of saucepans like I told you?’
‘I fell asleep but they’re on now.’
‘Right.’ She shut her eyes. ‘God, I feel washed out. What you’ve got to do’s give the kitchen scissors a good wipe then drop them in the boiling water. And we’ve got to tie it off. I’ve been thinking what we can use. Is the ribbon still round that box of chocolates – the big one you give me for Christmas?’
‘I think so.’
‘Well give it a rinse-out and drop that in too.’
‘The saucepan?’
‘Well not the waste bucket.’
‘How long for?’
‘I don’t know. Five minutes?’
Peter couldn’t take his eyes from the baby and stroked her cheek with the back of a finger. Her skin was warm and unbelievably soft. Momentarily the crying stopped. Her eyes cracked open, dark blue and out of focus, a little squint. He touched her fist and the fingers opened halfway. He shuffled his finger into her palm and her fingers closed around it.
‘She’s gorgeous.’
‘Gorgeous?’ Valerie was surprised. ‘I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.’
‘She is,’ he said and leaned down to plant a kiss on her blotchy forehead.
The baby also seemed surprised. At point-blank range she looked into his face then turned her head aside and gazed across the room.
Peter smiled and stood back. He had forgotten his ankle. The sudden pain made him cry out and he fell against the bed.
‘You OK?’ Valerie was concerned.
‘Give us a minute.’ The pain ebbed. ‘Scissors and ribbon. Anything else?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘A lifetime’s supply of the pill. I’m not going through this lot again, I’ll tell you flat.’ She looked down with neither love nor the lack of it at the baby in her lap and took another sip of whisky.
‘Have you thought what you might call her?’
‘Not really. I thought she’d be a boy. I was going to call him Paul.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Could call her Paula, I suppose.’
‘Paula? Paula Irwin? It sounds terrible.’
‘Pauline then. I don’t know. I’m too tired, Pete. And it bloody well hurts. We’ll talk about it later, OK?’ She slumped back on the pillows.
The saucepans were boiling hard, filling the kitchen with steam. Carefully he wiped the scissors from the drawer, untied the knots in the red Christmas ribbon and dropped them into the bubbling water.
Pauline Irwin? It sounded all right but there was a girl at school called Pauline. No one liked her much because she was always telling tales. He sat at the table to wait five minutes. Mary Irwin? Barbara – hopeless. Alison? Louise? Jennie, that was nice – Jennie Irwin. Peter was a great reader, he liked names. Rachel, that was nice too. Sharon, after their mother – no! Kylie? Becky? There was a pen on the table. He ran through the names of some other girls in his class and wrote them on the back of an envelope: Marie … Hazel … Adrienne … Jacqui … None seemed right. Rose? That was nice – Rose Irwin. He underlined it. What about other flowers: Heather? Buttercup? Dandelion? Daisy? Daisy Irwin. He pictured the tiny girl upstairs. Daisy. Yes, Daisy was just right. He wrote it in his best handwriting. Then printed it in capitals. Daisy I
rwin. His niece Daisy.
He had forgotten the time. Ten minutes had passed. Condensation dripped from the cooker hood. He turned down the heat and took a fork from the drawer. Carefully he fished the scissors and ribbon from the saucepan, dried them on a clean towel and set them on a plate.
Valerie had wrapped the baby in the pink towel. The thick umbilical cord had stopped pulsing. She seemed content.
‘Did you wash your hands?’
He nodded.
‘Right.’ Valerie opened the towel. ‘About five centimetres from her belly button. Cut off a bit of the ribbon and tie it round the cord. Quite tight. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt her.’
Peter did as he was told. The ribbon, boiled to a pale pink, gripped tight and he fastened it in a reef knot.
‘Now another one a bit further along.’
‘Here?’
‘That’s fine.’
He tied it and snipped the ends of ribbon short.
‘Now cut the cord between the two.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well she can’t stay joined to me for the rest of her life.’
So Peter took the big scissors and cut through the cord. It was tough and he had to press quite hard. There was little blood, just a couple of drops on the towel.
‘God, that’s a relief.’ Valerie puffed out her cheeks. ‘No longer attached to the little bloodsucker. Maybe start getting back to normal now.’
The stub of cord stuck out from the baby’s belly. ‘What’ll happen to it?’ he said.
‘Drop off in a few days. Got to keep it clean and dry that’s all.’ She folded the baby in the pink towel. ‘Could you give her that wipe now, Pete?’
‘Yeah, if you like.’
‘Sit on the bed then.’
He made himself comfortable.
‘Be sure you support her head that’s all.’ Valerie lifted the bundle into his arms.
Very carefully Peter cradled the baby against his chest. She sneezed and turned red. ‘Is the room warm enough?’
‘Warm enough! Heater’s been on all night, it’s like a bloody oven.’
For five minutes he cuddled his tiny niece, examined her long fingernails, pressed his cheek against the smeary top of her head. Then he set her on the duvet and unfolded the towel. ‘What do I clean her with?’
‘Just use the end of the towel, it’s nice and soft. Don’t need to be too fussy, I’ll give her a wash later.’
Very gently Peter wiped the baby’s face and head, her chest and back and arms and legs. She didn’t like it and began to wail.
He was wrapping her in a fresh towel when Valerie grimaced. Although the baby was born, her contractions were not quite finished. She nodded towards a carrycot which lay at the bedside among bloody tissues, sweet wrappers, magazines and other debris. ‘Put her in there would you, Pete. Afraid you’ll have to leave for a few minutes.’
He looked at her anxiously.
‘No, I’m OK. It’s just the afterbirth. You don’t want to know, I’m telling you. Come back when I call.’
Supporting the baby’s head carefully, Peter laid her on the soft blanket which lined the carrycot and covered her with another.
Valerie was watching. ‘You’ll make a good dad one day,’ she said.
He gathered up the rubbish and hopped to the door.
‘Fetch us a couple of things when you come back,’ she said. ‘Do you mind? A facecloth and some warm water – drop of Dettol.’ She winced again. ‘An’ a decent-sized poly bag – one of them Co-op bags.’
He asked her again: ‘Have you thought of a name?’
‘When you come back,’ she said. ‘Go now.’
The clock struck six. Peter sat doodling names at the table. His eyes were closing. He pushed back his chair and rested his head on his arms.
Valerie’s voice reached him from a great distance. Hardly knowing where he was, he sat up. Half an hour had passed.
‘Ready when you are,’ she called.
‘Coming.’ Wearily he pushed himself to his feet. He ached all over. His hands hurt. He turned them to the light. His palms and knuckles, raw with crawling, were covered by a thin scab. He pulled up the legs of his jeans and saw that his knees, too, which had been red and weeping, were mostly dry.
The things Valerie had asked for lay on a chair. It was difficult to carry water in the washing-up bowl, so he had cleaned a small red bucket that stood beneath the sink. Carrying it in one hand and stuffing the bag into a pocket, he limped through the house and climbed the stairs yet again.
She heard his footsteps. ‘All clear, sweetheart. Come on in.’
No one could accuse Valerie of lacking guts or spirit. Just an hour after giving birth, she had tidied the bed, combed her hair and now sat up against the pillows feeding the baby at her breast. In the days and weeks that followed, breast-feeding became routine and neither she nor Peter thought anything about it, but that first time both were shy and she kept herself covered.
‘She was just lying there, little thing,’ Valerie explained. ‘I thought she might be hungry. Didn’t know what else to do.’
Peter looked away.
Two towels, one containing something and wrapped in the other, lay on the floor. ‘Don’t look. Don’t even ask,’ Valerie said. ‘It’s the afterbirth. Just put it in the poly bag, tie the handles and drop it in the dustbin.’
Peter carried it out to the landing.
‘Thanks,’ Valerie said. ‘If you hadn’t been here I don’t know how I’d have managed.’
The baby made a face and a small slather of milk ran down into the bed.
‘Oh, my God!’ Valerie mopped it up with the towel. ‘When she’s finished I’ll give myself a wipe down. And then, if you’d be an angel, I could kill a cup of coffee and a handful of biscuits. Have a bath later.’ She hesitated. ‘And when I get up do you think you could change the bed and put all the sheets and stuff in the wash?’
Peter could hardly keep his eyes open. ‘Course,’ he said and nodded towards the baby who seemed to have fallen asleep. ‘What does it feel like? It must be queer.’
‘Feeding her, you mean? Bit sore. No earth-mother stuff about bonding with your baby like it says in the magazines, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Not for me anyway.’ She hitched the baby comfortable. ‘But that’s the worst over, thank God. We’ve been lucky. Never again though. That is it! I’m telling you.’
Peter pulled the envelope from his pocket and sat on the bed. ‘Have you thought what you might call her?’
‘Not really. Like I said, I thought she was going to be a boy.’
‘I made a list when I was downstairs. Do you want to hear it?’
‘Why not?’ She blinked wearily. ‘It’s not as if I’m going out or anything.’
Peter read her the names he liked best.
‘I like Jennie,’ she agreed. ‘Jennie Irwin, that’s nice.’
‘Short for Jennifer,’ Peter said.
‘Oh, I don’t like Jennifer so much. Maybe I could just call her Jennie. And did you say Rosie? That’s nice too. What about Lee-Ann? I had a friend called Lee-Ann once. And Kelly.’ She listened to the sound of the names and looked down at the blotchy baby on her breast. ‘Kelly Irwin, what do you think?’
‘Can I tell you my favourite,’ he said. ‘Daisy.’
‘Daisy,’ Valerie said. ‘Like daisies in a field. Daisy May.’
‘I think it sounds just right for her,’ he said. ‘Daisy Irwin.’
‘Yes, I like that too,’ she said. ‘You’re good with names. Daisy May Irwin. It’s got a ring to it. Specially if her hair turns blonde. It might do as well, her dad was fair. He had a blond ponytail.’
‘Was that the one called Chris? Him that played the tin whistle? The busker?’
‘With his dog, yeah. Least I reckon it was Chris.’
She had been thinking about him recently, remembering his wispy beard and easygoing blue eyes. Lying against his long lean body in bed – at least on the mattress, they didn�
�t have a bed. A good-looking man if he’d taken the trouble. Clever, too, all those books he used to read. They’d had some good times together: nights at the pub, bonfire parties on the beach, going with the crowd to Glastonbury and the folk festivals. Of course it was the dog he had loved really, the only thing he loved when it came down to it, but she had understood that from the start. All the same, when they broke up it had hurt, although at that time she didn’t realise she was pregnant.
‘I did tell him, you know.’ She looked Peter in the eye. ‘Went back to the flat but he wasn’t interested. Didn’t even get up from the settee. ‘So what do you expect me to do about it?’ he says. Scared stiff I might come after him for money. Money! Him! That’s a laugh. Got himself fixed up with another girl by that time anyway. Useless bloody article.’
Peter stood silent. He had heard most of it before, this life Valerie had made for herself down in Bristol, and before that travelling the country with Tinker’s Cuss. It didn’t seem much to leave home for – but none of that mattered now. The only thing that did matter, not that he could see much of her at that moment, was the little girl in his sister’s arms. The rest was history.
She tidied a curl of her baby’s hair with a red fingernail. ‘You Chris’s daughter then, are you? Eh? Daisy Irwin? Is that who you are?’ She pushed back a corner of the duvet. ‘This is your Uncle Peter.’
Peter was startled. Uncle Peter? How could he be Uncle Peter? He hadn’t even had a sister for the last four years. He was only thirteen.
29
New Year’s Day: Saving the Sheep
FOR FOUR DAYS the north-east wind held the country in its icy grip. Pipes froze. Train services were disrupted. Cars were buried beneath drifts. In the beleaguered towns and cities, heaps of dirty snow blocked the pavements. Out in the countryside, woods stood dark in a landscape that was white from horizon to horizon.
On the fifth day the wind backed into the southwest and rain blew in from the Atlantic. The snow melted and swollen rivers burst their banks. Cattle drowned. Houses built on low-lying ground were flooded.
On the moors which surrounded Scar Hill, the heather shed its heavy load and sprang upright. Slabs of wet snow slid from the roof and landed crump beneath the windows. Peter’s snowballs became dripping balls of ice.
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