After I’ve unpacked the groceries, I head out again, this time to the big shopping centre at Meadowhall. It doesn’t take long to find a Spiderman duvet cover and matching curtains, and as I’m about to pay for them, I spot a bedside lamp with a Spiderman shade, so I buy that as well. On the way home, I pop into B&Q for a frieze to brighten up the box room’s darkish, blue-green walls. When I’ve made up the bed and hung the new curtains, I carefully fit the frieze, and once the brightly coloured jungle animals are scampering around the walls, it looks much more like a child’s room. I pick up the cellophane-wrapped box containing the new Hornby train set. I paid almost seventy pounds for this. Maybe Cassie won’t realise how expensive it was. Or maybe I could say it’s an early Christmas present? But then I won’t be able to buy him something lovely at Christmas. I could say I bought it cheap. Or second-hand? Yes, that’s it.
I manage to find a battered cardboard box in the cellar. I pile in the train carriages and the other bits and pieces, and then I throw the lengths of track in on top so it looks haphazard. I’ll say I spotted it in a charity shop. Cass is unlikely to look at it properly, and Ollie won’t know any different. It won’t be as much fun as giving him the big, colourful shiny new box, but at least he’ll know there’s a train set here for him to play with every time he comes. I feel guilty about not putting the Hornby box in the recycling, but I can’t risk Cassie seeing it, so I squish it up with the cellophane and the plastic moulding and push it to the bottom of the black bin.
Something still isn’t right with the room. Maybe it needs a rug on the floor next to the bed, something bright and colourful – I’ll get one for next time. If only he wasn’t so keen on Spiderman. I’d prefer a design more suited to a younger child. After all, Ollie is only three – well, three and a half, as he keeps reminding me – and he still takes a teddy bear to bed with him. That’s it! That’s what’s missing. I open the door to the attic and make my way up the narrow staircase. It’s a while since I’ve been up here, and as soon as I push the door open I’m aware of the change in temperature, so I bend down to turn on the radiator, tweaking my back. I’ll never be able to use this room again for anything other than storage, but I still like to come up here sometimes to go through the boxes. I like to hold my babies’ things in my hands, to try to recapture my fleeting moments of motherhood.
Both boxes are wooden, painted white and decorated with tiny silver stars. Adrian had them made specially. Thomas’s is tiny, because there weren’t many things to put in it. After the miscarriage, we were so afraid of jinxing his birth we hardly bought anything before he was born. All it contains is three babygros, a tiny blue teddy, the photographs we took at the hospital and the condolence cards, most of them plain white with black or silver lettering, maybe a white flower here and there.
The other box is much bigger, tucked in under the shelves. I don’t look in this one very often. In fact, it was a long time before I was able to open it at all. I slide it out and take the lid off. A familiar wave of sadness washes over me. Adrian had this made for when I came home from hospital, so that we could fill it together. The birth congratulations cards are all here, hidden underneath the babygros, her little red snowsuit, the dresses she’d just started wearing. Those cards covered every surface in the sitting room and dining room, a sea of pink, with ribbons and lace and pictures of balloons and bubbles and sweet-faced cherubs. There were condolence cards, too, Adrian said, but he didn’t keep those. He couldn’t bear to look at them at the time, he told me afterwards, and it hadn’t occurred to him that I might want to see them later. He was in such a state, he wasn’t really thinking.
I’m tempted to pull out one of the babygros, to bury my face in the fabric and kid myself that I can still detect a hint of that heavenly baby scent. But it’s a fantasy, and I don’t want red, puffy eyes when Ollie arrives. What I’m looking for is right on top anyway – a big, golden-coloured teddy bear wearing tartan pyjamas. My eyes are full as I put the lid back on the box.
After I’ve placed the teddy bear on Ollie’s pillow, I stand in the doorway to look at the room again. That’s better; the teddy makes all the difference. I feel the tiniest pang of guilt for giving it to Ollie, but I know I’m being silly. It isn’t as though he’ll be taking it home, after all. It’s just for when he’s here overnight, which I hope will happen more often now, assuming all goes well this time.
About an hour before they’re due to drop Ollie off, my phone goes. It’s Cass. ‘Change of plan,’ she says. ‘Sorry it’s so last-minute, but Ollie’s not feeling well. I thought he was just a bit snuffly, but he’s got earache now, and he’s really miserable.’
I swallow. ‘Oh, poor Ollie. Does he need the doctor?’
‘No, he’s had some Calpol and I’ve made him up a poorly bed on the sofa. He’ll probably be fine by tomorrow.’
‘Shall I come over to yours instead, then? I could be there in—’
‘No, it’s okay, but thanks for offering. I’m sure it’s nothing, but I don’t really want to leave him, not when he’s feeling like this.’
‘But what about all the arrangements? Hasn’t Luke . . .’
‘I know, it’s a shame, but it’s one of those things. Luke understands – he’s fine about it. He called the hotel and they can’t refund the deposit, but they said if we want to book it again after Christmas, they’ll just carry it over. So maybe we could arrange his sleepover for then, if you’re not busy?’
‘Yes,’ I mutter, disappointment thickening my throat. ‘Yes, of course. Just let me know.’
‘Luke’s going to pop out and get us a curry and a bottle of wine, so we’ll still have a nice time.’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Let me know how he is tomorrow, won’t you? And give him my love.’
The black gloom that descends after I’ve said goodbye almost folds me in two. Reality is screaming at me. Ollie isn’t mine, and he never will be. I have no control, no say in his life. I am nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THEN
Adrian and I held hands as we waited to go down to theatre, and I was conscious of feeling less nervous, more relaxed. The tension of the last few months had been almost unbearable, but we’d made it to today, and although I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t scared, I was no longer convinced it was all going to go wrong. It helped that the baby was moving a lot this morning, almost as if it knew that today was the day. As soon as we arrived, Adrian checked with the midwives that they knew our history. I’d ended up in tears before now at a perfectly innocent and well-meaning comment. It was always hard when another expectant mum asked if this was my first baby, because how could I say to another pregnant woman, My first was stillborn? On one of my appointments here, I was called in to have my blood pressure checked. The midwife was very young, possibly still a student and not one of my usual care team, and she’d somehow picked up that this wasn’t my first pregnancy but not that Thomas was stillborn. ‘So,’ she said as I sat down, ‘I bet your first one’s excited about having a new little brother or sister. What have you got already? A boy or a girl?’ Adrian wasn’t with me that day for some reason, and I couldn’t think what to say. I just sat there staring at her like an idiot. She was looking at me expectantly with her bright, friendly smile. I eventually managed to make my voice work, but it was barely more than a whisper. ‘I had a little boy the first time, but he . . . he didn’t live.’ The poor girl was devastated. Her face coloured and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she kept saying, over and over again, ‘I’m so sorry.’
So now, we checked. We made sure everybody knew.
‘Look.’ Adrian pointed to the window. ‘It’s snowing.’ As we watched the flakes falling softly, a huge black crow landed on the windowsill. It tipped its head sideways and looked at me, and for the first time since we arrived, I felt a surge of apprehension as I remembered that poor little baby crow I ran over a couple of weeks ago. I read something once about crows being super-intelligent, that they can recognise and reme
mber human faces, and although I knew it was a ridiculous thought, it came into my head that this adult crow might be the baby’s mother. At that moment, the midwife came in to say we’d be going down to theatre in a few minutes. How were we feeling, she wanted to know? Adrian said something, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Then he mentioned the snow, and she moved over to the window to look. The crow was still there and the midwife tapped on the glass. ‘Shoo!’ she said. ‘Nasty birds. We get a lot of them here, scavenging round the hospital bins. ‘Go away.’ She tapped again, more forcefully this time, and the crow flew off.
Somehow, after all the months of anxiety, all the extra antenatal visits, all the what ifs, here we were in theatre, about to meet our baby son or daughter. Adrian had been relaxed and chatty all morning, but now he’d gone quiet. ‘All set, Cornelia?’ the surgeon said. I nodded.
‘Leah,’ Adrian told him.
‘It’s okay. I don’t mind.’ Usually I much preferred Leah, but today there was something comforting about him calling me by my full name. Maybe it was because the only other person who called me Cornelia was my dad. And my grandma, before she died. ‘Okay, Leah, we’ll make a start then.’ He smiled and his eyes twinkled.
I sent a silent message to my baby. Hold on, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be all right.
I wasn’t supposed to be able to see what was going on – there was a screen of green drapes across my middle – but I could see the reflection in the huge silver light on the ceiling. I felt lots of pressure on my bump and then suddenly, the silver light flooded red and I gripped Adrian’s hand more tightly. The surgeon said something but I didn’t hear it properly. I felt the oddest sensation, like someone was doing the washing-up in my stomach. Then there were suction noises, and then everyone was talking to me at once. Nearly there, Leah. Any second now. Got any names yet? Do we know what we’re having? Boy or girl?
I knew this was a crucial moment and that they were trying to distract me. I was touched by how much they seemed to care, these strangers who were delivering my precious baby. I wasn’t sure who to answer first, or if I could even remember the questions. I was still looking up at the silver light, and I could see a thatch of darkish hair. For a moment I was overtaken by a powerful wave of longing for my mum. Strange, given that I barely remember her, but I had exactly the same feeling after Thomas was born. I hung onto Adrian’s hand as the surgeon lifted her out of my belly like a little bruise-coloured bird coming out of an egg. There was a fleeting moment of quiet before the surgeon’s voice rang out. ‘We have a little girl!’
‘Why is she that colour?’ I heard the alarm in my voice, but before I’d even finished speaking, she turned pink and filled up with life as if someone was pouring it into her. The first line of a Plath poem jumped into my head: Love set you going like a fat gold watch. I’d always thought it was a great line, but now I totally got it.
The relief in the room was palpable; everyone was smiling, and at least two of the nurses had tears in their eyes. As Adrian leaned over to kiss me, it felt like nothing could ever hurt us again. I was aware of the grin spreading across my face as they dangled her over the drapes. I held my arms out, and the moment I touched her warm, slippery body I knew she was going to be all right. ‘Hello, Harriet,’ I said, and she looked back at me. Such an old, wise look, as though she knew everything there was to know already. I was humbled by my seconds-old daughter, and I wondered how she’d felt about the intrusion, about the surgeon’s knife invading her safe little world. Maybe I shouldn’t have insisted on a caesarean, but one day I’d explain about her brother, and why I couldn’t go through a ‘normal’ delivery again.
Adrian cupped her damp head in his hand; there were tears on his cheeks. ‘Hello, Harriet,’ he said. ‘I’m your daddy.’
Harriet and I continued to look at each other, cementing our connection, until one of the midwives came and whisked her away for her checks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
NOW
Three weeks before Christmas, my phone goes on the Friday morning. ‘Leah, listen, I’ll be there in half an hour, but could I ask you a massive favour? I was wondering if there’s any chance you could have Ollie for a few hours this afternoon while we get some Christmas shopping done. Me and Luke, I mean. He’s not working today, so it’s a good opportunity.’
‘Of course,’ I say, my spirits lifting instantly. ‘No problem.’
‘I’ll leave him with Luke this morning while I come and clean. He can give him lunch and drive him over after that. We’ll only be a few hours – say until about five or half past?’
‘You don’t need to leave him with Luke. Just bring him with you as usual – I’ve got loads of stuff I can give him for lunch. And hey, what about if I have him overnight? Then you and Luke can have an evening out. It’d be no trouble.’ There’s a pause, then a muffled sound as Cassie turns away to talk to Luke.
‘Do you know what?’ Cass says after a minute. ‘That’d be brilliant – if you’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Of course I don’t mind. I love having him here, you know that. And his . . . I mean, the box room’s all set up for him from when he was going to stay before.’
‘Really? Oh, that’s so kind of you, Leah.’ Cassie’s voice softens. ‘You’re so good with Ollie, and I know it can’t be easy for you.’
I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘No, no, it helps, actually.’ I take a breath. ‘Tell Luke it’s really not a problem for me to rustle up some lunch.’
‘No, honestly – they’re in the middle of some computer game I can’t drag them away from, so I’ll just come on my own.’
There are only so many times I can argue, but I can’t let it go entirely. ‘Isn’t Ollie a bit young for computer games?’
‘Oh, no, don’t worry – it’s age-appropriate. Well, age-appropriate for Oliver, anyway.’ Cass laughs, and I hear Luke make some jokey comment. I can picture the three of them in Cassie’s living room, Luke and Ollie sitting next to each other on the sofa, Cassie sitting opposite, watching them, smiling fondly. Like a family.
‘Thanks again for having him today,’ Cassie says as we drink our coffee. ‘It’ll be so much easier getting round the shops without Ollie wanting to stop and look at everything. How are you getting on with your Christmas shopping? Have you got much to do?’
I shake my head. ‘Not much. I have a small family, as you know. Just my two nephews, really, A . . .’ Shit. I so nearly said Adrian’s brother’s boys. ‘A few other people.’ Have I rescued it, or did that sound odd? ‘I always buy for my father-in-law, and I’ll probably get a little something for . . . I was going to say his “ladyfriend”, but I suppose I should start calling Helen his partner – it’s looking like she’ll be around for a while.’
‘Really? Do you think they’ll get married?’
‘Not sure, but it’d be great if they did. Helen’s lovely. So it’s not that many – the boys, Paul and Helen, and Ollie, of course – I’ll check with you first, so we don’t end up getting the same thing.’
‘Oh, that’s sweet of you, Leah. You don’t need to buy him anything, though – Ollie does very well for presents.’
‘No, really – I’d like to. I love buying for children, but I don’t even know what my nephews are into, now they’re older – the eldest is fifteen, so it’s not the same as buying for little ones.’ I seem to have got away with it, even though I’m sure my face must be burning red.
‘You’re lucky,’ Cassie says. ‘I’ve got tons to do. Not including Ollie, there are at least five kids, then there’s—’ She stops dead. ‘Oh, God, Leah, I’m sorry, I didn’t think. Christmas must be a shitty time for you.’
‘Yeah, it can be a bit tough when everyone’s saying Christmas is for children, and there are Santa’s grottos, and reindeer and pantos everywhere you look.’
‘That was so thoughtless of me.’ Cassie looks mortified, and apologises again. ‘I’m always opening my big mouth without thinking.’
�
�Cass, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. It is a crap time, though. I always dreamed about being able to make a magical Christmas for my own children, like when I was a kid. We used to go my grandma’s in Scotland. There would be paper chains, a huge tree, tinsel, a proper iced Christmas cake and loads of Christmas chocolate. Chocolate things on the tree, chocolate stars, chocolate Santas.’
Cass smiles. ‘Chocolate mice, that little net of chocolate coins.’
‘Ooh yes, I loved those.’ I wasn’t allowed much chocolate at home, but I always got loads at Grandma’s. One night, after I’d gone to bed, I deliberately got up again to listen by the banisters, hoping they’d be talking about my present. Instead I heard my dad’s voice: ‘It’ll rot her teeth, Meg. She’ll end up with a mouthful of fillings.’ Then my grandma’s. ‘Och, a wee indulgence won’t hurt the bairn, Gerry. The lass has no mother; will ye not let me spoil her at Christmas time?’
I feel a swell of emotion as I remember those Christmases. We went up there every year until Grandma died when I was sixteen.
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I might try and make Ollie watch a Christmassy film with me this afternoon. Miracle on 34th Street is on Netflix – the new one, I mean. Or is he too young for that?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Cass replies. ‘He hasn’t seen it, but he loves anything with Santa in.’
While Cassie finishes the cleaning, I get the wood burner going in the sitting room, then pop out in the car to buy mince pies, Christmas biscuits and hot chocolate. It’s going to be a wonderful afternoon and evening. I’ll tell Cass not to rush back in the morning – I can easily give Ollie lunch, or maybe take him out for pizza. I’ll let him choose.
The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood Page 16
