‘How far apart are your contractions?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure. Sometimes there’s a definite something and sometimes there’s nothing. But then I think there might be something.’
‘Is there any blood?’
‘No.’
‘Discharge?’
Must they really use that word?
‘No.’
‘Any unusual pain? Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?’
‘No. Actually there’s no real pain at all. Just . . . well, I think maybe every now and then there’s a something.’
The midwife sighed. ‘OK, love, you call back when you have a definite “something” and when those “somethings” are about two minutes apart. Or if your waters break.’
I said OK and hung up, feeling a bit naive and uncertain about what to do next. So I lay in bed and worried about Joe.
An hour later I was sure I was having real ‘somethings’. I phoned Alex.
‘Are you OK?’ came her concerned whisper down the line.
‘I’m in labour,’ I whispered back, even though there was no reason for me to. But you do, don’t you?
‘But you’re not due for another nine days!’
‘Eight, actually. It’s tomorrow already. Can you come home?’
‘Shit! Let me look at the trains.’
I waited on the other end of the line.
‘OK, the next train is in an hour.’ She was still whispering. ‘And it’s a three-hour journey. Then down from King’s Cross in a cab is another hour.’ She made calculation mutterings. ‘I can be with you by about nine thirty. Will you be OK till then? Why don’t you ring Mum?’
‘No. I can’t handle her right now. Sinead said it’ll probably take ages. I’ll be fine. Just hurry, OK?’
‘OK! I’m packing now,’ she whispered. ‘This wedding cancellation is causing a bit of drama. Cal’s Mum—’
‘Just get here and you can tell me all about it then.’ I could feel the dull swell of another ‘something’ starting.
‘You’re going to do great,’ Alex whispered. ‘You have a lot more strength than you realise, you know. Remember that, OK?’
How could I have acted so horribly towards my sister? I thought as I hung up. She was the best person I knew. Quite literally, The Best Person. I knew no one else who worked for a pittance in poor island communities where the likelihood of death-by-spider-the-size-of-house-cat or slipping down a bank and dying alone at the bottom of a ravine that hadn’t been visited in over three hundred years was quite high, when her master’s degree could have got her an excessively well-paid job working at the forefront of London’s urban design scene. I vowed never to hurt her again.
At 5.37 a.m. I received a text.
On the train. How you doing?
I’d had five contractions in the last hour. Not crippling in any way but most certainly the kind of pain that made you get up and walk around in a vain attempt to try and get away from it. I replied
I’m fine. See you soon
and went back to house-wandering. By seven thirty the contractions were no closer together but were much stronger. They’d surge up quickly, pinch and twist themselves through my back and pelvis causing me to grip whatever was in arm’s reach with white knuckles, and then disappear, leaving me breathless but vaguely surprised I’d managed to endure it. Alex phoned just as one subsided.
‘The train’s stopped somewhere between Leicester and Luton. We’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes.’
‘Right,’ I said, catching my breath.
‘Jesus, are you OK?’
‘Just a contraction.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I’m not sure how long I’ll be now. They’ve said it’s some fault on the line. Honestly, we had better rail services in Bangladesh. And at the very least if the train stopped there’d be people clambering up the sides offering chai and bhajis through the open windows. I see no bhajis here in Leicester.’
We discussed the virtues of the humble bhaji for a few minutes but had to cut it short once we’d moved on to samosas (vegetarian versus ones containing mystery meat), as another contraction bore down. Sometime later she texted again.
On the move. Get Mum over you silly cow.
I would not be calling Mum. I would not be calling Ned. I had it all planned out. Alex would arrive just as the contractions hit their two-minute St George’s admittance allowance. We’d calmly arrive at the hospital, remove the baby, place the boy/girl (oh god, please don’t let it be both) in my arms and pose for a photo that would end up on my mother’s mantelpiece in a blocky crystal frame. In reality it went a little more like this.
A fierce wind blew and suddenly a downpour like I’d never seen in London descended.
I had a contraction.
Alex phoned to say she’d arrived at King’s Cross but cabs were thin on the ground due to the rain.
I had a contraction.
Alex phoned to say she had procured a cab from a lovely businessman who was only too happy to have an excuse not to make his meeting and was now in stationary traffic outside King’s Cross with steamy windows.
I had a contraction.
I’d opened the French doors as the mugginess inside was making me feel queasy. The noise from the rain thrashing at the brick patio was deafening.
A knock at the door sounded through the pelting rain and I hobbled down the hall, relief flooding my entire body. But it wasn’t Alex. It was Harriet in a clear, spotted rain bonnet tied under her chin and Brutus in a matching doggy raincoat complete with hood. Brutus appeared to be mortified.
‘Hello, Emma dear!’ she said cheerily over the noise of the rain.
I was a tad stunned to see Harriet in her bonnet at my front door, a summer storm thrashing at the trees on the common behind her.
‘Harriet, what are you doing out in this kind of weather?’
‘Oh, pish-posh, my dear. You city types are spineless, you know. Do you think we let a bit of rain stop us from going about our lives? Pish-posh. Now, I’ve got you a little something for the baby. May I come in?’ She toddled past me dragging Brutus on his studded leash. He seemed only too keen to get inside, away from mocking eyes.
‘Um, Harriet, now’s not—’ I began, but she was already halfway down the hall chatting to Brutus about minding his paw marks on the furniture.
I shut the front door and followed the plastic-coated pair into the living room.
‘Here you are, dear,’ Harriet said, rooting about in her large beige handbag and producing a gift-wrapped package in the shape of a book. She seemed not to notice or care I was in my maternity nightie.
‘It’s a children’s book.’
‘Ah, thanks,’ I said, taking the package in one hand and rubbing at my back with the other. ‘Look, Harriet—’
‘Now, it’s a little old for the baby but Marjorie said it was just flying off the shelves so I really had to get it, you see. She’s already put in another order. It’s by an independent publisher. A local, apparently. All the craze, this type of thing. Doing it yourself without the big companies.’ She nodded to authorise her point.
‘Harriet, I’m actually in—’
‘That was the last one, you know!’ she said, jabbing her gnarled finger at the package in my hand. ‘And Marjorie was going to sell it to that ghastly Muffy who runs the Retired Greyhound Society, but I was not going to let the last book go to a lover of anorexic dogs.’ Harriet’s lips tightened and her wet eyes became fierce. ‘You know, one of those dogs of hers sexually assaulted Brutus last week.’
‘Oh, that’s . . .’
‘Tried to hump him.’
‘Oh.’
‘Brutus doesn’t like being humped.’
‘No.’
And I wasn’t all that keen on hearing a little old lady in her eighties say ‘hump’.
‘The poor dear. He’s terrified of them now. And anything that looks like those dreadful dogs: twigs, bike stands, that young lass who works at the juice bar with the spindly whi
te legs. He’s traumatised, aren’t you, my dear boy?’ She chucked him under his bonneted muzzle. Brutus glanced at me with shamed eyes. Another contraction began to work its heat across my lower back.
‘Harriet,’ I said, moving to the back of the sofa for support. ‘I’m in a bit of . . .’ The contraction tore across my back. Harriet continued, oblivious to my heavy breathing and sofa-gripping.
‘And just because my son is a homosexual and my daughter has chosen the life of a “childless-by-choice” unmarried doesn’t mean I don’t want to buy children’s books.’
I groaned. Brutus, sitting on his hind legs in his spotted bonnet, growled.
‘My goodness, dear, what a horrible noise. You’re frightening Brutus.’ She tugged on his leash. ‘Anyway, we must be off. Arthur is making scones and we’re going to the corner shop to get fresh cream. Pop round and have some; Arthur does so love the company. He can’t get out in this weather so well; his wheels rust. OK then,’ she said, shuffling towards the hallway. ‘You have a lovely morning, and I’ll see you for scones a little later.’ Then she disappeared.
The front door opened, sending a blast of damp air down the hall. I heard her tell Brutus that he looked lovely and all the other dogs were just jealous he had such a dashing weather protector, and the front door slammed shut and all was quiet again. Once I’d emotionally recovered from having a contraction in front of a growling Doberman, I rang Mum.
‘I need you,’ I said. I told her about the contractions. ‘Can you take me to hospital?’
‘Oh darling, you really do have consistently shocking timing. Not only is the Mini with Louis Vuitton getting new seat covers but I’m with Amanda and she’s only just put the tube in.’
‘Tube in?’ I said, but Mum was asking Amanda how quickly she could finish whatever it was she was doing.
Then she was back on the phone. ‘Darling, I think I’m going to be an hour getting to you, can you hold on till then?’
‘An hour?’ I said, panic in my voice.
‘I’m so sorry, my sweet. I have to wait for the water to drain out. She’s only just pumped it all in. About ten or fifteen minutes, and then I have to sit on the loo and let the loosened bits fall.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t just hop off the table and come straight to you! Gravity will be working, and you can’t stop gravity. Can you imagine how disgusting? The smell is awful, darling. Stuff that’s been up there for weeks just falling out. I absolutely need to be on the toilet for . . .’ She asked Amanda how long. ‘For at least another fifteen minutes after the water has drained. She’s doing it right now, darling, I can feel the withdraw.’
‘Mum, what are you talking about?’
Pinching sensations were radiating up my lower back. Another contraction was on its way.
‘Poo, darling. I’m having my monthly colonic.’
Nice.
Muscles began to spasm. I gripped the back of the sofa.
‘You know you could do with a session after the baby,’ Mum continued. ‘Suck that doughnut diet right out of you. I can book you an appointment while I’m here . . . What’s that?’ Amanda’s spa-treatment voice sounded in the background. ‘Amanda says it can be done six to eight weeks after a vaginal birth.’
‘Mum. Another contraction. Have to go.’
I hung up on Mum’s flurried promises to get down from Amanda’s table and off the loo as soon as gravity and aroma would allow, and groaned into the back of the sofa. Minutes later the contraction diminished and I decided to make a cup of sweet tea as the midwife on the phone had suggested when I heard the front door open and shut. Alex did not have a key yet; we’d had to change the locks back when Brutus buried the keys on the common. Mum did, but she was still at least an hour away, longer if Amanda struck something undigested. Uncle Mike always rang first (manners) and Sinead brought the kids, who knocked on the door at the same time, sounding like a small army of Victorian miners. The only person it could have been was Joe. I stood in the kitchen, my hands clasped round the French coffee tin that housed the tea bags, waiting. Hesitant footsteps trod the creaky floorboard in the hall and then he appeared, tired, wet and wearing the same clothes he’d stormed out in two days ago. He hovered in the doorway, his eyes flicking awkwardly round the room, his face displaying nothing but a sad weariness. He hadn’t shaved.
‘I’m just here to get my things,’ he said in a stony voice.
I waited for him to say more but he didn’t.
‘OK,’ I said eventually.
Joe looked at his feet and fiddled with the keys. I thought he was about to say something, but then he turned to go upstairs.
‘Some of your clothes are in the washing machine,’ I said. My voice felt thick in my throat.
He looked back over his shoulder, his body half-facing the stairs. A muscle in his set jaw twitched.
‘Just some socks and a t-shirt I found in the bathroom. I forgot to hang it out, so they’ll still be wet.’
He blinked, then nodded and turned away again. A ferocious contraction tore up my back, taking me by surprise. I let out a cry and dropped the tea bag tin, which clanged noisily across the terracotta tiles.
Joe spun round. ‘Emma?’
I gasped and gripped onto the side of the kitchen bench, releasing low moans.
Joe was at my side. ‘What’s wrong?’
Tears pooled at the corners of my eyes. Why was this happening to me? I thought. Everything. All of it. Why me? Why was I in labour with Ned’s bloody baby? Why was he so successful with his charity ice cream and happy in love with my dippy, colour-blind, cheese-farming ex-friend? Why was the only person here with me the only person I wanted to be with but was leaving? About to walk out of my house and out of my life. I moaned as the contraction reached its peak.
‘What’s happening?’ Joe fretted. ‘Are you in labour?’
I nodded, taking deep, steadying breaths.
‘But it’s too early! Where’s Alex?’
‘King’s Cross,’ I said through straining gasps.
The contraction dissipated. Joe waited for my breathing to return to normal, hovering behind me in a redundant manner. The pain fell back like a receding tide, leaving as quickly and completely as it arrived. I wiped my upper lip and stood facing the kitchen benches.
‘Emma?’ Joe said.
I arranged my face, trying to make it devoid of any sentiment, and turned towards him. Deep, dark shadows hung beneath his eyes.
A furrow of anxiety grew between his brows. ‘Are you here alone?’
I drew in a shaky breath and nodded. Emotions flickered across his handsome face. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking and it was breaking my heart. His eyes searched mine.
He swallowed. ‘Do . . . do you want me to stay?’
I bit my lip. He’d said the one thing I wanted to hear. Except I wanted to hear it in the ‘forever’ sense.
‘Yes, please.’
He looked at me, his face pensive and solemn.
‘OK.’ He dropped his keys in the fruit bowl on top of the nectarines. ‘OK.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
‘What about your mother?’
‘She’s indisposed.’
Joe gave a quizzical look while fiddling with his watch.
‘You don’t want to know. Do not ask her. She’ll give you details you can never un-hear.’
‘OK, but—’
I winced and took up my favoured position behind the sofa.
‘Another one?’ Joe said, and glanced at his watch.
I nodded.
‘They’re four and a half minutes apart. I think we should—’
A knock at the door interrupted him. He looked towards the hall. It wouldn’t be Alex, as she’d only just phoned to say she’d crossed Waterloo Bridge and was still inching along in traffic.
‘They’ll go away.’ He moved to my side and kneaded my lower back. I panted and whooshed out air. More knocks at the door. Joe ignored them and made soothing noises. The k
nocks got more insistent, then my mobile began playing Sir Mix-A-Lot.
‘It’s Helen,’ I said through strained gasps.
When the contraction subsided Joe took off down the hall and opened the door.
‘What took you so fecking long?’ Helen said.
‘Emma’s in labour.’
Joe rushed back to my side. Helen appeared in heels and a claret bandage-style dress unbefitting for a Sunday morning and a bucketing one at that.
‘Oh,’ she said, appraising the situation from behind her glossy flank of a fringe. ‘I’m not sure I can handle that.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Did you forget lunch?’ she said, hesitating in the doorway, not chucking her handbag on the table and flopping on the sofa like she usually would.
I reached for my phone. ‘I’ve been a tad preoccupied.’
I dialled the hospital while Joe updated Helen and Helen looked me up and down warily. She was squeamish in matters that involved any bodily fluid that wasn’t semen. A nasally voice answered the phone and I rattled off my file number and answered all the questions about how far apart the contractions were, did I feel any pressure, was there any bleeding, had my waters broken and so on.
‘Well, I’m very sorry but we just can’t fit you in till you are two minutes apart or dilated at least four centimetres,’ the nasal lady said. ‘But I can see if we have a midwife in the area who can pop in and take a look at you, how does that sound?’
I wanted to tell the woman that I hated her. That she was the devil. That if she didn’t let me come into the hospital right then I would hunt her down, pin her to the floor and shoot her repeatedly in the back with a taser for seven hours to see how she liked it. But instead I confirmed my address and hung up.
I turned back to Helen and Joe. ‘Can you—’
Helen’s face suddenly puckered. ‘You’re weeing,’ she said, staring at the floor beneath my feet.
I looked down. Cloudy drips fell from my undercarriage.
‘My waters are breaking.’ A wave of embarrassment consumed me. This really was a humiliating process.
‘I thought it was supposed to . . . gush.’ Joe tried to conceal a repulsed tremor.
How Not to Fall in Love, Actually Page 33
