In Times Of Want

by Marie O'Regan

  She reached the window and rattled the handle; nothing. The lock was securely fastened, and there was no trace of movement in the net curtains that hung there. Looking down, Mary could see the cherry tree’s branches whipping back and forth in the wind, but she could feel nothing of the night’s fury standing by the glass.

  She tested the cradle, then. It creaked once more as she rattled the frame, the noise instantly recognisable. Perhaps a screw was loose somewhere? She resolved to get Alan to check everything carefully whilst he was absorbed in his restoration project – it had to be safe before the baby came.

  A wave of dizziness swept over her, making her sway. Her left hand moved automatically to protect the baby; her right finding its way to her back, which was starting to complain at this nocturnal wandering. She crept back into bed, chilled, and curled up against Alan’s back, resting her icy feet against the warmth of his legs. True to form, he just pulled the duvet further up, making sure she was covered even in his sleep, and she smiled as his arm came up and rested on her hip, patting it. The baby kicked again, this time connecting with his back, and he huffed half-heartedly before settling back down. Sleep hurtled towards her, and she realised as she fell helplessly into its grip that somewhere a baby was crying.

  The next few days were filled with the sound of Alan’s off-key humming as he first sanded, then painted the cradle a beautiful shade of very pale pink, and – at her insistence – carefully checked all the screws and fastenings he could see. Humming was a habit of his when happy, and Mary liked to hear it. He insisted the cradle was safe, nothing was loose now (if anything ever had been), but she still heard creaking in the night and pictured the cradle rocking – even though she couldn’t actually see it doing so. And sometimes there was a whining noise (it must be the cradle, she reasoned, it couldn’t be anything else), making a sound eerily reminiscent of a fussing infant. “It must be the wind,” he said, and she could hear the patience leeching out of his voice a little more every time he had to say it. Finally she gave in, and didn’t mention the creaking any more – but night after night, there it was, taunting her. She couldn’t sleep, and when she did manage to doze, her dreams were filled with the sound of a baby crying, and someone – a woman – wailing in the night.

  Tuesday morning, and Mary woke to find Alan already dressed, ready to put a third and final coat of paint on the cradle. Fabric swatches were laid out on the dressing table for her to look at, and the window was open, letting in a chill wind.

  “Morning, sleepy,” he said, smiling at her. His smile faded as he looked at her, and she spoke more sharply than she’d intended.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “At least…”

  “What, Alan?” She sat up and rubbed her eyes, shivering as the draught reached her sweat-soaked skin.

  “Another bad night?”

  She groaned. “Is there any other kind, these days?” Heaving herself upright to rest her back against the pillows, she blinked and focussed on her husband’s worried face. “Do I look that bad?”

  “You don’t look good, love, I have to say. You’re feeling okay, aren’t you? Apart from the sleep thing, I mean.”

  Mary nodded. “I’m just tired, that’s all. I keep hearing that thing creaking at night –”

  “It’s not the –”

  “I know you say it’s not the cradle, but what the hell is it, otherwise?” She’d snapped before she could stop herself, and stopped before she could say something else, something hurtful.

  Alan’s face fell as he replied. “I don’t know. I’ve checked the cradle, the floorboards… nothing seems to creak. Maybe you’re just dreaming it?”

  “Maybe I am,” she sighed. “I know I’m dreaming a baby crying, but either way the result’s the same. I’m shattered!”

  “You stay there,” Alan answered. “I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”

  Mary spied the cradle behind her husband, and told herself it wasn’t a rocking motion spied from the corner of her eye that had attracted her attention. The cradle was still now, no sign of having moved. But she could have sworn… She smiled brightly at Alan, to show him just how okay she was, and threw the covers back. “No, I’ll come down. I’d rather eat at the table, with you.”

  Bemused, Alan could only watch as she hurried past him and into the bathroom. The door clicked shut and he heard the lock turn. And his wife started to cry. Standing by the bathroom door, he leant against the wood, put his hand to the door and listened as she tried to stifle her sobs. Silently, he willed his wife to let him in, to talk about what was causing all this. Nothing, just the sound of Mary’s hitching sobs as she tried to get herself under control. Sighing, he gave up and went down to the kitchen to make them some breakfast. He could at least make sure she ate properly.

  When Mary ventured into the kitchen her face glowed pink, scrubbed clean to hide her tears. She couldn’t hide her eyes, though; their watery stare showed him just how upset she was, and he tried once more to solve this.

  “You’ve been crying,” he said.

  Mary shook her head. “Not really. Bit weepy this morning, that’s all.”

  “Why, love?”

  “Just tired.” She peered at him over her cup, her expression vague. “Probably hormones.”

  Ordinarily, the mention of hormones would be enough for him to leave the subject well alone. It wasn’t unusual for her to get weepy at times, and pregnancy had certainly played its part in that. On the other hand…

  “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

  Now she concentrated on the table cloth, tracing its pattern with a slightly shaky hand. She noticed its weakness and placed her hands on her lap, where the fingers proceeded to work at each other, intertwining and unlocking ceaselessly. “What else could it be?” she asked.

  “The cradle, maybe?”

  She flinched, and shook her head. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’ve seen the way you look at the cradle, love,” he said gently. “I know you don’t like it. I guess I hoped that would change when I’d finished.”

  She sighed. “It’s not the cradle, as such,” she said. “But I hear the thing creaking, night after night, and I know you say it’s not the cradle but sometimes –”

  “Sometimes what?”

  “Sometimes I see it rocking.”

  Alan stared at her, shocked. “That’s impossible.”

  “I know,” she wailed, “but it does!” She was crying hard now, and he didn’t know what to do. She hiccupped as she went on, “and… and… and that baby keeps crying! It’s driving me nuts, Alan!”

  “That’s… crazy, love,” he whispered.

  “I know it is. I know how it sounds.” She wiped her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “And yet it’s true.” She attempted a smile, then, and her next words broke Alan’s heart. “Maybe I am crazy.”

  “No, love,” he said, and went to her. He leant down and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, held her tight. “You were right the first time, I think. Hormones. You’re just worried about the baby, and it’s coming out in dreams.”

  She snuffled against his chest. “You think so?”

  “Of course,” he said, willing himself to believe it. “We’ll ask the doc tomorrow, when we go for your check up, okay? I’m sure everything’s fine.”

  Mary pulled herself out of his grasp, and smiled up at him. “Hope so.” She sniffed, and then grinned. “Can I smell bacon?”

  Alan laughed. “You and your stomach. I cooked a full English; hang on.” He busied himself with the business of sorting out the meal, and tried to look happy. Mary needed him to be strong. He could do that, if it meant she relaxed. Her face lit up as he brought her meal across, and he sat back and watched her eat, aware that this woman was his world. And he wouldn’t, couldn’t, let anything happen to her.

  Night time once more. Mary tossed and turned, and Alan watched – intent, this time, on making sure she wasn’t disturbed. The cradle was silent, unmovin
g, and he’d pulled the curtains tight shut against any possible draught. The house sat inert – joining him in his vigil.

  Midnight. The floor creaked, and Alan turned towards the noise’s source – a narrow wedge of light gleamed under the door. Was someone in the hall? Noiselessly, he rose and crept towards the light, freezing as it was cut by two black bands. Someone was standing on the other side; he could hear the rasp of their breath in the dark. The bands shifted to the left, paused, and then moved back. Alan shivered, aware the temperature had plummeted – his stomach fluttering frantically as he fought to regain control of his will. His body locked itself in position just beside the door, and refused to let him try to turn the door handle. The floor creaked once more, and Alan saw the handle turn slightly. He couldn’t move. Mary moaned and stirred – and the light went out, leaving everything in shadow. For long seconds he watched, and waited, but whatever had been there had been banished by his wife’s movements. They were safe once more. Distantly, he heard a baby whimper, and a woman’s voice shushed the child as even that distant noise faded away.

  Then silence.

  “Alan?”

  He cried out at the sound of Mary’s voice, and slumped against the door as he tried to catch his breath. “Jesus, you frightened the life out of me!”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  There was panic in her voice, and Alan switched the light on, trying to smile but terrified that his expression must be nearer to a grimace. Mary was staring, owl-eyed, at him; her face so pale. “It’s all right, love. I’m sorry.” He crossed over to her, sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought I heard something, that’s all.”

  “And did you?”

  “No,” he lied. “Well, maybe the cat. I guess Rags needs to go on a diet after all.”

  She didn’t smile, and he knew he wasn’t fooling her for a moment. He got up and turned his bedside lamp on, then turned out the overhead light and got into bed. “It’s okay, love, really. Go to sleep.”

  She wormed her way under his arm, and soon fell asleep there. Alan lay wide-eyed in the dark, waiting for what might come next. He heard the usual sounds of a house relaxing, but nothing more. Time passed, and the light in the room went through gradations of shadow as the sun rose and tried to peek through the curtains. Still he lay, unmoving, unwilling to disturb his wife as she rested – he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming. Something wanted to announce itself, and their lives would never be the same.

  The next few weeks were quiet, for the most part, and Mary almost began to believe that they’d imagined it all. The birth of their daughter wasn’t far away now, and life seemed to consist of hospital visits, shopping trips for last-minute ‘essentials’ such as armloads of nappies, babygros, creams… you name it, they bought it, eager to be fully prepared. In between those trips and spring-cleaning the house to make sure everything was done ahead of time, there hadn’t been much time for anything else to intrude. Now, all was finished, and her thoughts began to turn to what it would be like to greet her child. As they pulled into the hospital car park for a final scan, Mary felt the baby shift, not so much kicking as turning around entirely, forcing her to stretch out in the car seat, something that wasn’t exactly easy.

  “You okay?” Alan asked, alarmed.

  “Yeah,” she answered, sighing. “She’s just having a kick around in there, I think.” The baby shifted again, and she winced. “Now I need to pee.”

  Alan grinned, and pulled into a parking space. “Hang on, then. Won’t be a minute.”

  He was true to his word, and five minutes later she let herself into the Ladies and locked herself in a cubicle. Pain lanced through her abdomen, making her cry out – then the baby lurched, and Mary passed out. When she came to, she was leaning against the cubicle wall, and her head throbbed. She put her hand to her forehead and it came away bloody. Had she fainted? Gingerly, she stood and looked into the bowl, fearful of what she might see. There was nothing there, and the pain had abated; perhaps all might yet be okay. She heard a murmur of voices outside, and realised Alan was probably out there, worried. How long had she been out? She tidied herself up, washed her hands, and wadded some tissues against the cut on her head. Then she let herself out into the corridor, where Alan stood, concern etched on his face.

  “Mary!” He came to her, and looped an arm around her waist, coaxed her hand away from her forehead. “What happened?”

  “I fainted, I think,” she whispered. “I feel a bit sick.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s sit down for a minute.” He led her to a chair, and busied himself cleaning the cut on her forehead, then got her a cup of water from the cooler in the corridor. She drank it, then nodded, a little bit of colour returning.

  “Thanks, I’m okay now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded again. “I’m fine. I just got woozy for a sec, that’s all, and the next thing I knew I was waking up.”

  “Well, at least we’re in the right place,” he said. “Come on, let’s get this scan done, and let them know what happened.”

  The scan went without incident, and Mary found herself watching the movements of her baby in wonderment, Alan by her side. The child kicked and turned, and Mary saw her daughter was sucking her thumb. It still didn’t seem real, yet within a couple of weeks she’d be here, and they’d be a proper family. Things would never be the same.

  The baby turned towards the probe again, and Mary froze as she opened her eyes, seeming to look straight at her. “Can she do that?” Mary asked.

  “Do what?” the nurse asked, her attention on whatever it was the scan was telling her.

  “Can she open her eyes?”

  The nurse looked at the scan more closely, then, her brow furrowed. “I don’t think so, dear. Perhaps she was just fretting, eh?”

  Mary watched as the baby stirred, then went back to the normal foetal position. Dimly, she could hear a baby crying again, and wondered how close they were to the maternity ward here. “Is everything okay with her?” she asked.

  The nurse hummed and ha-ed for a few moments as she went over the results, then nodded. “Looks good to me.” She looked at Mary then and smiled. “You’ll be able to see for yourself soon.” She gestured to Mary’s clothes and said, “You can get dressed now, you’re all done. The doctor will have these in time for your next clinic appointment.”

  Mary busied herself getting dressed, while Alan looked at the picture the nurse had given them of their baby. He had a beatific smile on his face, and Mary felt a pang at her misgivings. She was letting her imagination run away with her; the baby was fine. And it was all theirs.

  Mary’s due date was close now; the baby was only days away. She woke, restless, on the Monday; and lay quiet for a while so that Alan could sleep. After a few minutes she couldn’t lie still anymore and got up quietly, careful not to disturb her husband. She wandered into the hall and prowled through the upstairs of the house. Nothing stirred. The cat lay comatose on the hall carpet, purring gently as it slept.

  The wind sighed in the eaves, and Mary paused. Something rustled, and she looked behind her. Rags had sprung to her feet and was crouched, fur bristling, hissing at some unseen foe. There was nothing there. The hall was empty, and the only sound was the sighing of the wind, and the distant rumble of Alan’s snoring.

  The wind grew louder, and Mary heard the creaking start in the bedroom. She whimpered, and told herself it was a draught – the double glazing was faulty, that was all. They’d have to call the builder back and get him to fix it. Alan shifted in his sleep, and moaned, and Mary took an involuntary step forward. She couldn’t leave him alone in there. Squeaaaaak… squeeeeak… the sound was louder now, more insistent. Mary became aware of a shushing sound, and stopped – she didn’t want to go into that room. She didn’t want to even be in the house, let alone in the bedroom, but Alan was in there, alone, and she couldn’t desert him.

  The bedroom door was ajar; had she left it like
that? She couldn’t remember. She pushed it further open, and stepped inside.

  The bedroom was in shadow, save for a shaft of dim light that fell on the cradle from the window. Mary moaned as she saw that the window was different now… the modern glazing was gone, replaced by an old-fashioned sash window; paint peeling and rust patches clustered around the lock. The wind howled through a crack in the glass, and the cradle rocked faster.

  Mary’s feet moved without conscious instruction, and as she edged closer she saw a dark shadow squirming in the depths of the cradle. The crying was louder now, and Mary saw a darker shadow open in the midst of where the phantom infant’s face must surely be. This was the source of the crying; the cradle bore some remnant of a child that had expired in its depths, the sadness palpable around it now, a cloud of misery that reached out to devour everything around it.

  A shadow moved past Mary, and she flinched. She watched as it moved towards the cradle, spectral arms reaching out to pick up the dead child and clutch it to its phantom bosom. Mary saw skeletal fingers clutching at non-existent tresses as the baby wailed and wailed, desperate for comfort that would never come.

  She screamed as she felt the first pains, and simultaneously saw the baby’s head turn towards her, arms reaching for her, her body responding even as madness closed in.

  Alan woke, then, and found his wife unconscious on the floor. He leapt from the bed, and struggled to lift her, but finally he got her on the bed. Her breathing was shallow, her expression pallid, and he groaned as he saw the dark stain spreading on the sheets. “Oh Jesus, love,” he cried. “You’re bleeding. Oh God.” He went to pick up the phone, but her hand gripped his wrist, and he saw her eyes flutter open briefly.

  “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “Please.” Her eyes closed again, and she screamed as another spasm ripped through her.

  Alan quickly dialled the emergency services, and called for an ambulance. Details given, he slammed the phone down as she rallied once more, and went to his wife.