Knit One Pearl One

by Gil McNeil

  “I’m sorry I can’t speak Italian, Con, I really am.”

  She smiles.

  “But porca bloody Madonna, yes?”

  She nods.

  Once we’re in a room and the midwife has had a look and said she’s already at seven centimeters and doing brilliantly, things calm down for a bit. We all listen to the baby’s heartbeat. It sounds fast, like they always do; there’s something disconcerting about it, even when you know it’s exactly how it’s meant to sound. Christ, this is really getting to me. I think I’m better at being the one giving birth than the one standing by trying to be supportive. There’s a large pale green rubber birthing ball, which Connie takes an instant dislike to, so Mark sits on it, holding her hand and chatting, while I go off in search of coffee. I want to give them some peace, so I sit in the canteen, staring into space.

  An exhausted-looking woman walks toward my table. “Is it all right if I sit here?”

  “Sure.”

  The canteen is pretty busy, but in a hushed hospital sort of way, with quite a few people sitting with just a hot drink, looking vacant.

  “My daughter’s just had a baby.”

  “Has she? How lovely.”

  She smiles, but looks terribly sad at the same time. Oh, God.

  “My first grandchild. They said he’s holding his own.”

  She looks at me, and I can see the worry, and the fear.

  “He’s so tiny.”

  Christ, I don’t know what to say.

  We sit in silence. And I can’t think of a bloody thing to say. I’m close to tears now, and that’s the last thing she needs.

  She puts her cup down. “He’s in the special care unit.”

  I put my hand on hers.

  “They can do amazing things now.”

  She nods. “I know, love. But he’s so tiny. He’s a fighter though. One of the nurses said that. He’s fighting.”

  Oh God. I wonder if they ever say anything else. I wonder if they start letting you down gently, preparing you. If they ever say he’s fighting as hard as he can, but he can’t win, the odds are just too high for him. I wonder if they ever know, or if it’s always totally heartbreakingly random.

  She looks at her bag.

  “I got him a teddy, but it’s too big. I can’t give him a teddy that’s as big as he is, can I? One of the nurses said I can give it to him later, when we get him home. Do you think?”

  “That sounds like a lovely idea.”

  We sit in silence again.

  “I better go. My friend’s having a baby, I should get back to her.”

  “Good luck, love.”

  “Thanks. And to you.”

  She nods. And looks worried again.

  Fucking hell.

  I find a loo, and sit in a cubicle, having a silent weep, blowing my nose and trying to pull myself together. I’m washing my hands when the tears start again, and I can’t seem to stop. This is ridiculous. But that poor woman, and her daughter, somewhere, sitting by a plastic incubator. Hoping.

  Right. I’ve got to stop this; a nice, relaxed, smiling person is what Connie needs, not some pink-eyed woman sniffing. She’ll think something is up, that they’ve told me something about the baby. But still. What I really want to do is race home and cuddle the kids, and thank my lucky stars.

  Connie and Mark are still holding hands when I get back, but something’s changed. She wants to stand, leaning over the bed. She’s talking, and breathing, and seems fine, but I know things have changed.

  And then I realize she’s standing in exactly the same position as I was when I had Pearl. Exactly. Christ.

  “Mark.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think it might be good to press that buzzer. I think we might need the midwife back.”

  Connie gives me a look, and smiles. “Yes.”

  She’s using the gas and air nearly all the time now. Mark’s rubbing her back, and tucking her hair behind her ears when it falls forward. Which I think is starting to annoy her.

  I’m guessing we are now in what the books like to call transition. Where anyone within a five-mile radius is likely to get an earful.

  “Stop. It.”

  The midwife comes in, and suddenly there’s a flurry of staff in white plastic aprons, wheeling in a crib and opening packs of sterile sheets and spreading them on the bed.

  The midwife is trying to get her onto the bed, and I can see she’s annoying Connie. She ignores her, and shrugs her off when she tries to get her to lie down.

  Mark’s looking panicky. “Why don’t you try it, love, just get on the bed and see if—”

  She shoves him. Very hard. It’s a miracle he stays upright really.

  Oh dear.

  She’s shouting, in Italian now, and I’m guessing these are the kinds of phrases you don’t find in the average phrase book.

  “Stay where you are, Connie, if that’s what feels best. I’m sure the midwife can cope, can’t you?” I’m doing my best to look firm. The midwife has been pretty useless really, just appearing and disappearing and not really taking the time to talk to Connie at all. But if Bob and Dave could cope with me standing by my fridge with a grubby kitchen floor, then surely it can’t be that difficult for her to help Connie give birth in whatever position feels right for her.

  The midwife gives me a cross look but stops hassling Connie and kneels down.

  “Keep going. Can you move your foot a bit please?”

  Christ, it better not be much longer.

  “You’re doing so brilliantly, Connie; you’re just amazing, well done, keep going, keep breathing. Nearly there, sweetheart.”

  The midwife gives me another frosty look, and I give her one back.

  “Yes, you’re doing very well. Keep going.”

  Connie’s gripping my arm now. Bloody hell.

  “I can’t.”

  She stops as another contraction hits her.

  “I can’t.”

  “I know, Con, but you’re doing so brilliantly, and you can, you’re amazing, just hang on. And breathe.”

  Another midwife joins us, and this one’s older, and much nicer.

  “Look at you, you clever girl. Thought you’d just get on with it, did you, my lovely? That’s it, now pant, can you pant for me? There you go, perfect, you’re nearly there.”

  Pant? Oh, God, if we’re doing panting, we really are nearly there. Please let everything be all right. Please.

  She’s making those elemental noises now, the ones you never hear in normal life. The kinds of noises you make when you’re in the midst of something extraordinary, or something terrible. Or both.

  And then suddenly, she’s not. And there’s a baby. We’re all in tears, and the midwife passes the baby to her, wrapped up tight in a green sheet.

  Connie’s lying down now, finally, and she smiles at Mark, one of those deep-down everything-in-my-entire-world-is-perfect kinds of smiles, which you only do when it’s all over.

  “A boy.”

  “Yes, and he’s so beautiful, my darling, so beautiful, just like you.”

  And he is. With lots of dark hair, and those deep navy blue newborn eyes that are locked on to his mother, like he’s checking her out, seeing what he’s won in the lottery of being born. He’s been very lucky, not that he knows it yet.

  “I want to talk to Marco, and Antonella, to tell them.”

  He smiles. “I’ll get my phone, is that all right?”

  The midwife nods. “Fine, my love, and then let’s get this woman a cup of tea, shall we?”

  “Gran.”

  “Yes pet, is she all right?”

  “Yes, she’s had a boy, and he’s beautiful.”

  “Well thank heavens for that. I’ve been on tenterhooks all afternoon. And they’re both okay, are they?”

  “Yes, she’s tired, but she did brilliantly, and he’s gorgeous.”

  “I should think she is. I’ll never forget how tired you looked after our Pearl, I’ve never seen anyone that pale. I’l
l send Reg to get you, pet, and tell her well done from me, and I can’t wait to meet him.”

  “It was amazing, Gran.”

  “Was it? Well, come home and tell me all about it. I’ll put some soup on, I bet you haven’t eaten.”

  “Are the kids still up?”

  “Yes, and they’ve been as good as gold. They’re sitting watching a film, our Pearl’s half asleep, but I tried taking her up earlier and she created merry hell, so I thought I’d leave her a bit longer.”

  “That’s perfect, I want to see them. I’ll do bedtime when I get home. I need a cuddle first.”

  Somehow I think we might all end up in my bed tonight. And then we’ll go cruisewear shopping tomorrow, and normal life will carry on. But for tonight, I just want to be home, with all three of them within arm’s reach.

  • • • 6 • • •

  We Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside

  July and August

  I’m in the shop on Monday morning when Ellen calls.

  “How’s Connie? Has she decided on the name?”

  “She’s fine, and yes, definitely Maximo Luca. Maximo because he weighed nearly nine pounds, which is more than Marco or Nelly were, and then Luca after her favorite uncle, the one who brought our coffee machine over for the café. Her mum’s making her have a sleep every afternoon, so she’s not too tired; actually, she looks better than she’s done for weeks.”

  “Christ, I wish someone would do that for me.”

  “Me too.”

  “Anything else happening on the baby front, apart from Vin and Lulu thinking about taking the plunge?”

  “No, Connie will be at the Summer Fayre this weekend, so you’ll get to see the baby then.”

  “Great. So no more locals going in for sprogs?”

  “Not unless you mean Mrs. Chapman, but you haven’t met her, have you? And Tina thinks one of the women in the baker’s—”

  “No, you idiot. But I’ve met Grace bloody Harrison, haven’t I?”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh indeed. How long have you known?”

  “Known what?”

  She’s laughing. “Don’t play that game with me, darling. I know you’re meant to be discreet, but that’s not supposed to include me.”

  “I think Maxine might disagree with you on that one.”

  “Well, don’t tell her then. Look, I need details, boy or girl, who’s the daddy, that kind of thing.”

  “No idea.”

  “And if you did?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well stand by for a bumpy day, darling. All the tabloids will be in to ask you for snippets; you’re the closest anyone is going to get to Amazing Grace for the next few days. They’ll want to see what they can get out of you.”

  “Christ.”

  “What?”

  “I better launch Operation Custard Cream with Elsie.”

  She laughs. “You’ve got a couple of hours; the news has only just gone out. And good luck, because you’re going to need it. Serves you right for not telling me. Now, on to my specialist subject, Me. Because I need to find a new producer on top of everything else.”

  “What happened to Scott?”

  “I fired him. He was driving me crazy, always standing about looking terrified. I need a grown-up, who can stand up to me.”

  “Is Attila the Hun looking for work in telly then?”

  “Piss off, I’m not that bad.”

  “Didn’t that woman in Human Resources say they’ve got a special file for complaints about you?”

  “Yes, but that was before I got my own series; they probably need a whole bloody filing cabinet now. I just have high standards, that’s all. I don’t fire people who fuck up, I fire people who fuck up and try to make it my fault. So do you fancy a new job?”

  “Never in a million years.”

  “We’d have such fun, darling, and you were a brilliant producer.”

  “Several lifetimes ago, maybe, and why would I want to get fired by my best friend? What would I do with the kids, leave them down here and see them once a fortnight?”

  “Works for the boys, darling. Tom Parker hasn’t seen his toddler for months now. I saw him at a drinks thing last night, just back from another trip following up leads, and not all of them suitable for broadcast, I can tell you, and he said when he got home the kid went into hysterics, thought he was a burglar. His wife’s going nuts.”

  “I don’t blame her.”

  “No darling, she’s going all Perfect Mother on him, making her own muesli, all that bollocks. And the kid’s a total nightmare, allergic to everything under the sun, including the sun, and highly neurotic. He screams so much he nearly passes out apparently. Mind you, she was always a bit highly strung, and now she’s convinced he’s cheating on her.”

  “And is he?”

  “Not yet, but he will be soon, if she doesn’t pull herself together.”

  “Ellen, that’s awful. Why is it always the woman who has to pull herself together?”

  “Because if she doesn’t, he will. Anyway, she’s always been a total cow, that’s why. Gorgeous Georgia, my arse.”

  “Is she the one?”

  “Yes. So serves her right.”

  “Oh, well, that’s different. Definitely serves her right.”

  We’re both cackling now; Georgia once nicked a man from Ellen in a most unladylike fashion, at a party; lots of tequila and a very short dress were involved.

  “So if you won’t be my next producer, will you do some of these interviews with me? The Wonders of Knitting, Me and My Woolly Friends, we’ve had stacks of requests. And I need to do some more publicity for the series; the figures are dropping, like they always do after a launch, but it’s making the boys upstairs nervous, wankers.”

  “I’m not sure, Ellen. It was bad enough last time, and that was you doing the interview. God knows what I’d be like with someone I don’t know.”

  “Yes, but it’ll just be print stuff, not telly; there’ll be no danger of you sliding off your chair onto the floor. I do loads of the glam stuff all the bloody time, but this needs to be more me and my normal life, so my audience can bond with me. Knitting for my boy. It’s perfect. Anyway, I’ve already said you’ll do it, so you may as well get the benefit for the shop. It won’t take long, and we can have the afternoon to ourselves, maybe fit in a nice shopping session.”

  “I hate shopping, Ellen.”

  “I know, darling, but you need some new clothes.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “No, I mean you need a treat, some new stuff you fancy, and we can check out wool shops if you like, I know you love doing that.”

  “Actually, that might be good. There’s a couple of new shops I’d like to see. If they’ve got anything good we can do our own version, but for half the price.”

  “Okay, a couple of wool shops, and then shoes, great. I’ll tell Amy to organize it.”

  “Who’s Amy?”

  “My new producer. But I would have fired her if you were up for it.”

  “I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.”

  “Any more texts from your gran?”

  “Yes, they’re having a brilliant time; Betty’s still flirting with all the crew, even though Gran says most of them are young enough to be her grandsons, and Gran’s learning how to sculpt, while Reg learns Hawaiian dancing.”

  “Bless.”

  “I know, but they haven’t got to Venice yet, so Mum will soon put a stop to all that. Look, I better go; I should probably be having a word with Elsie in case any press turn up. I’m still not sure they’ll bother coming all the way down here, you know.”

  “Trust me, they will. Good luck with the custard creams, darling.”

  “Thanks.”

  Elsie’s thrilled that we might be having another round of attention from the press. What with the television interview, and now the breaking news about Grace having a baby, she’s clearly finding it all completely thrilling. Which is slightly
worrying.

  “Yes, but it’s really important we don’t say anything, Elsie, otherwise they can twist it; we just need to say we know nothing, and would they like to buy some wool? Otherwise we’ll have to ask them to leave the shop, okay?”

  “Of course dear. I know what they’re like, those papers, terrible some of them.”

  She buys most of them on a regular basis, so she should know. But I’m still not sure she really gets it. She’s tapping her foot and looking excited, and that’s probably not a good sign on the calm, no-comment front.

  “If we get this wrong, Grace will drop us, very quickly, and everyone will think we tried to trade on her name, which would be awful.”

  “She knows she can trust us. We’ve been to her house and everything.”

  “Yes, but we won’t mention that, will we? Or they’ll ask all sorts of questions, which we don’t want to answer, unless we want to read them in quotes, with whatever rubbish they want to say sandwiched in between so it looks like we’ve given them an interview. Seriously, Elsie, we do need to get this right if anyone does turn up, which they may not. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  A large van pulls up outside. Christ, surely they can’t have got here already. A man staggers in carrying a large wooden crate, filled with pots of summer flowers: daisies, geraniums, marigolds, and tall ones with pretty bell-shaped flowers, like mini-delphiniums. There’s also a small brown velvet squirrel, nestled in among the flowers. I sign the delivery note, and the man goes back to his van, whistling, while Elsie stands watching, agog with excitement.

  “There’s a card.”

  “So there is.”

  Thought you might like another squirrel to add to your secret collection. G.

  “Is that from her? Isn’t that lovely? Do you like squirrels then, dear? I didn’t know that.”

  “No, it’s just a little joke.”

  She looks at me, wanting details.

  “Pearl saw the one that Lily’s got, and she tried to take it home, that’s all.”

  I’m very pleased with myself for this bit of quick thinking. Perhaps I’m not so completely out of practice at batting back questions as I thought. I used to have to do it all the time when I worked in news. I bloody hope so, because I think I’m going to need to be on top form in the next few hours if Ellen’s predictions are right.