The Woman Before Me

by Ruth Dugdall

  She sat at my side and asked about Joel. “My son was born yesterday. The labour was so sudden, I was lucky to get here in time. My husband drove like a maniac, it’s a wonder we didn’t crash!” She laughed as she said this. “But it was all fine in the end. We’ve got to stay in a few days, because I tore quiet badly,” she whispered this, a confession from one woman to another, “but I don’t mind staying. Get my confidence a bit. It’s not coming very naturally to me, all this. I had to be shown how to change a nappy!”

  I listened and envied her those pathetic worries. I tried to keep my voice light, “have you thought of a name for your son?”

  “I haven’t discussed it with my husband yet,” she said, “but I want to call him Luke. Dominic will be visiting later, so we’ll talk about it then. He won’t admit it but he’s worn out, what with working all day and then being up all last night with the excitement. I told him that he needn’t come tonight, to go home and rest, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It’s so hard for the men, don’t you think?”

  “Mmm.”

  “They must feel so helpless during labour. He was supposed to take two weeks off after the baby was born, but he went in to work today. He doesn’t see the point in using up his holiday just to sit around here. He’s a deputy head at a boarding school, so it’s hard for him to switch off. What does your husband do?”

  “He’s in catering.”

  “Dominic works so hard. He’ll be here soon. I asked him to bring in some makeup. I just wish I had some decent clothes to wear, but nothing fits.” She squeezes the spare flesh on her stomach. “I’m a dance teacher. I used to teach twenty lessons a week. You wouldn’t think it to look at me now, would you?”

  It all fell into place. The mention of dancing was the switch that sparked my memory. She was the young student dancer who you fell so hopelessly in love with. She was the woman in the photo you kept in your wallet. She was your ex-wife, Emma.

  My pulse throbbed. Thoughts of you going to her, of the night you came home smelling of green apples, raced through my veins like poison.

  I knew you mustn’t see her. She mustn’t know who I was. I had to keep you away from her.

  If you were to see each other, all those months would have been for nothing.

  “Dominic!”

  “Hello, love. The nurse said you were here.”

  Her husband walked into the room, tall and imposing in a grey suit. I was struck by how much older he was than Emma.

  “This is Rose,” she told him, but Dominic barely glanced at me. He only had eyes for Emma.

  30

  Black Book Entry

  The following morning I woke to the sound of the early shift changes, to the mumble of nurses discussing cases during handover while a cleaner listlessly pushed a broom under my bed. I was still in my own room, still segregated from the other women. Thoughts of Emma tormented me. Despite myself, I remembered her singsong voice, her guileless face. And she was just yards away. Just when it seemed I could have everything I wanted, when I’d finally won your love via Joel, all too easily I could lose it if you saw her. I couldn’t let that happen and knew I had to keep you away.

  I waited for my breakfast impatiently. Afterwards I could go and see Joel in his plastic crib. I wanted to ask if I could bathe him. I looked at the clock—it was 8:15. Breakfast was late, but I could hear the trolley approaching. When it came into view I saw the smiling Nurse Hall, who greeted me with a yawn. “You look tired,” I said.

  “Yeah, it was a mate’s birthday last night, so we went clubbing. I didn’t get home till three. I’ve got a hangover from hell, but it was worth it.”

  Nurse Hall wasn’t that much younger than me, I guessed she was about twenty-five, but her life seemed like a teenager’s. I couldn’t ever go to a nightclub. It just wasn’t my kind of thing, though you’d tried to persuade me to go a few times. I felt too old for dancing and besides I wasn’t attractive enough to feel good in a club. I wondered what it would be like to get dressed up, to drink vodka, to dance on a podium to loud music until three in the morning. I wondered if it would be possible to forget my worries, envying Nurse Hall, the dark shadows under her eyes and her pounding head.

  “How’s Joel?”

  “He’s put on three ounces in the last four days.”

  She beamed at me. “That’s excellent, Rose. He’ll soon be ready to go home. Have they said anything about that?”

  I shook my head, concentrated on stirring my tea. I daren’t think about us going home, it was too big a step. The thought terrified me. But something else terrified me more: you seeing Emma.

  “I wondered if you’d do something for me.” I said.

  “What’s that, Rose?”

  “Will you phone Jason? Will you ask him to give me a bit of space, to stay away for a day or two?”

  “That’s a bit of a tough request.”

  “I just want to rest. It won’t be for long. I don’t want him to see me tired and teary.”

  Nurse Hall bit her lower lip. “If you’re sure, Rose, then I’ll call him.”

  “I’m positive,” I said. “He needs to stay away from the ward. Just for a few days.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it now.” Nurse Hall touched my shoulder. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  I looked up and saw Emma. She was radiant in a powder blue smock, and cradled into the crook of her arm was her sleeping son.

  “Hi, Emma,” Nurse Hall said, and I was disappointed that she used the same friendly tone of voice with her that she’d just used with me. “How are you? And how’s little Luke?”

  Emma beamed down at the baby, whispering so she didn’t disturb him. “Both good, thanks. In fact, guess what? We’re being discharged this morning.” She said this to both Nurse Hall and me, sharing her news. “I’m nervous—it seems such a big responsibility. I wish I could stay here for a bit longer.”

  Nurse Hall gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s just so special taking a baby home. You’ll be just fine, Emma. A good mother always worries.” She whispered my consolation prize, “it’ll be you next, Rose.”

  As if embarrassed by her good fortune, Emma sat next to me on the bed. “Of course it will. Shall we go together to see Joel?” Her hand was warm on top of mine and I could smell her perfume, light and sweet like green apples.

  Together we walked to the neonatal unit, Emma almost pulling me along despite the weight of Luke in her arms. She didn’t support Luke’s head too well, and it lolled about precariously. I was slow, measuring the fear with each step. I wondered if this would be the last time I would walk it. I tortured myself with the thought of an empty crib at the end of it.

  When we arrived I saw Joel was in his incubator, and relief poured through me briefly before I saw how small he still was. He was awake, navy eyes focused on me as I bent over him.

  “Can you see me, Joel? Or am I just a blur?” I whispered, offering him my finger to grip.

  He was silent, but his mouth was open as if he would speak, if only he could. Now free from the machines and wires, I could touch him easily and I kissed his cheek, then the bridge of his nose. His hand held my arm, as if to cuddle it, and I kissed him again.

  “He’s a beautiful baby.” The nurse behind spoke, making me jump. I turned around and smiled. But she wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to Emma and looking at Luke. Emma was animated.

  “Everyone here’s been so wonderful, it’ll be hard to go home and be alone with him. It’s a bit daunting, to think about having this new responsibility. Do you know what I mean?”

  The nurse nodded, turned to me. “Joel is looking alert today. When Doctor Cross comes round we’ll ask when she thinks you’ll be able to go home.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s gaining weight steadily, and feeds well from his bottle. In fact, you could try him at the breast if you like. He’s probably strong enough now.”

  The nurse was oblivious to my heart thumping in my chest, and came to my side, lifting Joel out of the cri
b. He lay in her arms like a doll, pale and serene. “Now then, young man. Would you like some milk? Shall we try without the bottle today?”

  She gently handed him to me, and I weighed his light body. His mouth found the skin on my arm and lightly sucked; the nurse saw this. “I think he’s hungry, Rose.”

  The nurse fussed around, pulling a chair closer. I sat, knowing I had no choice. “You’ve been expressing milk with a machine, so this will feel a little weird.” With a casualness that comes from dealing daily with people’s bodies, she lifted my top. My doughy breasts were knotted with milk, tattooed with blue veins. Emma was watching and I wished she would turn away. “Luke’s bottlefed,” she told me. “So I won’t be much use to you, I’m afraid.”

  Joel started to move his head from side to side, his mouth open like a tiny bird, and the nurse was pulling at me, trying to position me. Emma cuddled Luke, watching the performance, as the nurse pulled me this way and that, when all of a sudden it was too much. I couldn’t handle it. “Get off me!” I shouted, pushing the nurse away, and she pulled back like I’d slapped her. Emma was there in an instant, her free hand around me. “Don’t worry, Rose. It’s okay. I couldn’t get the hang of breastfeeding either.”

  Your lover was comforting me. Can you imagine how that felt?

  It was quiet in the unit after that. Emma helped me to feed Joel from a bottle, and didn’t mention me losing my temper. The nurse didn’t approach me again, but stayed at the desk writing until the end of her shift when she scuttled off, leaving me with Emma. It was nearly visiting time, and she was expecting Dominic. She was coming round to the idea of leaving the hospital, “Dominic will be so pleased. He’s hardly had a chance to get to know Luke yet. It’s scary, but at least he’ll be home to help for a while.” She took a makeup pouch from her handbag. “Could you hold Luke, while I go to the toilet? I want to put some lippy on.”

  She left me with the two boys.

  I’d never studied Luke closely before. His skin was a healthy pink, and his eyes were a navy grey. He wore a blue cap, which I pulled from his head. There was a thin covering of pale curls. I looked closer. Golden-red curls. I looked at his face anew, thinking how familiar it looked.

  Looking around, I saw that the nurse had left the room and was talking to another nurse in the corridor. I went to Joel’s crib and lay Luke next to him.

  They could have been brothers, with Luke the stronger, fitter eldest. I had given birth to the runt.

  Although Joel was smaller, the shape of the face was the same, and their almond eyes almost identical. And that beautiful goldred hair. I saw what I should have seen straight away: his face was yours, Jason.

  I picked Luke up, out of Joel’s crib. It wasn’t his fault that his mother was a whore, his father weak. But my fury with you scorched my face, made the blood rush inside me. Where was the justice? Emma had given you a beautiful son, when the one I had produced was sickly and pale. It was so wrong, so unfair, and I felt hate take over my heart. Rita and Mum had both warned me to leave you, that pain would follow if a child was born.

  The new nurse on duty arrived, and eyed me warily as she went to the desk. I could tell she’d been warned of my earlier outburst.

  I returned to Joel, lying still in his crib. I looked down at my own baby, smiling, until I saw that his eyes were fixed. Fixed on me. Until I moved and his gaze didn’t follow. His skin looked waxy and I stroked him, shocked that he was cooler than normal. I pinched his arm, and when he didn’t respond, I put my head to his ribcage. There was no movement of his chest.

  I panicked, throwing Luke into an empty crib, grabbing Joel by the chest and shaking him. “Joel! Joel!”

  The nurse was straight over, snatching Joel from me and laid him back down, her ear to his mouth. She turned and ran for the alarm, a red button she punched with her fist before returning to Joel.

  “Please,” I whimpered, “tell me what’s happening?”

  The nurse wheeled a machine to his side, moving me away, focused only on Joel. I wanted to rush forward, to grab him and shake life into him. I heard running feet. I was moved aside, and all I could see was a doctor’s back and the edge of the plastic crib. Luke was crying and I picked him up. Another nurse saw me, whispered to the doctor, then came over, guiding me from the room.

  The door was shut, the blind pulled down obscuring the window. But under the gap I saw the movement of white coats and hands, the pumping of arms as they tried to save my son. Our son.

  I watched, holding Emma’s baby.

  31

  It’s Sunday, and as usual the atmosphere in the prison is tense. I try to keep my own feelings in check, whatever is happening elsewhere. There are no civilian staff in the prison on weekends, just officers and inmates. And the chaplain, of course, if religion is your drug. There are no education sessions, no offending behaviour courses, no shrinks to analyse us. We’re as close to being free as prison gets, but this also brings boredom and the dreaded time to think. For some inmates it’s too much, and the day will be splintered with catfights and tantrums.

  Also, it’s the day for canteen, when we collect our measly wages, or spend the money family or friends have sent us, on the limited but still precious items which we will squirrel or barter, trying to make it last until next weekend. It’s like a primary school tuckshop and we jostle like school kids, impatient to hold the chocolate bar in our hand, or pull the nicotine into our gasping lungs. We can also buy cheap shampoo or beauty products but some women moan about the lack of choice, longing to feel pretty, if only for one day, because Sunday afternoon is visiting time.

  Convicted prisoners like me can be visited once a fortnight, and squabbles puncture the weekends between visits, as the women try to distract themselves from thinking of the husband or boyfriend they can’t see, the son or daughter they can’t hold. On visiting Sundays, the tension is different. Imagine waiting to see the face of someone not seen for far too long, or a child who has grown older and taller; the terrible silence as you search for something to say when your world is so grey. Then, the pain and loneliness and fear crashing down when the order comes for goodbyes to be said. The tears of the children are the worst, especially those too young to understand. Afterwards we return to our cells. Newer inmates, or those who have just been told about family events they have missed; that a boyfriend or husband has been unfaithful, that a son has cut his first tooth, cry into their thin pillows.

  These things will be true for the other women, but for me today is just another step towards freedom. The parole board meets in two weeks and I’m wishing the hours away like a girl impatient for Christmas. I should be released. I’ve been a good inmate. I’m a hard worker, the screws like that. They don’t think of me as a bully; they don’t see me fight. I give fags to women who have run out, and don’t demand two in return.

  The officers are changing shift, and Officer Burgess is replacing Officer Callahan. In prison you learn to listen.

  The thing about officers is that they can’t keep their dicks in their pants or their tongues between their teeth. Especially the young ones, since they’ve got so much to prove. Arriving on duty Mark Burgess sprang along the corridor like he’d won the lottery, stopping at Janie’s door to ask if she’d got anyone visiting her later. He likes Janie best because she doesn’t scare him. When he goes past my open door he never stops.

  Dave Callahan was on duty last night and he’s in the office, feet on the desk, reading the Sunday Sport. Inmates aren’t allowed any pornographic pictures, but the officers can bring them in anytime they like. I stand by my cell door and listen.

  “Morning, Dave. Fancy a brew?”

  “No, ta mate. I’m off in five.”

  “Everything alright last night?”

  “Yep. No trouble. I had a decent kip”

  “I had a good weekend too.”

  “Yeah?” Dave sounds like he couldn’t care less.

  “Went to a party at Paul Chatham’s.”

  “At the queer�
��s house? Did you see his boyfriend?”

  “He was alright, actually.” Mark sounds uncomfortable.

  “Were there other poofters there?” Now Dave is interested.

  “No. Cate Austin was, though.” I prick up my ears. “She’s a looker, but she’s got a stick up her arse. Did she relax any?”

  “She did. All the way, as it goes.” There’s innuendo in the way Mark speaks and a long silence follows. “You lucky bastard.”

  “Yeah,” Mark says, “all the way.”

  I’m as surprised as Dave. I need to fit this piece into the jigsaw picture I’ve been building of her, and I don’t know where to put it.

  I go to Janie’s cell, where she’s drawing a picture of a cat. It looks like a child’s drawing.

  “Hey, Rose. I got a letter from my dad yesterday.” She takes it from under her pillow, already opened and creased even though she can’t read the words. “Will you read it to me?”

  “Of course I will, poppet. First though, I want you to tell me what happened on Friday. On your little trip into Ipswich. Did you find the address I gave you?”

  I’m making light of it, of course. I’m desperate to know. But like all accomplices Janie must be managed. She’s not as brave as me. I can feel Mum and Rita watching over me, warning me to be steady.

  “Oh, yes. It was easy. My teacher’s so nice, she didn’t even mind when I arrived late. She knows it’s the only day I have on the out, and she likes it when I go to the park and bring her a daffodil. Last week I went into Boots and tried on all the tester perfumes. She said I smelt like a garden centre when I walked in the classroom.”

  I try not to be impatient, but sometimes it’s hard with Janie.

  “Did you find the house?”

  “Yes, that map you gave me was good. The house was just like you said. I had a little look through the windows, like you told me to, but I couldn’t see anyone. Nice place though. Great big lounge with a smart TV—worth a few bob—and one of those L-shaped sofas.”