‘Mum, I need to push,’ I gasp.
‘Aren’t you supposed to hang on a bit?’
‘I — can’t — hang — on!’
‘Then perhaps you’d better go ahead, dear. I’m sure your body knows what it’s doing.’
I push. It feels as though my whole body’s trying to turn itself inside out, but nothing happens.
‘Do you think I ought to — have a look?’ Mum asks me, after several more fruitless and exhausting pushes.
‘Please.’
Mum has a look.
‘Oh, my goodness! I can see its head!’
‘What, all of it?’
Kaz joins her, and they both peer under the blanket. ‘Just the top,’ she says.
‘Hair?’
‘Possibly. Gosh this is so exciting!’
‘I’m — glad — you — think — so.’ Another big push. I feel utterly drained. Whatever happens, this baby is going to be an only child.
‘I think it helps if you put your chin on your chest,’ Kaz says. ‘And then push. I’ve seen it on the telly.’
‘Fuck off!’ The pain is overwhelming. All this pushing is going to kill me. ‘Fucking, fucking baby!’
Mum makes a tutting noise, and despite the pain, I experience a wave of irritation, but Kaz wisely shuts up, and we all wait for the next contraction.
‘Aaaaaaah!’ This is a big one, accompanied by a searing pain.
‘Oh, Ruth! Its head’s out,’ Mum tells me.
‘Wow! This is amazing!’ Kaz says.
‘What — happens — now?’ I lie back on my pillows, panting.
‘Another push?’
‘Here goes.’
The next push is a bit easier, and the one after that is accompanied by another sharp pain and a rather satisfying slither. There’s a brief silence followed by a yell of protest.
The seahorse/rabbit has arrived.
‘He’s here. Your baby’s here! Oh, Ruth! He’s beautiful!’ Tears are running down Mum’s cheeks as she very carefully lifts up something slippery and howling, wraps it in a towel and hands it to me.
I look down into the face of my son. After a few moments, he stops crying, opening navy blue eyes beneath a slick of wet dark hair and gazes at me critically.
‘Will I do?’ I ask him softly.
‘Oh, Ruth! Of course you’ll do!’ Kaz gives me a big hug. ‘This is the most exciting day of my life. Congratulations!’
‘Darling, you were amazing,’ Mum says. ‘Just amazing.’
I unwrap him and we all count his fingers and toes, wonder at his tiny fingernails, his neatly-drawn eyebrow and feathery lashes and his ‘dear little knees’ (Kaz’s words). It is amazing that a year ago he didn’t exist at all, and yet here he is, absolutely perfect in every way. A home-made human being.
‘Could you — could you ask Dad to come in?’ I ask Mum, after a few moments.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’m sure.’ Because now I want both my parents with me to share in this miracle.
Dad tiptoes into the room in his socks and approaches the sofa carefully (‘like the shepherds in the stable,’ as I afterwards say to Kaz).
‘Oh, Ruth,’ he says, very gently laying a finger on the baby’s head. ‘Ruth!’ And to my astonishment, I see that there are tears in his eyes.
An hour later, I am sitting up with my baby in my arms and we are drinking his health in elderflower champagne. The placenta (which had been completely forgotten in all the excitement) has been delivered, and in a moment of post-natal magnanimity, I even let Silas cut the cord with his newly-boiled scissors. Altogether, it’s been something of a joint effort, and everyone seems inordinately proud, both of themselves and of me.
You read about childbirth (at least, most women do); you read about the different stages and what happens when and what you’re supposed to do; you even read about the pain. Nobody, however, tells you about the afterglow.
I think now of all my favourite moments — performing a concerto with an orchestra; getting my diploma; the best possible sex; being in love (not necessarily the same thing) — but none can compare with this. At this moment, there is no-one and nothing in the world but me; me and this perfect little human being (how could I ever have thought of him as a seahorse/rabbit?). I never expected to feel like this; I didn’t even know it was possible. But I believe that now — this moment — is the nearest I have ever been to perfect happiness.
‘Hey!’ I cry, to no-one in particular. ‘I did it! I did it!’
As though in response, there are muffled footsteps outside and we hear the front door opening. There’s the sound of raised voices, and a kind of scuffle, and a few moments later, Amos bursts into the room followed by Kent. They both look very cold and very wet, and Kent at least looks very cross.
‘I’m so sorry, Ruth. I couldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t let me explain,’ Kent says. ‘I met him outside. He said he’d had an urgent message and needed to see you at once.’
‘So you do live here!’ Amos beams at me. ‘When I came before, that weasily little woman said she’d never heard of you, and told me to go away. I only just got your message, and tried to phone, but I couldn’t get through. What’s the matter? Has something happened? Are you ill? It’s taken me hours to get here. I had to abandon the car and —’ he stops short. ‘Whatever have you got there?’
‘It’s a baby.’
‘A baby?’
‘A baby.’
‘Whose baby?’
‘Your baby.’
‘My baby?’
‘Our baby.’ I hold out our son to show him. ‘Amos, meet Malachi.’
Epilogue
Six months later
I love September; still summer, but with a hint and promise of autumn, and (today at least) warm sunshine.
Malachi is sitting on a rug on the grass chewing at a biscuit with his one tooth. He catches my eye and smiles (Amos’s smile), biscuity soup leaking down his front. Indoors, Amos is practising with all the windows closed (the neighbours are not fans of the trombone) and keeping an eye on his vat of home-brew (he has been picking up tips from Eric and Silas).
We’ve been living together in my flat ever since the Norwegians left, and things seem to be working out pretty well. We’re neither of us in any hurry, but I think we are both hoping for a future together. Amos is a wonderful father, which considering he had no time at all to get used to the idea is pretty amazing. We argue frequently, laugh a lot, make love whenever the baby allows us to, and perhaps most importantly of all, are the best of friends. We both do a bit of teaching and Amos plays in a small jazz band. We get by.
My mother adores Malachi, and manages to ignore the fact that Amos and I aren’t married, referring to Amos as her son-in-law. Since she and my father left Applegarth to move back into their renovated home, she has been much happier. I think this is in no small part due to her chickens.
While Mum was at Applegarth, she became very attached to her feathered charges, and she’s started keeping rare breeds of chickens in the orchard. She has some pretty feather-footed bantams and some speckled Sussex hens, and some others with peculiar names which I can’t remember. She’s thinking of showing some of them, and she also sells their eggs.
‘But we don’t need the money,’ Dad objects.
‘That’s not the point,’ says Mum.
‘Then you might as well give the eggs away.’
‘That’s not the point, either.’
Mum has discovered that having a saleable skill has its own value, which has nothing to do with making money and everything to do with self-esteem. Dad, who has enough of both, wouldn’t understand.
My father still struggles with the whole baby thing. On the one hand, I know he’s proud that he was one of the first people to see Malachi, but on the other, he’s still upset at my unmarried state. However, he finds an increasing number of excuses to visit us (he’s ‘just passing’, he’s returning something I lent him, he’s planning a surprise f
or Mum’s birthday), and may even eventually forgive me for having a child out of wedlock. Sometimes, I hear him singing the baby tuneless little ditties when he thinks I’m not listening, and Malachi, who’s a forgiving soul, gives every appearance of enjoying them.
Other things have been happening, too. Mikey and Gavin have had their union legalised, and have bought a tiny cottage together. They appear to be blissfully happy, and Mikey still finds time to visit his new godchild. Meanwhile, Kaz and Kent appear to have sorted out their differences and seem very settled and happy, living together in the caravan. Kaz has given up pole dancing at Kent’s request, and has joined a local taxi firm, which she says she enjoys enormously (‘I get great tips, Ruth!’ I’ll bet). She hasn’t told Kent about her fling with Gary (‘you were right, Ruth’), and they have no immediate plans for the future, but I hope and believe that they’ll stay together, not least because I’m deeply fond of them both.
We keep in close touch with Applegarth, and have paid my uncles several visits. On these occasions, Blossom, who appears to consider that she’s back in charge, is almost friendly, although I suspect that she’s always relieved to see us go. Silas is fully restored to health and has recently stuffed a tortoise (‘so hard to get hold of, Ruth, a dead tortoise. And so generous of the zoo’). Eric has almost finished his work on the Ark and is already looking around for another project to take its place. But I’m glad Kent and Kaz are around to keep an eye on things, especially as my uncles aren’t getting any younger. They deserve a bit of looking after, and who better to do it than a newly-discovered son? Lazzo goes round most days to help. He loves Applegarth and the animals, and seems to ask for nothing more (although I’m still planning the promised visit to London Zoo).
And the Virgin of the hen house? I’m afraid the news there isn’t so good, due to a recent incident involving a new initiative and a wild boar.
Eric, inspired by his researches into pig varieties, took it into his head to put Sarah to a wild boar instead of her usual mate.
‘Nice gamey meat,’ he explained. ‘And the piglets will be so interesting.’
Now, Sarah has many idiosyncrasies, one of which is a refusal to conduct her couplings anywhere other than on her own territory, so the boar, kindly (and, I suspect, illicitly) loaned by a contact at the safari park, was duly delivered to do the business. So far, so good.
Unfortunately, before the happy couple could consummate their union, Sarah’s visitor escaped, and came barrelling down between the outhouses and across a field ‘like the wrath of God’ (Silas’s words), scattering sundry chickens and piglets in his wake. Upon being challenged by Lazzo with a broom handle, he made an about turn, and charged straight into the side of the hen house, impaling himself by his tusks and instantly demolishing all traces of the Virgin.
As Eric said afterwards, it is as though she had never been there at all.
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A NOTE TO THE READER
Thank you for taking the time to read this collection. The first book, Cassandra’s Secret is very loosely based on my own wonderful but eccentric mother and some of my own experiences. While some of the behaviour of Cassandra’s mother is hers alone, my own mother did (for example) buy me those royal blue knickers. I have never forgotten the humiliation of having to wear them for PE every week. But we had some wonderful spring picnics picking primroses when I should have been at school. I wish she could have been here to read this book.
The second book is Women Behaving Badly. Friends are important to everyone — dare I say, especially to women — and this novel was originally going to be about a friendship between three “ladies who lunch”. But ideas change, my own Catholic background (not to mention, Catholic guilt. No-one does guilt quite as well as the Catholics) intervened, and these three very different women emerged. They may well have lunch together, but their behaviour is very far removed from that of the ladies I’d originally had in mind. But we all find friends in unexpected places, don’t we?
The idea for the third novel, Ruth Robinson’s Year of Miracles arose out of all sorts of things: among others, my love of motherhood, music, and the countryside, and my affection for quirky eccentric people (my own family is full of them). The idea for the apparition of the Virgin came from markings which resemble a figure in the grain of an old blanket chest we use as a coffee table. The image is still clearly visible, stars and all (to me if to no-one else!).
If you have enjoyed reading this collection, I would be really grateful if you could write a review either on Amazon or Goodreads.
In the meantime, I love to hear from readers, and your comments are always welcome. I can be contacted via my website at www.francesgarrood.com
You can also follow me on Facebook at FrancesGarroodAuthor.
MORE BOOKS BY FRANCES GARROOD
Dead Ernest
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Copyright © Frances Garrood, 2018.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.
The Frances Garrood Collection Page 88
