by Louise Voss
‘Well, I’ve got varicose veins like an ordnance survey map,’ replied her friend ruefully, one of the biggest bellies. I thought that if she got any bigger she’d need scaffolding to support her stomach. Ruth saw me looking at her and nudged me. ‘That’s Charlotte. She’s two weeks overdue. I really don’t think she ought to be here. She looks as if she’s going to spawn an entire litter of babies instead of just the one, doesn’t she?’
Under Marty’s orders we all began to jog backwards, the pull from the swirl of forward-flowing water making us work much harder, as Ruth had warned. My leg muscles were already beginning to ache, and I could feel an unpleasant rippling sensation around my bottom as the water tugged unforgivingly at my untoned thighs.
‘I – must - do – more – exercise,’ I puffed at Ruth, over my shoulder. She grimaced back at me, as if we were old friends. It felt great. I toyed with the idea of quizzing her about Ann: what age was she? What did she look like? But then I decided against it - I wanted to find out for myself, even if it meant waiting until the next day.
Words and music mingled with the echoey shouts and slap of wet feet on tiles as children took running dives into the adjacent big pool, and I wondered if one day I would be carrying a new life inside my very own maternity swimsuit, as I jogged around a magic circle of sisterhood. I felt suddenly sad that I was only passing through, and would never see Ruth again. Unless of course my intuitions were sound, and this did turn out to be the right Ann Paramor…. No, I told myself firmly. I must not project.
More jogging and jiggling ensued, with some stretches and vaguely co-ordinated limb-waving thrown in for good measure. Marty distributed webbed gloves to us all, to create maximum resistance against the water. He looked slightly nervous, as if worried that he would suddenly be required to assist at an emergency water birth. The women seemed to sense his unease, and for the most part ignored him completely, continuing to splash sedately along and talk amongst themselves.
By this time I, as one of the more conscientious participants, was purple in the face and gasping. ‘These gloves are a killer,’ I managed to say to Ruth, surreptitiously peeling them off and leaving them in a wedged-up ball on the side of the pool. Ruth had been right behind me, but when she didn’t answer, I turned to look at her, noticing that her face suddenly seemed very tired and greyish.
‘Are you feeling all right? I asked, concerned; but she just half-nodded, half-shook her head and carried on.
The two tiny babies at the side of the pool, strapped into their car seats, were looking bemused next to a giant basket full of orange armbands. They were spellbound by Marty prancing up and down in front of them and, indeed, appeared to comprise his most attentive audience. He eventually got so fed up with being ignored that he jumped into the pool himself, trainers and all, causing a mini-tidal wave which splashed one of the babies and made it cry.
Our attention attracted, the class reluctantly conceded to perform an underwater rendition of the Macarena, followed by a half-hearted Twist. The women, myself included, all made cringing faces at each other behind Marty’s back. I realised that I was beginning to enjoy myself, and vowed to find a similar class in Ealing on my return. I could ask Stella to pick me up a class timetable next time she went swimming.
Meanwhile, a small crowd of young boys, skinny and shiny-wet in their minuscule swimming trunks, had assembled, sniggering, at a safe distance, fascinated by these fat ladies with webbed hands.
‘Now jump up and down!’ commanded Marty. I tried hard to do so with dignity, but failed. The rest of the women obliged, some giggling, some grumbling; the big ones all clasping their gloved hands underneath their bulges as though afraid the baby might just fall out. The post-natal ones jumped much higher than their pregnant friends. There was a thwacking sound of buttocks colliding with the water’s surface, and the water got quite choppy; waves slapping over the sides and rolling around us as we jumped. It was an incongruous sight in such a shallow pool.
Well, this is certainly a novel way to meet people, I thought. Suddenly all the stress and uncertainty and anxiety of the whole Ann Paramor undertaking faded away, to be replaced by a strong sense of the absurdity of the situation. For the first time in months I felt my depression being shaken out of me, with each jump dislodging a little more of the old miserable Emma until I felt so light and free I could have pogoed right out of the pool and into a new life. I thought of my adventure, of getting myself here, and doing this, and meeting Ruth. And then I thought of going home to Gavin the next day, of us starting again, and it made me so happy that I laughed out loud. Things were finally, finally, looking up; and at that moment I didn’t care whether I found Ann Paramor or not.
With a last burst of energy, I jumped up and down as vigorously as I could, and Ruth, next to me, jumped enthusiastically too. Suddenly she cried out in pain and doubled over.
‘Ruth? Are you OK?’
Ruth gasped and scrunched up her face, her hair sticking in wet streaks to her cheeks. She grabbed my arm. ‘I need to get out. Please could you get my stuff from the locker?’
I took one look at Marty’s horrified face, and the way the rest of the group seemed to wade backwards away from Ruth and, feeling as if someone more assertive had suddenly inhabited my body, took charge. Grabbing the thick rubber band from Ruth’s wrist, and snapping mine from my ankle, I handed both keys to Marty, who was white with panic.
‘Get a lifeguard or someone to bring our things from the lockers,’ I instructed.
Ruth moaned and wrapped her arms around her stomach. A yellowish cloud appeared in the water between her legs, eddying gently around her, and the other women moved even further away, sympathy and disgust flitting in tandem across their faces.
‘Her waters have broken. Call an ambulance! Come on Ruth, you’ll be fine.’
Ruth clung on to my elbow. ‘It’s too early! It can’t happen yet! Help, someone do something, please.’ She was panting with pain.
Marty was clinging to the side of the pool, like a big shiny barnacle. I shoved my finger into the spongy black rubber flesh on his chest, and shouted at him. ‘An ambulance - now! Move it! You two, give me a hand getting her out the water.’
I beckoned to the non-pregnant woman, and the one with the saggy boobs. They waded hastily over, and between us, supported and propelled Ruth forward and up the steps to where the towels were. I wrapped one around Ruth’s shoulders and one around where her waist used to be, and someone else volunteered their bath robe, into which I manoeuvred Ruth with difficulty.
Marty had hauled himself out of the pool, where he lay for a second like a beached whale, before gathering the strength to straighten up and pad over to the nearest lifeguard. His waterlogged trainers squelched at every step.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine….can I call anyone for you?’
‘Noooo,’ she wailed. ‘I’m on my own. Please don’t leave me.’
I grabbed her hand and held it, tightly. ‘I won’t, I promise.’
Two more lifeguards came rushing over and ushered us both in a little wet huddle towards reception. ‘Heigh Ho Silver Lining’ still blared incongruously from the boombox in the background, but the class had ground to a halt. Ruth refused to let go of my hand.
Just as the blue lights of an ambulance swirled up to the swimming pool’s main doors, bathing the surrounding cars and wet tarmac in ghoulish shadows, Marty came panting up to us trailing Ruth’s and my bags and clothes. He practically threw them at Ruth and shot off again, embarrassedly muttering ‘get well soon... ah, no, I mean, good luck; hope it all goes well...’
She looked at me through her pain, and shook her head. ‘Bloody useless,’ we said in tandem, Ruth through gritted teeth.
The lifeguards gathered up the strewn possessions as two burly ambulance men strapped Ruth into a stretcher on wheels, whose pillow-end was propped at a 45 degree angle.
‘What’s your name, love?’ asked one of the ambulance men.
‘Ruth Jackson. I’m n
ot due for another month!’
‘Righty-ho. Don’t you worry love, we’ll look after you. I’m Gerry, by the way, and this is Matt.’
Our odd-looking posse of uniformed men and undressed women swept outside and into the waiting ambulance. I winced as the cold night air hit my wet body - I hadn’t even had a chance to dry myself or put on any shoes. I shivered, and legions of gooseflesh presented arms from my face to my cold, bare feet. A small crowd of curious onlookers had assembled: an old couple with an equally geriatric greyhound straining at its leash, two fit young skinheads who’d finished their swim and were clutching wet towels in fat rolls secured by their goggles, and a little gang of local kids who’d been skateboarding in the car park. All of them stared at my back view as I climbed into the ambulance, still clad only in my Speedo, but I didn’t give it a second thought.
‘For God’s sake, get dressed. Don’t want to be called out to see to your pneumonia tomorrow, do we?’ Matt, the younger ambulance man, threw me a small towel and a blanket while Gerry attended to Ruth, timing her contractions and offering her gas and air through a mask held to her mouth.
I had no idea where exactly my clothes were, and no intention of stripping off inside a moving ambulance, so I rubbed myself perfunctorily with the towel, and wrapped myself in the prickly hospital blanket.
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll sort out my clothes when we get there.’
Ruth looked up at the sound of my voice, her eyes huge above the mask.
‘Thank you so much for coming. I’m scared. There’s nobody else…This shouldn’t be happening, it’s too early and....ohhhhh!’
She screamed and panted with pain. I stroked her forehead and gently dried the ends of her hair in the towel, as it occurred to me that I’d left my car in the carpark. Oh well, I thought, hoping it would still be there when I eventually got back to it. The worst that could happen would be a parking ticket, if I was at the hospital all night. Or vandalism. Or theft….
‘Ruth,’ I said. ‘I’m an aromatherapist. Can I massage you? Just your feet? I could give you a little bit of reflexology.’
Ruth nodded, sticking her damp white-pruny foot out from underneath the blanket covering her. I moved down to the other end of her, still wrapped in my own blanket, and took her foot in my lap. ‘I’m not in the way, am I?’ I asked Gerry.
‘You’re all right, just for a minute. I’ll need to check her once I’ve got these contractions timed, though.’
I struggled to remember the right acupressure points. It had been a long time since I’d massaged a pregnant woman, and I’d never done one in labour before. ‘Kidney 3, or “Bigger Stream,”’ I muttered to myself, finding the right place inside Ruth’s ankle. ‘Midway between high point of ankle bone and Achilles tendon, yes, there we are.’
I pushed firmly on the spot for a minute or two. ‘This is to help ease labour pain, or fatigue,’ I told her, although, frankly, it didn’t seem to be making any discernible difference. Ruth was gripped with another contraction, and I had to clamp her ankle with my other hand to stop her kicking me away. I wondered if I should go for Bladder 67, or “Reaching Inside” which was located on the bottom corner of the nail of the fifth toe, the pressure preferably to be applied with the point of a key, or other such object. But that was for difficult labour, or turning a breach, and I wasn’t sure if it might be overkill in Ruth’s case….
‘Sorry, miss, but you’ll have to move out of the way for a bit. I need to take a quick look.’ Gerry manoeuvred me gently out of the way so he could attend to Ruth. I felt frustrated that I couldn’t be more helpful.
‘A month early, is he? Well, he might be on the small side, but I’m sure there won’t be anything to worry about. Let’s have a little check, shall we?’ Gerry kept reassuring Ruth as he deftly unfastened the borrowed bathrobe, pulled away the towels, and peeled her wet costume off to examine her. Matt whipped two more blankets over her torso, as Gerry rummaged around between her legs. He had an absent, unfocused look in his eyes, as though he was trying to locate, by feel alone, the satsuma at the toe of his Christmas stocking.
‘Six centimetres dilated already! He’s trying to take you by surprise, the cheeky little bugger.’
We reached the hospital, sirens blaring, before I could do any more acupressure. I was almost sorry to leave the ambulance; it felt like a little microcosm of safety, with its neat shelves and lockers, shiny kits and life-saving equipment.
‘Good luck. I’ll wait for you outside,’ I said, disengaging Ruth’s clamped fingers from my own with difficulty, and wondering if I should offer to come in with her.
‘Thank yoooooo,’ Ruth wailed as she was lowered out of the ambulance and whisked off through the swing doors. I was disappointed. I’d always wanted to massage a women through labour – but, I supposed, she might still ask for me. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she hadn’t wanted me there. I was a stranger, after all.
I gathered up the pile of our possessions, shoved my feet halfway into my trainers without undoing the laces, and threw my coat on over the blanket. Feeling like a bag lady, or Tom’s mistress from Tom and Jerry, I flip-flopped my way down the metal steps of the ambulance and into the maternity unit, where I went to the reception desk, waiting to ask directions to the nearest bathroom. The backs of my trainers were crushed by me standing on them, and my blanket was slipping off. A tired-looking balding man clutching an equally weary potted chrysanthemum walked past me, in a wide arc as though I were armed and dangerous. Now I knew just how that man on the tube train had felt.
Chapter 30
Nobody appeared, so I took matters in my own hands and wandered around until I saw a Ladies loo. Thank God, I thought, bolting in and stripping off my wet swimsuit. My breasts and belly were icy cold to the touch, and clammy, like dead flesh. It reminded me of a day at the seaside, that cold, wet distracted feeling when you’ve been having too much fun to get properly dry, and I half-expected to pull a skein of seaweed out of my crotch, or to feel the gritty kiss of sand in the folds of my skin.
I was shivering so hard by then that my hands were having a hard time obeying commands, but eventually I managed to separate my own clothes from the jumble of Ruth’s, noting with admiration her Agnes B hooded cardigan and smart black Hennes maternity trousers.
Once dressed, I dried my hair by holding my head underneath the hand dryer, the feel of the hot air blasting into my ears and through my brain making red stars dance before my eyes. Then I wrapped everything - Ruth’s clothes, my wet costume, the borrowed bathrobe, towels, bags and coats - into the ambulance blanket, and wearily plodded back out into the corridor, in search of a vending machine and somewhere to sit down.
I found coffee, and a seat; but even though my body temperature returned to normal, I still couldn’t relax. My heart went out to Ruth, alone and in pain, and the pathos with which she’d said ‘there’s nobody else.’ Was this how Ann Paramor had felt when she’d had me? I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t really want to stay sitting on this awful black slippery leatherette bench, drinking plastic coffee – she could be in labour for twelve or fourteen hours. No, it wouldn’t be that long. She was already six centimetres dilated, I reminded myself. I wished I had my massage oils with me – then I’d definitely have offered to come into the delivery room with her.
But this thought dissolved into more worrying issues of whether or not I had enough money to get a cab back to my car; and what if Janet locked the door of the guesthouse, and I couldn’t wake anybody up? Plus, I couldn’t just leave – I had all Ruth’s belongings with me.
I decided to wait for a bit, and ask a midwife what was happening. They should know roughly how long it would take. But every person in uniform I saw seemed to be rushing around manically, as if I was watching them on speeded-up film, and I didn’t get the chance. Well, I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes, I thought. They felt pink and tense from all the chlorine and panic, and it was good to rest them. Draining the dregs of my disgusting
coffee, I swivelled my legs around on the leatherette bench, put my coat under my head, and drifted off into an uneasy damp sleep.
I awoke with a gasp from a dream in which Mum and Dad were adrift on a stormy sea, waves lashing and slapping against the side of their tiny, vulnerable boat. I was standing on the shore, one hand crooked over my eyes to try and see them better; unable to help. Marty stood next to me, wobbling with panic.
I’d grabbed his flabby arm and begged him. ‘Where’s Ann? Why isn’t she here? Do something!’ But he just dissolved in front of me, draining away into the sand, leaving an empty shell of black lycra on the beach next to me, like a deflated inner-tube. Back on the boat, Mum was in labour with Stella, screaming and crying, ranting almost incoherently, the way she had when I saw her after Stella was born, when she didn’t know that I was listening.
In my dream, the sea was chlorinated.
I sat up, feeling woozy and upset. I must have been asleep for quite some time. Usually I loved dreaming about Mum and Dad; it was a small gift of their presence which stayed with me for days afterwards. But they’d been so far away, and in trouble. Plus I could’ve done without the spectre of Marty in black rubber.
The vertebrae in my neck cracked and crunched as I rolled my head around, trying to shake off the memory of the dream. Miraculously, a midwife walked past me slowly enough for me to stop her, and I jumped up off the bench, feeling pressure against the bridge of my nose from where I’d been asleep with my glasses on.
‘Excuse me. Can you tell me how Ruth…um...Jackson is getting on? I came in with her.’ I tried to run my hand through my squiffy hair, but it got stuck in a tangle, which made me accidentally yank my head to one side in a demented-looking fashion.
