Motherlove

by Thorne Moore

  ‘I told you.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Just as well Mum’s here. Better get Bibs.’

  ‘No. For God’s sake, let him play. He won’t have the first idea what’s going on.’

  ‘He knows he’s going to have a little brother or sister. Can’t wait.’

  ‘Didn’t show the slightest interest if you ask me.’ She was determined to be argumentative, resenting the fuss that was about to mushroom around her. Her sheer bloody agony and being manhandled, legs akimbo, prodded and bullied and patronised by doctors and nurses who would insist on calling her Mother, as if her breeding function were all the identity she deserved.

  ‘Well, anyway, Mum’s here to take care of him. I’ll get the car out.’

  ‘Oh, no rush.’ Heather plumped down, staking her claim to the sofa. A stupid move. It was too soft and deep; she’d be half an hour getting back out of it. ‘I’ve had a couple of twinges. Hours apart. It’s going to be ages yet.’

  But Martin was already calling Barbara, who was tidying Bibs’ room. Tidying it properly because she alone knew how to tidy a child’s bedroom effectively. Mother-in-law. There were worse, Heather supposed. Most of the time, when there was nothing fundamental to fight about, they got on very well. Barbara had patronised Heather as she would have done any stray kitten her son had brought home, hoping that he would lose interest quickly. With their marriage, she had accepted that this kitten was here to stay, and had better be treated with affectionate tolerance. She was never overtly critical about the way her poor son’s wife cooked or ironed, or dusted, or brought up their child, even if the criticism was there, in every firm, authoritative gesture.

  ‘Now then, dear.’ Barbara was in charge the moment she walked in, patting Heather on the head. No panic, no excitement, just a field marshall deploying troops. ‘Calm down, Martin darling. There’s no need to rush round like a headless chicken. Have you phoned the hospital to say she’ll be on her way? Heather dear, I suppose you are sure. Definite labour pains? Not just indigestion? Constipation?’

  ‘I do remember what it’s like,’ said Heather, heaving herself up. ‘And there’s no rush. I think I’ll make a cup of tea. Do you want some?’

  ‘Now dear, you just rest. I’ll make it. Nice and strong. I may not have many talents but I do know how to make a proper cup of tea. Martin did say it would be today. You’re lucky to have a husband who notices such things, but then he was always a sensitive boy. Caring. And we’re both going to care for you now, so don’t you worry about a thing.’

  Barbara was already in the kitchen, determined to be mother. Shielding her poor sensitive son from the demanding needs of his flaky wife with her unnatural emotional outbursts. Barbara wasn’t going to forget the fuss Heather had caused at Christmas. Other people could. The manager at Sainsbury’s had decided that prosecuting an hysterical pregnant woman would be bad publicity, and the paramedics had decided, once she had calmed down, that if she let her GP sort her out she’d be fine. Just a bit stressed. Pregnant women often were.

  Martin had been eager to forget, to get on with Christmas, to have fun with Bibs under the tree and not ever to mention all those terrible things Heather had let slip.

  But Barbara, who had not even been there, had not forgotten. ‘Poor Heather can be – well, I wouldn’t like to say unbalanced, but I’m afraid she’s finding it very difficult to cope. We’ll just have to keep an eye on things, make sure she doesn’t fly off the handle again.’

  It had worked, in a perverse way. It made Heather determined to remain calm, to cope. She was not going to lose her temper or her reason again. Not if it meant Barbara Norris wrestling her into a straitjacket. So while her mother-in-law made the tea, Heather dragged herself upstairs, and checked through the bag she had ready packed. Nightdresses, dressing gown, slippers, brush, toilet bag, books – and baby clothes; some of Bibs’ old things, and some new. Like doll’s outfits. Once upon a time she would have gone gooey at the sight of the oh-so-cute little bonnets, bibs and babygros. Now she could only picture endless months of non-stop washing, and the washing machine was threatening to pack up.

  ‘Heather?’ Barbara appeared. ‘Now you don’t need to be bothering with that. We’ll sort out everything for you. I know just what a nursing mother needs.’

  ‘I’m already packed, Barbara. See? Totally prepared. Dib, dib, dib.’

  ‘Oh, good girl. Mind you, I’m sure I’ll think of something you’ve forgotten. One always does. Not to worry; we’ll be in to see you every day.’

  ‘I’m not in for a month, you know. It’s my second, so they’ll probably turf me out tomorrow.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, dear.’

  ‘They’re always short of beds.’

  Barbara tutted. ‘We should have found a proper nursing home. You need time to rest. Believe me, I know.’

  I know too, Heather swore to herself. She hated hospital, the smell, the lack of privacy, the discomfort, but hospital would mean having other people to take the baby, cook her meals, change her sheets; professionals, not interfering relatives trying to take over her home. As long as she was in hospital, she wouldn’t have to worry about checking on her father or buying the milk or doing Martin’s shirts or getting Bibs’ tea. She could just lie and do nothing. But since Barbara thought she needed a week of doing nothing, Heather was determined to be in and out in twenty-four hours, just to prove her wrong.

  Martin had phoned the hospital and was wanting to move, to get her safely inside. Bibs, aware that something was happening, sat down and screamed in terror. On another day, Heather would have fought for the right to comfort him. Now she let Barbara take charge. It would keep her occupied.

  ‘Poor Bibsy Wibsy, is it all too much for you? But don’t worry, we still love you, oh yes we do. Granny will always love you, my special weshal boy.’

  ‘Go on, Bibs,’ prayed Heather silently. ‘Throw up on her.’ Ah. The pains again. Getting more frequent. Shit. She remembered what it was like, she’d said, but it wasn’t true. She had forgotten what a screaming torture it was. Get it over with, for Christ’s sake. Epidurals, gas, any damn thing. Somebody just put her under and prise the bloody thing out of her.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, as the cramp receded, and she could look at Martin’s anxious face without cursing. ‘Let’s go.’

  He carried her bags to the car. Barbara stood with Bibs, making him wave as if, given the choice, he wouldn’t wave to his mummy.

  ‘Be good, won’t you,’ said Heather, kissing him before Martin shovelled her into the passenger seat. She delayed shutting the door, looking back at Barbara. ‘I’ve left a couple of meals in the freezer. If they need more than that…’

  ‘Oh good heavens, dear, you shouldn’t have bothered with that. I’m here. I’ll make sure they have proper meals, good home cooking. It will do them good for a change. Now off you go. Martin, you will phone, won’t you?’

  ‘You’ll bloody eat those casseroles I’ve left, whatever she tries to feed you,’ said Heather as they lurched out of the drive onto the street.

  Martin laughed. ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘And you will go round and see Dad as soon as you can, won’t you? I know he probably won’t understand, but you’ve got to tell him.’

  ‘I’ll call straight there on my way home. Right, let’s hope there are no roadworks. Come on, come on!’ A bus had stopped in front of them and he was itching to squeeze past.

  ‘Martin, there’s no…’ She couldn’t finish. The pain pounced on her again.

  He was sweating with terror. He would be there, when she gave birth, because it was expected these days; he could cope with that, but the thought of her going into labour in the car was panicking him. He was crunching the gears like a learner driver on his first lesson.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she assured him.

  He wouldn’t believe it until he passed her into the care of the hospital staff.

  Here she was again. First time round it had been huge, this event of
events. She’d expected a fanfare of trumpets, every face in the hospital lighting up with awe at the thought of Heather Norris bringing a new life into the world. Surely the clouds were parting and crowds applauding.

  That was then. Now there was no awe, no one to give a damn. Not even Heather herself.

  The nurses who took charge of her joked among themselves, continuing conversations, barely registering her. She was one more parcel on the conveyor belt. A doctor was wheeled in, got her name wrong, inspected her like a prize cow. He watched dispassionately as the cramps took over again. At least the painkillers helped a bit, but as God was her witness, she was never ever going to go through this again.

  Martin was no help. For an hour he got in the way, expecting instant fireworks, asking her if there was anything he could do.

  ‘Have a vasectomy,’ she ordered.

  He winced. ‘Let’s just wait and see, eh.’

  ‘No. It’s an ultimatum. If you get me in the club again, I’m having an abortion.’

  His wince turned into a full-blown grimace. Nerves and fear. He couldn’t tell if she were joking or going to explode again with all that resentment he couldn’t understand. ‘You do want it, don’t you, Heather? You were just kidding, that time. Weren’t you?’

  ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, what does it matter what I want?’

  She felt her body relax. It gave her space for sympathy. Poor boy, he couldn’t help being useless. ‘Look, Martin, it’s going to be ages yet. I tell you what we’ve forgotten. A teddy bear.’

  ‘Oh no, Mum’s bought one.’

  ‘No, I mean one from us. Just a nice squishy little bear. Nothing posh. I wanted to choose one but I never got round to it. You know I was eight hours with Bibs and you don’t want to be hanging round here that long. Can you choose one?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There are shops just round the corner. Choose a nice one.’

  ‘Right. A bear. Yes.’ Did he know he was being shunted away, out of her hair? Probably as anxious to escape as she was to have him go. What were fathers supposed to do for eight hours? Bring back the civilised days when they were just sent off to smoke or boil water.

  The door had barely swung to behind him when the pain was back and she knew this was it.

  ‘Shit!’ She slammed the button summoning the nurse.

  Abigail Laura Norris was born at half past five after a very quick and uncomplicated labour. Seven pounds five ounces and wailing even as she emerged. A gasping mew. Heather was vaguely aware of it, through the pain and the sweating and a raging fury she couldn’t understand and hoped no one else would notice.

  ‘There we are,’ said the nurse, presenting her with a raw red bundle with screwed up eyes. She had forgotten how small and ugly babies were. She dutifully had to hold it and feed it while they all looked on. What was she, an exhibit in a freak show?

  ‘What a pity Father missed it. Never mind, he’ll be so thrilled. Now let’s get you cleaned up and sorted out and off to a nice fresh bed.’ She was at the end of the conveyor belt. They wanted her out of the delivery room quick, and in with the next. She was wheeled to a side ward with five other mothers, three of them beaming as if they had fulfilled the divine purpose of the universe, one asleep, one muttering that she needed a fag. Maybe I could start smoking, Heather thought.

  Martin turned up, with a blue bear, suitable squishy. He looked terrified and apologetic. ‘I missed it! Will you ever forgive me? I didn’t realise it would be so quick this time. There wasn’t anything local so I drove into town, to Woolworths. So sorry, Heather.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I was too doped up to notice. There she is then.’

  Granted permission, he turned to the cot, drooling over his baby daughter. ‘She’s so beautiful. Isn’t she? Has your eyes. Oh God, she’s lovely.’

  ‘She’ll do. You’d best get home to Bibs, give him the good news. But make a big fuss of him. Say it’s a present for him. I don’t want him to be jealous.’

  But Martin wouldn’t go at once. He had to go down to the foyer, phone Barbara, come back with flowers and chocolates and magazines, grinning as if he’d just won an Olympic gold.

  ‘God, look at her, an absolute cherub. I’ve phoned home, told Mum.’

  ‘Don’t forget my father.’

  ‘I won’t. Oh poor Heather.’ His attention was back to his wife for a moment. ‘I shouldn’t have gone. How was it? Really bad?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Absolute hell at the time, but the memory was already a blur. ‘I just feel a bit sore. And tired. I want to sleep for a week. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Martin left and Heather slept. She woke in the middle of the night.

  The gentle snoring and burbling of five other women and six babies, in the silence of a sleeping hospital. Distant clangs and soft feet in the corridor. Light, from outside, painting moving patterns on the ceiling. A twinge of deep depression. This was an alien place, and there she was, Heather Norris, forgotten, ignored, utterly alone.

  Except for that one little fragment of humanity sleeping beside her. Her baby. Her one connection. Flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone, soul of her soul. Dependent on her.

  She rolled over to study the little wrinkled face, and met a glimmer of blue eyes. Eyes without knowledge or fear, fixed on her, trusting. Eyes that knew her, that knew nothing but her.

  She reached to ease the child out of her cot. ‘Now you mustn’t have baby in bed with you,’ the nurse would say, soon enough. But the nurse wasn’t here just now. No one was here. Heather was alone with her child.

  ‘Just us, Abigail Laura,’ she whispered, cuddling down with the child. ‘You and me and no one else. Us two against the whole bloody world. God, I love you.’

  ii

  Gillian

  ‘So where’s this wonderful baby then?’ Gillian’s younger sister Pam looked around vaguely, expecting a baby to materialise out of thin air. ‘I thought they’d have given you one by now.’

  ‘They’ve approved us, that’s all,’ said Gillian. A letter of approval and then silence. How much longer could she wake each morning with a burst of hope that grew weaker and weaker each day? ‘We’re waiting for the right baby to come along. It’s got to be right, for the baby and for us.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pam considered reaching for a biscuit but the tin was too far away and she couldn’t be bothered.

  Without thinking, Gillian got up and passed it to her.

  ‘Ta. So you do get to choose then. I wouldn’t like not being able to choose. I mean, you don’t want a retard or something.’ Pam laughed in horror.

  ‘I don’t care if it’s handicapped.’ She meant it. A handicapped child would need her even more than a healthy one. She could feel her heart swelling at the thought of being needed forever.

  ‘Ugh.’ Pam grimaced.

  ‘You’ll want a boy,’ said Sandra, the eldest sister. She had been a dark pretty teenager, full of life, but at thirty-eight, she was every inch a second edition of Joan. Ironic, as she had spent her childhood screaming foul-mouthed defiance at Joan. ‘Don’t go for a girl. They’re nothing but bother and pregnant before you know it.’ She was qualified to talk. Bustled down the aisle at sixteen with hapless Dennis Taylor, because one had to in those days. Trevor had been born six weeks later. Now her daughter Sharon was expecting her second child, at seventeen. The girl had been left to run wild, to live her life on street corners, getting drunk on cheap lager. Talked about the pill as if she knew it all, but never actually did anything about it. Sandra had done nothing to guide her and she’d doubtless follow the same route with four-year-old Dana.

  ‘Ask me, they’re never going to give her a baby,’ said Joan, from the kitchen. She came through in a haze of smoke. ‘Too old, in’t she. Thirty-five? Looking for young mums, I reckon. Missed her chance.’

  Gillian could feel tears prickling, not at her mother’s unfeeling brutality, but the probable truth. Thirty-five was the age limit with the adoption authority. She’d been warned when
she and Terry first applied.

  Pam looked at her with sympathy. ‘Well you won’t be missing much, you know. They’re just a fuss and a bother.’

  ‘Bleeding pain in the arse,’ agreed Sandra. ‘Never a moment to think of yourself. Count yourself lucky you’re out of it.’

  ‘I want a baby!’ Gillian’s nails bit into her palms. ‘Just because it’s been so easy for you, even when you didn’t want them.’ They looked at her with incomprehension and contempt. Of course they didn’t understand. Three Summers girls and only Gillian was truly capable of responsibility and love and caring. Why was she the only one denied the fulfilment they regarded as an irritation? Why was she condemned to this burning desperation?

  She had always been the peacekeeper in the family, the good-humoured calming one, bowing to other people’s egos. Sandra had been the rebel. There were still dents in the plaster where she and Joan had thrown things at each other. Pam was the baby, with the curls and the sweet smile. Cared for and pampered as a child, cared for and pampered as a woman. She had never had to make decisions or take charge in her life and that was how she liked it. Gillian had always understood by instinct. Sandra was to be calmed and obeyed, Pam to be worshipped and comforted.

  Gillian had done whatever was asked of her, without complaint mostly. Looking back now, she could see just how much she had sacrificed. She had done really well at school. Probably as eager to please her teachers as friends and family. While Sandra played truant and Pam allowed others to do her work for her, Gillian sat and listened and worked and sailed through her eleven plus.

  ‘That means you get to go to the girls’ grammar,’ said Aunty Doreen from next door, awestuck.

  Joan, had laughed and said ‘You kidding? She doesn’t want to be stuck with that toffee-nosed lot.’

  So Gillian had gone to Houghton Road Secondary Modern, like nearly everyone else on the Marley Farm estate, and she hadn’t complained. Sometimes, the memory of her mother’s laugh came back to her. If Gillian had put her foot down and claimed her right to grammar school, perhaps Joan would have given way. Not with a good grace certainly. With plenty of comments about hoity-toity and the sacrifices I have to make and you needn’t think I’m going to wait on you hand and foot just because you’ve gone all posh. But she would perhaps have given way, complained about the cost of the uniform and sniffed with contempt in case anyone thought she might actually be proud.