by Rosie Lewis
All being well, the baby, once born, would share Zadie’s room. We decided to redecorate the space to suit both of them and Zadie chose a neutral, pale-yellow colour scheme. Jamie helped me to paint the walls and Zadie stencilled a border of white ducks just below the picture rail. Though I was sure that I should be feeling a little guilty about it, I was beginning to enjoy myself. I couldn’t help but feel a little excited about the prospect of having another new baby around, particularly as Zadie was beginning to relax and show an interest in Megan. Two babies in the house would certainly keep us busy, but I didn’t mind; if it were up to me I would have filled the house with little ones.
Sometimes my mother would join us in the evenings and the conversation would drift to her younger days, the wartime years growing up in Merseyside and then moving away to marry, and, inevitably, her own experiences of childbirth. ‘Of course, back in those days we were given an enema as soon as we got to hospital. I told the midwife I’d rather not but they said I was being difficult and called the matron, a terrifying woman. One look from her and I told them they could do what they liked. That was the worst part of the whole experience. It was all plain sailing after that.’ With the gentle wisdom of an older woman, she embellished the wonder of it all and glossed over the gruesome reality. There was only so much grit a girl in Zadie’s position could take. Mum seemed to have a knack of saying just the right thing and I would often find the pair huddled together on the sofa, chatting, every so often breaking into soft laughter.
‘Will it hurt, Rosie?’ Zadie asked me one evening in early September as I sat beside her on the sofa and reached for her feet. Planting them to rest on the cushion on my lap, I rubbed the tender skin around her swollen ankles and tried to arrange my face into a non-committal expression. I blinked a few times, taking my time to answer. ‘I mean, really badly hurt?’
Propped up against several plumped-up cushions, she leaned her head into one of them and awaited my reply with serious, searching eyes. I should have anticipated the question and prepared an answer in advance. Faking a yawn, I summoned a casual tone. ‘It’s all over with so quickly,’ I said, noticing that Jamie had swiftly left the room. He probably sensed a conversation looming that he wanted no part of. ‘Before you know it you’ll be sitting up and drinking a cup of tea.’ It was the line my mum fed me when I was pregnant with Emily, but I should have been more inventive because Zadie looked doubtful.
‘Why does everyone say it’s so bad then?’
‘Erm. Well, everybody’s experience is different,’ I said, wondering how far I should go in glossing over the harsh reality. ‘But they’ll give you something to help that anyway.’
‘I don’t think I’m allowed pain relief,’ she said mildly. My hand fell still on her foot. I stared at her and she looked back without a hint of gravitas. ‘That won’t matter, though, will it? If it’s not that bad?’
I hesitated for a moment. ‘Er, no, not really,’ I said weakly. I stared into the distance for a moment, then rubbed her leg briskly. ‘You must forget all your worries and trust me,’ I said with an absolute certainty that I didn’t feel. Naturally, Zadie had asked me to stay with her throughout the labour and of course I had agreed but the thought of what she was going to have to go through was already keeping me awake at night. In truth, I wasn’t sure my squeamish stomach would survive the drama. ‘You are going to be fine and so is the baby.’
Half-nodding, she allowed her eyes to close and asked no further questions. I suspected that she was afraid of what she might hear if she prodded me for more details. However was she going to find the courage she would need when the time came? I wondered. But then, she’d been through so much already. I hoped that her strength of character and quiet resilience would be enough to get her through.
Chapter 20
Peals of laughter and happy shouts floated in from the garden the next day as I stood at the hob, blinking against the rising steam from the home-made vegetable soup I was stirring in a large saucepan. Curious about what was unfolding in the garden, I turned the gas down and, leaving our lunch to simmer, I pulled some freshly laundered sheets from the washing machine and headed for the back door, a sweet fruity fragrance rising as I draped them over my arms.
Pulling up short in the doorway, I watched Jamie hammering down the path on his skateboard with my heart in my mouth. There was nothing unusual about his kamikaze spins but what stopped me in my tracks was the sight of Zadie, tearing along in his wake. At the end of the garden Jamie stopped and with a deft flick of the heel the board flipped upwards, into his outstretched hands. Handing it to Zadie like a baton, he jogged backwards up the gently sloping path and tilted his hand in the air, demonstrating his technique.
Clutching the damp sheets to my chest, I rolled backwards on my heels and then up on my toes, readying myself to intervene. My lips moved to shape the words but the expression on Zadie’s face held me back. Her features were alive; skin glowing, eyes bright and carefree as she smiled at Jamie and positioned the board in front of her. I faltered, hesitant to deny her a few last moments of childhood. Encouragingly, Jamie supported her hand as she climbed on the board and before I could muster a shout she was away, sailing along the paving stones, her arms outstretched for balance, my son whooping and laughing behind her. A light wind tugged at her robe, pulling it back to reveal the tight ball of her tummy.
Moments later the board wobbled and her arms jerked manically up and down as she staggered, struggling to stay upright. Dropping the sheets, my hands flew to my mouth as I watched Zadie lean forward, her hand clutching her swollen belly. Jamie was at her side in seconds, his arm supporting her elbow, his face clouded with concern. She grimaced as she half-limped to the swing, Jamie gently guiding her along. She’s barely half a year older than him, I thought, the sight causing something to shift in my chest.
Becoming aware of a sore spot at the back of my throat, I wasn’t sure I could trust myself to hold it together. Suddenly cold, I went to my bedroom to retrieve my oldest, most comfortable cardigan, tucking it beneath my chin on the way downstairs. In the kitchen, the soup was thickening and beginning to bubble over. Setting the saucepan aside from the heat, I pulled my cardigan on, wrapped it tightly around myself and lifted one arm to my face, muffling my sobs in the woollen sleeve.
The weeks passed quickly and soon Zadie was in her final month of pregnancy. With no contact between Zadie and her family, the stress of the past months faded and our days were instead filled with a sense of peace. It was as if the soft blankets and delicate cotton sleep-suits dotted around the house were cushioning Zadie, distancing her from the unpleasantness of the past and smoothing her transition to motherhood. Megan had settled into a routine and was feeding well, managing to take more milk. With her sleeping for longer periods during the night, I began to feel less tired myself, my energy slowly returning.
There was now no hiding Zadie’s pregnancy, even in her baggiest cardigan, and, as her bump grew, so did Emily and Jamie’s excitement. Zadie herself was coping well with the discomfort of a burgeoning tummy, but one Thursday evening in early November, when she was about three weeks away from her due date, she stood next to me in the kitchen and leaned back against the worktop with a heavy sigh.
‘How are you doing?’
Staring down at the point where her feet would be, she mumbled, ‘Not good.’
Pulling first at one rubber glove and then the other, I draped them over the edge of the sink and put my arm around her. That was it. The floodgates opened and she dissolved into tears. ‘Everything hurts, Rosie,’ she sobbed. ‘My back and my tummy, my legs, my ribs. Even my skin.’
‘Oh dear, it does get tough towards the end, honey,’ I said, my own anxiety rising with hers. She was so slight and fragile that it was a worry to think of the strain and discomfort her body must have been under. ‘But you’re doing so well.’
‘I’m not,’ she wailed. ‘Can you get them to take it out?’ She clasped my hands, pleading. I could hear the p
anic in her voice.
‘Come here,’ I said, leading her to the sofa and supporting her as she lowered herself, palms down behind her to ease the transition. I gave her a hug and when I pulled away her eyes were glistening with tears.
‘I’m sorry, Rosie,’ she said, dabbing her face on the sleeve of her robe. After a few moments she took a deep breath and buried her face in her hands. ‘I can’t stand being me,’ she said shakily, her voice muffled by trembling fingers. ‘I always mess everything up.’
‘You haven’t messed anything up.’ I handed her a tissue from the pocket of my cardigan. She tilted her head up and took it, dabbing her nose as she looked at me. ‘None of this was your fault, do you understand that?’
She looked away, then glanced back and gave a half-nod. ‘But my life is such a mess. How can it be anything else now?’
I couldn’t blame her for feeling pessimistic, with the way her life had gone so far. I wanted to reassure her that the landscape of her past could be altered. Possibly never erased, but brushed over with gentler, softer strokes so that her future could become a blank page, free for her to colour it any way she chose. I rubbed her shoulder. ‘We all have times when we drift a little off course, honey.’
Her head shot up. ‘Even you?’
She was looking at me in disbelief and I suppressed a laugh. Whatever image I was projecting clearly wasn’t accurate. Often I had heard people say how calm I appeared to be and it always struck me as strange; hearing about the awful things that people do to each other scared me half to death. Thankfully, no one seemed to realise how close I sometimes came to not holding it all together. ‘What I’ve found is that some of the most special times in life follow the worst.’
She smiled at that and laid her head on my chest.
By the following evening Zadie was calmer, back to her quiet tolerance. We had our dinner later than usual that day as Des had called and was going to join us after his last visit. At the dining table, Zadie had barely started on her dessert when she gently set her spoon on the table and looked at me. ‘Sorry, Rosie. I’m so tired. I think I’ll go to bed.’
‘OK, sweetie. Best you get some rest, if you feel like that. You’ve had a bit of a day of it, haven’t you?’
Smiling around the table as the others said goodnight, she had barely shuffled two steps when she gasped, her hand shooting out to grab the back of Des’s chair. We were all on our feet in an instant, me with my hand around the place her waist used to be. ‘Are you all right?’
Straightening, she frowned and let out a lungful of air. ‘Yes, fine,’ she said, her small hand rubbing the underneath of her bump. ‘I just had a shooting pain but it’s all right. It’s gone now.’
About half an hour after Zadie went to bed I could hear her moving around up in her bedroom. Unusually, Des was still camped out on the sofa playing FIFA with Jamie. I thought perhaps he hadn’t yet adjusted to going home to an empty house, but I didn’t mind. It was nice to have his company and the children loved him being around. I was just thinking about stirring myself to offer everyone a mug of hot chocolate when Zadie came back down.
‘Oh what great timing,’ I said, half-standing. ‘I was just about to make a –’ I stilled, my heart beginning to pound. ‘Are you all right, honey?’
She grimaced. ‘I’ve got cramps in my stomach. I think maybe I ate too much.’
Straightening, I glanced at Des. He raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t think so, sweetie,’ I said, using my best soothing voice.
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh no, Rosie. Is this it? Do you think this is it?’
‘Could be, honey,’ I said. ‘Very likely, I’d say.’
Emily and Jamie were on their feet in seconds, circling and watching avidly, as if the event might unfold there and then, on the living-room floor.
‘Give her some space you two,’ I said, laughing. ‘Jamie, you go and fetch Zadie’s overnight bag, would you?’ I had packed everything a couple of weeks earlier and left the bag stowed underneath Zadie’s bed. I wanted to have a quick check-through to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.
Jamie shuffled back a few steps, his eyes fixed on Zadie.
‘You’re not going to miss anything, Jamie,’ I said, waving my hand to hurry him along. ‘It might even be a false alarm.’
As if to prove me wrong, the carpet beneath Zadie’s feet grew darker, the stain growing outwards. With a look of horror, Zadie leaned over, arching one bare foot and then the other. Tears pooled in her eyes. ‘Ah-h, Rosie. What do I do?’ she asked in panic, hopping from one foot to the other.
Emily’s eyes widened. Jamie spun on his heels and fled. Des, who had been silent until that point, raised his eyebrows again and let out a soft whistle.
A short while later, after Zadie had cleaned herself up and the puddle lay hidden under a thick towel, I reached for the phone to call my mother, rubbing the small of Zadie’s back with my other hand. Mum had volunteered to stay over and look after Megan when the moment arrived and I wanted to catch her before she settled herself for the night.
Ten minutes later Mum arrived at my door with a flat wrapped package tucked under her arm and a look of anticipation. ‘It’s perishing out there,’ she said as I took her by her free hand. ‘I don’t envy you going out in it at this hour.’ There was something about my mother’s manner that always brought calm to any situation. I was hoping that Zadie would feel it too.
‘Do I get a cup of tea then?’ she said, kissing Zadie on the cheek and smiling at Des. ‘Hello, Des. I was halfway through watching my soaps when you called, Rosie. Zadie, this is for you.’
Mum passed the package around Des and Zadie took it, staring at the plain light-blue paper in confusion, as if we were playing pass the parcel and she couldn’t quite believe the music had stopped with her.
‘Go on then, open it,’ Mum prompted.
With a look of puzzlement Zadie turned the package over in her lap and picked at the tape until it puckered. The wrapping paper rustled with a soft shooshing as she tore it open to reveal a folded patchwork quilt. Pinching one of the bound edges between her fingers and thumbs, she stood up and shook it so that the quilt unfurled, its opposite edge sweeping the floor.
We all crowded around, staring at the fine stitches and intricate patterns in awed silence. The front of the quilt was formed of hundreds of tiny triangles, each complementing the next in pastel shades of pale yellow and duck-egg blue. All the way around the edge, Mum had embroidered the words, to hope, to dream, to cherish, and nestled in the centre, on white linen in the shape of a cradle, was a patchwork Mother Goose dressed in bonnet and shawl. Zadie tucked the top of the quilt under her chin and ran her fingers over the padded top. For a moment she just stared at it and when she eventually looked up there were tears in her eyes. ‘You did this for me?’
‘For you,’ Mum said, ‘and baby, of course.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Zadie said, still overcome. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ Mum said, patting her on the shoulder. ‘How are you feeling anyway?’
‘Scared,’ Zadie whispered, her lower lip quivering.
‘You’re bound to be, pet,’ Mum said in her most tender voice. A practical woman, my mother was never one to waste much time on sympathy, so my heart melted whenever she softened. I wanted to give her a hug. ‘But you’ve just got to get on with it, girl,’ she added, adopting her usual no-nonsense style. And of course, she was right about that. There was no going back now.
By 11 p.m. we were sitting side by side on the sofa, Mum and I reminiscing about our own experiences of childbirth, still whitewashed of course, for Zadie’s benefit. Even at their age Emily and Jamie were still fascinated to hear about their own arrivals and my heart ached a little for Zadie as we spoke, wondering whether she had ever heard her own birth story from either of her parents.
Des was only half-listening, his attention focused on the natural birthing leaflet that one of the midwives had given Zadie. I had skimmed t
hrough it a couple of weeks earlier and managed to persuade Zadie to practise some of the breathing techniques with me, but the most useful suggestion seemed to be ‘Imagine yourself as a flower, slowly opening’. Des was taking it all very seriously, though, his expression intent as he read. When the next contraction hit, Zadie broke into a sweat, her breaths fast and shallow. I could actually see her stomach rippling so I knew things were progressing.
She gripped my hand and I sat beside her, breathing exaggeratedly and encouraging her to do the same. Des grimaced as if the pain was contagious. ‘Try imagining that you’s lying on a beautiful sandy beach,’ he said with strained merriment. ‘It’s hot and you have all the power of the sun concentrated in your solar plexus.’
My mother gave him a sidelong glance and shook her head.
‘Breathe through it, lassie,’ Des said, reading straight from the booklet. ‘Let the pain wash over you’s like a wave.’
‘Oh, good heavens,’ Mum said, her voice cracking with a chuckle. ‘Hark at Miriam Stoppard over there.’
There would have been something vaguely comical about Des’s attempts at midwifery if I hadn’t been so nervous about what Zadie was about to go through. At least she had escaped FGM, I thought. That was one small mercy to be thankful for. What she would have to endure otherwise, I didn’t even want to imagine for a second.
‘How about you make us some tea, Des?’ I suggested, trying to distract him.
He nodded several times, without taking his eyes off Zadie. ‘Tea, yes. Good idea.’
Part of me wanted to delay going into the hospital. I knew once we were there it would mean monitors, internals and all sorts of other interventions. Home was a far more relaxing place to be in early labour, but if I’m honest I was scared. With Zadie being so young, it seemed like such a great responsibility, and besides, watching Des clucking around her with a look of imminent panic on his face was really getting to me. He meant well, bless him. He was so concerned, so gentle and protective, but when he switched the kettle on and offered to make Zadie ‘a nice cheese roll’ to go with her drink, I’d had enough.
