by C F Dunn
“How did it go?” Matthew asked as he entered the kitchen balancing a load of firewood on one arm and making me start.
“Ellie seems to have forgotten what happened.” I shook my head in disbelief. “It’s as if Guy never existed.”
“She has a reason to look forward to the future. She’s moved on.”
“And you’re saying I should do the same?”
“I’m saying that she’s let go of the past – all of it – and it is something both you and I could learn from.”
I glanced at the newly reinforced kitchen door and discreet sensors placed in the corners of the room, blinking watchfully. “Do you think we can ever fully escape our pasts, Matthew?”
“I don’t know, my love, but it will do no harm to try.”
Early summer heat blossomed, bringing out mayflies that danced in striated beams of the strengthening sun outside the window of my tutor room. I missed it already, my den of knowledge, the intrepid exploration into the past. I would miss my students and their eager quest for the unknown, their unquenchable thirst. Packing my bag for the final time this semester, I straightened as the nagging ache set in my lower back.
“You will be glad when this little fellow is born, no?” Siggie stood in the open doorway surveying the stacks of books waiting to be packed in the gaping boxes on the floor by my mahogany bookcase. She bent down and picked up Horrox’s The Black Death with its cheerful crowned corpse. “I see you are taking some light reading for your… confinement, I think you historians say. How many weeks is it now?”
“Two, and I feel ready to pop. Honestly, Siggie, how do women go through this time after time? He keeps dancing around. I bet he’ll be into aerobics or something. You’re really having a good time today, aren’t you?” I addressed my vast bump, patting it with a degree of resignation. “I was hoping to get a paper written, but all this wriggling is a bit of a distraction.” Rex gave an almighty roll that felt like grinding and I bent over, breathing through the discomfort.
“You get some rest,” Siggie advised. “You’ll need it when this baby puts in an appearance.”
“Thankfully, Matthew’s had more practice than I have. We’ll job share.”
“Has he? I didn’t think he had any children with his first wife.”
I mentally thumped myself and blamed my soggy brain for my loose tongue. “He helped out a lot when Dan’s three were born. He’s been more involved than I ever was with my nephews and niece.”
“Ah, I see.”
I fervently hoped she didn’t. Slips like that were nothing in themselves but could add up over time, filling in bits of the enigma that made up Matthew’s life. Finishing loading my laptop, I gave a vague smile. “We’ll sort it out, and I’ll be back to work soon, never fear.”
“My dear, you have the entire summer to enjoy your baby, so enjoy him.”
I totted up the weeks. “Golly, so I have. Mmm, that’s quite a long time.”
She smiled, embracing me. “History will wait for you. Go home, rest and be thankful for your child. I expect Matthew is looking forward to becoming a father, no?”
“Gosh, yes. He’s buying a crib at auction today. It’s very pretty – early seventeenth century, English, with this lovely canopy carved with pomegranates…” I shut up at that point, aware of her looking at me curiously.
“You know, my dear, I sometimes think that you two belong to another era. You have been born out of time.” Shaking her head and smiling, she tucked her arm through mine and, in this companionable way, walked me from my room.
“Ah, ah there you are!” Colin Eckhart scuttled along the corridor towards us, the hem of one trouser leg undone and catching dust as he went.
“Colin, you were looking for me?” Siggie greeted him. “How can I help you today?”
“I do-don’t want to see you, Dean,” he stuttered, looking beyond her shoulder to the window at the far end of the corridor. “I wish to see Professor D’Eresby.”
“Emma is just about to go home to begin maternity leave; perhaps you could email her…?”
“No, not at all, Dean. I have something for Professor D’Eresby.” His eyes swivelled in my vague direction, and he held out a book-shaped parcel wrapped in paper covered in heraldic shields. “It’s a book for your lying-in: Soussan’s Cooking and Conformity in Medieval Europe: The Birth of the Modern Housewife. Mrs Eckhart thought it would a… amuse you.”
I remembered to close my mouth. “How… I mean, thank you so much, but how did she know…?”
He blinked rapidly behind his heavy spectacles. “I tell Mrs Eckhart everything about you,” and suddenly beamed.
The orchard beckoned, soft sifting petals winnowed from the branches by the light breeze. Warm earth and long spring grass beguiled, and in the sheltered nook where the land dipped towards the southern sun, wild roses sprang, revealing the first shy blooms. Breathing in this melody of scents, I carefully lowered myself to the ground and pressed my sore back gratefully against a trunk, and placed the unwrapped book beside me. In the last year since Matthew had planted the orchard for my wedding present, the sylph stems had broadened, arching above me, the new green leaves sharp points in the blue, blue sky. Out here deadlines and expectations were as insubstantial as the gossamer webs floating on the wind. Out here there were no locks and bars, and I was five again and playing in the orchard of my youth – a faraway memory of sunshine and happiness I might very well have dreamed. Here, I felt free. Closing my eyes, I hummed a few bars from Handel’s Messiah, stroking my bump in time to the melody and imagining Rex quietening in response.
“I thought you might be out here.”
I opened one eye as Ellie dropped gracefully beside me. She swapped Charlie to her other arm and swept hair from her eyes with her free hand. “What’s this?” She picked up the book and turned it over, reading the blurb. “A history book, huh?” She put it back in its bed of grass without meeting my eyes. “Guy would have liked to read it.”
“It was not really his cup of tea.”
“Wasn’t it? I suppose you knew him better than I did.” When I didn’t say anything because a sudden twinge distracted me, she went on, “Charlie wanted to see Ollie. He smiled when he saw him; he thinks he’s a teddy bear.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Ollie misses Lizzie, you know.”
“Will you get another horse, Ellie?”
“I don’t know. So much has changed in the last year, hasn’t it?”
It had. It was my turn to look away. As if she read my thoughts, she said, “I met Guy a year ago – a year ago yesterday. I remember it so clearly. He came into the med centre saying he’d hurt his back.” At the break in her voice, I risked a glance at her. She had pressed her lips together as she looked at her now-sleeping son. “I think about Guy every day and I wonder what he would say about Charlie. I wonder what we would be doing now – whether it would have worked out.” She looked away and inspected the distant mountains.
“I’m sorry, Ellie. I’m so, so sorry.”
She brought the baby to her lips and kissed him softly. “Yeah, I know you are. I can’t say it’s been easy, but it can’t have been for you, either. I’ve never said this before, but I think I knew Guy wasn’t playing me straight – although I didn’t want to admit it at the time. I did love him…”
“I know you did.”
“But not everything he said added up, you know?” She met my eyes. “You were right about him, Emma.”
Rex tumbled inside me, catching me unaware, and I yelped and squirmed.
“You OK?” Ellie asked.
I laughed weakly, feeling nauseous and bruised. “Whew! That was quite a beating. I have another couple of weeks to go of this and I’m not sure I can stand it.” I hugged my bulge. “You, young man, are making your presence known, but you don’t need boxing gloves to do it.” I exhaled slowly. “Sorry you were so rudely interrupted, Ellie. You were saying?”
“Sure, that’s OK. I was only going to say that I should have known fr
om the beginning Guy wasn’t to be trusted.”
“Why?”
“When he came to the med centre that day complaining of a bad back, I couldn’t find anything wrong.”
“Why didn’t you tell him?”
“I guess I should have, but I liked him and he made it clear enough he liked me. I told him to come back for further tests although he didn’t need them.” Her skin flushed from her neck to her feline cheeks. “You probably think I’m stupid, right, but I chose to ignore those warning signs, to ignore you.”
“I don’t think anything of the sort. Guy was clever and persuasive. He did to you what he did to me. All we can do now is not allow him to be a shadow in our lives.”
“Is that how you’ve felt about him all these years?”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I didn’t know how to let go of the hurt.”
“And now?”
“And now I think I have – finally, and with help.”
“Now you have Matthew,” she stated.
“He has definitely helped,” I agreed, “but I needed to be healed from within.”
Her brow creased for a few seconds, then cleared. “Oh, you mean by God. Yeah, sure, I can see it must help if you believe in something; it gives you a sort of focus, doesn’t it?”
“Um, well, I see him as more of an active participant in my life, Ellie, but it took me a long time to let him in. I can be a bit dense like that – and obstinate.” I wriggled as a spasm shot across my lower stomach. And then another. “OK, OK, young man, settle down. Ouch! Oh!” I felt colour drain from my face.
“What is it?”
“I think my waters broke.” I looked down at the soggy fabric of my dress, frowning. “He can’t be, surely? He’s two weeks early.”
Ellie took one look and became suddenly businesslike. “Have you been having regular pains?”
“Yes, but I thought they were Branston Picks, or whatever they’re called. Ow…” I screwed my face as another one hit. “And they weren’t this bad.”
“Braxton Hicks,” she corrected. “Can you walk? We need to get you back to the house.”
She held on to my arm and I tried to get to my feet, but another spasm, sharper, longer, more intense, floored me. I sank back to the ground as pain like barbed wire seared across my lumbar region. “I don’t think I can,” I squeezed through clenched teeth.
“Can you count the contractions?”
I nodded, unable to speak, then shook my head as another wave spread.
“Was that another one?”
“Yeeesss.”
“Do you have your cell on you?”
“Nooooo.”
She muttered something that became irrelevant as pain swarmed again. She darted a look towards the house, standing serene in an emerald sea. “Don’t leave me!” I begged. “I don’t know what to do.”
Coming to a decision, Ellie laid Charlie on my discarded jacket and, rolling up her sleeves, knelt in front of me. “I’m going to examine you.”
“What?”
“Emma,” she said firmly, “I’m a doctor. I need to see if you’re dilated at all.”
She lifted my skirt and at that point I didn’t care what she saw or did because it took all my concentration to ride the next tsunami of pain. I heard her sharp intake of breath and a subdued exclamation. “OK,” she said briskly, “you’re already about eight centimeters dilated…”
“I can’t be!” I squeaked.
“… and you’re gonna want to push real soon.”
I did.
“Matthew…” I puffed. “I want Matthew…”
“Sure you do, but you’ve got me instead. Ready to push?”
I lost track of time between the increasingly intense peaks and the brief respite of the troughs, one following the other relentlessly, until I thought there would be no end to this cruel transition to life. I might have sobbed in despair and exhaustion had I not needed every ounce of energy to focus on pushing and heaving and breathing. The heels of my hands became embedded in the soft earth, crushed grass staining my palms already tattooed with stems and grit. An ant explored a drop of sweat trapped between my thumb and forefinger, a tiny fly swung in the cobweb of hair loosened about my face, and on the sunny face of the gentle slope, the first wild rose bloomed. All became irrelevant as Ellie urged and cajoled and encouraged, but nothing she could say or do compared with the urgency of my body to eject my baby and be free of this pain. Ramming my back against the tree so it shuddered, I strained. Too quick, too fast; I’m not ready for this.
“He’s crowning!” she exclaimed at one point. “Don’t push, pant, that’s it – you’re good at this. OK, push – keep it going, it’s not long now.”
“What… choice… do I… have?” I groaned, feeling as if I was being split, ingesting the pain, beyond fear, unable to articulate my plea for help, but knowing I was heard anyway as petals – delicate as snow – fell around me.
“Push – pushhhh hard, c’m on, PUSH!”
With an almighty effort, I drew on the last of my reserves.
Collapsing on my side in an ungainly heap in the crushed sward, I drew air in short chunks. “How is he?” I gasped, struggling around. Ellie was making rapid movements, her face drawn into furrows of concentration. She didn’t answer. No sound came from the baby – no gasp of life, no cry. “Ellie?” Panic swelled. “Ellie? What’s wrong? My baby, give him to me!” I reached for the bundle, partially obscured by her bent form. She knelt upright, and with first one arm, then the other, took off her shirt and wrapped him in it like a shroud. My heart imploded. “Why isn’t he crying? Ellie!”
She pulled the cloth from the little face. “Because she’s too busy looking. See?” Grinning, she held out the baby swathed in the pink and orange shirt, and placed her in my arms. Dark eyes stared unfocused, and the small, creased face worked, her mouth opening and shutting like a fish.
“A girl?” I whispered, hoarse from effort. “My girl?” The baby snuffled at the sound of my voice and from her puckered mouth a small cry wound into the air. Speechless, I could only hold her, stunned.
“She’s perfect, Emma, there’s nothing wrong. We’d better get you back to the house and clean you both up. Are you still getting contractions?”
Was I? I became vaguely away of continuing discomfort, and nodded.
“Good, you need to deliver the placenta. I’m going to take Charlie to Gran and then get some help. Think you’ll be OK for a few minutes, Emma? Will you be all right?”
I blinked up at her. “She’s perfect.”
She grinned again. “Yeah, she is; you did great. And she’s my first delivery.” She inspected her hands, smeared in blood and amniotic fluid, with a degree of pride.
“You did an amazing job, Ellie. Thanks – thanks for everything.”
A car engine tore to a halt beneath our bedroom window, and seconds later the front door slammed open, shaking me from a drowsy state between waking and sleeping. I heard incautious steps taking the stairs two at a time and then Matthew appeared at the door, his fair hair wild. He skidded to a standstill by my bedside.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I wasn’t with you,” he rushed, words tumbling. “How are you? Are you all right? Ellie said there was no time to get you back to the house – you didn’t have any pain relief, it was too quick.” His face creased with remorse. “I should have been there. I could have helped you with the pain…”
“We’re fine; Ellie did brilliantly. I’m not certain about it being quick, though; it felt like ages.”
“Thirty-seven minutes, Ellie said. She couldn’t do anything about the tearing… I should have been there,” he said again. His colours fluctuated between emotions so rapidly they almost merged, until he caught sight of the little bundle tucked in beside me, almost out of sight, and then he became a vibrant, ecstatic blue. With a degree of difficulty, I lifted the baby. He took her, and carefully cradling her in one arm, parted the cotton blankets from around her sleeping face, his eyes wid
ening in wonder. “She’s so beautiful,” he said, softly. “My daughter.” He leaned down and gently kissed her forehead, his lips murmuring against her skin. “What have I done to be so blessed?” He swallowed, controlling himself, and smiled awkwardly. “It’s a good thing we have a crib now, but we don’t have a name.” He perched on the edge of the bed.
“All the ones we came up with were for boys,” I pointed out.
“What about naming her after your Nanna?”
“Eleanor? She would have been chuffed to bits, but don’t you think there are enough Ellie-type names in your family to confuse us as it is?”
“Possibly,” he admitted.
“But her second name – and the one she preferred – was Rose. There were roses growing beyond the orchard,” I mused, remembering the palest pink blooms. “It’s rather fitting.”
“The wild meadow roses on the south slope? They flower early there. Rose. I like that. Rose. Rosie.” He rolled the name about a couple of times to try it out. “And she has your pink-toned hair.” He smiled as I winced. “It’s beautiful – as are you.” He leaned down and kissed me, lingering and tender. I didn’t feel very beautiful. Bits of me ached, others stung, and parts of me were bulging rather alarmingly as my milk began to gather. And I was tired – dog tired. He caressed my cheek and laid the baby beside me. “You’d better get some sleep while you can and I’ll go and set up the crib. I think you’ll both like it.”
“I’m too big for it,” I mumbled, eyes shutting despite myself, and he chuckled, stroking my cheek until consciousness – into which images and voices strayed – blurred. As I drifted, indistinctly and from a great distance, I heard the door open and then Ellie’s voice asking quietly, “Matthew, do you want me to run the tests on the placental samples?”
And his reply, so casual I thought I must have imagined it, “No, thank you; I’ll run them through E.V.E. myself.”
“Oh. OK. Sure.” Was that surprise I detected, or merely the effects of an overtired brain? It didn’t matter, it couldn’t matter, because all I wanted was to let myself go into the realms of sleep where I could be at peace and rest.
