by Drew Davies
‘Good-oh,’ he says with a laugh that triggers a rattling smoker’s cough. He winds down the window to let in some air.
They’ve left the town of Aylesbury now and are driving along a country road. The sky is dark grey, rain seems imminent. Somehow the muted light makes the fields appear more vivid and subdued at the same time.
‘Must have been lovely to grow up in the countryside,’ Daisy says, after a while.
‘If you like mud and tractors,’ Chris replies, ‘and anyway, I didn’t grow up here.’
‘We shipped him off to boarding school when he was five and he still holds a grudge. Can you reason with him, Daisy? There was asbestos in the roofing, we probably saved his life by sending him to Sandicott.’
‘You both seem alright.’
‘Your mother is eighty per cent asbestos to start with. I, on the other hand…’ Jack gives a few comedic coughs, triggering another coughing fit. He’s still hacking away when they turn into a long driveway and start their approach towards a large stately home.
Daisy’s cranes forward. Framed by dramatic clouds, manicured lawns and sprawling woodland, the Georgian house is like something out of The Wolves of Willoughby Chase. It’s huge – three storeys tall – and set on a terrace with stone steps leading up to front doors with granite archways. Chimney stacks jut from either side of the slate roof, while ivy clambers across the sepia bricks. To the west of the house sits a walled garden, and beyond this – poking through the trees – the impressive dome of what must be the glasshouse with the hoity-toity azaleas. Bloody hell, thinks Daisy.
‘It’s not too late,’ Jack says, clearing his throat. ‘Give me a sign and I’ll turn the car around. I can say your train was cancelled.’ Getting no response, he floors the accelerator instead and they race along the final stretch of driveway, skidding onto the terrace with a disturbingly loud crunch of gravel.
A woman – grey-blonde, slender, dressed in tasteful neutral colours (not quite pearls and a twinset, but the Buckinghamshire equivalent) – appears from inside the house and, after scowling at the clouds of dust, makes her way down the steps, opening Daisy’s door.
‘Welcome to Farleford Manor,’ she says, peering down at Daisy, who is trying to pull her dress over her knees.
As if on cue, a clap of thunder rumbles across the sky.
The gist of it was this: our body takes in food and water and converts them into a bounty of excretions: sweat, tears, mucus, saliva, semen, vaginal fluids, urine, pus – you name it, we produce it. A pregnant woman also begins to secrete a new edible substance – a cocktail of fatty acids, protein and antibodies – which, when fed to her newly-born offspring, is converted into other bodily fluids; predominantly, shit. This JoJo knows. She’d not grown up on a dairy farm in Johannesburg without learning a thing or two.
What she had never really considered, however, is that a mother’s choice of foods can affect not only her own, but also her child’s excrement. Citrus fruits might turn an infant’s stomach and produce bouts of diarrhoea, bitter greens could keep the baby awake all night with cramps and wind, coffee was a scatological game of roulette. JoJo found herself marvelling at the digestive process – food filtered through not one, but two organisms, like human sieves, one atop the other.
Belinda is diligently writing everything down in her handsome leather notepad (she is, JoJo is realising, quite the girlie swot). JoJo, on the other hand, is not scribbling away with a pen, or tapping away on an iPad like everyone else in the classroom. She even refused the loan of a pencil offered to her by Mary, the heavy-set midwife leading today’s session. Instead, JoJo sits on the mat with an air of quietude, silently willing her legs not to fall asleep.
A woman with a ponytail, seated at the front of the room, puts up her hand. JoJo knows exactly the type of person she is by her posture (her back so erect it’s somehow aggressive) and the velocity with which the woman’s hand shoots into the air.
‘What about alcohol?’ she asks in a tone that seems to convey concern, condescension and judgement all at once.
Mary sits taller herself, or as best she can on the mat.
‘Anything you consume – including medications and alcohol – will be passed on through the breast milk, so…’
Ponytail woman’s hand shoots up again. Her husband, beside her, rubs the small of her back.
‘I meant light drinking,’ she says, adding dismissively: ‘Studies show two units a week is quite safe. My question is – should red wine be avoided because of the tannins? I’ve read somewhere that clear spirits are best.’
Mary frowns. ‘I’m not sure we can say any amount of alcohol is one hundred per cent safe.’
The woman looks at her husband and back at Mary as if she can’t believe her ears. ‘I think it’s pretty well established by the medical industry that two units a week is harmless.’
‘To be honest, we don’t really know what effect alcohol has on a growing baby.’
‘But studies show that women who drink occasionally have very similar pregnancies to those who abstain.’
‘Is she serious?’ JoJo mutters to Belinda under her breath. ‘I mean, have a drink, don’t have a drink – but this woman’s only talking because she likes the sound of her own voice.’
Mary shifts her weight forward and then sits back on her knees. ‘Perhaps I can give you some extra reading after the class?’
The woman shrugs. ‘Doesn’t bother me. I’ve been teetotal for years, haven’t I?’ Her husband nods his head. ‘I only assumed everyone here would want the correct information.’
‘I need a drink just listening to her talk,’ JoJo says more audibly, provoking titters from some of the other couples.
Ponytail woman snaps around with such a fierce expression, the titters stop immediately. JoJo feels the anger rise in her throat, but she doesn’t want to retaliate and embarrass Belinda – and it’s a new and puzzling sensation.
Another woman, with a belly the size of a Ford Fiesta, asks a question about spicy food, but before Mary can answer, Ponytail interrupts. ‘Spicy food is out,’ she says emphatically. ‘It can give them severe abdominal pain.’
JoJo snorts. ‘Rubbish!’
Ponytail whips round to face JoJo again. She’s in her mid-thirties, and has a scrubbed, shiny complexion – like a piece of wax fruit.
‘You can’t tell me every baby in India is in pain after breastfeeding?’ JoJo says.
Ponytail seems momentarily taken off guard.
‘It’s different in Asian countries – you have to factor in water quality…’
‘JoJo’s right,’ Mary interjects, ‘and if your breast milk sometimes tastes different, after eating a curry, for example, your baby might get more used to trying a range of foods when they go onto solids.’
‘You wouldn’t want to eat spicy food every day though,’ Ponytail says defensively.
‘Maybe not every day,’ concedes Mary. ‘Variation is important.’
Another woman, in a bright green shawl, puts up her hand.
‘So, should you eat spicy food or not? I mean, is it something we should introduce, or should we only include it if we’re eating it already?’
JoJo watches Belinda write down ‘spicy food?’ and underline it. Nerd, she thinks.
‘Did you eat spicy food when you were pregnant?’
It takes JoJo a moment to realise the woman is directing the question at her.
‘Things were different in my day,’ she says, offhandedly. ‘Spicy foods weren’t as popular.’
There’s nodding across the classroom.
‘And what would you say are your tips?’
‘Tips on what?’ asks JoJo.
‘On having a baby,’ replies the woman in the green shawl.
There is what can only be described as a pregnant pause. JoJo glances at Mary, but she smiles encouragingly, obviously pleased to have someone else in the spotlight. Belinda looks as if she’s about to say something, so JoJo starts:
‘I’m no ex
pert,’ she begins – Belinda’s eyes widening – ‘but if you ask me, a nasty disease is taking hold and it’s putting your unborn baby at risk.’ JoJo pauses. Yes, she thinks, that’s sufficiently grabbed their attention. ‘And I’m not talking about antibiotic-resistant super-bugs either,’ she continues. ‘Although we had polio, diphtheria, whooping cough – and they were really something to worry about. Once you’ve seen a child in an iron-lung, it puts a few things into perspective.’
JoJo wiggles her toes, trying to keep the blood circulating.
‘I was in Mothercare the other week and you couldn’t move for kiddie-safe this and child-protector that. An entire industry, millions of pounds every year, built on paranoia. What if something happens? What if it does? In my day, we prescribed a healthy dose of ignorance. The Russians might have been ready to drop the bomb, but we were still hanging out the washing and grumbling about the weather. You couldn’t sit about worrying what if. You had to carry on, despite everything. There was no twenty-four-hour news. None of this Googling every ache and pain and diagnosing yourself with leprosy. We pride ourselves on living in the Information Age, but knowledge is only powerful if it doesn’t cripple you with fear.’
Ponytail’s hand flies into the air. ‘What are we supposed to do then?’ she asks in a shrill voice. ‘Bury our heads in the sand?’
In wet cement, more like, thinks JoJo.
‘Of course not,’ she says, her faux-grandmother smile at maximum wattage. ‘That’s not what I’m suggesting at all.’ The smile is making her left cheek twitch. ‘Have you heard of the nocebo effect?’
Ponytail is unsure.
‘Is it like the placebo effect?’ she asks.
‘Close, my dear – it’s the opposite. Nocebo is something completely safe that creates a harmful effect because people believe it will hurt them. Mind over matter. You imagine eating a slice of bread or drinking a glass of milk will give you a migraine, so it does. It’s completely psychogenic, but very powerful. And now it’s affecting our unborn children.’
‘What should we do?’ asks green shawl woman nervously.
JoJo uncrosses and re-crosses her legs.
‘It’s easy,’ she says. ‘Worry less. All of our bodies are different. Take spicy food – maybe you can eat chillies, maybe they rip a hole right through you. But if you eat them thinking they might hurt you, research shows,’ she nods pointedly at Ponytail woman, ‘that yes, they’re more likely to. I’m not saying don’t use your common sense, but a certain level of cluelessness might actually be healthy for you and your baby.’
With some satisfaction, JoJo observes several of the women are furiously taking notes.
As Chris pulls out her chair, Daisy feels herself bob a curtsey. Stop it, she commands herself, you are not in a Jane Austen novel. Behave normally. The opulent dining room where they’re about to have lunch isn’t helping: the grand wall panelling, the fancy plasterwork, the silver candelabras (candlelight has never felt more baroque, especially with the rain pelting against the windows).
‘The chicken’s lovely, so juicy,’ Daisy says, to break the silence after they’ve been eating for a few minutes.
Chris’s mother, Evelyn – the woman who met them at the car – smiles weakly.
‘It’s guinea fowl,’ she says.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever had guinea fowl.’
‘It’s not a proper meal unless you’ve throttled at least one exotic bird,’ Chris says, taking a sip of his wine.
Evelyn contemplates her son for a moment.
‘You’ve lost weight,’ she says.
‘I don’t think so. If anything, I’ve put weight on.’
‘No, you seem gaunt. Are you taking care of yourself?’
Chris takes another, larger sip of his wine.
‘Daisy’s from north London,’ he says, as if introducing her for the first time.
‘Were you born in London?’ asks Evelyn.
‘Yes,’ Daisy replies, unsure if this is a good thing or not. ‘I grew up in Dollis Hill.’
‘A real Londoner, eh?’ Jack says, raising his eyebrows.
Evelyn sits back in her chair, holding the stem of her wine glass.
‘I do love London,’ she says. ‘Such a vibrant city. Much nicer than Paris or New York. New York is full of overly friendly Americans, and Paris – the French can be abrupt – but London… London lets you be.’
‘I’ve never thought about it like that,’ says Daisy.
‘Only if you’re wealthy,’ Chris says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘London is basically controlled by a few wealthy old boys who all went to school together – everyone else is picking at scraps. And don’t get me started on the Royal Family.’
‘Every city has its problems,’ says Evelyn coolly. ‘And anyway, the monarchy is a carnival act these days.’
‘One funded by millions of pounds of tax payers’ money,’ Chris says into his glass.
‘The Parsons are moving away,’ announces Jack, as he chomps on a guinea fowl bone.
Chris is shocked by this news.
‘Really? Why?’
‘Couldn’t afford to keep their place up. They even went on one of those country house restoration TV shows where the lady comes over and makes you sell your furniture, and tries to charge people to traipse around the gardens on a weekend, but it didn’t help.’
‘Where are they moving to?’
‘In with their daughter.’
‘They’re moving in with Susie?’ Something about the way Chris says Susie makes Daisy’s jealousy muscle tense up. ‘Why don’t they buy a smaller house?’
‘Their business went bust, hit them pretty hard financially. Sold the land first, but had to let the house go too. Poor them!’
‘Poor Susie, more like!’ Chris says. He turns to Daisy. ‘They’re our neighbours on the east side,’ he explains. ‘Susie and I used to ride horses together.’
‘She’s a lawyer now, in Bath,’ adds Evelyn.
‘How nice,’ Daisy replies, picturing Susie – bronzed and beautiful – riding side-saddle on a white stallion, her reins in one hand and a law degree in the other.
‘And poor Theodore in all the papers,’ Jack says. ‘He can’t seem to catch a break.’
‘The Duke of Buckinghamshire,’ Chris explains to Daisy. ‘Our families are friends.’ She raises her eyebrows, impressed.
‘Doesn’t seem to be able to find a nice girl,’ Jack continues. ‘They all seem to rat him out to the tabloids after one night of passion.’
‘Not at the dining table,’ rebukes Evelyn.
‘Yes, Teddy’s a real heartbreaker,’ says Chris, covertly winking at Daisy. ‘No woman can possibly tame him…’
Daisy has no idea what the wink means, but it feels like she’s missing the joke, so after a short lull, she changes the subject.
‘What was Chris like as a boy?’ she asks brightly.
Evelyn considers this question.
‘He was a lovely child, quite serious. I remember one time, we lost him – not completely, we knew he was in the house somewhere – this was before we had the renovations, years back. He must have been two. We spent an hour calling for him, and then we found him, asleep in a pile of clothing. It was like a Caravaggio painting of Cupid. I couldn’t disturb him, I just had to sit and wait until he woke up.’ She turns to her son. ‘How quickly they grow up.’
‘Whenever I watch Chris sleeping, it creeps him out,’ Daisy says, helping herself to some more potato dauphinoise. ‘To be fair, I do stand over him holding a kitchen knife.’
‘Ho-ho!’ says Jack, chuckling.
The couples are dispersed around the room to work on mindfulness breathing exercises, with partners instructed to hold the mothers in their laps, using a cushion for support. After some awkwardness, JoJo and Belinda shuffle into a physical approximation of the other couples, with Belinda’s head more or less resting on JoJo’s groin.
‘So, that’s your answer to child rearing?’ Belinda’s says once
they’re settled, quietly enough so no one else can hear. ‘Keep calm and carry on?’
‘These women are so highly strung,’ scoffs JoJo, ‘the biggest risk to their health is spontaneous combustion.’
Belinda throws her a withering look.
‘And to think, you were very nearly a doctor.’
Speechless, JoJo stares at her.
‘Frank told me you went to Imperial College,’ she explains.
JoJo tries to move her legs, but she’s pinned under the weight of Belinda’s massive head.
‘That was not Frank’s information to give,’ she says in a low voice.
‘If it’s any consolation, he took some persuading.’
‘But that didn’t stop you?’
‘It’s my job to ask questions,’ replies Belinda, unfazed. ‘And I was curious why you never had your own career. Also,’ she says, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth as per the exercise, ‘when you have a baby resting on your internal organs, you tend to be less tactful.’
‘What else did he tell you?’
‘You were twenty-nine and finished the first year, but didn’t go back for a second.’ Belinda shuffles up so her head is pressed even further into JoJo’s groin. ‘I think you’d have been brilliant. Straight-talking. Shooting from the hip. My doctor’s an absolute idiot, I can’t get a sensible word out of him. They undergo a personality bypass to graduate these days.’
JoJo clenches and releases her jaw.
‘What made you go?’ asks Belinda.
‘Why does anyone go?’ she snaps.
‘There can’t have been many other women in your class?’
‘No, I was quite the trailblazer – blazing a trail all the way from the admissions office, right back out onto the street again.’
Belinda’s upside-down forehead frowns. ‘Getting into Imperial is an achievement in itself.’
‘No pride in failure, as my mother would have said.’
‘But you passed the first year?’
‘I would have been thirty-five by the time I had a degree. Another two years of foundation, three for specialty training – I’d be looking down the barrel of my forties by then. Medicine is a young person’s game. It was hard enough sitting in a room full of hyperactive children in my twenties, watching them all jostle for attention. And they didn’t exactly like the competition. I’ve a good brain for facts and figures. I’m not exactly squeamish. Some of those boys were afraid of their own shadows. They dropped like flies during our first dissection – you had to watch your feet.’