by Lucy Lawrie
During all these preparations, I’d thought that I’d known her intimately, this creature who’d poked her heels and elbows into me, who’d squirmed and hiccuped her way through the last few months. Jonathan and I had talked to her each night as we’d snuggled up to go to sleep, telling her about our days or what new item we’d bought for the nursery.
But that imaginary baby had gone now, replaced by this little stranger who made rest impossible, and pulled at my insides whenever she was out of my arms.
She’d pulled the house off its axis, too; that was what had happened. Its centre of gravity had shifted from the rooms at the front – the hall and living room – to the nursery at the back. That was the heavy point, the point where I was standing if I tried to picture the house in my mind. The rest of the house had twisted, realigned itself, and now seemed to stand silent, waiting.
Waiting for what? Some kind of disaster, it felt like. Even climbing up these stairs was an activity fraught with peril. One slip, causing Sophie to lurch out of my arms, and it would all be over; the exhaustion, the confusion, those extravagant eyes and their dark blue gaze that plumbed unimagined depths of me. My throat went tight.
I found I could go no further. I sat down, three steps from the top, and folded my body around her.
‘Jonathan!’
I sat calling him, over and over again, for five minutes or ten or maybe an eternity.
He didn’t come.
*
‘I was on the phone to Stephen!’ he protested later that evening, for the hundredth time.
He was washing the dishes while I sat on a kitchen chair piled with cushions. Sophie had fallen asleep on me, and I was reluctant to move.
‘He wanted to hear all about his beautiful niece. I spoke to Moira briefly too, but you’ve got to phone her tomorrow – she wants a blow-by-blow account of the birth.’
I shuddered. ‘You mean they didn’t get your email? They must be about the only people in the world who didn’t. Was it blocked by the US government, or something?’
‘You still haven’t forgiven me, have you?’
I shrugged.
‘Oh Cassie, I’m sorry. I’m an arse, I know. I was just on such a high during the whole birth thing. I wasn’t thinking straight.’ He shook his head and winced. ‘It’s not a very good email, is it?’
‘There’s no way you can . . . recall it, or stop people from opening it, somehow, is there? We have no idea where that picture could end up.’
I looked down at Sophie. So far, the only place she’d fall asleep was in my arms; she seemed to think I was the person most likely to take care of her. ‘I don’t like the idea of her spinning around cyberspace where anyone can look at her.’
‘It’s only a picture, Cass. I haven’t sold her soul on eBay or anything.’
‘It just doesn’t seem safe . . . out there.’
‘Out where?’
I waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the window.
‘She’s not out there, sweetheart. She’s in here with us – in our house.’
‘Yeah, well. There’s something not right about this house.’
‘What, Cassie?’
How could I explain it? ‘There’s a sort of gravitational pull, coming from the nursery.’
Jonathan made a faint squeaking noise, in his manful effort not to laugh. ‘I think we’ll need to cut down on some of that medication you’re taking.’
‘Yes, the mind-altering paracetamol.’
‘Hmm. Or those tricksy iron tablets. But seriously, Cassie, you’re tired. I think you should get off to bed. I’ll look after Sophie.’
‘I don’t want to go to bed. I want us to sit down together and watch television.’ Maybe we could pretend, for just half an hour, that things were normal again.
‘But there’s no point in us both staying up.’
‘I can’t believe what we’ve done,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I can’t believe we thought we could just have a baby. We don’t know anything about how to look after a baby.’
‘Cassie, she’s three days old. All she needs is milk, cuddles and sleep.’
‘But this doesn’t feel like home any more.’
Jonathan sighed. ‘Of course this is our home, darling – you, me and Sophie. Everything will be fine.’
Would it be fine? She lay with her cheek against my forearm, her head resting in the crook of my elbow. What if I dropped her onto the tiles below? Would the back of that rounded head, with its soft whorls of hair, cave in like the shell of an egg?
‘Jonathan. Help me.’
He tutted softly. ‘Give her to me. Go to bed and get some rest. You’ll feel better tomorrow.’
I transferred Sophie into his arms and went upstairs. I wanted to cry, but they were heavy tears, trapped somewhere inside, unable to fall. I hadn’t been at all prepared for what would happen, giving birth to Sophie. I had walked through a door and found myself in a parallel world. And Jonathan hadn’t come with me.
3
Somehow we survived the first week. And after that we even survived three nights of my mother staying. A former nurse, she was prone to spurts of evangelical zeal over health matters, and my pregnancy had sent her into overdrive. She’d spent the last nine months sending me useful articles about drug-free childbirth, organic skin products, the correlation between maternal broccoli intake and foetal development, and the importance of breastfeeding (which was apparently the answer to everything, including global terrorism, climate change, and the world’s financial woes). Now she was here in person, I’d had to endure her Sad Face every time I let slip some failing in these respects (the epidural, the Diet Coke addiction, the bottles of formula lined up in the fridge).
On the last day of her stay, Mum and I had breakfast together in the kitchen – scrambled eggs, toast, and a pot of freshly made English breakfast tea, all prepared by Jonathan while he talked nonsense to Sophie in her Moses basket. He was now preparing to give her a ‘top and tail’ wash, so he’d turned the heating up high, and had gone upstairs to lay out towels, and find the special organic cotton wool he’d ordered online.
‘So,’ said Mum.
‘So.’ I could barely bring myself to look at her as she sat there across the table, rosy-cheeked and perfectly coiffed, her size twenty frame smart in black trousers, a pink shirt and pearls. The effect was only slightly marred by the sick-stained muslin cloth draped over her shoulder. Now that Jonathan had left the room, she’d no doubt start talking about Women’s Matters. I braced myself for some enquiry about cracked nipples or stitches.
‘Jonathan’s having a hard old time, dealing with fatherhood, is he?’
I snorted into my cup of tea. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘His nightmares, of course.’
‘What nightmares?’
‘Well, I can only assume they’re nightmares. Unless he normally shouts, “No, Dad, no no, please,” at three in the morning.’
He didn’t normally mention his father at all, either at three in the morning or at any other time. Pretty much all I knew about him was that he’d died suddenly, when Jonathan was a teenager.
‘When was this? I didn’t hear anything.’
‘But where have you been sleeping? In the nursery, no?’
‘I still would have heard him.’
‘It’s surprising what happens in the brain of a new mother. You’ll be tuned in to hear Sophie’s cries, but pretty much oblivious to anything else.’
Typical of my mother to presume she knew what went on in my brain.
‘Well, so what if he is having bad dreams?’ I said. ‘It’s not surprising. Our sleep has been very erratic since we got home. I’m not going to start reading anything into it.’
‘Just keep an eye on it, that’s all I’m saying. It’s not uncommon for new fathers to struggle with the transition. Becoming a parent can dredge up all sorts of things. I was reading about it the other day in . . . where was it, now? Practical Parenting, I think.’
<
br /> Typical, typical Mum. It would be hard to find a person on this earth more at ease with fatherhood than Jonathan. It was me who woke up several times a night, wondering if Sophie had died quietly in her cot, me who greeted each morning with trepidation, wondering whether I’d be able to keep her alive for another day.
But, to be fair, Mum didn’t know any of this – neither, for that matter, did Jonathan. I’d held tightly to my anxieties. Maybe I should try to be more communicative.
‘So did you feel kind of thrown in at the deep end, then, when I was born? Like your life was turned upside down?’
There was a little cry from the Moses basket on the floor, and a flurry of wriggling limbs.
‘Come on then, bunnykins,’ said Mum, swooping over to pick Sophie up. ‘There now! There now, itty-bitty peepkins! That’s not so bad, is it?’
When she spoke to me it was in her patient voice. ‘Well, I think I muddled through reasonably well, in the circumstances.’
‘Sorry.’ I’d forgotten, for a moment, that different rules applied to Mum. She’d been widowed when I was a baby, when my father had skidded off an icy road one bitter winter’s night, on the Swedish island where they’d lived at the time. I’d learned, as a child, not to question her about it, because of the way the atmosphere in the room would thicken instantly, the way she would impart the minimum of information, and then deftly change the subject.
‘What’s there to be sorry for?’ she asked in a sing-song voice, peering wide-eyed into my daughter’s face. ‘Itty-bitty cutie-kins, what’s there to be sorry for?’
She passed Sophie to me. I rubbed her back, marvelling at her smallness, the way one hand could contain the curve of her ribcage.
‘Why don’t you just try one more time, now you’re nice and relaxed.’
‘Try what?’
‘Just see if she’ll take a feed. From the breast, I mean.’
‘Mum!’ I growled. ‘She’s been on bottles since she was two days old. I hardly think . . .’
‘Ah yes, the whole minefield of nipple confusion. But still, I think it’s worth . . . oh dear.’
A tear rolled down my face and plopped onto Sophie’s back.
Mum reached out an awkward hand and patted me on the arm. ‘Don’t worry, Cassie, everyone feels a bit overwhelmed at first. Those post-partum hormones are a bugger,’ she added in a conspiratorial tone. ‘What you need is to meet up with other mums, establish a support network. Did I mention that a lovely girl called Jody phoned yesterday?’
Oh God. ‘Did she?’
‘I’m so glad you followed my advice and joined a Babycraft antenatal group. So nice to find an organisation that’s not afraid to take proper views on things. Jody was phoning to tell you about the next meet-up – it’s going to be at the John Lewis café. I wrote down the date for you.’
‘Great.’
‘Do at least try and sound a bit more enthusiastic, Cassie. It’s a wonderful opportunity. The friends you make in your pram-pushing days will be your friends for life. Those who don’t have children – like Helen – may well just drift away.’
There wasn’t much further she could drift, though, was there? I had a sudden image of her asleep on a beach lilo, drifting towards Antarctica.
‘Oh, and somebody else phoned on your mobile while you were in the shower. Elliot McCabe, he called himself . . . wasn’t that the name of the chappie who did Judith’s funeral? Anyway, he said he’d got your message and was returning your call, and that in fact there was an employment problem he’d like to discuss with you.’
I’d been thrilled to get his voicemail when I’d phoned. In my short message, I’d apologised for the unsavoury email, thanked him for his congratulations, and said something like, ‘Oh, and if there’s ever any employment matter I can help with, don’t hesitate to give me a shout.’ Not exactly the hard sell; he wasn’t supposed to phone me back.
‘Cassie, for goodness’ sake, stop slouching. You’ll fall off that chair.’
*
After driving my mother to the airport, we took a trip to the Botanic Gardens to celebrate. Jonathan was keen to visit the pond first, marching ahead purposively with the pram. Once there, he lifted Sophie out, holding her upright to see the ducks and talking animatedly. She didn’t seem all that interested. To be fair, she hadn’t totally mastered the whole eye-focusing thing yet.
There was a bench just across from the pond, and I parked the pram – laden with three rucksacks of baby equipment – and sat down. An elderly lady sank gently down onto the bench next to me, and commented that it was a beautiful afternoon.
Jonathan paused in his duck monologue to pull Sophie’s little crocheted hat down more snugly around her ears. His upper body was curled around her, like nothing else in the world mattered. But he looked at ease, comfortable, in a way that still eluded me. What I felt for her was so sharp, so uncompromising, always threaded through with terror. It bore little resemblance to the rosy maternal glow I’d felt while pregnant – or the easy, companionable bond I’d shared with Jonathan for the last eight years, for that matter.
What was love supposed to look like anyway? I would have answered the question with confidence two weeks ago; not any more.
But I suspected that easy and companionable wouldn’t cut it any more, that something was going to have to change between Jonathan and me in this new, post-Sophie world. Everything that had preceded the birth – wedding plans, house-hunting, mini-breaks, candlelit dinners after work – now seemed irrelevant, like games played between strangers. He was no longer just a person I’d met by chance in a dodgy nightclub and subsequently chosen to marry. Now, through some strange alchemy involving Sophie, he was my flesh and blood.
I jumped when my phone rang.
‘Hello, Cassie Carlisle here?’
‘It’s Elliot McCabe here – from Braid Hills Funeral Home. I’m following up from your phone message last week.’
‘Oh yes, hello.’ I changed my voice, realising with a little rush of shame that I’d answered the phone in lilting, ice cool tones tailored towards an imaginary Malkie – there had been two more missed calls from him in the last week. ‘It’s nice to speak to you. How can I help?’
‘Your email came at a good time, because I was thinking about trying to find an employment lawyer. It’s about the Working Time Regulations.’
‘Okay,’ I said, just about managing to stifle a yawn.
‘More specifically, it’s about on-call working. Everyone who works at Braid Hills has to do on-call time – we have a rota covering weekends and nights.’
‘Nights doing . . . what? Exactly? Sorry.’
‘Well, collections. From hospitals, nursing homes, clients’ homes. Death is not a nine-to-five business – so we need to be available. But the thing is, one of our employees, a bit of a troublemaker, was mouthing off the other day, saying we weren’t complying with the Regulations, and that his human rights were being violated because he was having to do too many call-outs.’
‘How many corpses would he normally collect, on an average night?’ I asked.
There was a loud gasp, and I turned round to see the old lady staring at me, open-mouthed in disgust. I couldn’t move away from the bench, given the pram and the three rucksacks, so I just sort of curled inwards and tried to hide my face behind my non-phone hand.
‘Well, there are only a handful each week. I think we’d be fine under the core working time rules. But this particular employee is claiming that his work involves a “special hazard” within the meaning of the legislation.’
‘Oh. What kind of hazard?’ If an employee’s work involved a special hazard, then there were stricter limits on their working hours. I was damned if I could remember what they were, though.
‘Dead people. He says he sees dead people.’
‘But surely that’s . . . I mean, it’s . . .’ It took me a moment to twig. ‘Ah! Do you mean . . . I wonder if you could possibly mean, in a Sixth Sense kind of way?’
‘Exactly!’ said Elliot, sounding relieved. ‘It’s getting to be a bit of a problem. He’s threatening to lodge a written complaint. Twice now he’s refused to carry out his duties on the grounds that the deceased person in question has been rude to him. He refuses to use the back stairs or the upstairs meeting room. And he’ll only drive one of the hearses, the newest one.’
‘Oh dear. How inconvenient.’ Why was it that all the loopy cases invariably ended up on my desk?
‘And with this whole night-time working thing, he says the unusually high number of ghosts in the premises constitutes a special hazard, because they put him under intense mental strain. I don’t want to have to take him off the night rota, but I don’t want to face a claim either.’
‘Could I give you a call back later today once I’ve double-checked the regulations?’
‘I’d appreciate it if you could give me an answer now. I’ve got a meeting with him in ten minutes and I want to get this cleared up.’
My instinct was to prevaricate, but Murray Radcliffe’s face popped into my mind, red and beaky and furious, like some mad-eyed Punch doll.
‘I’m sure it’s not a special hazard,’ I said firmly.
‘Good. Oh, and he wants me to arrange for an exorcism of the premises. Or a blessing or something.’ He sighed. ‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain he’s taking the piss, but I don’t want to fall foul of the law. Is there any legal precedent for this sort of thing?’