‘Stop it!’ Maggie’s voice was loud, raw. ‘Don’t touch me. Just find her, go and find her.’
‘Maggie, pull yourself together,’ said James, aware of the desperate edge to his voice. ‘This won’t help anyone.’
‘I can’t, I can’t,’ cried Maggie, her voice a wail. ‘She’s gone, she’s gone, and we shall never find her, never, she’s run away, and the whole day will –’
Yet again the phone rang. Christ, James thought, it was like some ghastly persistent torture, he felt the ringing physically, like a probe entering his brain, somewhere behind his ears. He picked it up.
‘Yes? Oh, Julia, good morning.’ He looked at them, over the phone, his eyes asking for guidance. They all stared at him, helpless. ‘How are you?’ he said. ‘Sleep well, I hope? In spite of everything. Good. Yes, indeed, a lovely day. I’m sorry? No, she’s not here just at the moment. She’s – in the bath. Can I get her to – yes, of course I will, Julia. How kind. How very kind. Goodbye. Yes, just before one we said, didn’t we? For a glass of champagne. Excellent. See you then, Julia.’
He put the phone down again. ‘She rang to speak to you,’ he said to Maggie, his face carefully expressionless, ‘to say she was sorry she missed you earlier when Janine rang, but she had just got out of the tub, as she calls it, and to – I quote – to tell you good morning, wish you the happiest of days. That’s all.’
‘She is very American that one,’ said Janine lightly.
‘Well she would be,’ said Maggie. ‘She is American. Nothing else? Nothing about Oliver?’
‘No. Nothing. He’s obviously still asleep.’
‘James, what do you think we should do?’ Her eyes were on him, strained, frightened.
‘I think,’ he said rather heavily, ‘I think, quite honestly, we should phone the police.’
‘So do I,’ said Harriet.
A small pained cry escaped Maggie.
James braced himself to confront the truth. He phoned first the vicar, then the police, and he phoned all the hospitals in the area; there had been no accidents, not even minor ones. The Chief Constable, whose daughter had been delivered of a fine strapping son in her own front room by James Forrest one December a few years earlier when all the roads for miles around had been closed by freak weather – James had trudged on foot through the snow to get to the house – made half a dozen calls to all the major units in the country. There were no serious accidents on record. ‘And I’ve had the hospitals checked out too. Nothing. I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr Forrest. She’s probably just – well, there is one thing you could do –’ He hesitated.
‘What’s that?’ asked James.
‘You could phone the Missing Persons’ Bureau. Very good people they are, very experienced in this sort of thing.’
‘Well I might. A little later,’ said James, shrinking from further phone calls, explanations, forms, details, red tape, further confirmation that Cressida was precisely that: a missing person. ‘Thank you.’
He looked at his watch: moving towards eleven. Christ, this was getting out of hand. They’d have to start notifying people soon, couldn’t go on like this. It was madness. But it seemed crazy, irresponsible, not to tell Oliver first: they should have done it hours before.
He phoned the Bergins’ hotel. While the number rang interminably, he stood staring out of the window, thinking inconsequentially that the white roses would actually be at their best next week and what a pity that was, what a waste, and it was several seconds later, when the hotel switchboard answered, before he forced himself to the realization that of all the possible, indeed almost certain, waste of today, the roses constituted the very least.
‘Lambourne Park Hotel,’ said the girl’s breathy voice, ‘how may I help you?’ And again James found himself distracted by minutiae, by how much he hated that phrase, so awkward in its syntax, so redolent of learnt-late rather than instilled good manners; then he pulled himself together, back to reality, and said, ‘Dr Bergin, please, Dr Oliver Bergin.’
‘One moment please,’ said the voice and there was the abstract clicking of computer keys and a long pause; then ‘Dr Bergin doesn’t appear to be answering at the moment, sir, can anyone else help you?’
‘No,’ said James irritably, ‘no they can’t, I’m afraid,’ and then suddenly Julia’s voice came on the line, just slightly less well modulated, marginally quicker than usual: ‘Julia Bergin speaking.’
‘Oh,’ said James, thrown into total confusion, ‘oh – Julia, this is James Forrest. I – I was actually hoping to speak to Oliver.’
‘Why?’ said Julia, and again this was not the rather fey, carefully flirtatious woman he normally spoke to, it was someone businesslike, quick, almost sharp. ‘First Janine, now you. Why do you all want to speak to Oliver, James?’
‘Well – I wanted to check something with him.’
‘And what was that, James? Maybe I can help?’
‘I don’t think so Julia. It was about the – the best man’s speech. I wondered how – how long it might be.’
‘I would have thought you should have spoken to Mungo. He would surely have more idea.’ She sounded more herself, the voice softer again.
‘Yes, but he’s on the tennis court.’
‘I see. Well, Oliver isn’t here right now.’
‘He isn’t?’ Dear God, had the entire world gone mad, disappeared? ‘No, he’s in the tub. No doubt reflecting on his future as a married man. A very fortunate married man, of course. Will I have him call you?’
‘Oh – yes, Julia, yes please. As soon as he’s out of the – er – tub. Thank you. I’ll be by the phone.’
‘All right, James. Goodbye for now. My, it’s getting late, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said James, looking helplessly at his watch and the clock on his desk: another ten minutes had passed, it was indeed getting late, after eleven now, after five past. ‘Yes it is. Well – thank you, Julia.’
‘And there’s nothing else?’
‘No, no, nothing. Thank you again.’
Silly woman. Fussing over her little thirty-two-year-old boy, hanging around in his bedroom on the morning of his wedding. What on earth was she doing in there, and would she be soaping his neck for him in a minute, checking he’d rinsed his hair properly? God, Cressida had a tough row to hoe with Julia for a mother-in-law.
‘Only maybe you won’t,’ he said aloud, and sat down at the desk, buried his head in his hands, his eyes tightly closed, his thumbs pushed into his ears as if to shut out as much as possible of the world, willing it away. As he always did, always had, in moments of appalling crisis. As he had, almost exactly twenty-five years ago, as he finally left the delivery room at St Edmund’s Hospital at five in the morning and stumbled exhaustedly into his room, wondering how, how in the name of God, he was ever to recover from the sheer awfulness of what he had done.
‘Mr Forrest? Staff Nurse Jackson here. We’ve got an admission into the labour ward, and I’d really like you to come over and have a look at her.’
‘Ah,’ said James, playing for time, ‘ah, yes, Staff. Yes, yes, I see.’
‘She’s very small, the baby seems to be quite big, and she doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere. And she hasn’t been coming to antenatal clinics.’
‘Isn’t Dr Meadows there?’
‘No, it’s young Tim Davies on duty, and I really don’t think he’s got the experience, and we’ve got three others in labour anyway –’
‘Ah’, said James again. He looked at his watch: one thirty, dear God, and he was in no condition to look at anything, except possibly another stiff whisky; he’d already had a great deal of wine, he’d known it was foolish, that he was on call, but he still found entertaining the Headleigh Draytons a strain. He wished Maggie would stop insisting on being quite such close friends with them, asking them for dinner and so on. He’d promised himself just one drink before dinner, but somehow the one had led to another and then he’d had to listen to bloody Alistair banging on about
his bloody career and his bloody family and how he’d put his bloody son down for Eton already. If only, James had thought, if only he knew; he had sat there, glass after glass of claret going down, (surreptitiously because they all knew he was on call, well diluted with a great many glasses of water), looking at Alistair’s handsomely good-natured face, and then at Susie’s beautiful one, listening to her lovely husky voice as she regaled them with some amusing story, not hearing a word of it, wondering with the old, sick, illogical jealousy how she could possibly have married Alistair.
‘Yes, all right, Staff,’ he heard himself saying, quite clearly, quite coherently. At least it would get him away from this filthy evening. ‘I’ll come over. Be about fifteen minutes. All right?’
‘Thank you, Mr Forrest.’
He had drunk almost a whole bottle of water and two mugs of strong coffee and gone; they had all looked at him anxiously and asked was he really all right, but he said yes, fine, he’d only had a couple of glasses, and that was hours ago (hoping no one had been counting). And went out to his car, and drove the few miles to St Edmund’s where Rosemary Mills was lying in the labour ward.
She seemed incredibly young, but then most of the mothers did these days. She was nineteen, she told him, her eyes resting trustingly on his, large blue eyes in a small pale face. She was very small; James looked at her narrow hips, small, childlike legs, either side of the huge stomach as he examined her, and sighed silently. Then he smiled his careful consultant’s smile, patted her hand gently.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘everything looks all right. Your cervix is dilating although it’s slow. But there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘It doesn’t feel all right,’ she said, her face contorting as a contraction hit her. She panted heavily, fiercely, her eyes fixed on him, clinging to the hand of the student nurse who was with her; he could see what she was doing, desperately trying to relax her body. One hand was clenched, the other flexed open.
‘Been to classes?’ he asked carefully, when she was finished, had swallowed, drawn breath, the midwife had wiped her dry mouth.
‘Well – not here.’ Her voice was pretty: slightly husky, with – what was it? – a West Country accent. ‘But to yoga classes. I – know what to do.’
‘Hmm. I’d advise some pethidine. Help a lot, you know.’
‘Oh no,’ she said quickly. ‘No, I don’t want drugs.’
Oh God. This was going to be tough.
‘Well – it could be a long night. Think about it at least.’
‘I have thought about it,’ she said, ‘and I know I don’t want any. I want to have my baby naturally.’
She sounded fierce; very fierce for such a gentle creature. She had been brainwashed by some bloody natural-childbirth freak. James would have them all bound and gagged and made to watch a long, tough breech birth, without benefit of pain relief.
‘Well, we’ll see how you get on. Of course,’ he added carefully, anxious not to alienate her, ‘that’s best if you can manage it, and if everything is straightforward. Now according to Staff Nurse, you haven’t been coming very often for your prenatal care. In fact, the last time we saw you was three months ago. That was silly, you know.’
‘I know,’ she said humbly. ‘I’m sorry. I hate hospitals.’
‘Well you’re here now. With your husband?’
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘with my yoga teacher and my mum. Can they come in – later?’
‘I don’t know. We allow husbands, but not –’
‘Oh God, it’s starting again,’ she said and started panting.
Staff Nurse Jackson patted her hand briskly. ‘Good girl. That’s right. You sure you wouldn’t like some pethidine?’
Rosemary Mills shook her head. Her teeth were gritted. The student nurse looked as white and exhausted as she did.
‘She’s very large,’ said Nurse Jackson. She had asked him to come into the corridor. ‘Don’t you think? Especially for a primagravida?’
‘Not really,’ said James curtly. He turned away from her, afraid his breath must smell of drink. It was too late: she knew, and she could see he knew she knew.
‘Dr Forrest, are you all right? You look very – tired. Would you like me to try and find someone else? Even now.’
‘No,’ said James. He found a packet of peppermints in his pocket, started chewing them. ‘I absolutely would not. This is a perfectly routine case. She’s already 5 cm dilated. She may have a tough time, but that’s all. Still, I’ll stay and see her through.’
‘How was the heartbeat?’
‘The heartbeat was fine.’
Staff Nurse Jackson met his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Forrest, but I just don’t like the look of it. Her waters broke over an hour ago, she’s been going hard for almost six hours as far as I can make out. And in mild labour for much longer than that. And she’s only thirty-six weeks. And as I say very big.’
‘Thirty-six weeks. Yes of course,’ said James quickly. He hadn’t noticed that. Shit. Did she know he hadn’t noticed?
‘Mr Forrest.’ The eyes were more contemptuous still. ‘I do think this one might be a Caesarian. Should we tell theatre, have them on standby?’
‘Staff, I’ll make my own decisions, thank you. Now you can get me a coffee, I’ve had a very long day, I’d only been home a couple of hours, and then you can try and persuade that stupid girl to have some pethidine. All right?’
‘Yes, Mr Forrest.’
He drank the coffee, sent for some more. He still felt odd, slightly distanced from reality, but not drunk any more. Of course not drunk. God, what was – well, maybe three glasses of wine? And a gin and tonic of course, but that had been many hours ago. He had frequently drunk much more than that in the past and gone on to beat Theo at poker. He was just tired. Terribly tired. And upset. That was all. Maybe he could get a few minutes’ sleep before he had to deliver the baby. He closed his eyes; the room swirled briefly. He drank some water, tried again, hung on through the swirling, and dozed for a while. His phone woke him. It was Staff Nurse Jackson. ‘Mr Forrest, she’s been pushing for almost half an hour, not getting anywhere. Could you come down please?’
‘Yes, of course.’
He stood up; he felt sick, still slightly odd, but much more sober. Good, the coffee had worked. He sook another slug of water, hurried along to the delivery room. Rosemary Mills was wide-eyed with terror and pain; her face was white and contorted.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘How are you? Pushing I hear. That’s good. How about some gas and air?’
‘No. No, I really don’t want any. Please don’t make me.’
James struggled to sound patient. The slight sense of unreality he was feeling, the sense of physical distancing from the room, from the girl, from her pain, helped. He managed to smile at her, to pat her hand. ‘No, not as long as you’re coping. And you’re pushing now, Staff Nurse tells me. That’s the good part. It will soon be over, and the baby will be here. Now I’m just going to have another look at you. Tell you how you’re getting on.’
He examined her; the tummy was very big. Staff was right. He did an internal. The head needed turning. That was it, that was what was holding things up. The heartbeat was absolutely fine, nothing serious there. Just a bad hour ahead for the poor girl; well, she should have some pain control. Silly bloody nonsense, all of it.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘now everything’s fine and you’re doing well, but the baby’s head is in slightly the wrong position.’
‘What does that mean?’ Her white face was panicked. ‘Is it dangerous?’
‘Not at all, no. It’s facing the wrong way – just slightly. That slows things down. But it may turn as it comes into the birth canal. All right?’
She nodded dully. Then a contraction came; she pushed. Another; she pushed again. And again. After twenty minutes, nothing had happened; the baby hadn’t budged. She was yelling now, her courage finally deserted her, her face contorted with fear as much as pain. ‘Get it out,’ she kept crying,
‘get it out, get it out. Please, for God’s sake, just get it out.’
‘All right,’ said James gently, ‘all right. I’m going to use forceps and give you a local anaesthetic, something called a pudendal block. And you’ll have to have an episiotomy. It will help us turn the baby’s head and get it out. Do you understand?’
Rosemary Mills moaned helplessly as her legs were placed in the stirrups. She looked like a small animal in a large trap. James looked at her. He had not known many births as bad before. He still felt sick and his head ached horribly. Christ, this was a nightmare. ‘Get me another glass of water,’ he said curtly to Janet Adams, the student nurse, ‘and call the paediatrician.’
He put the blades on the baby’s head – turned it and began to tug, gently. The baby proceeded, smoothly, easily now down the birth canal. He manipulated the head between contractions. Released from some of her pain Rosemary Mills was quieter, biddable. He felt better: in control, excited almost, as he often did before a birth. The baby was face downwards now; he did the episiotomy, gave a final pull and the head delivered. It was a very dark head, the hair very black. A pair of small brown shoulders followed, he gave an injection of syntometrine and the rest of the body emerged. A little coffee brown female body. He lifted the baby, slapped her gently, heard her cry, handed her into her mother’s pale, shaking arms.
‘She’s lovely,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Rosemary Mills, her voice little more than a croak. ‘Yes, she is. Really lovely. I can’t believe it.’ She looked up at him, gave him her trusting, childlike smile. James smiled back just slightly awkwardly. He felt he could have served her better. But: ‘All well then,’ he said to Staff Nurse Jackson.
‘Just as well,’ she said, ‘there’s a crisis in the theatre, baby with a heart problem.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, we were lucky.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rosemary, ‘thank you for everything.’ She was high now, with pleasure and relief, smiling, laughing almost, stroking the baby’s black head, her small pudgy nose, looking at her dark blue eyes.
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