Expecting Emily

by Clare Dowling

  Also published by Poolbeg

  Amazing Grace

  Fast Forward

  Note on the Author

  Clare Dowling began her writing career as a playwright with the independent theatre company Glasshouse Productions of which she was a founder member. She has written short films, children’s books, drama for teenagers and is currently a scriptwriter with RTÉ’s Fair City. She lives in Dublin.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Gaye Shortland, Paula Campbell and all at Poolbeg. Thanks to Betty Moore for sharing her medical knowledge. Thanks to Margaret, Pamela and my mother for those Sunday morning brainstorming sessions. Thanks again to Siân and Caroline for reading it. Thanks to Stewart for all his overtime at the weekends and to Sean for helping me with the research.

  For my parents

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2002

  Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  © Clare Dowling 2002

  This edition published 2007

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 842234 070 1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  Part One

  The day started well enough for Emily except that she was late.

  “Excuse me, excuse me, thank you, excuse me. Oh! You’re very kind!”

  She beamed at two men who whipped open the double doors of the clinic for her and rushed past, not seeing the look of fear on their faces. It was the huge, tent-like denim maternity trousers that did it, and the way her belly swung wildly from side to side like an uncontrolled missile.

  Now. Floor three. Emily paused by the lift. It said 400kgs only. She hadn’t been weighed since last week but just to be on the safe side she headed for the stairs. It would be unfair to put the other lift occupants at risk.

  “You’re late,” Mr Chapman’s receptionist said with a little sigh. Her hair looked nailed on. Emily admired it. She’d left half of hers on the pillow that morning. Conor said that soon they would have enough to stuff a duvet.

  “Sorry,” Emily said. The thirty-mile drive from Paulstown to Cork City always took longer than she anticipated.

  “I’ll see if Mr Chapman can squeeze you in.”

  “He did the last time I was late. Squeezed me in. Or should that be squez?”

  The receptionist didn’t crack a smile. She never did. Oh well. She was probably only on 15k a year and couldn’t afford to smile.

  “Are you feeling all right?” she asked instead, looking at Emily.

  “Fine. Well, maybe a little dizzy.” Big black dots were bouncing before Emily’s eyes. Next time she would definitely take the lift.

  “Dizziness tends to happen.” The receptionist nodded sagely. “You know, when you’re pregnant.”

  This was rich from a girl who Emily guessed had been on the pill since she was twelve and still double-bagged everything. Emily stealthily reached behind and unzipped her ‘roomy’ maternity pants. The relief was instant and enormous, and the black dots disappeared.

  “Why don’t you take a seat,” the receptionist said. “But as you’ve missed your appointment, I should warn you that you could have a bit of a wait.”

  “That’s fine,” Emily said quickly, inching away, but the receptionist had long experience of dealing with the likes of Emily. A long, pale hand shot out over the reception desk.

  “Your sample.”

  “I forgot it,” Emily admitted.

  Behind her, she could feel the rest of the women in the waiting-room startle into awareness. Imagine forgetting to bring a sample! When they had probably been up since dawn drinking gallons of mineral water and decaff tea to generate that perfect, precious 10 ml. Some of them had probably used a tea-strainer in an effort at quality control.

  The receptionist gave another little sigh.

  “Mr Chapman needs a sample from you every week.”

  Emily looked at her. “Why, can’t he produce his own?”

  “No, no, he needs yours for the tests, you see . . . oh! You’re joking. Um, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” Emily said patiently. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered. But then a tiny snigger escaped the receptionist, before she guiltily covered her mouth with her hand. Nobody laughed at Mr Chapman, the most eminent obstetrician in the whole of the southwest. Some women planned their pregnancies around his holidays.

  The receptionist produced a spare plastic sample jar and leaned in. They were co-conspirators now. “The bathroom’s down to your right, Emily.”

  “Thanks, ah . . .?”

  “Sandra.”

  The tiny plastic container defied all reason. Emily did her best but her efforts were as usual more miss than hit. She dried up the bathroom floor with wads of toilet paper and hoped that nobody would notice her damp shoe.

  “My God!” A bloated, pasty face suddenly confronted her. “Oh, it’s only me,” she noted sadly, looking quickly away from the bathroom mirror. Once upon a time she had been quite nice-looking.

  She carefully washed her hands. Her wedding ring wouldn’t budge, she noticed, the skin around it pinched and red. She should have taken it off before it was too late. Now they’d probably have to cut it off.

  Still, Conor would buy her an eternity ring, wouldn’t he? Wasn’t that what men bought their wives on production of the first heir? A little well-done-love, smashing-job – mind you, I’d have done it ten times better myself if I’d had a pair of ovaries.

  “Excuse me . . . sorry . . . excuse me.” It was extraordinary how much of her life Emily seemed to spend excusing herself. She squeezed into a corner in the waiting-room and picked through the same tired selection of magazines. All the good ones were gone of course; Gardener’s Monthly and 1998’s copy of Newsweek had already been snapped up. Emily opened up House & Home and immediately wished she hadn’t. The baby’s room was only half-painted. She and Conor had spent an hour last night trying to assemble the easy-to-assemble cot. Conor had given up in a near tantrum, vowing to write to the manufacturers. Emily didn’t know what that would achieve apart from causing a fuss. Conor had retorted that there would be a greater fuss if the baby fell through the bottom and broke its neck. “Jesus, Conor!” Emily’s knees had snapped together in case the baby might fall through her own bottom. Conor had lugged the cot into the garage. There were sounds of sawing. He’d reappeared, triumphant. “It’s assembled.”

  The waiting-room was silent save for the sounds of magazine pages furiously turning. Not that anybody was reading, Emily included. She was watching the woman in the red trouser suit out of the corner of her eye. The woman in the red trouser suit was watching your woman in the baggy jumper. She was watching Emily and Trouser Suit simult
aneously. And the one in the flowery frock was watching them all, or at least their midriffs. The air of competition was intense. Who had the biggest belly? Who wore the nicest maternity clothes? Whose ankles were the least swollen? And occasionally a smug sense of reassurance – thank God my baby won’t have a hooter like that.

  It had been the same in antenatal classes. Everyone watching each other in a kind of guarded way. And the men were worse! Strutting about, giving each other I’ve-got-a-functioning-willy looks. It was nonsense really. Surely they were all in this together?

  Emily lowered her magazine and leaned in to the woman in the trouser suit. The woman started a bit, her hands flying protectively to her belly.

  “How many weeks are you?” Emily enquired politely.

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Me too.” Emily smiled. “I’m due the tenth of May.”

  “I’m the eleventh!” Trouser Suit was delighted now.

  “No!”

  “Have you had any Braxton Hicks yet?” Trouser Suit asked eagerly.

  Emily looked at her blankly. “What?”

  “You know, the preparatory contractions?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Oh.”

  Emily was losing Trouser Suit – it was happening before her very eyes. “But I’m hoping for one any minute now.”

  “I’m getting quite a few of them,” the girl in the baggy jumper offered shyly.

  Trouser Suit’s defection was complete. She turned her back on Emily. “Thank God! I thought I was the only one!”

  “They woke me up the other night,” Baggy Jumper confided. “I thought I was going into labour!”

  The woman in the flowery frock just couldn’t keep out of it. “You’ve a lovely little bump,” she told Baggy Jumper.

  “Oh stop! I’m like an elephant!”

  “I’m like an elephant!” Flowery Frock cried. “And I’m only twenty-eight weeks!”

  “God, I thought you were nearly full-term,” Trouser Suit said.

  Flowery Frock was sorry she’d opened her mouth now. Emily saw her chance to get back into the fray, but Baggy Jumper beat her to it.

  “Mr Chapman thinks I’m not putting on enough weight,” she murmured nervously even though everyone could see she was delighted. “I’ve to eat more.”

  “I ate a whole sliced pan last night,” Trouser Suit sighed.

  Emily leaned forward eagerly. “That’s nothing! I had three Aeros and a Galaxy ice cream!”

  Baggy Jumper, Trouser Suit and Flowery Frock looked at her in silence.

  “Um, all that sugar and additives . . . it mightn’t be good for the baby . . .” Baggy Jumper eventually offered.

  Emily felt like she had been slapped across the face. She retreated behind her magazine, raging with herself. Why hadn’t she said something about the sliced pan? All that gluten! Not to mention the pound of butter that had probably gone with it. But the moment was gone. The women had moved on to various discharges now, discussing colours and textures with glee. And she after starting the bloody conversation too!

  She gave her bump a quick, loving pat. At least you won’t have ears like hers, she reassured it.

  The baby kicked her roundly in the kidneys. You little shit, she thought dispassionately.

  Here came the husbands now into the packed waiting-room, having been despatched to park cars, buy mineral water and phone the office. There was much confusion as each tried to get as close as possible to the mother of their child without upsetting the mother of anybody else’s child.

  “I can scoot over . . .”

  “No, no, you’re the one who’s pregnant.” A nervous laugh.

  “I’m not that big.” More laughter.

  “Jerry, there’s a space over here.”

  “Oh right. Excuse me . . . sorry . . .”

  Jerry slid in beside Baggy Jumper, relieved, and took her hand as though she were made of bone china. He was no sooner settled before the glass plate at reception flew back.

  “Michelle? Jerry? Mr Chapman’s ready for you now.”

  Baggy Jumper and Jerry exchanged a secret smile before walking down the corridor and into the inner sanctum, him steering her with a firm hand on the small of her back, as though by being pregnant she had also lost her sense of direction.

  There was no more chatter in the waiting-room. It was all very well to confide in your womenfolk about eating sliced pans, but not in front of the men. It would have been as tasteless and embarrassing as discussing period pains.

  The door opened again and Conor breezed in. Sensibly, he had bought a copy of The Irish Times in the shop next door.

  He didn’t try to squeeze in anywhere. He simply stood by the door, looked at Emily and nodded around easily at everybody.

  Emily felt she should speak to him, claim him or something. “Did you manage to get parking?”

  “Yes,” he said. Of course he had. Everybody else had driven around the clinic in circles for half an hour but car parks seemed to swell and open up for Conor.

  They had driven down separately. Conor would be working in Cork tonight and figured he would pass the afternoon shopping, rather than making the sixty-mile round trip home and back again.

  “Did you?” he asked. “Get parking?” He had a great interest in these things.

  “Oh yes,” Emily said breezily. She had ended up parking in the consultants’ car park. She had stuck a note to the windscreen saying ‘On a delivery’. She had been quite pleased with that.

  “We’re going to have a bit of a wait,” she told him. “Sandra told me.”

  Conor’s eyebrows jumped up at the cosy reference to Sandra. So, Emily had finally broken down the hard-faced bitch. Conor himself didn’t waste his energy on people like that.

  “Well, we’ll see about that,” he said, throwing a grim look towards reception.

  “Conor, please don’t make a fuss.” Emily was embarrassed. She hoped he wouldn’t trot out his argument in front of everyone – that they paid handsomely for Mr Chapman’s time and that it wasn’t right to make pregnant women wait around like this.

  Thankfully, he didn’t. He merely shrugged and opened his paper.

  Emily sat back, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the movement in her tummy. The baby was turning over. She still wasn’t quite used to it after all these months. In fact, it was very odd sometimes when she was lying quite still to see her belly bulge and flop over entirely of its own accord. She thought she knew exactly how Sigorney Weaver had felt in Alien. Or was Alien 2?

  She had confided this to her sister Liz once. Liz had five boys and liked to be consulted for advice.

  “My God, Emily, you’re not very maternal, are you? Robbie! Get out of that puddle this instant or I’ll murder you!”

  Emily had felt guilty afterwards. Maybe there was something wrong with her. Surely her maternal instincts, whatever they were supposed to be, would come to the fore once the baby was born? Or was it possible that she was one of those freak mothers who took one look at their new infant and demanded that it be taken away and reared by apes or something?

  The baby had gone very still now. Probably frightened out of its wits. Or else, of course, it had just gone to sleep.

  Mr Chapman, as usual, wanted to palpate her.

  “Conor, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t see this,” he said generously.

  Emily found herself lying on the examining table with Mr Chapman on one side and Conor on the other. They looked at her as though waiting for her to perform a trick. Emily vaguely resented them; she was growing a baby inside her, wasn’t that enough?

  “If you could just ease up your top,” Mr Chapman prompted clinically. “Great. And loosen your trousers . . . oh, they’re already loose.”

  Telling herself there was nothing to be embarrassed about, Emily peeled down her trousers, embarrassed. Her underwear came into view.

  Conor winked at her. Emily shot him a stony glance.

  They had discussed knickers the night before (
just before the cot incident). Emily had been hand-washing a roomy white pair with a pink trim especially for today. She had three pairs that she rotated for this weekly visit, all new and white and granny-like with different coloured trims. The trims were important – that way Mr Chapman would know that she had actually changed them.

  Emily had tried to explain to Conor why she could never wear her black lacy ones in here, for example. Well, the mere idea of sex at these examinations seemed obscene or something. But sex had led to her condition in the first place, Conor said reasonably. Of course it had, Emily said, wanting him to understand. But she didn’t want Mr Chapman . . . well, to get a fright. Supposing he thought she was coming on to him?