I continue through the lanes, which get narrower and more unfamiliar as I try to find my way back to Talyton. The beams from the headlamps highlight the relentless slanting rain and falling leaves against a background of black. Twigs and debris clatter against the bodywork, and the undercarriage of the car bumps over tussocks of grass. Reaching a welcome crossroads, I turn left, and left again, finding myself on the road that enters Talyton from the south.
‘I knew we weren’t lost,’ I tell Sally. ‘All we have to do is cross the Old Bridge and we’re home and …’ I was going to say ‘dry’, but everything is soaked. The car smells of wet dog and fabric conditioner, and there’s water leaking through the seals around the windows and trickling down the inside.
I can just make out the road sign at the end of the Old Bridge, and the shape of its parapet walls looming up towards me, but before I reach it, I hit water. I slam on the brakes, the car aquaplanes and spins so it’s facing the wrong way, and just as I think we’re coming to a stop, the water seems to surge and pick us up, carrying us backwards. The headlamps go out, and for one of the scariest moments of my life, we’re drifting in the dark. Powerless. Out of control.
Sally whimpers and shivers of panic run down my spine. My belly tightens once more and a wave of indescribable pain takes my breath away.
This is it, Maz. This is it. The end.
There’s a gentle bump, then a jolt, and the car comes to a stop, beached on a bank or a hedge, perhaps. The pain loosens its hold and my survival instinct kicks in. I shove the door open and examine the situation with the light on my mobile phone. We’re resting on a mix of brambles, nettles and long grass at the base of a scrubby hedge. At a guess, I’d say it’s the one that runs between the river and the old railway line, and if the river’s burst its banks and flooded the valley, the old railway line seems like the best place to aim for as it’s a few feet above the level of the river.
At first, though, I wonder if we’d be safer staying with the vehicle. Being red, it should be fairly easy to spot by torchlight or in daylight if we have to sit it out that long, but the car shifts slightly, grating and groaning, and I’m afraid it’s going to be carried further downriver, and sink or break up.
‘Come on, Sally,’ I say, making my mind up. I grab her lead and haul her out my side. I tug her along with me along the line of the hedge, looking for a way through, but she wants to go the other way, towards the flood, towards the river, making our progress slow.
‘Help!’ I call, although I’m being optimistic imagining anyone can hear me, screaming through the storm. ‘Help!’ Finding a gap in the hedge, I push Sally ahead and plunge through the rushing, water-filled ditch behind her, shoving her up the bank on the other side, and scrambling out myself, slipping and sliding in the mud until I reach the relative safety of the cinder track that marks the old railway line. We’re both soaked through, Sally’s coat plastered against her body, my hair dripping into my eyes.
Sally shakes herself and sits beside me, while I crouch down, pressing my fists against my slab-hard belly as another wave of pain begins. Hot liquid gushes out between my legs. My waters have burst. I’m crying. Alex … Alex … How is Alex going to find me when he doesn’t know where I am?
Teeth chattering and tears stinging my cheeks, I hunt through my pockets for my phone. It’s dead, and I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere in the near darkness with water on all sides, the trees along the railway line straining and creaking as the gale forces them to bow in its path, and Sally gazing at me with her big brown eyes as if she’s expecting me to know what to do next. It crosses my mind that although I can think of more useful companions to have at my side at this moment, I’m glad I have Sally at least. I’m pretty sure I’d lose it completely if I were alone.
The pain grows more intense. Breathe. Remember to breathe. Rock on your hands and knees. Oh-mi-God.
‘Please, Bean. Please be all right.’
Where did that come from? The pain dulls, not completely, but on a scale of one to ten, it’s dropped from a twelve to an eight. Continuing to rock back and forth, I stroke my bump. I know what I said, but I don’t want to lose my baby, our baby. I want him or her to live, to be happy and healthy …
Knowing there’s little chance of that if we stay here, I straighten up, Sally nudging my hand with her nose, and I manage to stand and stagger northwards. Dashing my hair from my eyes, I stare towards the flashing lights and sirens that have appeared on the Old Bridge. My spirits lift a little at the thought that safety isn’t far away. Five minutes’ walk max.
Energised by the hope that our ordeal is almost over, Sally and I walk on along the cinder track until it disappears under water. Then, summoning all my courage, we slosh and paddle a hundred metres or so through the stretch of water that lies between us and the Old Bridge, before the water reaches up to Sally’s neck and over my knees. Sally hesitates while I keep walking, taking one tentative step at a time and dragging her along with me, but when the currents beneath the surface threaten to sweep me off my feet, I have to stop. I can’t swim.
My whole body hurts – from the cold and the effort of fighting the strength of the flood, of hanging on to Sally, of keeping moving … I want to cry. If I wasn’t so desperately afraid, I would, but I have to concentrate. I have to get us out of here. The water’s following us, rising inexorably as the rain continues to fall and the river swallows up every recognisable feature in the valley. The ditch and parts of the hedge on either side have disappeared, replaced by a black, swirling landscape, like something out of one of Penny’s paintings.
The bridge is too far away and there’s no hope in hell as far as I can see of anyone spotting us. There’s no way out.
All I can do is yell and shout for my baby’s life.
There’s movement on the bridge ahead. More vehicles. More people.
I start screaming, my voice growing hoarse, until I can no longer hear myself, overwhelmed by the roar of the storm, the sound of falling trees, the rush of the river and the beating rain. I take a moment to recover my breath, clinging on to Sally’s collar.
The water’s still rising. Inch by inch. I reckon at this rate we have another fifteen minutes or so left before the water swallows us up and carries us away. I’m under no illusion now. Me, the baby – I stifle a sob of grief – and the dog are going to drown, and of all the ways I have in my worst nightmares imagined my life would end, drowning was the one I feared the most …
I wait, paralysed by fear. I think of throwing myself onwards into the icy depths, of getting it over with, but either I’m too much of a coward or the desire to continue living is too powerful to resist, and I turn away from the bridge and wade back with Sally to the ever-diminishing island of cinder track where we wait for the inevitable.
I become aware of a lull in the storm. The wind drops slightly and I begin to be able to make out the sound of voices from the direction of the bridge. I imagine I can hear Alex’s voice, wishful thinking or my brain playing tricks, because I’d give anything to hear him again, to see him, to have him hold me in his arms. I shudder with cold and exhaustion. Just one last time.
He’s shouting now. Yelling. I can hear the panic in his voice.
‘Are you out there, Maz? Where the bloody hell are you? Maz!’
The water between me and the bridge lights up with a beam of light from a pair of headlamps. Dazzled, I screw my eyes shut and wave. Sally starts barking. I can hear the growl of a diesel engine over the sound of the wind as the vehicle approaches, then comes to a stop again.
Have they seen us? Please, let them have seen us …
I hear snatches of shouted conversation. Alex’s voice again. Another man? Something about a dog barking. Have they heard Sally?
I turn to her in desperation.
‘Speak, Sally!’ I urge her, and she responds with a delighted bark, as if she thinks it’s a game. ‘Speak, there’s a good girl.’ She barks and barks as if her life depends on it, which it does, I think, as
I strain my ears, listening for the voices.
‘Can’t you hear it? The dog.’
‘Alex!’ I yell. ‘Alex, we’re over here!’
‘Maz? Oh, thank God, it is you. Maz …’
I pick out the silhouette of a tractor and a figure beside it, but I can’t hear him now. His voice is whipped away by a gust of wind.
‘Stop right there!’ I yell, as the figure that I’m sure now is Alex starts disappearing into the water. ‘It’s too dangerous. The current!’
He hesitates, then returns to the tractor. I think he’s talking to someone, but I can’t see properly. He’s back on the edge of the water again, tying one end of a rope to the front of the tractor, the other round his waist. He steps into the flood, holding a torch in his mouth, and swims towards us. My heart lurches when I lose sight of him halfway across, and my relief that he’s found me turns to deep anxiety.
Don’t leave me, Alex … You promised me …
I search the water’s surface for what seems like an eternity until he bobs up again a few feet away from me and Sally, his hair slicked down against his head. He wades out of the water, his jeans and polo shirt clinging to his muscular body.
‘Oh, Maz,’ he says, his voice cracking with emotion as he embraces me, ‘I thought I’d lost you …’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, sobbing. I should have been more careful. I should have brought Sally up to the Manor instead of trying to reunite her with Penny at the school. ‘How did you know where to find us?’
‘Frances rang while I was dealing with Stewart’s cattle to tell me you’d gone out. She didn’t approve. She told me you’d gone up to Talyford; then someone reported they’d seen a car being swept downriver by the Old Bridge. Stewart brought me down in the tractor. The rest was guesswork and a lot of luck.’ Alex grimaces. ‘You’re safe now, though, darling. Let’s get you home.’
As he speaks, another wave of pain begins to build low in my pelvis. I gasp.
‘I c-c-can’t move.’
‘You have to,’ he says, sounding confused at my sudden desire to remain in this dangerous place for even a moment longer. ‘I’m s-s-sorry, Alex. The baby’s c-c-coming …’
‘How often?’ he asks roughly. ‘The contractions?’
‘About every … five minutes,’ I gasp. ‘I can’t move.’
Alex swears. ‘Maz, take a deep breath and listen to me. Just do as I say.’
‘The water?’
‘Forget the water. Concentrate on breathing. Let me worry about everything else.’
‘I’ve been such an idiot,’ I say through gritted teeth. I shove my fists into my belly in a vain attempt to stop the next contraction.
‘Hush, hush there.’
‘Stop talking to me like I’m one of your patients.’ I’m angry now – at Alex, at myself, at the storm. I’m in labour, in the middle of nowhere. Where’s the soft music, the aromatherapy oil and the midwife? What’s more, where’s the bloody epidural? The baby’s grinding its skull against my pelvic bones, forcing them apart. I start to scream. I can hear it this time, an uncontrolled, piercing scream.
‘Wait there,’ Alex says, and he heads off back towards the tractor.
‘No! Don’t you dare leave me here!’ I stamp my feet, but Alex doesn’t listen, and I’m beside myself now. How dare he leave his girlfriend in the middle of nowhere while she’s giving birth to his child. I never asked to have this baby. I don’t want it. Especially now when it feels as if it’s killing me …
However, Alex is soon back, carrying various old coats and blankets, and accompanied by Stewart, who ties Sally’s lead to the rope round his waist and swims her across to safety.
Alex wraps a blanket around my shoulders.
‘Now, do you think you can get across there before –’
It’s too late. I throw the blanket away and interrupt him with a low moan and sink to my knees, not caring about anything any more.
‘Okay, let’s get this baby delivered.’ Alex crouches beside me, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to strip to the waist, but the pain is too much. ‘Pant, Maz,’ Alex says, his fingers pressing into the small of my back. ‘I said pant – like a dog. That’s better.’
‘I don’t wanna pant,’ I wail. ‘I wanna push …’
‘Go for it, then.’ Alex’s mouth is at my ear. My trousers are in a wet heap on the cinder track. There’s a searing, tearing pain between my legs and all the time I can hear Alex giving orders and I really don’t want to listen because I don’t know who he thinks he is, telling me what to do when he hasn’t got a clue how much it bloody hurts.
‘Stop pushing, Maz,’ he says. ‘Pant. Again. That’s it.’
To my relief, the pain starts to wane, only to return with a ferocious intensity. I have to push this time. I can’t resist.
‘Well done, Maz.’ Alex urges me on. ‘Keep pushing.’
‘I am pushing,’ I snap.
‘That’s it. I’ve got the baby’s head. One more push.’
I summon the last of my strength. One more … push. I turn and there it is, the pale shiny body of our baby in Alex’s hands, the umbilical cord lying stretched and torn and bleeding over Alex’s wrist. I slump to the ground, aware vaguely of the afterbirth slipping away, followed by another rush of fluid, but I don’t care about myself. It’s the baby.
I watch and listen, and wait …
The ribcage jerks. The mouth opens. There’s a faint cry, like the mew of a cat, and I burst into tears.
‘It’s a boy,’ Alex says, trembling, as he places the baby into my arms.
Recoiling from this warm, wet and slippery alien, I try to give it back, but Alex holds up his hand.
‘Hold him against your skin, Maz. He needs the warmth.’ He throws a musty old coat around me and the baby. Looking down, I can see the top of his pointy head. His skin is blotchy. He’s grunting with each rapid exhalation of breath as if he’s struggling to get air into his lungs.
‘We need to get you both to hospital right now,’ Alex goes on, and I’m vaguely aware that we’ve been joined by men in fluorescent yellow waterproofs, and that the warm weight of my baby is no longer in my arms, and of another wave of warm fluid escaping from me, taking what remains of my strength with it.
Chapter Twenty-six
Vet Rescue
When I wake up I’m lying in bed with the smell of antiseptic scraping at the lining of my nose, and bright lights shining into my eyes. There’s a blood bag suspended on a stand beside me, connected via a tube to the cannula taped to the back of my hand.
‘Hi there, Maz.’ I turn my head to find Alex watching over me. ‘You’re in hospital. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘The baby?’ I ask quietly.
‘The baby’s well.’ He leans closer, and I can see the individual spikes of stubble on his chin. ‘I expect you can’t wait to see him.’
I nod weakly. Why do I feel so odd, so spaced out and disconnected?
‘I’m sorry I yelled at you, Alex,’ I begin. ‘I think I yelled at you. Down by the river.’
‘There’s no need to apologise. You were in transition. That’s why you lost it.’ He smiles. ‘Let me fetch you a chair.’
‘I’m not getting in that thing,’ I say, when I find out he means a wheelchair. I slide out of the bed, but I’m uncoordinated like a newborn foal. ‘I can walk,’ I go on, as Alex presses me back with a hand on my shoulder.
‘For once, don’t argue. You’ve been lucky. You lost a lot of blood the other night, and you’re going to feel washed out for a while, so I’m taking you to see the baby in that chair, whether you like it or not.’
‘Where is he, then? The baby.’ I shudder. ‘I had a dream – that he died.’
‘He’s on the SCBU – the Special Care Baby Unit – he’s going to be okay, though.’ I can’t see Alex’s face, but I feel his fingers brush a tear from my cheek. ‘He came a couple of weeks early, and he’s had problems with his lung function, and the effects of hypothermi
a, but he’s in good hands.’ I can hear the smile as he goes on, ‘He’s amazing, Maz.’
‘When you said “the other night”, what did you mean?’ I ask. ‘How long have I been out of it?’
‘Almost twenty-four hours. I’ve been trotting back and forth between the two of you.’
‘What time is it?’ I’m no longer in possession of a watch – I must have lost it in the flood, because there’s a band with my name on it on my wrist instead. I suppress a flicker of fear as I remember the black water and its inexorable rise.
‘It’s just after six. Bean was born at nine minutes past nine last night, weighing five pounds six ounces. If you want it in kilos, it’s written down somewhere on his notes.’ Alex pauses. ‘You know, if you’d told me you wanted a water birth, I’d have splashed out on a pool.’
He steers the wheelchair with the drip attached into the entrance of another ward, where he checks in with one of the nurses, who escorts us into the unit. She’s less than five feet tall and takes long, springing strides, her big calves bulging from below the hem of her dress. Her arms are big too. Her hair is long and thick and held back in a French plait, and I’d guess she’s at least forty, which is reassuring, considering she’s looking after the baby.
‘Baby’s nice and stable,’ she says, but I’m not really listening. I’m feeling weepy, my breasts are tender and I have a lump like a tumour in my throat because it’s my fault if he doesn’t pull through. Alex, Frances, everyone was right when they told me I was working too hard. That’s why he came early. Because I was too busy thinking about my precious career, too involved in saving the reputation of Otter House Vets, too bound up in trying to make up for Emma’s absences… I glance down, half expecting to see blood on my hands.
‘Here’s Baby Harwood,’ the nurse says, taking us through to a room at the back of the unit and showing us a tiny baby lying inside an extra-large warming incubator. I get out of the chair to have a closer look. He’s wearing a blue hat and nappy, and he’s hooked up by wires to various monitors. It’s horrible. Shocking. I turn to Alex and bury my face into his shirt.
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