Michael, Michael

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said wearily, ‘I didn’t know. I thought that I’d be safe.’

  A female voice was answering. Tessa shrank right back. That was his fiancée, so she must pretend she hadn’t heard. ‘G … go away,’ she stammered, but the woman wouldn’t move; had gripped her tightly by the wrist and was breathing in her face. There was nothing she could do. The woman had more power. She was Michael’s woman, so of course she would be strong.

  ‘All right,’ she yielded. ‘He’s yours. You’ve won him, and I’ve lost. But I still love him more than you do. I love him more than anyone – more than my own life.’

  Everyone had gone now, leaving her in the dark. She was frightened of the dark; had to find her mother. She stumbled out of bed, half-crawled across the floor, attracted by a chink of light shining from outside. She limped along the passage, uncertain where she was, her bare feet damp and clammy, sticking to the lino. She blundered through an open door, towards something white and solid, put her arms around it. Her mother had a long white nightgown – or had done years ago – a warm and cosy nightie which smelt of home and safety when she pressed her face against it. So why was it so cold now, cold and hard and shiny? And why was no one speaking, breaking the cold silence? Her mother always clucked and soothed if she woke from a bad dream, unsnarled the tangled blankets, brought her a hot drink.

  A shriek ripped through the night. Tessa blocked her ears. Perhaps it was another child, fighting through a nightmare on its own. All the mothers had been sent away, or maybe they were dead. The screams were getting louder, then fraying into hopeless racking sobs. She had screamed like that herself, though she couldn’t remember why.

  ‘Tessa! What are you doing out of bed? I told you not to move. If you need to spend a penny, you should ring for a bedpan. Now you’re in the toilet, you’d better go, but next time wait – d’you hear?’

  Tessa peered up at the figure standing over her; couldn’t make much sense of it. That was no one’s mother – not in a blue uniform, with that peculiar white cap, and a voice which rasped and scratched. She let herself be helped on to the lavatory, clinging to the uniform, so she wouldn’t fall or faint. She tried to pee, but nothing seemed to happen. She had forgotten how to do it, or perhaps she hadn’t learned yet. It was something very difficult, and she hadn’t got the knack. She could hear a tiny trickle dribbling into the pan, though she wasn’t really sure whether it was hers or someone else’s. She stood up again, still leaning on the uniform. She’d like to ask where her mother was, but the stranger seemed annoyed, marched her down the passage, returned her to her cell.

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Tessa timidly. ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘What of, for goodness’ sake?’

  Tessa didn’t answer, just watched the woman straightening up the bed, covering the water-jug, chivvying the curtains until she’d removed the gap in the middle.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Tessa. A name might help, make things safe, more real.

  ‘Nurse Bailey.’

  The name sounded familiar, though she couldn’t remember why. ‘Bailey,’ she kept repeating, until suddenly it clicked – Deborah Susan Bailey – her once-best friend from school. Debbie had a baby of her own, which had somehow come between them, undermined their friendship. Babies had such power: broke up close relationships, drove your man away.

  ‘Have you got any children?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, dear, and is this an inquisition? I’m sorry, but I can’t stay chatting here. Sister’s gone off sick, and we’re short-staffed as it is. We’ve just had a new admission, and …’ She gave a final tweak to the curtains before stumping out, still talking to herself.

  ‘Goodbye,’ called Tessa, but the door had closed already. No one had tucked her in; no one read a story. Her mother always read the one about the Goose-girl and the Prince.

  The screams were still re-echoing, even through the door. She lay there listening to them; knew they were her own screams. She was howling for her mother.

  ‘Mum,’ she sobbed. ‘Come back.’

  ‘Nearly there!’ the staff nurse said. ‘It’ll be coming any minute now, so draw your knees up and open your legs wide.’

  Tessa did as she was told. She felt something slide away from her, something slimy, precious, which slipped into the clumsy metal bedpan. That was no place for her baby, mixed up with the shit.

  ‘All over,’ said another voice. ‘Now, how about a nice hot cup of tea?’

  Tessa shook her head. ‘I want to hold my baby.’ If she didn’t grab him straight away, he’d be flushed down the toilet, or chucked out with the rubbish. They’d already removed the bedpan and were trying to smuggle it out of sight.

  ‘Best not,’ the staff nurse burbled. ‘He’s not a very pretty sight, and you don’t want to upset yourself. You’ve been through quite enough.’

  ‘I want to hold him,’ she repeated, her voice imperious. She had been a child too long, patronized and bullied. She was a mother now, the mother of a son.

  ‘Well, let’s just clean him up first.’

  ‘No, I prefer him as he is.’

  She could hear them whispering; knew they planned to cheat her, daze her with some drug or pill, weaken her resolve. But she was strong now, very strong. All the pain was over, the nausea and delirium, the dishevelled tousled night. It was daylight now, and sunny; a late September sun flickering on the yellow leaves outside.

  ‘Now listen, dear,’ a new voice coaxed, a wheedling winceyette voice. ‘Doctor told you, didn’t he, that your baby couldn’t survive? They’re just too small to live, you see, at only twenty weeks. And your wee chap was handicapped, which is why you had to lose him in the first place. I’m afraid he’s passed away already, pet, so wouldn’t it be better if you left the little mite with us, while you try to get some sleep?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘it wouldn’t.’ She sat up very straight, used every ounce of strength she had to overrule and silence them. They were all lying, anyway, all hand in glove with Michael – about to kill her child, but pretending he’d been born dead, to justify themselves.

  The wheedling one had started up again, her voice dripping like warm syrup. ‘Why not leave things be, dear? At least your baby’s peaceful now, and he didn’t feel a thing. It was kinder in the circumstances, to agree to let him go. I mean, he couldn’t lead a normal life, so you spared him all that suffering. What you need is a chance to rest and …’

  Tessa pushed the nurse away; kept her arm out, like a barrier, to prevent her sidling back again. ‘I’d like everyone to go,’ she rapped, astonished by her boldness. ‘And I’d like my baby – now.’

  She mustn’t take her eyes off them, or they’d bamboozle her, deceive her. She could see them swaddling something in a sheet. Probably just a con – a sheet wrapped round a nappy. They placed the bundle in her arms, but she hardly dared to look at it, still suspecting some base trick. She held her breath, made herself glance down, her whole body flooding with relief as she glimpsed a tiny face. It was stained deep red, as if flushed from its exertions; the weak eyes not quite focused, the lashes barely formed – but still her son, her first-born.

  ‘Michael,’ she said softly, trying to welcome him with her voice. His eyes were open, so how could he have ‘passed away’, as that creepy nurse had claimed? He needed rest and care, that’s all, to make up for what he’d suffered. At least she was alone. Everyone had shuffled out, as if persuaded by the strength of her conviction. She listened carefully, to make sure they weren’t outside the door, waiting to burst in again. No – she could hear their footsteps fading into nothing; a last low voice also swallowed up in silence. She tugged crossly at the sheet. They’d pulled it tight on purpose, to make it difficult to undo; were still determined to frustrate her. But she was equally determined to see her baby naked, to lie beside him, skin to skin, so they could be fused and bonded, as all the books advised. At last she succeeded in unravelling the sheet, and sat gazing at her son, startled by his size. He wa
s a scant eight inches long, although the lump on his back was very large and red, almost half the size of his head.

  ‘I don’t mind the lump,’ she told him. ‘It was only all the others who made such a fuss about it. You’re beautiful to me.’

  She held his hand – a perfect hand – all the tiny fingers there, even the beginnings of the nails. She wished he’d grip her own finger, but he was lying terribly still; his scraggy legs bent back, his skin transparent, streaked with threads of blood and waxy mucus. She would clean him up herself, didn’t want him roughly handled by careless hard-pressed staff. He was already bruised and marked, his frail limbs blotched with purple, as if he’d injured himself in trying to be born. She would bathe him very gently, rub ointment on the weals; but there wasn’t any rush. First they needed time to get to know each other, lie peacefully, enjoying the warm sun. If he’d been born when he was due, on the second of February, it would be wintry cold outside, the trees bare skeletons. But it was still only early autumn, and everything was glowing gold – fiery leaves, glinting sun, burnished bronze chrysanthemums underneath her window.

  She lay back against the pillows, with him snug against her breast. He was warm and very light; couldn’t be a burden to her, which was the word they’d used last week. They’d used so many callous terms – handicapped, retarded, possibly deformed. Lies again, exaggeration, blowing up minor problems out of all proportion. Michael and the doctor here must have stage-managed the whole thing; simply seeking an excuse to do away with an inconvenient child.

  ‘You’re no trouble, are you, Mishka? – the easiest baby anyone could want.’

  She placed her nipple in his mouth, but his head slipped sideways, one arm dangling down. Michael’s son should be a guzzler, but perhaps he was too tired still. ‘I’ll feed you when you’re hungry,’ she said, marvelling at his dainty feet, each toe a miniature replica of her own.

  She shut her eyes, let herself relax. The sun was very comforting, like a kindly nurse who had time to stay, distract her, play a game of chequers on the bedspread. If only it were stronger, though – warm enough to insulate her baby, prevent him catching cold. Perhaps she’d been mistaken to unwrap him. He was already losing heat, needed cosseting and pampering while he was still so small and vulnerable. She swathed him in the sheet again, then pulled the bedclothes right up to her chin. She was shivering herself; couldn’t understand it, when the room was almost stifling, and there were three thick cellular blankets on the bed.

  It was not good for her to shiver like that, because she couldn’t keep the baby still; couldn’t even talk to him now her teeth had started chattering. She touched his face – much cooler – felt a rising surge of panic. It was desperately important to keep new-born infants warm. If she wasn’t a good mother, they’d snatch him from her arms, cremate him with the trash, flush him down the sluice. They were coming for him now – heavy footsteps tramping down the passage, tap-tapping through the door.

  ‘No,’ she begged. ‘Don’t take him. He’s perfectly all right. He’s fast asleep, that’s all.’

  ‘You need some sleep yourself, pet. Just lie back on your side, so we can give you a wee jab. That’ll make you nice and woozy, so …’

  ‘No!’ Her shout took them by surprise. ‘Just one more minute, please. He must be christened first.’ She sat up, leaned across, until she could reach the jug of water standing on the bedside table. She dipped her fingers in it, then uncovered the bald head, let two drops flick gently on the scalp. She was struggling to recall the words; had heard them used in a television programme, one she’d watched with April, not that long ago. She must imagine April with her now – not as mother, but as godmother – declaring her support for the baby; repeating with the priest that the child had passed from darkness into light. That was all-important. Light meant life, survival. She only wished she didn’t feel so shaky, that she could perform the rite with dignity, not stumble over the words. The names came first, that she did remember. The priest in the programme had pronounced them slowly, solemnly, stressing every syllable. She tried to do the same, ignoring everything around her, looking only at the baby in her arms.

  ‘Michael, Peter, Astrolabe,’ she said, pausing with each name, letting each resound. ‘I baptize you in the name of your dead father – Michael Peter Edwards.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Please I’d like to feed my baby now.’

  ‘Now, come on, Tessa, try to eat your own food. You’ve left all your chicken pie, and that lovely strawberry ice-cream has gone and melted into a puddle.’ The nurse picked up the small glass dish, offered it to Tessa, with the wafer and a spoon.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve got to feed him first.’

  The nurse sat down by the bed. ‘Look, your baby wasn’t well, dear, so we … we … had to take him away.’

  ‘I know you did, but now I want him back. I realize you’re all busy, but if you could just tell me where he is, I’ll go and fetch him myself. I don’t want to be a nuisance.’

  The nurse said nothing, simply took the tray and closed the door behind her.

  Tessa sagged back on the pillows. She still felt weak and soggy, as if her body had been used as a football – people kicking it and hurling it, spattering it with mud. She had also lost all sense of time, except it seemed always to be dinner-time – people coaxing her to eat or drink, while her baby lay starving in some remote part of the hospital, hidden or imprisoned. The door clicked open once again, but she didn’t even bother to look up. It would only be another tray, or a cup of tea or Ovaltine. It was wicked for her to stuff herself, when her child was losing weight.

  ‘Are you awake, my dear?’

  Tessa squinted through her eyelids, saw a grey-haired man in a three-piece suit, standing at the door. Everyone kept ‘dear’-ing her, but it didn’t mean a thing. They were all strangers and all liars, just pretending to be kind so they could conceal the truth about what they’d done to her baby.

  The man walked over to the bed, offered her his hand to shake – a well-groomed, white-cuffed hand. ‘I’m Dr Haines, the consultant paediatrician. Mr Lawson-Scott asked me to come and see you.’

  She didn’t answer; was still taking in the names. Mr Lawson-Scott was the consultant gynaecologist. She had seen him very briefly: a plump man with a plummy accent, and three inches of white cuff. Michael’s boss at Oxford had probably looked the same – Sir Thomas Thornton – primped and prinked and manicured, in his expensive suit and made-to-measure shirt. Michael would be a consultant himself in another dozen years or less. He was already halfway there – had the accent and the background, the breeding and the cash.

  Dr Haines pulled up a chair, brushed the speckled vinyl seat, as if he feared it might be dirty and spoil his immaculate clothes. ‘I understand you’re finding it rather difficult to accept that your baby’s dead.’

  ‘He’s not dead.’

  ‘Look, my dear, I’m afraid he was never capable of independent life. He wasn’t sufficiently developed or mature – not at twenty weeks.’

  ‘I’m not your dear,’ said Tessa.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She pulled at the fringe on the bedspread; wished the man would go away; also wished she could keep her thoughts from Michael. Newcastle had never seemed more distant – a far-flung island, completely inaccessible.

  Dr Haines was frowning, patting down a strand of silver hair. ‘Now, remember when you had the scan – or two scans, wasn’t it? – you could tell from the pictures on the screen that he wasn’t a healthy babe.’

  Tessa locked her hands together, squeezed the fingers tight. Even the memory of those scans could make her sweat and shake. The machine purred into action in her head. She saw herself lying on the couch; her proud delighted grin as her baby sprang from womb to screen, and she watched him jerk and flicker in fuzzy black and white.

  ‘He seems a very active child,’ the radiographer had smiled.

  Of course, she’d thought. He’s Michael’s so
n.

  But then the radiographer’s voice had taken on a guarded tone, as she muttered awkwardly, ‘I’m afraid there may be a bit of a problem.’

  Odd, the words they used. ‘A bit of a problem’ was something trivial – a double-booking at the hairdresser; the coach from Oxford running late – not your baby’s health at stake; not a brutal sickening shock which blitzed your life apart. It had never crossed her mind that her baby would be anything but healthy. That first scan, at sixteen weeks, was simply a routine one, given to all pregnant women, however fit they were. The second scan was different; the words themselves growing darker and more complex – hydrocephalus, myelomeningocele – words she’d never come across before.

  Dr Haines cleared his throat, brushed a speck of nothing from his suit. ‘And it was your own decision, wasn’t it, to terminate the pregnancy? No one forced it on you.’

  Tessa kept her fingers tightly locked, did her best to concentrate on the hardness of her knuckles, the dampness of her palms – anything to distract her from the horror of the last few weeks. All the words were wrong again. ‘Terminate the pregnancy’ meant kill a living child. And ‘decision’ was eight letters concealing days and days of agony. How could anyone decide in such a hideous dilemma? Though her mother had, without much hesitation – had cried bitterly for half an hour, then pulled herself together and declared that she was committed to the baby, whether handicapped or not; and would even tend a vegetable or stump. Abortion was murder, and murder was wrong, and that was her last word on the subject. But other things were wrong – allowing an innocent child to suffer all its life, especially Michael’s child, who should be energetic, free as air, not confined to a wheelchair or dribbling at both ends.