The Mother's Secret

by Clare Swatman

  ‘Mumma cry?’

  I kissed her eyes, her nose and her little rosebud lips. ‘Yes, Mumma was crying, but it’s all OK now. I’m here, I’m never leaving you again. Not ever.’

  She smiled, a weak little smile, and we sat a while longer, listening to the clock ticking and the odd shout from the street. It felt wrong, disjointed, to hear life going on as normal, given that so much had changed in the last few minutes in this house.

  I got up and carried Kate upstairs with me while I got dressed. I wasn’t really thinking as I pulled on my trousers, my jumper and tied my hair back into a ponytail. My stomach was still convulsing, but the ripples of pain were getting more manageable as the minutes passed, until they weren’t taking my breath away every time one came. I wasn’t really thinking as I strapped Kate into her pushchair and headed out for a walk, my head down so I didn’t have to look at anyone. I wasn’t thinking as I pushed her on the swings and made her laugh, or as she hauled herself up the steps of the slide and made me watch her stutter her way slowly down. And I definitely wasn’t really thinking later, after I put Kate to bed and pulled on my tatty old nightdress and realized I finally had to do something about what had happened earlier.

  I pushed open the bathroom door, praying that somehow it would all have been cleaned up and the room would look spotless, as though nothing had happened there at all. But of course it was exactly as I’d left it earlier. I stared straight ahead into the mirror above the sink and saw my face, pale and grey, my hair scraped back and my eyes bruised and swollen. I lifted my nightie up from the bottom and looked at my belly, still slightly swollen but already the evidence that there had ever been a baby in there disappearing before my eyes, leaving just some bleeding and waves of pain in its place. And then I knew I had to look down, at the floor by the radiator. I took a deep breath and turned my head and lowered my eyes. There it was. A perfectly ordinary-looking bundle of towelling, containing all my hopes and dreams for the future, shattered into pieces.

  I didn’t know how I was going to do this. There was a huge lump in my gut, and I really felt as though I was going to throw up if I had to pick up that little bundle.

  I tore my eyes away and looked back at the mirror. The me I saw before me was an empty shell of the me who’d been reflected back just a couple of months before. I was hollow.

  I had nothing more to lose.

  Without thinking about it any further, I turned and scooped the bundle off the floor with both hands, and held my arms out in front of me, slightly away from my body. The only way I could do it was by telling myself there was nothing inside, it was just a towel. Nothing more.

  I walked carefully down the stairs, turned sharply at the bottom and went into the kitchen. Shifting the bundle into one hand, I reached up for the key above the door frame and unlocked the back door before stepping out into the chilly early evening. It had been dark for a while and I was glad of the blanket of privacy. I didn’t really want to do this here, but I couldn’t leave Kate alone and I had to do something, so I walked to the end of the garden and placed the bundle carefully on the cold ground. I didn’t have anything to dig with so I grabbed a stick and bashed it into the soft, damp earth in the corner of the garden, frantically pulling at the soil and moving it to the side. It was taking ages, so I knelt down and scooped up handfuls of soil with my hands, and didn’t stop until the hole was a good few feet deep. I stopped and wiped my hands on my trousers, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts, and wondered what the hell I was doing. Could I really just do this, and carry on as if nothing had happened? Was I actually losing my mind?

  I sat, hunched over for a few minutes, until the cold crept in. Then I took a deep, ragged breath, and picked the bundle up from under the hedge. I held it in my arms for just a moment longer and brought it up to my face.

  ‘Bye-bye, little one. I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet, but I’ll never forget you. Be free.’ Then, with tears pouring down my face and falling in the hole, I tipped my baby’s remains into the ground. And as I covered it up with layers of soil, I knew I would never be the same person again.

  10

  24 November 1979

  The next day dawned bright and as the light pushed its way round the edges of the curtains I closed my eyes and prayed that what had happened yesterday had been nothing but a terrible dream. But the pain in my heart and my belly told me what I already knew.

  It was all too true.

  I rolled over onto my side and laid my arm gently across Kate’s body. I hadn’t slept a wink all night and at around three in the morning I’d brought her in with me, desperate to have someone close. I watched as her chest went up and down, up and down with each breath, and I could hardly believe she was right here next to me, that I hadn’t lost her as well.

  My face was damp and I lifted it from the pillow, which was soaked with tears I hadn’t even known I’d been crying. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand and sat up. My stomach ached, a dull, throbbing reminder of everything I’d lost. I knew I ought to go and see someone, to tell them what had happened.

  And as I’d lain awake in bed that night I’d worked out a plan. I’d go to the hospital, tell them what had happened, get myself checked over and then arrange for someone to come to the house and sort everything out. I couldn’t leave my baby buried out there in the garden; I needed some sort of closure, some formal goodbye. I knew it would be hard admitting what I’d done, but I hoped people would understand my grief, after losing Ray.

  I hoped.

  I went downstairs and into the kitchen, leaving Kate sleeping on my bed. It was still early and the air was so cold I could almost see my breath. I stood by the window overlooking the back garden and I stared at the spot where I’d been digging last night. There was just a small patch of earth overturned at the edge of the lawn near the flower bed. It hardly looked like anything at all; you wouldn’t notice it if you didn’t know it was there. It didn’t seem real. But then I glanced down at my hands resting on the edge of the sink and I could see that it was; my nails were torn and there was mud packed underneath them, despite my best efforts to scrub myself clean again last night. I turned the tap on and held my hands under the water until it warmed up, and scrubbed them again, over and over, until they were red and sore. The mud still hadn’t shifted.

  I turned away from the garden, unable to look any more. I felt odd; my body didn’t feel like my own, my limbs heavy and aching. I filled a glass with water and drank it down in one. It felt like ice sliding down my throat and I was glad of the uncomfortable feeling, as though it was all I deserved. Then I put the glass down and walked back upstairs to Kate. When I walked into the bedroom she was stirring and I sat down on the edge of the bed and watched as she rubbed her eyes and slowly opened them. She blinked and looked round the room in confusion, then saw me watching her and her little face broke into a smile.

  ‘Mumma!’

  ‘Morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?’

  She nodded and looked round the room. ‘Mumma room?’

  ‘Yes, it is Mummy’s room. Mummy needed cuddles, is that all right?’

  Her serious eyes watched me as she nodded her head slowly. She might have only been two and a half but sometimes she seemed wise beyond her years.

  She sat up and I lifted her and took her downstairs for breakfast. As she spooned cereal into her mouth I couldn’t help remembering the same moment yesterday and I shuddered. I hadn’t had a clue about the horror that was to come.

  It was still early, and I wondered whether we should wait before we made our way into town to the hospital. It wasn’t something I was looking forward to and I knew I should just get it out of the way. I wished, not for the first time, that Ray was there. Or Sandy. She’d know what to do for the best. But I couldn’t face dragging her into this, it wasn’t fair. Which meant I was alone, and that was the way it was. That was the way it was going to be, from now on.

  In the end I decided to wait until after lunch to make my way t
o the hospital, in the hope that Kate might sleep in her pushchair.

  And so, after lunch of spaghetti hoops on toast, I wrapped Kate up in her coat, gloves and hat. ‘We’re going for a little day out, OK, sweetheart?’ I said.

  She nodded. As I took Kate to the bus stop in her pushchair my belly still ached; I’d used several sanitary towels to stem the flow of blood. I felt uncomfortable, worried everyone would know what had happened, that they’d see the guilt in my eyes, the grimace on my face at every twinge. But nobody even looked in our direction. We were invisible, and I liked it that way.

  While we waited at the bus stop it started to rain, a light drizzle that hung in the air and clung to our faces, our hair, our clothes, rather than reaching the ground. I shivered in the cold November air.

  Finally the bus arrived and we climbed on. I sat Kate on my knee, the pushchair folded on the floor in front of me, and we watched out of the window as the world went by, Kate pointing at doggies, babies, cars. I wanted to concentrate on what she was saying, but my mind kept drifting to what was going to happen when I got to the hospital. I tried to imagine telling someone what had happened last night and what I’d done afterwards. I tried to imagine their faces: the disapproval, the contempt, the disgust. I didn’t know how I was going to do this. But I knew I had to.

  Worse, though, I was dreading going back to this hospital. Since Ray’s death I hadn’t seen my midwife, and when we moved I hadn’t told anyone where we’d gone. I hadn’t seen a doctor or a nurse since, and I was terrified of seeing the midwife now and having to face her questions, her sympathy.

  Finally, the bus let out a huge gush of air and shuddered to a stop, and when I looked up we were there, in the city centre. We climbed off the bus and I strapped Kate back into her pushchair and started walking down the busy street towards the hospital. I passed people laden down with shopping bags, all going about their day as though nothing had happened, while all the time the pain in my gut and in my heart reminded me that everything had happened.

  I listened to the wheels of the pushchair bump, bump, bump over every space between the paving slabs, and instinctively held my breath and gripped the handles tightly as we went down through the underpass, past buskers and beggars. When we came out the other side we were only a short walk from the hospital and the sound of my heartbeat was so loud it was thumping in my head, my ears, my brain. I held onto a low wall and took a deep breath. Everything would be OK. I just had to get through this.

  I walked slowly the rest of the way, Kate laughing and pointing at the buses as they whooshed past. And then there it was. The black railings were the first thing I saw, separating the red-brick building from the rest of the street. It was set way back and I walked through the gate, my heart heavy. I cut across the forecourt and slipped down the side of the building towards the tall concrete block behind, and tried to look confident as I approached the doors of the maternity hospital. I tried not to look at heavily pregnant women going in and out, their swollen bellies ready to give them the most precious gift in the world. Instead I kept my eyes focused straight ahead, and walked through the sliding doors and towards the reception desk.

  But before I got there I stopped dead. What the hell was I doing? I couldn’t just march up to the poor woman at the reception desk and tell her I’d miscarried and buried my baby and could she help. I needed to find the right people, the right place. I needed to think.

  I swerved past the reception and made my way to the lift. There was a list of the floors and my eyes passed over them blindly as I waited for the lift to arrive. Finally the doors slid open and I pushed the chair inside.

  ‘Me buttons!’ Kate said, reaching over to try and press something. She pushed on ‘five’. I glanced at the list. ‘Five: Postnatal’. Mums with their babies. There would be someone there I could talk to, I was sure of it. I shrugged. ‘OK, five it is.’

  The doors slid shut and slowly we started to move upwards. We stopped a couple of times to let people in, and finally the doors opened at floor five. We stepped outside and as the doors closed behind me again I looked up and down the corridor. It was surprisingly quiet, just the odd wail of a newborn baby which made my sore tummy clench and my heart squeeze. I gripped the handles of the pushchair tightly and walked slowly up the corridor towards the sounds of babies, of chatter, and soft, squeaky footsteps on the linoleum floor. I felt as though I were in a dream, that any minute now I’d wake up and be back at home in my bed, still pregnant. The pale-green walls didn’t feel solid as we made our way along the shiny floor, and I shook my head to try and clear the feeling. I just needed to find one person to talk to, to tell them what had happened, and then everything would be out of my hands. I wouldn’t have to worry any more. Suddenly it felt as though the world was tipping away from me, as though the floor had disappeared beneath my feet, and I stopped dead and laid my hand heavily on the green wall to help me stay upright. I lowered myself carefully into a chair and put my head between my knees while I waited for the wave of dizziness to pass.

  ‘Are you OK, love?’

  I snapped my head up, too quickly. A woman stood in front of me, in a blue uniform. A nurse. I needed to tell her. But the words wouldn’t come and I just nodded.

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  She stood there a moment longer as though deciding whether to believe me, then, clearly in a hurry to get somewhere, she left, her shoes going ‘eeee, eeee, eeee’ along the corridor towards the lift. I stood carefully and started walking towards the swing doors, shoving them open with the pushchair. I thought all eyes would swivel towards me as I entered, wondering what on earth I was doing there among all these brand-new mums. But nobody even noticed me, and bodies just flew round me, carrying swaddled babies, bottles of milk, clean towels. Bewildered dads stood there, holding flowers and looking lost, wandering like zombies round the wards. I’d come at visiting time, which made me invisible.

  I stood for a minute, hoping someone would notice me, ask me again if I was OK. But nobody did. I probably just looked as though I was visiting someone, rather than being a bereaved mother, yet still I couldn’t bring myself to stop someone, ask them for help. Instead I started walking again.

  Lots of the doors were shut, and I caught occasional glimpses of visitors round beds, happy smiles plastered on faces, tears of happiness running down cheeks. A knife pain twisted in my heart and I tried not to think about my poor baby, in the back garden, in the cold, all alone. I thought I was going to be sick.

  I sat, pulling the pushchair out of the way, on a hard plastic chair outside one of the rooms. I needed to get some air in, calm down. It was a mistake, coming here, to this floor. I should have stayed downstairs, as distant from the newborn babies as possible. I should have gone to the phone box outside my house and rung to speak to the midwife; I should have asked Sandy to help me. I couldn’t do this alone.

  But it was too late now, and I was here. All I knew was that I had to get out, to get home, and get this over and done with.

  I looked up, rubbing my hand down my cheek. The door opposite me was propped open and I had a clear view of the room behind it as a young woman stepped out. She was wearing a hospital gown and was clearly exhausted after giving birth. Part of me felt for her and part of me hated her. Her baby was alive. Mine was dead.

  I shook the thought away. This wasn’t her fault.

  I watched as she walked away from the room and made her way slowly down the corridor. A tug of recognition pulled at my mind: the dark hair piled scruffily on top of her head, the slim legs poking out from the bottom of her hospital gown. I knew I’d seen her before but I couldn’t quite place her. And then it hit me.

  She was that girl from the pub. Pubs. The one who was always there, watching Ray, watching me. I was sure it was her. What on earth was she doing here? She was so young, surely she was too young to be having a baby? I glanced into her room, and then back at her. And then I saw what she had in her hand. A packet of cigarettes. She was going outside to smoke.<
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  I looked back again at the room she’d just left and saw, at the end of her bed, two tiny cribs. Two. She had two babies. I had none. Rage bubbled inside me.

  As she walked through the doors at the end of the corridor without a backward glance I found myself staring, then standing and walking slowly towards the open door of her room. I just wanted to see the babies. Before I knew it I was standing in the doorway. There was nobody else in there. I could see the two tiny bundles wrapped in swaddled blankets. They both had their eyes shut, and were sleeping peacefully.

  My heart swelled with love, and my arms ached for the baby they should have been holding. I didn’t think about what I was doing as I reached out and gently picked up one of the babies. I just needed to hold it, just for a moment. I pulled it into my chest and lowered my face to the top of its head and breathed in. The smell of newborn baby was overwhelming and my belly ached, my breasts ached, heavy with milk. My whole body hurt with the pain of what I had lost.

  I turned and walked out of the room, back towards Kate, where I had left her in the corridor in her pushchair. She looked up at me, confused, and I smiled, then slowly started pushing her back out of the ward and towards the swing doors with one hand. I was still holding the baby with the other hand, clutched to my chest. The doors looked as though they were a million miles away and I knew I was never going to make it without getting stopped. But then, unexpectedly, we were through them and out the other side, walking down the pale-green corridor towards the lifts.

  I expected, at any minute, a hand to land heavily on my shoulder and tug me back, to rip the baby from my arms, to scream at me to give her back. And I would have done, I know I would have done. I expected it, and I knew it was coming, yet still I kept going, moving forward, out of the hospital. I would explain myself then, but for now, I needed to hold this baby in my arms as long as I possibly could. I needed this. I needed it.