by Ruth Dugdall
Her mother clipped the words with her cultivated accent, hiding her immigrant heritage, punctuating her received English with the click of steel handles in the vegetable dish. Matty could not say that her father had taken her to an abortion clinic but it had been too late, “No.”
“Then that must be our first step. Do you know when it’s due?” Her voice was flat but severe like a conversation in the wind. She did not look at her daughter but her mouth chewed quickly, a swallow, some wine, and so on. On her plate was the dead chicken, its flesh stripped away revealing white bone.
Matty knew when she had stopped bleeding. It was seven months ago. Her voice was so low that her mother had to look up to catch the words. “I think I have three months left.”
“You stupid girl. How could you leave it so long?” She took more wine, pushed her plate away. Her mouth was wet, and she dabbed at moisture, folded the napkin. “You’ll have to go away for a while. I have heard of a place for teenage girls. When you return everything will be as good as new.”
“What will?” Her life? The baby?
Mrs Mariani raised a carefully pencilled eyebrow, a warning. She had finished her meal, and wanted the conversation ended too. “The child will go to people who can care for it. You will finish your studies.”
The food she hasn’t eaten caught in Matty’s throat, or the water did. Or something else. Her heart maybe. She hadn’t thought of giving the baby away. But of course, there was no choice. She bowed her head and tried to swallow.
“Oh for God’s sake!” her mother shouted, “Don’t pull that face. Don’t think this is easy for me, you know.” She breathed out, composed herself. “Now you’ve made me shout. I hate shouting.”
She rose from the table, leaving Matty alone with her tears.
The doctor’s hands were cold. He pressed low on Matty’s abdomen and high, under her breastbone. She felt the paper wrinkle up under her legs, under her back. The light above her head was a fluorescent bulb, it hurt her eyes, but she was afraid to close them. The pressure he applied was firm and she prayed she wouldn’t wet herself as his hands moved down to where her stomach was hard and round. He looked at her, just once, as if checking something in her eyes, and then pulled back the curtain, speaking to her mother, who was seated on the other side of the room, clutching a patent leather handbag. Mrs Mariani held a handkerchief to her lips as if she were about to retch.
“She’s about thirty-three weeks pregnant. We’ll take some blood, and it would be helpful to have a sample of urine.”
“What for?” Mrs Mariani’s lips pursed together in distaste.
“We need to check your daughter’s protein and iron levels and her blood pressure. Several routine tests are outstanding. Since she’s so far along I’d like her to see our midwife straight away.”
“How do we arrange to get rid of it?” asked her mother firmly, the hanky hovering by her chin.
The doctor frowned. “It’s far too late for that, Mrs Mariani. The baby is viable.”
“I mean adoption! Whom do we speak to about having it adopted?”
The doctor glanced at Matty with a look of pity and resignation. He cleared his throat and said, “Social Services can organise everything. I’ll ask the midwife to make the initial contact.” Finally, turning fully to Matty this time, he said, “Does the father know about the pregnancy?”
“He,” said her mother, with venom, “knew before I did.”
It was the kindness that undid her.
It was being alone in that darkened room with the midwife who apologised for the sharp needle as she took Matty’s blood, “That’s the horrible bit out of the way. Now, let’s have you up on the couch. That’s it.”
She pressed so gently on the firm bump, feeling for the back, the kicking feet, the smooth head of the baby in her stomach. “It’s a lovely size,” she said, smiling. It was the first time anyone had smiled at her in her pregnant state. Her father, her mother, two doctors, Mr Ferris, had all frowned. But the midwife was smiling. She thought it was something to be happy about.
“I’m not keeping it,” Matty said, “I’m not allowed.” The midwife, still pressing on her stomach, still connecting with Matty, stopped smiling.
“Who won’t allow you?”
“My parents.” And as Matty said it she felt a pain in her chest, an ache.
The midwife removed her hands. She gently pulled Matty’s top down, handed her a fresh tissue to wipe her eyes, which Matty hadn’t even realised she needed.
“It’s your baby,” she said, “and lots of girls have babies at your age. It wouldn’t be easy, but it can be done.” But Matty knew this was not true. There was only one way for a girl like her and that was her parents’ way. To give up her baby.
“It’s your choice, Matilde. You’re not a child anymore.”
“Tell me how,” she said to the kind midwife. “Tell me how to keep it.”
Matty’s newborn baby lay silent beyond the painted bars, the fleece blanket moving up and down to the rolling rhythm of sleep. Matty retrieved her watch from the changing table: it was nine o’clock. How had that happened? Only a minute ago it had been the middle of the night. She looked at the empty feeding bottle on the cabinet and tried to work out when the baby would be hungry again and if it was worth trying to get some more sleep. Her fear of another interrupted dream stopped her from lying back down. She mentally raced through the options for this precious peace: bath, shower, read, food. Remembering that she hadn’t had a proper wash for two days, she opted for a bath, grabbed her towel from the top of the radiator and padded quickly to the communal bathroom down the hall, her bare feet pitter-pattering on the cheap hard carpet.
Relieved to find the room was empty, Matty locked the door behind her and turned the hot tap on full. The old enamel bath was big but the water filled it quickly. Before it was full she had stripped off, her grubby clothes piled on the toilet seat. She had forgotten her soap, but there was a communal bar on the sink, flat and white with a long black hair stuck to it. She threw the soap in the bath and then joined it. Her pale loose skin mottled, lobster-like, in the too-hot water. She welcomed the discomfort.
Later, dressed only in a dressing gown and still damp, Matty reentered the bedroom and saw that the baby had not moved. A few more moments of peace to enjoy. She carefully slid into the bed and prayed for the silence to last.
So lost was she in her thoughts, so dizzy with the heat from her bath, that it took a few seconds before she registered that the knocking on the door was for her. Afraid of the baby waking, she sat up and reached for the door in one movement to stop the intruder from knocking again.
Filling the narrow doorway, bent over as if she had been listening at the keyhole, was the rotund social worker, her ruddy face poised in an expectant question with a smile as phony as a waitress. She mock whispered, “is Baby asleep?” although her eyes had already fixed on the cot, so Matty did not reply. She’d forgotten that this meeting was today.
Seeing the young mother’s confusion, the social worker looked apologetic although her tone did not match. “I’m a bit early, but I have some news. Shall we go downstairs and leave Baby to sleep? Come on, get dressed!”
Matty removed her dressing gown, pulled on a loose skirt and a knitted jumper that would at least be warm. She didn’t think to brush her hair and there was no mirror in the room to remind her.
Downstairs, the social worker was squashed into an institutional winged armchair. Matty balanced on the edge of the opposite chair, dismayed when her visitor pulled her chair nearer, at right angles, so that she was trapped in a corner. Matty registered the pseudo smile, pitying but professional. Then the inevitable textbook question: “And how are you feeling?” Matty noticed the way she said ‘feeling’, full of sympathy, but ignored the invitation to confide. She shrugged.
“And how is the little one?” The question demanded an answer and she searched for the right response.
“We had a bad night.” In return, the em
pathetic angled head and infuriating smile. Fortunately the small talk soon ended, and the older woman leaned forward, choosing a soft, even tone, likely from the selection she was taught whilst in training.
“I came straight here as I thought you’d like to know that we have had a referral from the adoption team. They’ve approved a couple who sound ideal. Would you like me to tell you about them?”
Stunned from sleep exhaustion and hunger, Matty tried to grasp what was being said, her brain a hollow vacuum in which the inert words reverberated but made no impact.
“They’re in their thirties. They live in the north, no children. Medical problems, I’m afraid: she’s had five miscarriages. He’s a manager at a power plant. Very well paid! She works as a nursing assistant, but would be at home full-time after the adoption. A very nice couple, they’ve been married for six years, and they have a lovely home with a garden. Shall I say more or is that enough?”
Matty tried to interpret what she’d been told. Was she supposed to make a decision on these few bald facts? Surely there was only one question: Will they love my daughter? She raised her fingers to her tired eyes and rubbed.
“I know you’re feeling vulnerable, but that’s to be expected. I just wanted you to know that we are ready to proceed.”
Silence reigned, heavy and tangible, and Matty was too tired to think. The thick atmosphere was disturbed by one swift bang on the door and then a hostel worker bustled in, invading the space with her loud singsong voice. “Your baby’s crying. I’ll go.”
The worker was almost out of the door before Matty stopped her, hot emotion rising from nowhere at the woman’s presumption. “No. I’ll go.” Matty launched herself from the chair, pushed past the social worker, past the hostel worker, and up the stairs.
As she climbed she heard the cries of her newborn. Opening the door the cries were louder than ever, until she reached into the cot and picked the baby up. The crying stopped as if a switch had been flicked and the child snuffled its dry tears into Matty’s jumper, nuzzling for the milk it could smell.
The prospect of returning downstairs and sterilising a bottle in a saucepan, facing the social worker, was impossible. Matty was desperately tired and her breasts hurt. Two damp patches on her top announced that her milk had not yet dried up. Sitting down, she experimentally raised her top and lowered her bra. Though unpractised, the baby knew instinctively what to do, like any animal trying to feed from its mother. Matty watched its mouth circle and miss. Eventually, uncertainly, she guided it. After some seconds she felt a jolt as the baby latched on, and within seconds her baby was lapping up the warm, sweet fluid for which she had been crying.
Holding her, watching her, Matty thought of the childless couple who would give her daughter a home. She knew nothing about them, but had no doubt that they would love her child. Her daughter who still had no name. Watching her baby’s face, eyes closed in concentration, tiny hands curled, she wondered if she was capable of being a good mother. Not knowing the answer she bent her head down, smelt the soft scent of new life and, for the first time since she was born, gave her little girl a kiss.
Matty Mariani finally decided on a name for her daughter. She called me Alice.
Nine
“I want it all off,” Cate said to the face in the mirror. The hairdresser made a non-committal motion and lifted the shiny scissors from a pouch around her waist, chewing vigorously on gum.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” said Cate, as the blade cut, hair falling like autumn leaves. She closed her eyes and smelt mint.
Amelia loved going to the hairdressers and buzzed around the teenage staff, filling cups at the water cooler and held the swishy horsehair brushes to her face.
“It’s so soft, Mummy.”
The hairdresser laughed, still snipping, as Cate looked down at the magazine trying to finish an article on women who used male prostitutes. Behind her Amelia was chatting to another customer, an elderly woman who asked Amelia how old she was and commented on her pretty nails. Cate caught sight of her own nails. She should have put some paint on them when she did her daughter’s – since when did a four-year-old get pampered more than her mother? Since forever, probably, she thought, listening to Amelia singing a song to her admiring audience.
The snipping continued around her ears, interrupted with occasional demands to look down. She flicked through the magazine, the litany of sex and glamour and interchangeable skinny bodies and perfect pouts.
When Cate felt the swishy brushy on her neck she folded the magazine and looked in the mirror. The hairdresser was gazing proudly at the reflection and Amelia’s new friend had also stopped to see.
“You’ve got great features,” said the hairdresser with expert knowledge, touching the tips with styling wax, “you suit short hair. You should never grow it long – just look at what it does for you.”
The hair was brutally short over her ears, tapered into jags at the nape of her skull. Her eyes looked large, exposed by the short wispy fringe, which barely touched her brows. She hardly recognised herself.
They left the hairdressers on a mission. Cate had put it off as long as she could, but Tim’s daughter was now two weeks old. She had to go through the motions of civility, even if it was a charade. For Amelia’s sake. After all, the new baby was her stepsister.
When he opened the door Tim’s mouth fell slack, and Cate’s hand went instinctively to her hair, feeling self-conscious. He ushered them into the lounge with reverential silence, motioning to the baby sleeping in a Moses basket be-decked with pink gingham. Cate hadn’t been in the lounge before, choosing to collect or drop Amelia off at the front door without crossing the threshold, and she looked around with curiosity. The room was literally swamped with flowers, every surface had a Congratulations card, and a silver balloon announcing It’s a Girl! bounced on the ceiling.
Sally, Cate was secretly pleased to see, looked on the brink of physical exhaustion. The fatigue of the weary explorer, back from some gruelling expedition; Sally’s hair was having a bad day, and she was wearing a shapeless smock. Cate handed Amelia the present and card, which she rushed over to Sally, crawling onto her lap and insisted on opening herself. Sally kissed Amelia then, remembering Cate, blushed before gaping at Cate’s changed hairstyle “how are you, Cate?”
“Fine, ta.”
Minimal words. Sally started sleeping with Tim when he was still living with Cate, Amelia was just six weeks old when he left them. How, Cate would love to ask, would you feel if he left you in four weeks time? Abandoned you with a screaming baby, leaking breasts and a sagging stomach just when you most needed to be loved and cared for? It hadn’t been the best of times for Tim to choose. She hoped Sally felt ashamed though she doubted it. If she had any conscience at all she wouldn’t have slept with another woman’s bloke.
Thank God Amelia was oblivious to all of this. Cate didn’t want to poison her daughter and did her best to hide her feelings. Above all, Amelia came first. It was only after they’d left that Cate realised she’d forgotten to ask the baby’s name.
Ten
You, who have chosen to listen, will understand this: I’ve set up the TV in the darkened lecture theatre, and Cate and I sit, side by side, on the front bench. I press play and the screen blinks to life. On it, I’m facing a room full of students.
‘Keats was no stranger to death,’ I announce as the camera pans the whispering, jostling room. They become still and listen. ‘He cared for his mother when he was only a child and as a youth saw his brother, Tom, fight a long and losing battle with tuberculosis. These experiences were fundamental to his writing. His brother was a young man, in his prime. To Keats, who loved Tom dearly, his death was a loss to the whole world. Young and bright and beautiful. But the grieving Keats had a choice: to rail against God in anger and fury at the injustice of early death, or to transform, to reevaluate, that experience into a blessing. This reaction is not peculiar to artists. We all do it. Take a look in any churchyard at a
child’s grave and the stone will invariably tell us that the dead baby was too good for this world, an angel. Death of the old or infirm is expected, a normal rite of passage for us all. But the death of a child, or of a young man, is a terrible happening. An error in the natural order of things. It threatens our understanding of life, of death, of God. This is what happened to Keats. The tragedy of his brother’s death endowed his work with genius. Keats himself only lived until his twenty sixth year.’ The camera pans to the front row where, to the left of the screen, an overseas student takes notes with professional speed.
I enjoy watching my performance, conscious of Cate at my side, also intent on listening to this erudite, articulate person on the screen. My onscreen image is beautiful, slim, clever. To Cate Austin, as to the students sitting enthralled, it must appear as if I have it all.