The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood

by Susan Elliot Wright

  I don’t get where all this can have come from. I can’t think properly here, with Luke looking at me with that nicer-than-nice smile of his. I creep back along the hallway, then deliberately make my footsteps louder as I walk towards the kitchen. They’re sitting at the table when I go in, smiles firmly in place. ‘Ollie wants ice cream,’ I say. ‘And I think I’m going to pass on the crumble. I’m feeling a bit rough, actually. Start of a migraine, I think.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Cassie stands up, looking genuinely concerned. ‘Do you want some painkillers? I’ve got ibuprofen, or paracetamol.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. Thanks anyway, but they don’t do very much. I probably need to go home and get my migraine tablets.’ I start to gather my scarf and bag. ‘I’m sorry. Thanks for lunch – it was lovely.’

  Cassie stands up. ‘Leah, you’re not going because of what we said about moving, are you?’

  I attempt a dismissive laugh, though I notice Luke is avoiding my eye. He can’t wait for me to go. ‘Of course not.’ I make a gesture to my head. ‘This has been threatening all day. I just need to go home and lie down, I think.’ Oddly, my head is starting to feel a little thick, as though I may be getting a headache after all. That’ll teach me to make up a migraine. I move as quickly as I can now, anxious to get away so that I can think about what to do next. As I say my goodbyes, I touch cheeks with Luke and I embrace Cassie, who hugs me almost but not quite as warmly as usual. Ollie is grinning up at me. ‘Bye, Leah,’ he says, ‘see you on another day.’ I sweep him up into my arms and squeeze, burying my face in his warm, little boy neck. I have to bite my lip to stop myself from crying and hanging onto him too tightly.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  THEN

  Thank goodness I’d brought the waterproof cover with me. What had been little more than drizzle when we left the house was now a full-on downpour, and as I looked at Harriet, all snug and dry beneath the plastic, I felt disproportionately pleased with myself that I had managed to keep my baby warm and dry. I also felt a flash of envy. Why hadn’t I worn my other coat, the one with a hood? My hair was plastered to my head and cold water ran down the back of my neck. I pushed the pram into the warm fug of the health centre where the entrance area was crammed with prams and buggies, some still dripping. I squeezed ours in with the others, unclipped the waterproof covers and lifted Harriet out. After giving her name at reception I carried her round into the waiting area, a big, bright space with toys for the older children to play with. I sat down among the other mothers, thankful that for a few minutes at least, Harriet was quiet. She wasn’t asleep, she was just looking around, and I felt a sudden tremor of fear at her vulnerability and at my own inadequacy. Keeping her sheltered from the rain wasn’t exactly an achievement – there were much more challenging threats to her safety and comfort than a few drops of water.

  A few of the mothers were feeding their babies, chatting at the same time, making it look effortless. One of them caught my eye. ‘Hiya.’ She looked young, not much older than my undergrads, but she radiated confidence. She was blonde, healthy-looking, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes, and her baby was sucking contentedly at a full, creamy breast. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a Thomas Hardy novel. ‘Little girl?’ she asked, leaning over to look at Harriet. ‘How old?’ I guessed hers was a boy, given the blue babygro and the blue padded jacket. A toddler with his thumb in his mouth snuggled in closely under her other arm and a few feet away, an older boy was randomly clicking bits of Lego together. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Harriet. Just over five weeks.’

  ‘What a pretty name,’ she continued. ‘You’re so lucky to have a girl.’ She looked around at the beautiful, healthy boy children she’d been blessed with. ‘I thought it would be third time lucky. Couldn’t believe it was another one. Not that I don’t love him to bits.’ She tipped her head to kiss her suckling baby, then gave the toddler a squeeze. ‘And you, monster.’ She kissed his forehead, then looked at me. ‘But really – three of ’em! I might give it one more go, but if it’s another bloody boy . . .’ She shook her head.

  I thought about my own bloody boy. My blue, still, bloody boy.

  She detached the baby from her nipple and shifted him to the other side where he instantly latched on again and settled into a pattern of efficient, rhythmic sucking, then she turned back to me. ‘First baby?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, because it was easier.

  ‘And how was it?’ She was smiling, trying to be friendly. I was so shattered I found it genuinely bewildering that anyone would want to waste precious energy talking to a stranger. ‘Are you still in the never again phase, or are you one of those annoying first-time mums who pops them out in two hours flat and without stitches?’

  ‘I had a caesarean, actually.’

  ‘Oh? How come? Breech, was she?’ Questions. It felt like she was poking at me. ‘Or was it last-minute? My mate had an emergency caesar – she’d been in labour forty-two hours, and she was exhausted, so—’

  ‘No. She wasn’t breech, and it wasn’t an emergency. It was elective.’

  She frowned, then gave a sort of oh well shrug, and I assumed that was the end of the conversation.

  ‘I’d have hated that. I mean, a natural birth is painful, and your insides are never the same again, but even so. It’s a wonderful feeling, to know you’ve made all that effort, delivered your baby through sheer hard work, and—’

  ‘Shut up!’ It was out before I could stop myself. ‘I know how bloody hard it is,’ I snapped. ‘You don’t need to go on about it because I know. I’ve been through it myself, all right?’

  ‘I thought you said this was your first?’

  ‘Yes, well, I lied.’

  She looked as though I’d slapped her face. At that moment, the health visitor came round into the waiting area. ‘Harriet Blackwood,’ she called, as if Harriet was going to jump up and walk over there by herself. ‘Could we have Harriet Blackwood next, please.’

  As I got to my feet, the woman turned to another competent-looking mother. ‘Personally,’ she said, deliberately making her voice loud enough for me to hear, ‘I’m in favour of natural childbirth.’

  Natural childbirth. I turned towards her again. I wanted to reach out and grab her by the shoulders, look into her eyes and tell her what happened. I wanted to tell her there was nothing natural about spending a day and a night pushing out a dead baby.

  The noise was starting in my head again as I followed the health visitor to one of the open doors, snatches of music and talking, as if someone had left a television on. Everything around me was too big, too bright. I had to look away from the red fire engine painted on the wall, because it hurt my eyes. The health visitor smiled, but it was one of those smiles that neither reaches the eyes nor stays on the mouth. She was thin, beady-looking and pointy-faced, with big, old-fashioned round glasses that made her look like an owl.

  ‘Undress her for me and pop her on the scales, please.’

  I did as I was told, but I didn’t like her, this woman, and I could tell she didn’t like me. When she’d measured Harriet and recorded her weight, she started the questioning – how often did I feed Harriet, how often did she have a wet nappy, what did her poo look like. I nearly said, it looks like baby shit, what do you think it looks like? Then she wanted to know all about her sleep patterns and whether she was still crying a lot at night. I told her things were better now, thank you. I didn’t want anyone telling me what was best for my baby, because how could they possibly know? Harriet wasn’t like those other babies they saw all the time. Of course, I didn’t tell the health visitor that. I had to be careful, just like Harriet said.

  I realised I must have tuned out for a minute, because she was looking at me, the annoying health visitor woman, and she was still asking questions, about me this time. How was I sleeping, she wanted to know, was I getting enough rest, how was I coping, yada, yada. But I gave her the answers. And there was nothing she could do, because they were the right answers.

>   CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  THEN

  It was a bit chilly this morning, so after I’d fed Harriet and brought up her wind, we wandered over to the window so I could check the weather. The crows greeted me as soon as I drew back the curtain. I didn’t quite understand how I knew what they were saying, only that I did. Somehow I’d been able to interpret their calls, and I was grateful for the privilege, especially as they were giving me such good advice. Now I thought about it, it seemed so obvious. When Harriet wouldn’t settle, it was simply an indication that she wanted to be outside breathing the beautiful, oxygen-rich air that came from the trees. All I had to do was wrap her up and take her out and she’d become calm straight away. It had been mild this week, but there was a light dusting of frost on the grass today. It was cold, but not freezing, certainly not bad enough to keep us inside, so I dressed her in her red snowsuit, which made her look like a mini Santa, settled her in the pram and tucked the blankets around her. As soon as we stepped outside I felt a sense of relief that she was breathing fresh air at last. I’d have loved to take her into the woods, but it was still quite muddy underfoot from last week’s rain, so we headed for the park instead. The late winter sunshine was so bright it hurt my eyes, and everything appeared more vivid. The postbox at the end of the road was such a startlingly bright red, I wondered if they’d just repainted it, and as we passed, I put out a finger to touch it, expecting the tacky feel of fresh paint, but it was bone dry.

  We pressed on to the park, and I noticed Harriet was awake and looking at me. I smiled. ‘When I was a little girl,’ I told her, ‘my grandma used to take me to the park. She taught me the names of all the trees, and of lots of flowers and birds, too. She knew all the different birds just by listening to them.’ I laughed. ‘I only know the crows.’ We turned in through the wrought iron gates and I pushed the pram along the tree-lined path. ‘You see these trees above us, sweetheart? Well, these two are beeches, like we have in the garden at home. This one’s a plane tree – we have one of these, too.’ Harriet looked up, her little eyes screwed up against the light. ‘This great big one we’re coming up to now, this is a horse chestnut. In the autumn, it’ll produce beautiful fat, shiny conkers – we’ll collect them when you’re bigger.’

  As I pushed the pram past the children’s play area, I realised there was a woman waving at me. She had a baby in a sling on her chest and a large double pushchair parked by the railings.

  ‘Hello! It’s Harriet’s mum, isn’t it?’

  How did she know? ‘Yes,’ I said cautiously. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I saw you at baby clinic, remember? I think we got off on the wrong foot.’

  Ah. The natural birth woman. I snapped at her last week. I attempted a smile. ‘Oh yes, hello. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know – run ragged, no time to put a comb through my hair and this lot driving me bloody insane. Just the usual.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Ethan! Alfie!’ she yelled at her two little boys, who were laughing with delight as they stepped in and out of a puddle near the swings. ‘Stop that this minute, or you won’t be going to Jessica’s party.’

  They were both wearing wellies, so I couldn’t see what she was cross about.

  ‘I’m dropping this lot off at their granny’s in a minute, then I’m meeting up with a couple of other mums for coffee. Fancy joining us?’

  I was surprised by the invitation, because I’d been quite rude to her at the clinic. I felt guilty about it, but how could I be friends with a woman who didn’t appreciate her children? ‘Thanks for asking me,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got some things to do.’

  ‘Oh, go on – I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t wait.’

  I shook my head. ‘Thanks, but I need to get back.’

  ‘Look, I can see I upset you the other day, banging on about natural birth.’

  I shrugged. ‘No harm done.’

  ‘I know I can be a bit evangelical about it,’ she went on. ‘You know – the medicalisation of childbirth and all that. I sometimes forget that not everyone feels the same. So anyway, I’m sorry if you took offence. It wasn’t intended.’

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t.’ Sorry I ‘took offence’; not sorry she gave it, then.

  ‘It’s just something I’m passionate about.’

  I nodded, attempting to move the pram round her, but the enormous pushchair she’d just pulled towards her was blocking my way.

  ‘So, if you’d already had a natural birth, what made you go for a caesar the second time?’ She looked at me brightly, as if it was perfectly all right for her to interrogate me like this. I wasn’t sure what irritated me most, her relentless probing or the way she abbreviated caesarean, as if she was using her familiarity with the word to demonstrate her superior experience and knowledge of all things maternal.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t really want to talk about it.’

  She shrugged, untying the sling that was fastened around her middle. ‘Suit yourself. How old’s your first one, then?’ She let down one side of the double pushchair and tucked the baby inside, but before I could answer she said, ‘Right, hopefully the little bugger’ll stay asleep for half an hour.’

  Something inside me screwed up tight and I had a powerful urge to hit her. I couldn’t remember ever feeling this level of anger before. ‘How could you call him that?’ I said.

  She looked up, startled, then smiled. ‘I call them all little buggers. Or little sods.’ She was still grinning and I wanted to slap her, to wipe that smile off her face.

  ‘Well, you should be ashamed of yourself. You have three beautiful boys and all you can do is insult them.’

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s only—’

  ‘I don’t know how you can be so bloody ungrateful.’ I was aware of my voice getting louder and of some of the other mothers looking at me, but I didn’t care. She had to be told. ‘Each one of those babies is precious and you should treasure every single moment. People like you make me sick. You don’t know how lucky you are to have three live children.’

  Her face changed and she said something else, but I didn’t hear it because I was frantically trying to manoeuvre the pram round her and her pushchair and her two little boys, who had stopped playing in the puddle and had come over to stand next to her. They were looking up at me, and I realised with horror that I’d frightened them with my shouting. ‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ I muttered as I pushed the pram round them and headed back along the path.

  I walked home briskly, not really taking anything in, and I was still shaking as I felt in my pocket for my keys. It took me a moment to fit my key in the lock, then the door swung open and I pushed the pram into the hall. My anger had subsided, but I still felt odd, as though I didn’t quite know myself. Perhaps I’d overreacted. The woman was annoying, but she probably wasn’t the only mother who took her children for granted. I looked at Harriet, sleeping now, and wondered if I’d ever take her for granted. The idea was inconceivable.

  Adrian unwrapped the pizza and slid it into the oven while I finished feeding Harriet. ‘Do you think she’s likely to go down quickly?’ he said, tearing open a bag of salad leaves. ‘It would be nice if we could eat together tonight.’

  ‘She’ll be fine.’ I sounded so unusually confident that he did a double take. ‘I’ve worked out two things while you’ve been away. One is that I think I was getting so worried about her crying that I was making her nervous – I think I was actually causing it, because since I’ve stopped worrying so much, she’s been crying less.’

  He nodded and, to his credit, resisted what must surely have been a temptation to say I told you so.

  ‘And the other,’ I continued, ‘is that when she does cry, I now know what to do if she won’t stop. I just take her outside; it’s the fresh air she needs, the oxygen. She needs to be near the trees, you see.’

  He was searching noisily through the cutlery drawer, probably looking for the pizza cutter, even though I’ve told him dozens of times we keep it in the utensil pot ne
xt to the cooker. He was half-smiling, and he looked at me a little oddly. ‘What do you mean, she needs to be near the trees? Obviously fresh air is good for her, but she’s not exactly starved of oxygen, is she?’ And then his skin went pale and he straightened up, his expression suddenly anxious. ‘There isn’t something wrong, is there? Like asthma?’

  ‘Of course not. I’d have told you.’

  He relaxed again. ‘Thank God for that. It was just you saying, you know, about the trees – I thought the doctor or the health visitor or someone might have told you to take her out near trees or something.’

  ‘No, it was the crows.’ I almost started to tell him about how they’d used that television programme – clever birds! – to get the message to me, when his head whipped round as if he’d heard a loud noise. ‘The crows? Leah, what are you talking about?’

  My heart started banging against my chest, and Harriet sensed my alarm and pulled away. I’d forgotten. It was only me that could understand them, me and Harriet. Sometimes, when I was doing normal, human things, like laundry or cooking or shopping, it went completely out of my head that Harriet and I had been chosen, that we were unique. And I forgot that to anyone else, it would seem unbelievable, even a bit mad to think that the crows understood all this. So I decided to keep quiet, keep it to myself. It wasn’t so unusual. After all, a few hundred years ago women who used herbs to cure illnesses were considered witches, weren’t they? And all because people were too narrow-minded to be open to new possibilities.