The Birthday That Changed Everything

by Debbie Johnson

  He looked at Jenny, writhing in agony and exhaustion, then looked at me. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him out of the door. He bumped into Lucy on the way in. James was behind her.

  ‘What is it?’ he said, ‘what can I do?’

  ‘She’s in labour. Luce, go downstairs to the kitchens and ask them if they can boil some string in hot water. And some scissors.’

  ‘String? What do you want that for?’ she asked, staring at Jenny in morbid fascination.

  ‘Because I want to fly a fucking kite! Just do it!’ I yelled, dashing into the bathroom to scrub my hands.

  When I came back she was between contractions, and I helped her sit up. James made an ice pack with a towel, and used it to stroke her forehead and face to cool her down.

  ‘Jenny,’ I said, ‘look at me. Now breathe, nice and deep. You’re having a baby and you need to trust me. It’ll all be okay. Now, when the pain comes, tell me if it stings. And don’t push until I tell you to. Okay? Do you want to stay there, or get up?’

  ‘I want to get up. I want to die. I can’t stand it any more!’ she screeched pitifully.

  Between us, we got her upright. She squatted back down into the same position I’d found her in.

  ‘Towels, clean ones,’ I said to James, lying down on the floor myself to take a better look.

  James came back with the towels and we spread them out beneath her.

  ‘It stings! It’s burning! I’ve got to push!’ she yelled, grabbing hold of James’s shoulder and gripping it so hard I saw him wince.

  ‘Jenny,’ I said, my voice low and even, ‘you need to let me see what’s going on.’

  She stared at me and nodded. Keeping my voice calm was working. Good job she couldn’t see inside my head – where I was screaming, ‘Help! Help! We’re all going to die!’

  James mopped her down again, and she started sobbing as I took a quick look down below. Fuck. She was crowning. This baby was coming, and it was coming now. She spread her legs wider and let out an ear-splitting scream.

  ‘Jenny, pant – pant fast and push really gently when you feel the pain coming again. The baby’s going to be here in the next few pushes and this will all be over.’

  As she pushed, Ian ran back into the room, then fell to his knees by our side.

  ‘Ambulance is on the way. How is she? How are you, Jen?’

  ‘How do I fucking look?’ she hissed, clenching her teeth against the pain. I saw James bite back a smile. He held one of her hands, and Ian held the other. I was at the business end, hoping for the best. I could see a tiny blood-capped head peeking out and it was my job to get it safely into the world. No pressure then.

  ‘Sally! Lucy said you needed me – what is it?’ said Simon, running into the now quite crowded room.

  Oh, thank God. He was here. A real, proper, qualified doctor. I could hand over to him and just stand by with blankets and water and words of encouragement.

  ‘Simon! I’m so glad you’re here – I don’t know what the hell I’m doing!’

  Jenny glared up at me sharply. Ian gulped. James got busy with the towel again. Oops. So much for my calm and reassuring exterior.

  ‘Simon?’ I said, glancing behind me. Simon was rooted to the spot, white as a sheet, staring in absolute terror at the baby emerging from Jenny’s pain-racked body. Oh no. Please, no, not now. He staggered, held the wall, then fell. Thud. He was down and out for the count.

  ‘Oh you shit!’ I yelled, kicking him in the ribs. Lucy and Max arrived back, breathless and confused.

  ‘They’re cooking the string,’ she said, then stopped and stared. Her eyes were the size of steering wheels and Max looked as if he might hurl.

  ‘Guys, could you drag your dad out, then go wait for the ambulance at reception?’

  They nodded, grateful for an excuse to make their getaway, then hauled Simon’s limp and lifeless body out into the hallway. ‘Useless fuck,’ Lucy muttered, giving him another kick for good measure.

  ‘Okay. Look,’ I said, ‘we’re going to do this, and we’re going to do it now. And when it’s over, you’re going to have a beautiful baby to show for it.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about that! I just want the pain to stop!’ yelled Jenny.

  ‘It will. Now, come on, next contraction, gentle pushes – let’s get this head out.’

  I lay down on the floor in front of her, manoeuvring myself as close as I could. James was murmuring his support, and stroking her head. His fingers were so red and swollen from her grip I thought they might be broken. Ian looked shell-shocked and as though he might be about to follow Simon into the hallway.

  She pushed. The head popped out. I put my hand under it for support. It looked small, but okay. Another contraction.

  ‘A bit more Jenny. The head’s out. Shoulders to go, then it’s almost done. Come on now.’

  She grunted like a pig, bearing down and pushing a bit too hard, her panic so fierce it was hovering in the air.

  ‘No! I can’t! Just cut it out of me!’

  James took hold of her chin, turned her face up so he was looking into her eyes.

  ‘Jenny, you can do this – you’re having a baby. You’ve always wanted a baby. This is a miracle. You’re creating a miracle here. Now, look at me, trust me, and stay calm. I’ve known you for a long time, Jenny, and you can do anything. You can do this. We’re all here to help you. So just look at me, and breathe.’

  She stared at him, tears flooding from her screwed-up eye sockets, and nodded. Sucked in another breath. Contorted her face as she pushed, gazing at James all the time as she crushed his fingers.

  It worked. One shoulder was out, then another, then the whole body slipped out like a fish. I caught it, pulling it up to check it over, clearing its nose and trying to remember what else to do. Smack its arse? No, that was just in films.

  I looked down at the tiny scrap of life in my hands. Definitely premature, its face waxy and blood-stained and screwed up like a desiccated apple. But breathing, and waving its tiny hands around and letting out whimpers, the poor little soul.

  ‘Is it okay? What is it?’ said Jenny, trying to lean forward.

  ‘No, stay there Jen. It’s okay. It’s a –’ I took a quick look in the relevant place – ‘boy! Here you go.’

  I laid the baby on her tummy, and she looked at him in wonder. Like she’d never seen anything so beautiful in her whole life. She picked him up nervously, and he slipped in her hands until she got a firmer grip and lifted him to her face. Ian was weeping by her side, and James was stroking her hair, murmuring calm words of congratulations.

  I heard the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. The cavalry had arrived, at bloody last. The professionals took over, clamping the cord and getting both Jenny and the baby loaded into the ambulance. No need for the boiled string after all.

  When they were gone I fell back on to the bed. I was covered in blood and goo and other organic substances I couldn’t wait to wash off. I could hear Simon groaning in the hallway. He’d been as much use as a chocolate fireguard, as my nan would have said.

  James lay down next to me. We both stared at the ceiling, catching our breath.

  ‘That was amazing,’ he said, turning to look at me, ‘you were amazing. I love you.’

  I closed my eyes. Remembered the feel of his fingertips on my body, the lush touch of his tongue. His humour and kindness and strength. The calm way he’d helped Jenny get through it all.

  Then I remembered the way I’d felt for the last year of my life, when all those things were taken away from me.

  I still loved him. I couldn’t hide from it any longer.

  I kept my eyes closed tight, and wept. When he reached for my hand, I pulled away.

  Because loving him didn’t fix anything.

  Chapter 57

  ‘I was thinking,’ said Simon, as we strolled along the beach, ‘that when we get back, perhaps I could start staying over again – just for a night a week, maybe, to see how it goes?’


  The sun was setting over the bay. We’d just had dinner together. He was holding my hand. It was pleasant. I didn’t answer straight away, which he took as a sign to continue.

  ‘I know we’ve got a long way to go, but maybe this is a place to start?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’ I said, squeezing his hand in what I hoped was a reassuring way. ‘I’ve had a really nice holiday with you, Simon, but I don’t want to rush things. Can we take it slowly?’

  ‘Sal, if we take it any more slowly, we’ll be dead. But all right, if that’s what you want, we’ll talk again when we’re back.’

  He was probably right. He couldn’t be expected to wait for ever. But a few more days wouldn’t hurt, surely? A few more days for me to get James out of my system before I faced up to the reality of never seeing him again?

  When we were back in Oxford, things would be different. I could love Simon again. He was attractive and clever and he wanted me. He’d learned his lesson, hadn’t he? And when I looked at him, when I touched him, I felt warm and quite content. And warm and content didn’t threaten to set you on fire, the way that James’s heat did.

  We’d go home. It would all be different there. At least, that’s what I told myself. The Blue Bay and its crowd had been a blessing in my life when I’d first found it. Now, it was starting to feel like more of a curse.

  It was last-night party time. My third, unbelievably. Tomorrow was home. And a nice, new, calm beginning.

  We went back up to our room to get ready. I made a quick call to the hospital, to check on Ian and Jenny and the Baby With No Name. He’d been about eight weeks early, but with well-developed lungs, and was going to be fine. I cried every time I thought about it. Not just because of the memory of his birth, but because that part of my life was over and I’m a sad old moo.

  Jenny and Ian were at the start of the adventure. They’d be the centre of that child’s life for a long time to come – at least while he was still pooing in his own pants and getting garden peas stuck up his nostrils.

  I was like an old armchair to mine – comfy but barely noticeable. One day, when they’ve really had enough, they’ll leave me outside in the front garden and get the Council to come and take me to the tip.

  I’d never hold another baby of my own in my arms; and I’d have to stick pins in Lucy’s condom collection until I got some grandchildren.

  She waltzed into our room, and I felt a twinge of guilt for planning to turn her into a gymslip mum. For tonight’s look, she’d stolen Tina Turner’s hair and Dusty Springfield’s eye make-up. She was wearing a T-shirt that had ‘Bored To Tears’ written across the chest and a skirt that seemed to be made out of a bin bag. She looked me up and down and sneered.

  ‘You look shit. Why don’t you let me style you again?’

  ‘No!’ I said, locking the bathroom door so she couldn’t get at me. I was wearing a bit of make-up. I’d brushed my hair. And I had a nice white sundress on. She could fuck right off.

  ‘Coward!’ she yelled through the door. I considered barricading myself in with the rubbish bin and the cabinet, but I heard her do a stage sigh and flounce off, slamming the door behind her. I opened up, and cautiously peeked my head out.

  ‘Got ya!’ she shouted, leaping out from behind the wardrobe. She’d bluffed me, the cow. I screamed and threw my arms over my face, but it was too late – she had indeed got me. With a fluorescent pink spray can. There was a huge glittering streak of the stuff zigzagged all over my hair. I looked as though I’d been ambushed by Graffiti Artist Barbie.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, with a smug smile. I tried to kick her up the bum as she went but she sensed it coming and dodged, laughing as she ran away. I looked in the mirror. Brushed my hair. Fluffed it up a bit. It wasn’t too bad. Anyway, people here were so used to me turning up in fancy dress of one kind or another, they wouldn’t even notice. I could go to karaoke night naked wearing a rubber Ronald Reagan mask and they’d all nod and say, ‘Interesting look, Sally.’

  By the time I’d walked through to the terrace, the usual hellish noise was booming from the speakers. Three of the female tennis coaches were doing ‘When Will I See You Again’? They sounded awful, but they looked great. Heather was on lead, throwing her hair around, teeth glinting like an advert for whitening paste.

  I sat down with Mike. He was looking on appreciatively, with his fingers in his ears to block out the caterwauling.

  ‘She’s a sight for sore eyes,’ he said, nodding towards Heather. ‘Exceptionally nice boobs on her. Not that I’d kick any of them out of bed. That one on the left has the best legs, and the one on the right looks like she’d be a bit of a handful in the—’

  I grabbed his hands and pulled his fingers away from his ears.

  ‘Mike,’ I said, ‘I am not one of your male friends. We are not in the pub after the match. This is not an appropriate conversation to have with me. Do you want me to start talking about throbbing cocks and the best way to lick a clitoris?’

  ‘I’d be more than happy to listen, Sal – I’m an equal opportunities pervert. Let’s start with Lucy’s question the other day about Simon and James, and who had the biggest dong.’

  ‘I’m not going to discuss their dongs,’ I said firmly. I was trying to stay annoyed but I couldn’t help smiling at the dirty old bastard. ‘Anyway,’ I added, ‘depends on whether you’re talking length or girth…’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Sal! Nice hair, by the way. Bit restrained by your usual standards. Look – there’s Dong Number One up on stage now.’

  I looked over. Simon. On stage. Doing karaoke. If his mother could see him now, she’d probably have a heart attack. Especially as he was throwing his arms into the air with gay abandon doing all the actions to ‘YMCA’, along with Rick, Marcia and Andrew. He looked mighty fine up there – handsome enough to hold his own with Andrew, even. Yes. I could do this.

  They came over to us when the song had finished. Simon was flushed with adrenaline. ‘That was fantastic!’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I’ve never done that before!’

  Because you’re a reformed stuck-up pillock who once said karaoke was for drunk lorry drivers, footballers’ wives and Scousers, I thought. How times change.

  Rick was practically shimmering with excitement as he bopped over to join us.

  ‘Let’s do it again next year!’ he trilled. ‘But let’s dress up! Andrew – you’ve already got a firefighter’s outfit, and Simon, darling, you could be a dishy doctor. Typecasting! I’m a HR manager, which is a bit rubbish, but I’d love to be the Red Indian!’

  ‘I’ll be the motorcyle cop in leathers,’ volunteered Marcia, lighting up her post-karaoke fag.

  Simon was leaning back in his chair, tapping his toe on the floor, looking as if he wanted to go straight back up and do ‘Flashdance’.

  ‘I’ve got so much energy, Sal, I’m going for a wander. I need to get some more cash from upstairs anyway. And what happened to your hair? It’s pink.’

  ‘Lucy happened to my hair – and be careful, she’s still out there somewhere.’

  He nodded and ambled off, hands shoved into his pockets, humming ‘YMCA’ to himself. He was on a real high, I could tell, and it wasn’t only down to the beer. He’d been infected by the Blue Bay madness. Maybe we could buy a karaoke machine of our very own when we got home – it could be our new baby.

  ‘He seems a happy boy,’ said Mike, coming back with a fresh tray of drinks. Two each, to save him getting up again for a while.

  ‘Yeah. He does. I think I’m going to let him move back in.’

  He raised a tufted grey eyebrow at me.

  ‘That so? You sure about that, love?’

  ‘No. I’m not sure about it. But I don’t want to spend my whole life wondering what might have happened with James. James was for the holidays. Not to make him sound like a rescue dog, but Simon is for life. I need to get back to reality.’

  ‘Always thought reality was overrated myself,’ Mike
said, peering over towards the stage. He squinted his eyes together.

  ‘Hey, Sal. Look. It’s Dong Number Two. Can’t say that I’ve ever seen that before, in all the years we’ve been coming here. Allie would’ve peed herself.’

  I turned round to see what he was ranting about. Fucking hell. He was right. Super-cool James Carver, or Dong Number Two as we knew him, was standing there on stage, looking about as comfortable as the cast of Watership Down on a greyhound track. He was staring up into the lights like he was about to be questioned by the Gestapo, sweat beading his forehead, and even from this distance you could see his hand trembling on the mike.

  He cleared his throat as the intro to the song started, and looked out into the crowd.

  ‘Um…this is for Sally,’ he said.

  I recognised the song straight away. Sinead O’Connor. Oh shit. Wasn’t that taking national loyalties too far? He might be Irish, but he came without the bald head or ovaries or the talent. This was going to be terrible. Mike was chortling away, settling in for the disaster unfolding before our eyes.

  As James started wailing along to ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’, I realised it was going to be even worse than I’d imagined. This wasn’t terrible. It was catastrophic. I’d finally found the one thing that James was bad at. He had the kind of voice that could unblock drains at fifty paces. Every note he hit was the wrong one. Every word he sang, he shouted. Every time he should have gone up, he went down.

  It was absolutely the worst karaoke performance I have ever seen in my life, and that includes Yates’s Wine Lodge in Liverpool on a Saturday night.

  ‘No-thing compares,’ he yelled, ‘no-thing compares…to you!’

  I felt the table rocking next to me, followed by a muffled thud. Mike had overturned his chair from laughing so much. He stayed down, chortling.

  By the time the song finished, the place was half empty. Even the traditionally tolerant Blue Bay karaoke crowd had snapped and felt a sudden urge to check on their packing.