by Gill Sims
Peter and Jane did not help matters with Persephone and Gulliver’s emotional trauma when they discovered that every time their cousins had calmed down, the hysterics could be restarted by shouting, ‘I DON’T BELIEVE IN FAIRIES! THAT’S ANOTHER ONE DEAD, HA!’ Although this was obviously extremely cruel and unkind of my beloved children, there was a part of me that agreed with them that Persephone and Gulliver should really just man up and stop being such drips.
While Mum was having a meltdown over the parsnips, I abandoned the sacks of spuds to try to do a little bit of work, as the Big Deadline is looming and I don’t want everything to be a last-minute rush. I was hiding in our bedroom (separate beds, obvs. Mum does not encourage that sort of thing in anyone), when Simon came in. I looked up in exasperation.
‘I brought you a glass of wine,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘And I finished the potatoes for you. Your mum had moved on from the parsnip crisis and was busy insisting that Geoffrey go back out to the shops because she had just realised that she didn’t have any shallots and apparently ordinary onions wouldn’t do, so she didn’t even notice. So you can claim all the glory!’
Sometimes, just sometimes, I remember why I married Simon. I put down my laptop and suggested we thwarted my mother’s attempts at moral rectitude and put some of that practice we had of doing that sort of thing in single beds as students to good use.
‘Christ,’ said Simon. ‘If I’d known all it took was peeling some spuds, I’d have bought shares in King Edwards years ago!’
Sunday, 25 December – Christmas Day
The Family Festive Fun rolls on apace. I had somehow forgotten that Mum had adopted Geoffrey’s family’s frankly hideous tradition of not opening presents until after Christmas morning church, which was a shock to my own consumerist fiends as they descended with shrieks of glee on the mountains of parcels under the tree, only to be shooed away with stern admonishments by Mum and Geoffrey.
Church was … reasonably uneventful. We are not a church-going family, apart from when we are at Mum’s for Christmas, so there was much grumbling and ‘But WHYing’ from the children (and Simon), especially from Peter. Since he decided to be a full-on, card-carrying atheist, he feels it is his duty to bring enlightenment to the opiated masses and so had to be repeatedly kicked on the ankle to stop him from shouting, ‘There is no God, you know!’ during the service, as Causing a Scene in Church would, in Mum’s eyes, be even worse than ruining his cousins’ lives with the fairy-killing and Santa-denying, as the vicar might judge her and adversely affect her prime spot on the flower-arranging rota.
I quite like a Christmas church visit, though, especially when it is to a pretty little country church, like in Mum and Geoffrey’s village, although I am puerile and childish and sniggered when Mary asked how she should have a child for she was a virgin and the angel replied that the Holy Ghost would come on her, but I do like belting out a carol or two. It was unfortunate that I was a little carried away by ‘Angels from the Realms of Glory’ and didn’t notice Peter carving ‘bum’ into the pew in front with the penknife I had thought was such a splendid Boy’s Own gift for his stocking (Jane got one too, because Equality, even though I am always dubious about the wisdom of allowing Jane free rein to run amok with sharp objects), but today’s graffiti is tomorrow’s archaeology (or something), and in years to come it will doubtless just add to the charm of the church.
All in all, everything was going relatively well, apart from Mum accusing me of adding too much goose fat to the roast potatoes and making them greasy (there is no such thing as ‘too much goose fat’ when it comes to roast potatoes) and Sarah poking every single dish suspiciously before asking with a pained expression if it was suitable for her to eat when pregnant.
As we approached the Christmas pudding, and Jessica began to twitch for fear her duplicity would be discovered, Sarah evidently decided that insufficient attention was being paid to her, and she clutched her belly with a dramatic moan.
‘Oh God, darling!’ wailed Piers. ‘What is it?’
‘Arrrrghhhhh!’ groaned Sarah.
‘I TOLD you there was too much goose fat on those potatoes, Ellen,’ said Mum crossly. ‘You’ve given her indigestion.’
‘Oooohhh, owwwww! Oh, I think I’m having contractions!’ gasped Sarah.
‘Oh no, darling!’ shrieked Piers. ‘The baby can’t be coming yet. I haven’t downloaded your birth meditation podcasts! There’s no birthing pool here!’
‘OWWWWWWW!’ howled Sarah. ‘What are we going to do? WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO? THE BABY IS COMING!’
‘Well, you’ll have to go to the hospital, obviously,’ said Mum.
‘But I want a home birth,’ insisted Sarah.
‘You can’t have a home birth here,’ said Mum in horror. ‘Where would you have it?’
‘I could give birth in the drawing room,’ panted Sarah, who was now standing up and rocking back and forth while clutching the sideboard dramatically.
‘You can’t give birth in there. I’ve just had it decorated,’ replied Mum indignantly. ‘Oh God, and my Egyptian cotton sheets upstairs. You can’t have the baby here, you must go to a hospital.’
‘OOOOHHHHHHHHH! OHHHHHH! Piers! Piers, you are meant to be massaging my back and helping me BREATHE!’ screamed Sarah, as she doubled up over the sideboard. Geoffrey stood up and gently led his daughter away from the sideboard and gave her a chair to hold on to instead, while murmuring, ‘Do you mind, darling? Only it’s Chippendale, you know …’
‘I said she should have brought her hospital bag,’ I announced smugly to no one in particular. ‘I knew something like this would happen, I just knew it!’
Sarah gave one more violent scream and shrieked, ‘It’s coming! Oh God, it’s coming!’ and let out the most enormous fart I have ever heard in my life. The sonic boom seemed to echo around the ornate cornicing of the dining room for some time, while we all sat in a shocked silence.
‘Oh!’ said Sarah straightening up. ‘Oh, that’s better!’
Mum, who was going off the Sainted Sarah by the minute, did her very best impression of a cat’s bum with her mouth. Persephone and Gulliver, who were by now so shocked by life that they could not have been any more wide-eyed or horrified if they tried, whimpered something to Jessica, who muttered that she would explain where babies came from later. Jane helpfully intervened, and said she had seen the DVD at school and could explain for Jessica, if she wanted. She was brandishing her new knife at this point, and added something about how when the baby is born, they cut bits off it, and Persephone and Gulliver whimpered further as Jessica hastily declined their offer.
‘Did Aunty Sarah just FART the baby out?’ asked Peter in fascination. ‘There was no farting in the DVD I saw. It came out the lady’s hairy vagina. Doesn’t Aunty Sarah have a hairy vagina? Is that why she is farting the baby out?’
Geoffrey, a man who had clearly never had vaginas, hairy or otherwise, discussed at his dinner table before, looked like we might have exchanged one medical emergency for another as he teetered on the brink of a heart attack. He grabbed a bottle of whisky from the sideboard and suggested Simon joined him in the study. Simon didn’t need asking twice.
‘Shall I get the Christmas pudding?’ I said brightly. ‘Custard or brandy butter?’
Tuesday, 27 December
Today started quite well, with everyone being nice to each other in the blissful knowledge that the end was in sight. Jessica and Neil left this morning, having specifically told me they were staying until the 28th, which was the only reason I’d agreed to stay until the 28th too, so Mum couldn’t emotionally blackmail me about how at least one of her children likes to spend time with her, but somehow the cow managed to renege and escaped this morning.
Despite the departure of Jessica and family, and the fact that we were leaving tomorrow, Mum decided to have a massive meltdown after lunch because she was down to her last six pints of milk, there were only four loaves left in the freezer and she only had a d
ozen eggs – and therefore STARVATION WAS IMMINENT! As it had started snowing last night, and had continued to snow all day, Mum declared that the village shop would be bare, as any deliveries they may have had today would have been stripped by locust-like marauding pensioners (Mum seems to overlook the fact that she is also a pensioner by insisting it is different because she and Geoffrey always spent their winter-fuel allowance on wine, until the government so cruelly took it away from them). Therefore, insisted Mum, nothing would do, but that someone should set forth to go to the nearest supermarket fifteen miles away to buy provisions.
Piers, who truth be told was looking rather drained by Sarah constantly barking commands at him, volunteered for this task, claiming that their supplies of coconut oil were running rather low (good God, what sort of acreage does Sarah’s perineum cover if she has managed to go through an entire jar of it since arriving?), but I suspect he just fancied an hour’s peace and quiet.
We duly waved him off, with Mum remarking anxiously that their lane was looking really rather difficult with all the snow and she did hope we would be able to get out tomorrow to go home. Icy dread seizing my heart at the thought of being snowed in with Mum and Geoffrey (and eleventy billion pints of milk, forty loaves, five dozen eggs and a vat of coconut oil, after Piers’s Mercy Dash). I airily announced that we would be FINE, for I had a 4x4 and thus nothing could impede our escape.
Peter and Jane complained that they were BORED with snow, and there was nothing to do now that their new favourite pastime of tormenting their cousins had been taken from them, and Mum announced briskly that only boring people got bored and suggested a variety of mundane tasks to occupy them, before they sidled off muttering that they thought they could probably find something to do. Mum smirked at me smugly and said, ‘It’s just a matter of knowing how to handle them, darling!’
‘Mum, you do know they will just have sneaked off to find some sort of screen to slump in front of, don’t you?’ I pointed out. ‘They haven’t gone to write imaginative stories or poetry or perform a play.’
‘Well,’ huffed Mum. ‘They might have.’
It was actually rather a lovely afternoon. The snow continued to fall softly, the fire crackled and the house was quiet for the first time in days. I curled up on the window seat to indulge myself with my ancient, battered copy of Ballet Shoes, having decided that the children hadn’t really had that much screen time in the last few days, so a little bit wouldn’t hurt, while I dreamt of my marvellous career on the stage that never was (I know we are all supposed to want to be cool tomboy Petrova, but I always had a hankering to be spoilt brat Posy, prancing around en pointe). Simon was pottering around somewhere, Geoffrey had vanished to his study, and Sarah had beached herself in prime position on the sofa in front of the fire, while Mum flicked through Tatler, pretending she knew people in the Bystander section.
As dusk fell, Sarah lifted her head and plaintively suggested that it would be rather lovely if someone could bring her a cup of hot water and lemon juice. Mum, who still hadn’t forgiven Sarah for destroying her elegant Christmas dinner tableau with the Fart of Doom, ignored her. Sarah whimpered again, and I rather unkindly said, ‘You know, Sarah, it’s not actually good for you to loll about this much at this stage in pregnancy. You could get a thrombosis. It’s much more natural to move about and stay active! A gentle walk to the kitchen to make your own drink would be much better for you.’
‘But I’m pregnant,’ whined Sarah. ‘I can’t believe no one will fetch me a hot drink in my condition. Where is Piers? Where is Daddy?’
When no further sympathy or offers of help were forthcoming, Sarah heaved herself to her feet, grumbling all the while, and then, as she stood up, there was a loud splashing noise, as a great gout of liquid gushed over the rug.
Mum, who had steadfastly pretended not to hear any of this exchange, looked up at this point and shrieked, ‘My AUBUSSON! WHAT THE FUCK HAS HAPPENED?’
Sarah, who was standing in the puddle looking quite horrified said, ‘I didn’t piss myself. Really I didn’t.’
‘Holy fuck, Sarah!’ I said. ‘Your waters have broken!’
‘What?’ said Sarah. ‘But they can’t have. I mean, there was no warning. Everyone said. They said I would know when the baby was coming, they said I had to listen to my body, and I have been listening and it NEVER FUCKING SAID ANYTHING. AND NOW THE BABY IS COMING, BUT IT IS MEANT TO BE LATE, AND THE BASTARDS SAID THAT TOO, THAT FIRST BABIES ARE ALWAYS LATE, AND PIERS ISN’T HERE, HE IS LOST IN THE SNOW, AND HE WILL PROBABLY DIE OUT THERE BEFORE HE EVEN GETS TO MEET HIS BABY AND I WILL BE A SINGLE MOTHER, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!’
I reluctantly laid aside Ballet Shoes, abandoning Pauline and Petrova mid-audition for A Midsummer’s Night Dream, and sprang into action. I have watched every episode of Call the Midwife, including the frankly terrifying Christmas Special where ex-nun Shelagh seduced Dr Turner in her drip-dry nylon negligee, and I felt confident I could deal with this situation.
‘Don’t worry, Sarah,’ I said cheerfully (I knew from Call the Midwife that it was important to maintain a sunny façade to keep the mother calm – but then again, it was also important to administer an enema. I decided to stick with the cheerfulness and not think about the enema). ‘Babies take ages to come. You’ll be OK. Now, remember to breathe. Piers will be here soon, there were probably just queues to deal with. Or maybe it took a while to find the coconut oil. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.’ I patted her hand reassuringly.
‘OH MY GOD, WHAT AM I GOING TO DOOOOOOO?’ screamed Sarah. She was clearly hysterical. I wondered whether I should slap her. In fairness, I have been longing to slap Sarah for years, and I would probably never have a better opportunity, but I suspected slapping women in labour, however irritating and screechy they are, is frowned upon, so I reluctantly decided against it, and patted her hand again and made what I hoped were Soothing Noises.
Sarah collapsed heavily back onto the sofa, still wailing, at which point Mum decided to provide a Greek chorus as she howled, ‘Oh GOD, NO, NO! Ellen, DO something! Get her off the sofa! OFF! I’ve just had it upholstered in Laura Ashley. The cushions are their Summer Palace fabric, it’s discontinued now. She’s already wrecked the Aubusson, she’s not ruining my sofa as well!’
‘Mum, she’s in labour,’ I protested. ‘I really don’t think that your sofa is the main thing we should be worrying about right now! She needs to be warm and comfortable and reassured. I don’t think you’re helping.’
‘The Summer Palace was £36 a metre! What part of “it’s discontinued” don’t you understand, Ellen?’ hissed Mum menacingly. I was a bit scared.
‘Look, just call an ambulance or something, Mum!’
‘But what are we going to do with her until it gets here?’ fretted Mum.
‘I AM here!’ pointed out Sarah
‘The garage?’ tried Mum hopefully. ‘I mean, Geoffrey’s Jag’s in there, but I’ve never much liked it anyway, so it doesn’t really matter if she scratches the paintwork.’
‘MUM!’ I said, shocked by her devotion to home furnishings in the face of the Miracle of Life taking place in front of her. ‘We can’t put her in the garage!’
‘Why not?’ said Mum. ‘I mean, really, a garage is a modern version of a stable. It would be rather apt. Quite festive, really.’
‘OOOOHHHHHHH!’ groaned Sarah. ‘Could someone PLEASE just phone Piers and tell him he needs to get back here NOW?’
‘Mum, GO and call an ambulance, and then go and call Piers.’
‘Right,’ I said briskly, turning to Sarah. ‘It’s all going to be all right, Sarah. You’ve absolutely nothing to worry about. The baby won’t be here for ages, and I won’t let Mum put you in the garage. The Summer Palace cushions will just have to take their chances, but the ambulance will be here shortly anyway. Mum, WHY are you still here? GO and ring an ambulance, and Piers. And let Sarah speak to Piers when you get hold of him. And … and … then put some water on
to boil. And get towels! Lots of towels!’
‘Not my White Company ones, though,’ said Mum mutinously. ‘Maybe the old ones I use to dry the cats after their bath.’
‘Mum!’ I snapped. ‘She’s having a fucking baby! GO and make the calls, and stop worrying about your fucking towels! You can’t give her the cat towels. The longer you leave it before you call that ambulance, the more chance there is of her giving birth on your fucking cushions!’
Mum stomped out, still muttering darkly, and I turned my attention back to Sarah, who was howling that she was having another contraction.
‘Maybe you should breathe through it?’ I said brightly (I was really very impressed with how well I was coping with a Childbirth Crisis). ‘Visualise something lovely. Like a tropical beach! And breathe yourself onto it. How’s that orgasm coming on?’
‘Shut the fuck up, Ellen!’ spat Sarah. ‘This hurts like a fucking BITCH! BREATHING ISN’T FUCKING HELPING! I WANT DRUGS!’
‘No, you don’t,’ I said soothingly. ‘Remember, you are having a natural birth, you have practised all your hypnobirthing, and you are very against drugs and medical intervention. You can just breathe instead. You said that childbirth only hurts because we are conditioned to think it hurts, and if we simply believe otherwise, we will have a positive and empowering birth experience. Would you like to hold my hand?’
‘FUCK THAT SHIT!’ was Sarah’s response, as she gripped my hand really much harder than I was sure was necessary. ‘I have a baby coming out my FUCKING FANNY! What fucking IDIOT said it WOULDN’T HURT?’