by Helen Walsh
My victory lasts one beat of the baby’s heart. Andy smiles once, quickly, and starts reading his newspaper again as he crushes me, talking as he chews.
‘Agreed. Which is why James McIver is back here in the hostel.’
‘He is?’
‘He is. We’ve had a long chat, James and I. He’s apologised. I’ve issued him with a warning and a seven o’clock curfew for the rest of the weekend. And the matter is now closed. Do you wish to see him?’
‘I . . . er . . .’
And suddenly it’s all I can do to stop the almighty smile that’s slicing across my face from erupting into hysterical laughter. Andy is looking at me as though I’ve gone stark raving potty.
‘Rachel? Is everything okay? Rachel?’
I just stand there, grinning, shitting it.
‘Will you call me an ambulance please? I think my waters just broke.’
5
There’s no gush, no grand inaugural ceremony to the drama that lies ahead, just a small tight pop and then a trickle of liquid down my inner thigh. I clench my arse cheeks taut and wait for a downpour that doesn’t come. Andy, to his credit, is right over, pulling out a chair, shouting for a glass of water. Another leak of fluid, more this time, and you can smell it. A few of the kids come in, excited, fearful. I hold a hand up to Andy.
‘I’m . . . um . . . I just need to . . .’
Once in the toilets, away from their gaze, I’m able to give vent to this nauseating sense of fate, of destiny spiralling out of control, that’s taken me over. I remove my knickers and mop myself up, stalling before I finally stuff them in the sanitary bin. Part of me wants to keep them, put them in a box along with my baby’s first nail clippings, first scratch-mitts – ‘the knickers I wore when my waters broke’.
I squat on the loo seat and try to examine myself. There’s no show but there’s an odour to the liquid – salty, sickly, a hint of soap scum – that’s strangely benign; domestic in a welcome, reassuring way. And in thinking this I am at once aware that hours from now my body will have reached some evolutionary milestone, examined and assessed for purpose in the greater good of parturition – just the latest body to be wheeled out on display to produce the goods. Last night I trimmed myself so that I might be spared the embarrassment of needing to be shaved by total strangers but I see now how such a practical move might be misconstrued. I might be mistaken for a woman who, in spite of feeling uncomfortable and cumbersome, a woman who is near to tearing at the seams, is preoccupied with looking her best; looking sexy. Ha! If only they knew.
With another jab of rabid panic, all those thoughts are obliterated by the sensation that, no matter what lies ahead, this is it, now. It’s started, and nothing can halt it. In a matter of hours I shall lie there, writhing, demented with the agony of a child ripping its way through me and out. For weeks, months, I have hovered above the reality of what this entails; how a half-stone lump bursts through a bottleneck. I’ve been all admiration at my clever, cunning self, sailing through pregnancy solo; just me and the Bean. From that to this. Sheer terror. Sheer excitement. I take my mobile out, ring the hospital. The voice that greets me tries to be reassuring, but never gets beyond dismissive:
‘How far apart? You’ve had how many?’
‘Well, it’s hard to say . . .’
I try to explain about yesterday, an excruciating jolt through the pelvis I dismissed at the time. I’d just gone through to put the kettle on when I felt a swift and painful tightening of the uterus. It brought me to my knees, literally had me gasping on the kitchen floor – but then it was over, just like that. Surely this, coupled with the breaking of my waters says the moment is upon me, the start of labour is here?
‘So . . . no actual contractions, then?’ I can hear her trying to inject a bit of empathy into her voice, but it comes across as an impatient growl. ‘Look, believe me, I know what this is like. You’re anxious to get the ball rolling, and get this whole show over with. But honestly, love, this is one we just can’t rush. Seriously. Stay home. Try and get some sleep or have a bath.’
‘Sleep? A bath? But my waters just broke!’
‘Call us back when your contractions have definitely started if you want, but if I were you, I wouldn’t bother till they’re at least six minutes apart.’
I’m burning up with ire all of a sudden but I stifle any fight back. I don’t want her to know I’m scared. But I am scared. I’m petrified. If I’m to follow her guidance, I won’t bother the hospital again until I’m thrashing on the floor in agony, barely able to reach up for the phone, let alone speak.
‘It’s just that . . . I live on my own, that’s all. I’m just thinking that if the contractions come on all of a sudden, well . . . I’m just worried that . . .’
What am I worried about – what? It’s that – the sheer gaping abyss of the unknown that’s tormenting me. All I have are the secondhand testimonies of other women to draw upon, and all they amount to is that no matter how well you prepare, you can never be prepared.
‘You’re scared you’ll just have the baby there on the floor?’ The voice laughs. ‘If only it were that easy, darling, we’d all be out of a job. Call us when the contractions are strong and regular.’
Deflated, I slump down on the toilet seat, until the smell of cigarette smoke drives me out. There’s a girl standing by the sink, sucking hard on a fag. I recognise her as one of the teenage mums that comes to the Sure Start group at The Gordon. She’s barely eighteen and is already pregnant with her third baby. She gives me a knowing look, tries to smile.
‘You at the Women’s Hospital?’ I nod. She shakes her head as she exhales. ‘Forget it. They won’t give you a bed there till the baby’s pushed its head out far enough to ask for its own crib.’
She snuffs her cigarette out in the sink, tamps down her hair in the mirror. I go back in, tell Andy to forget about the ambulance and to call me a cab.
The roads are still wet from the afternoon downpour and the mellow September sun glances off them like metal. I wind the window down to take it all in, weirdly nostalgic as we lurch away from Kirkdale. The taxi slices through Rodney Street and we’re in a different city all of a sudden – students and Friday revellers eddying up and down Hardman Street, carefree and gay. Another punch to my guts. I wince. But it’s not the Bean this time. The cab is cutting down Gambier Terrace, of all places, today of all days. Just to my left is where Ruben and I had sex; where I got pregnant. And over there to my right is the hulking great beast of the cathedral, on whose terrace I sat when I decided I wasn’t telling him.
6
The day after the carnival I headed straight for Big Mamma’s in search of him. The smell hit me as I walked down the stairs, the same combination of sugar and spice that sweated from Ruben’s skin the night before. The restaurant was empty except for a few stragglers. I spotted him straight away, wiping down tables. I sat down, observing him as he worked, deep in thought, a quiet vaulting in my stomach. He was even more beautiful than I could have appreciated in the twilight – older too, at least seventeen. When he finally looked up, his face groped towards mild recognition – then hurt as it all came back to him. My daft, happy smile died on my lips. But then he winked at me, held up one finger to say he’d be over in a moment, and my head was spinning with fear and excitement and the mad need to reach out and touch him.
And there he was at the table.
‘Hiya.’
‘Hi.’
In the female ritual of demure flirtation, I’d failed already. It was there in my eyes, in my face, my smile. Come and take me, Ruben. I’m yours. He seemed embarrassed at how easy, how available I was making myself. He glanced towards the kitchen hatch.
‘You better order something . . .’
‘Shit! Sorry . . .’
He smiled, making my stomach lunge. I sat back in my chair, tapped my hands on the seat, an involuntary gesture for him to sit down.
‘Some of us gorra work,’ he said and winked to show he was josh
ing with me.
Desperately trying to calculate whether I could afford a drink as well as the bus back home I panic-ordered the most adult-sounding drink I could see. Sod it. If I was short, I’d walk home. I’d skip. I’d surf home on the roof of a bus. Ruben brought me my ginger beer, poured it from the bottle, but still didn’t sit down. The carbonation rose up between us in a rich golden display.
And then he turned, disappeared back to the kitchen while I sat there and sipped my drink, the bubbles getting up my nose. The restaurant emptied out. Laughter from the kitchen, and when the door swung open I could spy the chef stepping out of his fatigues. Another twenty minutes and still no Ruben. A woman I presumed to be Mamma herself puffed through the L-shaped room, impatiently moving and rearranging chairs. I took the hint. Wounded, I placed the correct change on the table and made my way to the door.
A voice, harsh, ‘Oi!’ And then softer, ‘Rachel.’
He was holding up a scrap of paper between finger and thumb. I hovered halfway up the stairs, belatedly standing my ground. I shrugged at him, trying not to betray the pure and incomprehensible love rolling through me. But he didn’t budge. Just stood there staring me down with that face, pretty enough to be a girl’s, holding out the note. His number. And I understood the game. I knew that I should just turn and walk out on to the street and not look back. I knew that, if I went to him, I was handing him my soul on a silver salver. So I strode right over to him, looked him straight in the eye and took his number; but before he could speak I sashayed out of there, knowing how this would go, willing it to start.
7
We’re inching down the Boulevard, marooned in the dead scrawl of the afternoon rush hour, and all around kids are darting in and out of the gridlock on their bikes. Two black lads race by on quad bikes, typical Toxteth faces, spiked with freckles. They rattle down the cinder path, then spin wildly on to the grassy central reservation, sending pedestrians scattering. The cabbie tuts and mutters to himself, looks for me in the rear-view mirror to see if I’m thinking the same. I don’t want to hear it. I stare out of the window until he looks away. He curses to himself, spies an opportunity and accelerates into the filter lane, veering right into Upper Warwick.
I smile at the sight of a supremely tall Nigerian man bending down and even then having to stoop to chat with one of his Bangladeshi neighbours. The Indian man strokes his smooth brown chin as he makes his point and the African laughs, smacking his slender hips. Maybe we’ll stay here after all, Mr Bean. We’ll make a go of it, you and I. We won’t just dip in and out – we’ll be a part of this place. People will know us; stop and talk to us. You can go to the local school and we’ll both make friends – proper friends. And we’ll walk into town every Saturday to visit the museums and galleries, and the cafés and restaurants too, when you’re older. And we’ll go to Carnival, of course. We’ll belong.
And as though fate were expressing an endorsement of this life plan my first real contraction strikes me hard in the gut.
‘Whoooah!’
It lifts my bum from the seat, all my upper body weight spread across the flats of my hands. My wrists feel like they might snap. The cabbie cranes around, concerned now.
‘You okay, love?’
We’re not far off now, just the little cut through from Admiral Street and we’re there. I’m hit by another almighty smash through the guts.
‘Shit!’
We pull up outside mine. Ours.
‘You want me to wait for you, girl? Get your things?’
‘Nah. Cheers though.’
He’s stung.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll switch the meter off! Not gonna take advantage of a young girl in labour, am I?’
‘Oh no, it’s not that. I didn’t . . . It’s just they won’t even let you through the doors at the Women’s until baby can stick his head out far enough to pick his own crib.’
He smiles, placated. I pay him and assure him I’ll be fine. I take my time hauling myself up to the top floor, let myself in and flop on the couch, aware this could well be the last of these, my last laboured traipse up five – well, four and a half – flights of stairs. I’m relieved at the thought; quietly happy. Now for the big one. Now for my baby.
8
Every Sunday Ruben came round. I was dying to go to his place, even just for a cup of tea, just to see it and be there and know where he came from; but he made it resolutely clear that it was a no-no. I wanted to know all about him – everything. In lighter moments – and he was serious, Ruben – he’d jest about his house full of brothers and sisters, and his mum, a seamstress, working from their kitchen. I steered clear of the subject, the fact that he kept me away from them. That’s because instinctively I knew that the moment I started to prod and probe him was the moment it would all crumble to dust.
We’d snatch an hour here and there during the week, but Sundays were all ours. For as long as I could remember, Sunday had been a day out for us Masseys. Our immaculate old Volvo would be loaded up with goodies and we’d head out en famille to Haworth or Snowdon or, in the summer, Offa’s Dyke, Conwy Castle, Castleton in the Peak District. Mum and Dad were smarting, at first, when I told them I’d rather stay home. But I impressed even myself with how convincingly I persuaded them that I wanted to take the next two years of my GCSEs seriously, how I’d be just fine in the house on my own. After the first couple of weeks they stopped making an issue of it and I sensed they were enjoying the time spent together. They came back later and later, and that suited me just fine. More time with Ruben. More time in bed, on the couch, on the floor, on the table, in the garden; he fucked me everywhere.
Ruben sparked something off in me, something massive and profound and terrifying that knocked me so completely off kilter that the only time I could even begin to make sense of it was by his side. Mum and Dad were happy to believe I was preoccupied with my studies, but all I could think about was my Ruben. I wanted to steal every minute I could with him, but after those first few sex-charged Sundays subsided into something more familiar between us, I had to accept our thing for what it was – a one-way street. Ruben called the shots, just as he had done right from the start. He limited our liaisons to snatched, feverish encounters. I would always phone him, always from a call-box, and beg him to meet me in the park or up near work. He’d come out of the kitchen, screw me and go back in again, sometimes barely speaking. But that would do, for me; that was enough to have me spend every waking moment thinking about him. He was there when I took a bath in the morning, there at the breakfast table, there on the bus to school, there in the classroom, the hockey pitch and in bed. He was under my skin, in my lungs. I couldn’t scrub him off even if I wanted to. Dad speculated, Mum second-guessed, but I told them nothing. I couldn’t let anything spoil it.
The Sundays, the mid-week trysts, none of it was ever enough for me. I needed more of him; I needed to know where he was, who he saw when he wasn’t with me. Ruben, though – he needed nothing. It was always the same, he’d just parry me off with that laugh, those mocking eyes and then the shutters would come down. The first time I told him I loved him you could see the effort it took him not to laugh in my face.
‘You’re not getting all serious on us, are you?’
But just when I thought I’d rather leave him than have to put up with this, he’d lean over, kiss me and disabuse me of the notion, and I was on fire all over again. I would have settled for anything, taken whatever scraps he tossed me. I was starting to hate him for it.
9
My next contraction announces itself a whole four hours later. This one is angrier, pinning me to the floor. I wait for it to subside, drag myself up, instinctively reach for the phone. They will be back from work now, Dad and Jan, all pleased with themselves that they haven’t missed the big event – especially Jan. She’s dying to be part of this, and I should really let her in after all this time. I don’t even dislike her any more, if I ever did. She’s a good woman and she’s right for my dad. I don’t know. T
here is no person closer to me than Dad. I’ve long since come to terms with his thing about Ruben. The letter. Letters. I’d even go as far as to say I understand him doing what he did – I think. So, for his sake, I have been trying with every vein and sinew to include her, even love her – just a little bit. Yet until today, until my first non-contraction, it had never really hit me just how much I actively do not want Jan there.
I pick up the phone, put it back down, torn between doing the right thing and doing what I want. And what I want, what my every instinct has been guiding me towards since I knew I was pregnant, is to do this on my own. I can’t explain it other than in the most trivial terms. One – as much as I adore my father, he also really, really irritates me. Always has done. I try, I try, but sometimes I just can’t help myself. Two – Jan is not my mother. She rushed things with me when she first arrived on the scene, it had only been a year since Mum died and whether I wanted to legitimise my natural antipathy towards any new woman in Dad’s life, or whether she did truly offend me, it felt like she almost bullied me into accepting her. But I do, now. I completely accept Jan as Dad’s partner without fully embracing her as part of my own life. Yet I know that’s not good enough. I know it’s mean and petty, and I know I’m better than that. No, whatever is holding me back is chemical and irrational, and however I try to justify my misgivings I cannot put my finger on the problem.
Another contraction, one of those monsters that lays me out on the floor, so that twenty minutes later I’m still lying there, snatching for breath, trying to regain equilibrium; trying to convince myself things are still fine. Fuck it. I haul myself up, pick up the phone. I book a cab for 9 p.m., and that will be that. By nine this evening these contractions will be coming thick and fast. Whatever the midwife might say to the contrary, I am on that ward tonight. The next time I step back across this threshold is with a baby in my arms, and once again the thought both terrifies and thrills me to the core.