Spin Cycle

by Sue Margolis

  The Singh twins were clearly underwhelmed by all this and asked if they could go into the living room and watch TV. Mr. Singh, however, appeared genuinely intrigued as Matt explained that he was about to see a demonstration of the first washing machine designed for remote villages in the Third World.

  “All right, let’s get started,” Matt said. Then, like a conjuror whisking away a tablecloth from under a pile of crockery, he tugged at the blanket. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, beaming, “I give you the Donkulator Mark One.” The other end of the mysterious handle, it turned out, disappeared into a large aluminum box bolted to the side of the shell of an old white enamel top loader, clearly dating from the sixties.

  Once everybody had stopped clapping, Demi allowed Tractor to lead her onto the treadmill and put the U-shaped end of the handle round her neck as a harness.

  This done, Matt opened the washing machine lid and filled the drum with water from the bucket. A moment later Tractor gave Demi a handful of the pink beaded Liquorice Allsorts, which the donkey apparently favored, and she promptly began walking at a gentle, unhurried pace.

  The handle, and then the washing machine drum, immediately started turning.

  “Now what you have to imagine,” Matt said above the purposeful whirring noise, “is that out in the villages, Demi here wouldn’t be on a treadmill, but walking around a pole. Yet the principle is identical. The connecting rod between her and the machine would still enter the gearbox here,” he indicated the aluminum box on the machine’s side, “and create via a patented mechanism the turning motion in the drum . . . here. It’s a high-ratio gearbox, which only requires Demi to break into a brisk walk like . . . so,” he stroked Demi’s flank and whispered to her, “to create a full, albeit relatively slow, spin cycle.”

  Demi speeded up on her treadmill, and the whirring noise from the gearbox grew to a clatter, swiftly followed by the familiar sound of a washing machine drum spinning at a respectable pace.

  Matt’s face broke into a broad smile. Rachel turned and hugged him.

  “It’s absolutely brilliant,” she squealed excitedly. “I am so proud of you.”

  “Yeah, well done, mate,” Tractor said, slapping Matt on the back.

  But Rachel and Matt were now too busy kissing to notice his congratulations.

  “I love you,” Rachel said when they finally pulled away.

  “I love you too.” Matt smiled, giving her one last peck on the lips.

  “The Donkulator is going to make you world-famous,” she said. “You’re going to get the Nobel Prize for Laundry. I just know it. I just know it.”

  “Well,” Matt said over the din, “we’re going to have to see if the guys from the Burkina Faso trade mission like it first when they come to see it next week. It’s all been a bit seat-of-the-pants these last few weeks. I only got the drain cycle sorted a couple of days ago, and I still haven’t gone the full donkey with it yet.”

  With that, with a massive gurgling and burping sound, the hose in the sink began gushing water.

  “Oh yes,” Matt cried. “Oh yes.”

  “Oh no,” Shelley cried. “Oh no.”

  Everybody shot round to look at her.

  Shelley cleared her throat nervously. “Sorry,” she said, looking down at the tiny puddle at her feet. “But I think my waters have broken in sympathy.”

  She then screwed up her face in pain and collapsed onto a kitchen chair as another contraction arrived, followed less than a minute later by another.

  * * * * *

  Rachel said she thought Shelley could be about to give birth, in which case they should call an ambulance. No ordinary vehicle stood a chance of getting through the Christmas Eve traffic and getting Shelley to the hospital in time.

  While Matt dialed 999, Rachel and Tractor helped Shelley into Matt’s bedroom.

  “Mr. Singh,” Matt said as he picked up the phone, “look, I’m terribly sorry about all this. Maybe it would be better for you to come back after Christmas. In the meantime would you mind unharnessing Demi and taking her out onto the balcony? You’ll find some fresh hay there.”

  It was a walk of no more than a dozen paces to the bedroom. On the way, Shelley had three more violent contractions that left her drained.

  “Don’t worry,” Tractor told her confidently after the last one. “I know all about delivering babies. I didn’t tell you, but our mam had all six of my brothers and sisters at home. When she went into labor the last time, with our Eugene, the midwife didn’t arrive until it was all over. Me dad had taken the other kids out for the day to give her a break so I was the only one there to help her.”

  “What?” Shelley said, looking at him all doe-eyed. “You delivered your baby brother, all on your own?”

  He nodded.

  Rachel frowned. She couldn’t work out if this was another Tractor tall story—like his fictional negotiations with the “major food conglomerate.”

  “So how old were you?” Shelley asked him.

  “ ’Bout thirteen. But I wasn’t quite on my own. I had the lady from the emergency services on the phone talking me through it.”

  The moment Shelley sat down on the bed, another contraction came. This time she almost screamed the place down. “Rache, I think it’s coming. I think it’s coming.”

  Rachel could feel panic rising inside her, not helped by Demi, who, out on the balcony, suddenly seemed to fancy herself as a contestant in the Eurovision Braying contest.

  “OK, sweetheart,” Rachel said, trying to hide her panic, “just hold my hand and breathe. Christ, where is that bloody ambulance?”

  Even if Tractor did know something about delivering babies, she reasoned, it couldn’t possibly be as much as the paramedics.

  By now Tractor had plumped up three pillows and arranged them against the headboard.

  Gingerly, Shelley lifted her feet off the floor and eased herself along the bed.

  “Rachel,” Tractor said, “why don’t you go to the linen cupboard and get some towels.”

  “OK,” she said, letting go of Shelley’s hand.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered, stroking her friend’s head. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Eeeeeuuuuuurch,” Shelley groaned.

  “Eyyooore, eyyoore,” came the response from the balcony.

  “Omigod,” Rachel muttered. “The donkey thinks she’s found a friend.”

  “All right, Shelley, mate,” Tractor said calmly. “Just breathe through it. Blow, blow, blow. That’s it. Excellent. Good girl.”

  Rachel had to ask Matt where the linen cupboard was. He led her to the end of the hall.

  “Ambulance is on its way,” he said. “And the Singhs have got Demi in hand.”

  She nodded. “Look,” she said, taking in his pale, anxious face, “why don’t you put the kettle on?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said shakily. “Boiling water. You always need boiling water when babies are being born. Why is that?”

  “I’ve no idea,” she chuckled. “I was just thinking you look like you could do with a cuppa and I’m sure Mr. Singh could. He must be freezing to death out there on the balcony.”

  By the time Rachel came back with the towels, Shelley’s lower half was naked and her knees were bent up. Tractor had taken off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and was kneeling on the bed at her feet.

  “Christ,” she was yelling, her face contorted in pain. “I want to push. I want to push.”

  “Shit, Tractor,” Rachel said, starting to feel really scared now. “I can see the head. What do we do? Why isn’t the bloody ambulance here? Are they having their bloody Christmas party or what?”

  “Rachel, will you take it easy?” Tractor said evenly. “You’re no use to anybody if you start panicking. Now just give me the towels and go back to holding Shelley’s hand.”

  She handed him the towels, a couple of which he slipped underneath Shelley.

  “It’s going to be all right, I promise,” Rachel whispered to Shelley, k
issing her on her damp forehead. “In a few minutes you’re going to have a beautiful, beautiful baby.”

  “Right, when you feel the next contraction,” Tractor said, “I don’t want you to push, I want you to pant. I’m just going to check the cord’s not caught round the baby’s neck.”

  The next contraction came. Shelley dug her nails into Rachel’s hand, screwed up her face and panted for all she was worth.

  “OK,” Tractor announced. “It all seems to be fine. Right, next time, push. Push really hard.”

  Her chin on her chest and still gripping Rachel’s hand, Shelley pushed. By now her spiky red hair was plastered to her head with sweat. Rachel picked up one of the spare towels and wiped her face.

  Shelley looked at her briefly and managed a smile. The contraction passed and another took its place.

  “You’re doing brilliantly,” Tractor urged. “Come on, just a couple more pushes and we’re there. You can do it, girl.”

  Two gargantuan pushes later, the head emerged.

  A few moments after that, Satchmo Peach slid into the world, bawling his head off.

  CHAPTER 22

  Mrs. Peach, a small woman with a large red patent handbag and bleached highlights the width of tagliatelle, arrived at Shelley’s hospital bedside in a flap.

  “Oh love,” she panted, leaning over to kiss her, “I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to get here, but the traffic was murder. Then, you’ll never believe it, there was this terrible accident on the Southend Road. Four cars burned out. Lord knows how many fire engines. I counted six bodies. Your dad reckons there were eight. Thing is, we couldn’t pass by without getting the camcorder out, so now we’ve run the batteries right down and used up all the tape. There’s none left to film the baby.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum,” Shelley said cheerfully. “I mean, a four-car inferno and charred corpses on the Southend Road is a once-in-a-lifetime video opportunity. Unlike the birth of your first grandchild.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you understand. Anyway, to make up for being late, your dad’s downstairs buying up half the hospital florist’s. So are you all right? Is the baby OK?”

  “Yes,” Shelley smiled. “We’re both fine.”

  “Are they positive the baby’s OK?”

  “Absolutely. Seven pounds and completely healthy.”

  Mrs. Peach brought her hand to her chest and let out a long sigh of relief. “Oh, thank heavens,” she said. “Your dad and I were so worried, what with it being born so suddenly and in someone’s flat like that. Whose place was it, anyway?”

  Shelley explained that it was a long story, and she’d tell her another time. For the moment, the doctors wanted to keep her and the baby in hospital for a couple of days just to make certain they were both all right.

  It was only then that Mrs. Peach noticed Rachel, who was sitting in a high-backed plastic armchair on the other side of Shelley’s bed.

  “Rachel,” Mrs. Peach cried, “I didn’t see you sitting there. Look, thank you so much for everything you did this afternoon. Heaven only knows what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”

  “Oh, I didn’t do a lot,” Rachel said, blushing ever so slightly. “So Mrs. P, how are you?”

  The instant Rachel uttered those last words, she wished she hadn’t. It was clear that Shelley, who had closed her eyes and was pressing the lids with her fingers, shared her wish.

  “How am I?” Mrs. Peach said with a caustic, chesty laugh as she plonked herself down at the end of the bed and began rummaging through her handbag. “Have you got an hour or six?”

  “Mum,” Shelley hissed, as her mother pulled out a box of ten Benson & Hedges. “Put them away. This is a bloody maternity ward.”

  “Oh right. Sorry,” Mrs. Peach said sheepishly. “It’s all this excitement. I wasn’t thinking.”

  She put the cigarettes back and snapped her bag shut. “So anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes. How am I? Well, I tell you, Rachel, everything’s got so bad now—you know—down below, that I can’t even laugh without leaking. I’ve had to completely give up watching The Vicar of Dibley. See, Shelley, be warned—that’s what having babies does to a woman’s body. Now then, where’s that grandson of mine?”

  “Oh, I was wondering when you’d get round to asking,” Shelley said with a sarcastic smile. “He’s here.”

  She pointed to the crib, which was on Rachel’s side of the bed. Mrs. Peach tiptoed round.

  “Ooh, who’s a little darling, then?” she squealed, stroking Satchmo’s tiny bald head. “Who is? Come on, tell Nana—who’s a little darling, then? Oh, Shelley, he’s gorgeous.”

  She reached out and took her daughter’s hand.

  “Yeah, he is, isn’t he?” Shelley beamed proudly. “I can hardly believe I’ve got him.”

  “Oh, you will,” Mrs. Peach said, “the first time he’s up screaming all night.”

  She turned back to the crib. “Aren’t you bootiful? Oh, yes you are. Ooh, come to Nana, little man. Come to Nana.”

  Moving her handbag along her arm, Mrs. Peach gently picked the sleeping infant out of the crib and sat cradling him on the edge of the bed.

  “Satchmo,” she said, smiling at Shelley. “That’s what they called Louis Armstrong, wasn’t it? Of course ‘What a Wonderful World’ is one of my favorites, but I didn’t know you were a fan.”

  “I’m not. I just like the name.”

  “It’s certainly unusual. I’ll give you that. Have you thought about a second name? It might be an idea to make that something a bit more conventional. Then if he doesn’t like Satchmo, he can use his second name instead.”

  “Mum, please don’t start. I really like Satchmo. I think it’s kinda bohemian.”

  “Do you, dear? Oh well, it’s your choice. I’m sure we’ll get used to it, anyway. What do you think, Rachel? Do you think Satchmo’s bohemian?”

  “Oh definitely,” Rachel lied. Privately, she was with Mrs. Peach on this one. In her opinion the poor little mite was going to get teased mercilessly when he started school, but she wouldn’t have dreamed of hurting Shelley by saying so.

  Mrs. Peach gave a good-natured shrug. “Your father and I were hoping you’d go for something a bit traditional. In fact, just between you, me and the gatepost, he was secretly hoping you’d name him after your paternal grandfather.”

  “Yeah, right. Like I was going to call a child of mine Enoch.”

  Just then Satchmo began howling.

  “Oh, has my little man got the windy pops then?” Mrs. Peach cooed. Carefully, she put Satchmo over her shoulder and began rubbing his back. “Come on,” she said, standing up. “Your mummy needs to rest. I’ll take you for a little walk. Why don’t we go and look at the pretty Christmas tree?” With that Mrs. Peach pootled off up the ward.

  “You know, Rache,” Shelley said, taking her hand, “I am so glad you and Matt finally got it together. You are just so right for each other. You’re going to have such a wonderful life together. I just know it.”

  Rachel felt a lump in her throat. “Yeah, I think so too. Look, I’d better get going. Matt said he’d come round later. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sam’s spending Christmas at Joe’s and he and Greg have invited me over for lunch. I’ll pop in and see you on my way there. OK?”

  “Yeah. Great,” Shelley said sleepily. “And, Rache, thanks again for everything.”

  “Come on—I didn’t do anything really, other than panic. It was all down to Tractor.” She walked to the end of the bed and picked up her jacket.

  “Rache,” Shelley said, a slight hesitation in her voice.

  Rachel looked up.

  “I know you haven’t got much time for Tractor, but after what he did today, you have to admit he’s pretty special.”

  Rachel was forced to admit he probably was.

  * * * * *

  The moment she got back to the car, her mobile phone rang. It was Sam.

  “Oh hi, darling,” she said cheerily. “I was just about to phone you. How you doing?
”

  “I’m fine. Mum—I’m really, really sorry about what happened last night. I reckon that woman should go to prison for what she did.”

  “Yeah, too bloomin’ right,” Rachel agreed.

  “Dad said he’d stick a red-hot poker up her bum if he got hold of her.”

  “Did he really? Oh, that’s so sweet. Tell him I appreciate it, will you?”

  They carried on chatting for a couple of minutes. She asked him what he’d been up to and he told her he’d spent the afternoon watching a video of Beaches with Greg.

  “That’s nice,” was all she said. “Oh, by the way, Shelley had her baby.”

  “Cool.”

  “Little boy—called Satchmo.”

  “Satchmo? That’s nasty.”

  She told him off for being rude, but only halfheartedly.

  * * * * *

  On the drive home, she decided she couldn’t put off telling Matt about Adam any longer. Once again it occurred to her he might be angry with her for not being honest with him. But surely, she thought, once she had reassured him how much she loved him and made it absolutely clear it was over between her and Adam—even though she hadn’t actually told Adam yet—he would come round. Nevertheless, as she pulled up outside her flat, she was aware that the ferrets that she usually felt only before a gig were performing back flips in her stomach.

  * * * * *

  She’d just opened a bottle of wine when Matt arrived.

  “Perfect timing,” she declared, brandishing the bottle. She kissed him, took his jacket and hung it up.

  “Rache,” Matt said, looking at her and frowning, “you seem tense. You OK?”

  “Yeah, fine,” she twittered, realizing she wasn’t as good at hiding her nerves as she thought.

  “So how are Shelley and the baby?” he asked as they walked into the living room.

  “Great,” she said. “Tractor’s popping in to see her later.”

  Matt sat down on the sofa. “I think he’s really fallen for Shelley, you know,” he said.