Mary, May 1971
It’s early morning. There’s a clock on the opposite wall. I’m lying on the hospital bed, and I can see myself as others might, a spent skin of woman, draped over the plastic sheets.
“Time of birth: six fifty-five a.m.,” says one midwife to the other as she weighs the baby and wipes away the blood. I can’t tell the two women apart.
One of them says, “Good girl, Mary. You did really well. That’s the worst part over!”
The morning light streams through the venetian blinds, and I can see it will be one of those bright, clean May days, where faraway views become clear by midday. When I squint, I can see the streams of dust playing in the sunlight.
Billy holds my hand. “Well done, darling. It looked tough. Harder than Matthew?” He looks breathless, bright-eyed.
I nod, still fixed on the clock. 6.56.
“I should’ve been there for Matthew too,” he says, turning to the midwives. “They said I should wait outside last time,” he tells them, and he shakes his head.
“Times change, don’t they?” says one. “It’s becoming quite the trend for fathers to be at the birth these days.”
“OK, the placenta should be along in a minute,” the other midwife tells me. “When you’re ready I want you to give another big push. I’m sure you’re fed up with all the pushing, love, but this should be the last one!” She’s so jolly, even though she’s been up with me all night. “Here it comes,” she says, reaching the palm of her hand under my bottom to catch it.
It slips from me like an organ, a complete piece, voiding my womb. A sob catches in my mouth as my stomach sags back against my ribs. The emptiness is devastating.
One midwife hands me my baby boy.
The other says, “Did you want to keep the placenta?”
I try to focus on her.
“It’s quite popular, these days,” she smiles, and I realise it’s a joke. “For nutrition. But, well, it’s not for everyone.” She scoops it away.
The baby’s beautiful, with smooth, clear skin. He’s less wrinkled than Matthew was. And his head is rounder. The midwives and Billy fade like ghosts.
“Right, let’s stitch you up then,” says the midwife with a clap of her hands. “You might want some gas and air for this bit. Dad, you take baby.”
My legs feel like dead weights as she guides them into the stirrups. Such an undignified contraption. The first needle entry is like fire. I drag at the gas, pulling the shriek back into my lungs. Again and again the needle tears through my raw skin, as my eyes roll back and my screams are swallowed.
After five stitches, she stops. “Shirley, have a look will you? I think we’re going to need the registrar for this one.”
The other midwife bends to look between my legs. She sticks her finger inside and wiggles it about. “Mmm. Best be safe. I’d get the registrar.” They both disappear into the corridor to locate a doctor.
Billy sits beside me, gazing at the baby, oblivious of the stitching conversation. My head is turned towards him, and I’m drifting into sleep, but I want my baby. Feebly, I hold my hands out towards him, and Billy places him back in my arms.
“Jake,” I say, closing my eyes, feeling my cheek against his warm skin.
“I like it. Manly. Unusual. That’s cool. Would he be a Jacob?”
“Just Jake.” My legs go into shock, still suspended in the stirrups. 7.29. My ankles tremble in the holsters, causing my calves to buck involuntarily. Silent tears stream down my face, on to the baby’s head.
Billy jumps to his feet. “You’ve been stuck like that for twenty minutes. More. I’ll get someone.”
He leaves the room, purposefully, and I’m left alone with my baby. I cough, and a rush of hot blood exits me, pooling around my buttocks and seeping into the small of my back.
As I glance towards the fingers of light from the window, I see the little girl. She’s about nine, and her hair has the whisper of a curl and the dark conker shine of childhood. She wants to come over, but she’s shy. A red ribbon that should be in her hair twirls between her fingers. She’s got that blue shift dress on, the one for best.
“Do you want to see the baby?” I ask quietly, so the others in the hallway don’t hear.
She nods, and walks round to the other side of the metal bed, where she can climb on Billy’s chair for a better look.
“What’s his name?” she asks.
“Jake. Do you like it?”
She smiles.
“I think he looks a bit like you, don’t you think?”
She doesn’t answer, but leans in to stroke Jake’s soft forehead. There’s still blood around his cheeks, but the girl doesn’t seem to mind. She pushes her hair behind her ears, in a way that’s familiar to me.
“I’m going to feed him now,” I say, and I put Jake to my breast for the first time. He suckles instantly.
The little girl smiles again. “Why am I here?” she asks, a little question mark hovering between her eyebrows.
“Well, it’s something you do, I suppose,” I answer as I close my eyes. I’m slipping.
“Where’s your other little boy?” she asks. “Matthew?”
“Oh, Matthew. Of course. He’s at his nanna’s.”
“Is that your mummy?” she asks, tipping her head to one side, as if talking to a child.
“No. No. It’s Billy’s mummy. Not mine.” I open my eyes, and she’s still there, with the sunlight catching her hair. “Not my mummy.”
She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “You’re bleeding. Does it hurt?”
“No. It looks worse than it feels.” I want to reach out and embrace her, but I can barely lift my arms.
“I’m going to get someone,” says the little girl. “You’ve gone all grey.” She hops off the chair and pads into the corridor in her bare feet.
“Come back!” I call after her. “Where are you?”
Billy rushes in, and then the room is full of midwives and doctors, but the sound is muted, and I see them in slices of light and grey. I feel the girl’s hand in mine, and she presses gently as the lights go out altogether.
“Come again,” I whisper, and she’s gone.
Jake, March 1985
On one of our days with Dad, we go to Granddad’s grave. It would have been his birthday, and we’ve got to show our respects. We don’t do it every year, just when Dad wants to. Mum used to come with us.
“Do we have to get Gran?” asks Andy, poking me from the back seat of the car.
“No. One of your uncles will probably take her separately.”
“Oh,” says Andy.
He whispers “Skill!” under his breath and I give him the evil eye over the headrest.
When we get there, it takes Dad a while to find the gravestone. “I’m sure it’s over this side somewhere,” he mumbles, treading through the overgrown grass and weeds.
“Would they have moved it?” Andy asks.
“Idiot. He’s buried. They’re not gonna just dig up his grave and move him, are they? Idiot.” I scowl at Andy, who’s tutting as he shoves his hands deeper in his pockets.
“Show some respect, boys,” says Dad, frowning with concentration.
Eventually we find it. There’s moss growing up the edges, creeping towards the etched words. Dad tugs away at the dandelions and grass, and soon it’s looking much tidier.
“Don’t want it looking a mess when your gran gets here,” he says.
Andy runs his finger across the letters of Granddad’s name. Arthur John Andrews. “He was quite young then, when he died?”
“Yep. I was only a lad.”
“Was he born round here?” I ask.
“Southsea, born and bred,” answers Dad, looking proud. “See that building over the road? That was his school. He was one of the first pupils, and then when we were old enough to go to school, we went there too. Of course, it’s not a school any more. Some posh house now.”
The brick building opposite the graveyard has a low stone wall
, so you can see the big garden that spreads out the back. There are huge trees around the edges, and a blossom tree just coming into bud. Daffodils pop up everywhere like wild flowers, and I imagine Dad and Granddad running about in the summer. It’s much smaller than my old primary school. I think I’d have liked it there.
“It’s sad that he died,” says Andy. “I wish we could’ve met him.”
“Me too, son,” says Dad. “Apparently, he was a bit of a live wire, my old man.”
As we’re closing the gate to the graveyard, I see Stu and Malcolm on the other side of the road. Malc looks up and points us out to his dad.
“Bill! What’re you doing here? Not your neck of the woods normally?” Stu bounds across the road with Malcolm in tow.
“Just visiting my dad’s grave, mate. What about you?”
“Had to pick up Malc this week. His mum’s car’s on the blink so I said I’d drive over for him.” He looks at his watch, rubbing his gingery stubble. “Oh, look at the time, Bill. I must say, I’m feeling a bit thirsty, mate. What d’you reckon?”
Dad grins, checking his watch too, pulling a snooty face. “Mmm. I make it eleven fifty-eight, by this fine piece of digital engineering. Refreshment of the ale kind would be most agreeable, sir. The Anchor?”
“Might as well, good man. As it’s nearby.”
At the pub, Dad pats me on the back before he heads into the bar. “Jake, we’ll get some chips after we’ve had a pint. Why don’t you lads go off and play round the pond. There used to be a tyre swing when I was a lad.”
The three of us hop over the fence at the end of the pub garden, into the meadow where the pond is. A huge weeping willow hangs over one side of it, and a raft of old pallet boards floats about near the far edge. A few ducks and ducklings bob around in the bulrushes and reeds, where the sunlight catches the ripples. Just as Dad said, there’s a tyre hanging from one of the low branches, and Andy runs ahead to bagsy it.
Malc and me sit on the bench on the other side of the pond, plopping little stones into the water.
“That’s weird, isn’t it? Bumping into you like that,” says Malc. “Didn’t know you ever came over this way.”
“Yeah. My gran lives in Southsea. But we try not to see her too much. She’s a bit of an old cow. Shame it was my granddad that died.”
“My nan’s alright. But she lives miles away, so we don’t see her much either. But she’s nice. Cooks nice cakes and stuff.” Malc throws a bigger stone into the water, and the ripples spread out right over to the other side of the pond.
“You staying with your dad tonight, then?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s a bit boring really. He never does much when I come over. You know, pub, park, TV. That kind of thing.”
“What d’you like doing, then?”
“I like cycling a bit. And music. I want a midi system, so I’m dropping hints to Dad. And Mum. One of them’ll probably get me one.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m really into music. I’m saving for a midi player too. It’s my birthday in May, and if I keep doing my paper round, I should get enough saved up for one.”
“Have you got a job? Blimey, my mum won’t let me do anything like that. She reckons I’ll get kidnapped or something.”
“Who’d kidnap you?” I laugh. Malcolm laughs too.
“You got any music mags?” he asks. “Smash Hits, that kind of thing?”
“Yeah. My cousin gave me a load of old NMEs when I went over there. He’s got a brilliant music collection.”
“I could come back to yours and look at your music mags? You know, when they’ve had their pint.”
Over the other side of the pond Andy’s got his legs hooked through the tyre and he’s hanging upside down with his head and arms dangling. His hair looks like he’s had an electric shock.
“Nah, my mum’s not expecting us back till late, and she’d be annoyed cos it’s her day off from us.”
“We could just go to your room and get your magazines then?”
“Nah. Anyway, I can’t remember where I put them now.” I squat at the edge of the pond and grab the length of rope attached to the raft. I pull it in close, and press down on the edge to test its strength. “Wanna have a go?”
Malcolm shakes his head. “No way, mate. There’s no way that’ll float. You’re mad if you get on that.”
I laugh at him, looping finger circles at my head to show him how mental I am.
Untying the rope from its anchor, I pick up the long stick at the side of the pond, slide my bum into the centre of the raft and push away.
“Nuts,” says Malc, still shaking his head.
I float into the middle of the pond, using the stick to push myself along. The bottom of the pond isn’t that deep. Andy drops down out of the tree, and starts waving at me.
“Over here, Jake! Bring it over, I’ll get on!”
I punt over to him, and he carefully eases himself on to the raft too. We shift about a bit, until the balance is good.
“Yahay! Wanna go, Malcolm?” shouts Andy, making the raft bob too much.
“Calm down, idiot,” I say.
We push around the pond, trying to do a full circuit, to bring us back round to Malc again. He just sits slouched on the bench with his arms folded over his chubby belly, looking bored.
“Chicken!” I yell over to him.
He gives me the V sign.
As we reach the bulrushes, there’s an almighty crash at the opposite end of the pond, as two huge swans hit the water. Malcolm shrieks like a girl.
The swans look instantly calm, not as if they’ve just arrived from the sky, and they begin to move through the water in Malcolm’s direction. I try to punt towards him too, but it’s slow going with two of us on the raft. Malcolm’s getting to his feet, and backing off behind the bench.
“What’s up?” I shout over.
“Bloody swans. They can break your arm, you know.” His face looks panicked.
“Can they?” asks Andy, looking worried now.
“Course they can’t,” I tell him. “It’s one of those things that everyone says. But no one’s ever met anyone who had their arm broken by a swan, did they? Idiots.” We’re getting closer to Malcolm now.
The swans look as if they’re about to climb up the bank next to Malc, and he yelps and breaks into a run. He scrabbles up the stone wall and sits astride it.
“You chicken!” I laugh at him as he puffs away at the top of the wall. His chubby cheeks are bright red.
The swans turn now, and swim with purpose towards me and Andy on our raft. My stomach bunches up, and Andy grabs my coat.
“Fuckin’ ’ell, Jake, they’re gonna break our arms,” he whimpers.
I shake him off, and start waving my stick around to scare them off. “Don’t be bloody stupid, Andy. They’re more scared of us than we are of them.”
One of them rises up, flapping its enormous wings and spraying us with pond water. It lets out a horrible squawk and comes at us again.
“Get out of there, quick!” shouts Malcolm, waving his arms about. “They’re coming! They’re gonna break your arms!” He looks terrified, and he’s not even in the water.
Andy’s gripping the edge of the raft with white knuckles now, saying oh-my-God, oh-my-God over and over. I give three big punts and the raft floats to the edge of the pond. The swans swim off towards the bulrushes, and I start to laugh with relief as I pull us up to the grassy bank.
Malcolm thumps down off the wall and lollops over, still checking for swans out of the sides of his eyes. He holds his hand out to me and I step on to the grass. Just as my weight shifts off the raft, Andy’s shifts the other way, and he slides into the water like a sandbag.
“Help!” he screams, flapping in terror. “The swans!”
I really want to help him, but me and Malc are doubled over, as Andy shrieks and rants in the water. The more he thrashes about, the funnier he looks. It’s so funny, he looks like he’s actually doing it on purpose to make us laugh. Eventually, he
manages to drag himself up the bank, gasping and spluttering. There’s pond weed in the hood of his parka.
“Bastards,” he says as we head back towards the pub garden.
“Spazza,” I say, still laughing.
In my dream, I’m in that old-fashioned school of Granddad’s. Everything’s brown and white, and the desks are all lined up like a classroom, but on the lawn. It’s bright and sunshiny, like the best days of summer. We’re all watching Miss Terry, who is wearing one of those Victoriany dresses, but with the skirt bunched up around her waist as she tries to climb the apple tree in front of the class. Her feet are bare, and she wears bright white bloomers that stretch tight across her bottom as she climbs.
Then she’s in the tree, sitting on a branch with her legs hanging down, and her toes are wriggling like they’re dipped in water. I’m in my usual seat, at the front of the class, with my neck craned up to see her in the tree. My neck aches and my legs feel naked because I’m wearing shorts instead of long trousers. Miss Terry isn’t looking at me, and I’m trying to get her attention by waving and smiling. She plucks an apple from the branches above her head, and she takes a big bite. I hear it crunch. Then she licks her lips, and holds the apple out on her open hand, letting it roll to the ends of her fingertips, and fall. It falls, slowly, slowly, until it lands in my waiting hands, but it’s no longer firm and hard like an apple should be, but soft and warm, like skin. As I bring it to my mouth, I look up to Miss Terry who is now hanging upside down, with her legs hooked over the branch, and the ribbons of her dress are undone. Her breasts are free from her corset, perfectly round and pink with soft brown nipples. She’s looking right at me with her green eyes. “Jake,” she whispers. And I nod, pushing the soft, warm apple into my mouth, and bite down on it hard. When I sink my teeth into it, it bursts, like a balloon filled with warm water, filling my lap with heat and moisture. I feel my body shudder, and then the dream disappears into the darkness of the night.
Mary, New Year 1972
Glasshopper Page 13