‘Good. Great. But go on, go on, keep going! I know it’s tough, but just one more. That’s beautiful! OK, now rest again.’
Maria offered her a sip of water, but Amy waved away the glass. Instead, Maria held her hand and kept whispering words of encouragement; hugely relieved to see her daughter more amenable.
As she watched the two midwives working together calmly and efficiently – and solely in the interests of Amy and her child – she was suddenly struck by the importance of their job. Whatever high claims Felix might make for art, how could any painting or sculpture possibly compare with safely delivering babies and saving vulnerable mothers? And his championing of ‘excess’ now seemed hollow, maybe dangerous, and clearly had no place in the lives of midwives and doctors or, indeed, in most professions. And, even in one’s personal life, it could result in damage or abuse. If her mother, for example, had been wedded to excess and self-indulgence, rather than to control and moderation, would she have bothered to care for her child and, later, her grandchild, or simply left them to the vagaries of fate?
‘If you changed position,’ Ruth suggested, ‘and got down on your hands and knees, it would make the pushing easier.’
‘I’m not an animal,’ Amy retorted, with some of her former acerbity, despite the effort it required to speak. ‘I don’t even like lying on my side.’ She struggled onto her back again, despite her earlier complaint that it was unendurably painful. ‘All positions are useless, as far as I can see. I mean, I’m bloody trying – doing all you said, but nothing fucking happens.’
‘It is happening – I assure you.’ Ruth straightened her up on the bed and ensured the straps hadn’t slipped. ‘But stay in control, please, Amy. You mustn’t lose your concentration. I want you to relax into the process and let the baby come.’
‘It’ll never come,’ Amy gasped, as, again, she tried frantically to push.
‘Yes, it will – that I can guarantee. And you’re doing brilliantly. It just takes a while, that’s all.’
Amy closed her eyes, as if to block out any reference to further prolongation of her labour. Her head and hair were drenched in sweat; her face pale and almost haggard; her expression one of near despair.
‘This baby doesn’t feel like flesh,’ she panted, in the next brief lull. ‘It’s like a piece of jagged metal splitting me apart.’
Maria was sweating with her daughter’s effort; pushing with her, to all intents and purposes; feeling every grinding pain; every bulging sensation, as the baby made its slow descent down the birth canal.
Hearing a rustle of paper, she saw Ruth tear open a package and extract a large green sheet and some instruments, which she laid out neatly on a trolley. Linda, meanwhile, was supervising the delivery and suddenly announced, ‘I can see the top of the head! And you’ll be able to feel it, Amy, if you lean down and put your hand between your legs.’
Amy’s only response was a violent shake of her head.
‘Well, if you have no objection, my love, perhaps Mum would like to come down this end and take a look herself.’
‘Is that OK with you, darling?’ Maria asked, fearing the answer would be an emphatic no. Wouldn’t Amy regard it as ‘gross’ or ‘blatant’ for her mother to peer up at her private parts?
But Amy gave a distracted nod. She was now so absorbed in puffing, blowing, pushing, groaning, she appeared not to care either way.
Softly, Maria stood up and tiptoed to the foot of the bed, standing to the side of the two midwives. As she glimpsed her grandchild’s dark, wet head, she was swept by a tsunami of emotion: joy, wonder, crazy jubilation, terror, disbelief. The hair was fiercely black – Radványi hair; a world away from Hugo’s blondish crop.
‘OK, Amy,’ Linda instructed, ‘stop pushing for a minute. We need to ease baby’s head out very gently, so I’d like you to change your breathing now and pant. Imagine you’re blowing out the candles on a birthday cake, and that’ll slow things down a bit.’
Amy panted with a sort of desperation, as if drawing on her last reserves of strength.
‘Good. Very good! Keep panting. Now another little push.’
With the head appearing any moment, Maria yearned to stay where she was and watch the whole amazing process, yet she feared the midwives might object. Indeed, Linda had every reason to be tetchy, since she had been due to go off duty almost an hour ago. Far from showing any annoyance, however, she seemed eager to see her task through to the end, displaying, in the process, genuine love and dedication.
Maria was about to get out of the way when she suddenly remembered Felix saying, ‘Ask for what you want, rather than assume you don’t deserve it.’ Thus encouraged, she said, tentatively, ‘Would it be OK if I watched the whole birth?’
‘That’s fine with us,’ Linda assured her, ‘but how do you feel, Amy?’
‘I don’t care,’ she moaned. ‘Please yourself.’ With her eyes still closed, she seemed to have entered some dark, private world, where the baby was just a distraction, or an afterthought.
Maria longed to share with her daughter this life-changing event, but at least she could describe it to her later, when Amy was more receptive. Fixing her whole attention on the slowly emerging head, she could barely contain her anxiety as Linda guided it carefully out. ‘Please God,’ she prayed, ‘let the baby be all right – not damaged or deformed.’
Once the whole head was born, the shoulders slithered out, and then, rapidly, the rest of the body – messy, purplish, blood-streaked – but with no missing limbs or parts, as far as she could see. Yet the infant hadn’t made a sound. Surely all normal babies would yell in shock or indignation when confronted with bright lights and alien hands? So why was this one silent; why looking so inert and stunned? Could her grandchild be deaf or dumb – even mentally retarded?
The thought clamped her in a vice of dread, as if she, too, were paralyzed. She had no idea how long she stood, ears straining to hear the faintest, slightest cry – anything to prove that the infant lungs were not seriously impaired. Perhaps it was only thirty seconds, yet they were the slowest-moving seconds she had ever had to endure.
Then suddenly, miraculously, a howl of protest burst upon the air – a veritable hosanna to her ears. Her relief swelled like yeast in dough, as she watched the child seem to come to life before her very eyes – now kicking, struggling, bellowing; its features no longer impassive, but expressing mingled anger and surprise.
‘Congratulations, Amy! You have a gorgeous little girl.’ Linda made to deliver the baby directly onto Amy’s stomach, but Amy pushed away the slimy, squirming bundle and turned her face to the wall.
‘Amy,’ Ruth prompted, ‘wouldn’t you like to hold your daughter, skin-to-skin?’
Amy’s refusal was so violent, neither midwife made any attempt to persuade her; only to assure her all was well.
‘Your baby seems absolutely fine, and a good size for thirty-six weeks – around six pounds, I’d guess. Of course, as she’s premature, we’ll have to call the paediatrician, but only for a routine check. I’m pretty sure there won’t be any need for special care. As I said, she looks exceptionally healthy.’
Amy appeared to have closed her ears, in addition to her eyes, and made no response whatever. Maria’s elation, however, arched like a resplendent rainbow across the whole of London – no, across the whole enchanted British Isles. Tears of relief streamed down her face, yet she was smiling with such lunatic abandon, it was the most brilliant, bumptious birthday-smile in the whole history of the world. All the joy and excitement she had failed to feel when Amy was born was now flooding through her body.
‘Can I hold her?’ she pleaded, knowing she had to make this precious child feel wanted, loved and needed.
‘Yes, of course, so long as Amy doesn’t mind.’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t care. Just leave me alone, all of you.’
That was clearly impossible, since the cord needed clamping and cutting, then Amy had to be given an injection, to facilitate the
expulsion of the placenta, before being cleaned up, checked and monitored. But, since she was in skilled hands, Maria felt free to focus on the baby, watching in awe as it was dried with a towel, wrapped in a blanket and placed gently in her arms.
‘Welcome to the world, my sweet.’ She slipped her hand underneath the blanket, so she could feel its damp, warm skin; feel it breathing – triumphantly alive. Had God answered her frantic prayer in the taxi, to spare her daughter and her grandchild? She would never know; might never know if God was even there. Yet, for all the drawbacks of her old religion – its narrow dogmas, its stress on sin and Hell – its chief commandment of love had never seemed more important. Henceforward, the only ‘excess’ in her life would be to love this child to excess.
As she supported the fragile head, it seemed to fit so perfectly into the crook of her arm, it was as if they were two pieces of a jigsaw, now slotted indissolubly together. Like its mother, it had its eyes tight shut, but when she shaded them from the overhead light they opened wide and studied her with intense preoccupation. As she met that earnest gaze, it seemed totally out of the question to desert her long-awaited grandchild after a mere six months. How could she tear herself away and entrust this precious being to the care of some casual minder?
Yet, within a second, the full implications of that thought pierced her like a stab-wound. If she became the permanent nanny, she would lose Felix, Cornwall, their plan for a shared life. It would also be a betrayal of her lover; all the more injurious, in light of his recent kindness and support. Pain replaced elation as she imagined the horror of their break-up; the wrench of separation as they went their different ways. And, if she was no longer in his bed, he would find another woman – that she knew, indubitably.
The prospect induced such a pang of desolation, she struggled between two life-choices, in an agony of indecision. A mere day ago, she had been mourning her first lover; was she now forced to mourn her last; mourn the end of love altogether; the end of her ambition as an artist? Enticing snapshots from the last five months began flashing through her mind in tumultuous succession: she and Felix naked on the moors, a coquettish breeze caressing her bare skin; she and Felix embracing in his flat, he tonguing her exultant body, from her astonished eyelids to the tingling soles of her feet; she and Felix feeding each other strawberries, then kissing so ecstatically they were catapulted into a sensuous sphere beyond any she had ever known. And it was much more than just erotic thrills: his patient, skilled tuition at the life class, and generous championing of her work; the easy, joyous atmosphere of George and his community; their unique new Cornish home. Wasn’t it self-destructive to renounce so alluring a future – and most unwise to do so when she was on an emotional high, still giddy with relief at the baby’s safe delivery?
She looked down at it again and, all at once, it gave a gigantic yawn, puckering its mouth and stretching its whole face. ‘You’re tired,’ she murmured, ‘as weary as your mother.’ She held the baby up a little, so it could see Amy, unimpeded. ‘That’s your Mama, right beside you. It’s sad that she can’t hold you now, but, once she’s had a chance to recover, she’ll love you as deeply as I do.’
But was that true, she wondered, with sudden new anxiety? Amy’s lack of interest in the baby was hardly a promising start. Suppose she plunged into depression, as she herself had done; remained an ineffective mother for the child’s first crucial years? And, if Hugo lost his job and reputation, things would be worse still: the upheaval of a house move, coupled with the problem of his finding future work. Her own mother and her mother’s mother had both battled through adversity and, only with Amy, had come any hope of breaking the chain of suffering. If, God forbid, the suffering restarted, shouldn’t she follow their example and keep that hope alive; help her daughter through the uncertainty and turmoil, and provide some sort of haven for her grandchild?
‘Duty again, self-sacrifice … Isn’t it time you broke your own chains?’
Felix’s voice seemed to echo in her head, making it still more agonizing to reach any sort of conclusion. It was as if she were struggling through her own labour, as Amy had just done; exhausted, frantic, failing, yet facing a key moment of her life.
She focused on the baby again, which appeared to be drinking in her presence; imprinting her face and body on its mind, as if she were indeed its mother. Still irresolute, still torn, she registered its crumpled face and mottled, blotchy skin; its diminutive size and aching vulnerability. Whatever happened, she mustn’t be swayed by sentiment, or by the inherent drama of childbirth – that wasn’t fair to Felix, or even to herself.
Then, all at once, the infant hand reached out and grasped her finger, and the surprising strength of that grip cut through her vacillation; seeming to tell her at some deep, instinctive level, infinitely wiser and more discerning than any rational argument, that the two of them were inseparable. And she knew, suddenly, intuitively – and knew now beyond all doubt – that this child was her future. So long as it needed her and wanted her, she would and must be there, even if those needs continued until her death. It wasn’t a question of ‘sacrifice’ or ‘duty’; it was simply her new purpose and vocation, her way of redeeming the past. Her task in life was to help her grandchild to flourish; to repeat Hanna’s role, not out of obligation, but because it was more essential than any other calling – more sacred, even, to use a Catholic word.
Felix wouldn’t understand that. For all their sexual intimacy, there was a troubling gulf between them when it came to that whole other world of devotion, dedication, the sacredness of family ties. She loved him, yes; desired him, yes; craved everything he offered, yet her greater, deeper craving was to nurture a child who, had Fate been less benevolent, might never have survived. Despite all her doubts and fears today, the baby was actually here – living, perfect, all its systems functioning. And it promised a new relationship, one not dependent on staying young and sexually attractive, but which would utilize the very strengths that age itself had brought: compassion, patience, wisdom. Even her long training in economy – deplored by Felix as self-denial – might come in handy if Hugo was out of work. And her training in art could also prove invaluable, because if she passed on all she’d learned about colour, light and composition, the child might be the artist, the one who’d leave behind a legacy of inspired, important work. She would encourage it in every way; maybe transform the Northumbrian cottage into a mini-Cornish idyll, to inspire and foster any talent it might have.
And, however great her anguish over Felix – and his own disappointment; maybe scorn and anger – she knew he would bounce back. He had his art; had George and the community, and his chapel-home, close by, and – perhaps most crucial – a buoyant, upbeat temperament that could cope with change and break-ups. And when he found a replacement mistress, she must strive with every fibre of her being to be glad for him and wish him well, rather than waste her precious energies on jealousy, regret.
‘Do you have a name for your little girl?’ Linda asked, still trying to rouse Amy from her state of shock and lethargy, and persuade her to take an interest in the baby.
Amy, however, appeared too shattered to make any response whatsoever, so Maria answered for her. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She’s called Hannah Maria – Maria after me.’
As if acknowledging its name, the baby opened its eyes again; its hand still clasping her finger, a symbol of their bond. ‘I’m your grandmother,’ she stated, slowly and distinctly, returning its attentive gaze, ‘and you’re perfectly safe with me. I shan’t let any harm come near you.’ Even newborns could respond to sound, according to the midwives, so, although her words were unintelligible, the baby might absorb their gist and spirit, and at least know it was protected and secure. ‘Sadly, your grandfather isn’t with us, but—’
She broke off, aware only at this moment that the poem she had recited for Silas, exactly twenty-four hours ago, applied equally to Amy and Hugo, and to Felix, and to her.
Begin again …
> She, too, was starting afresh, and in a far less intangible sphere than that of Silas. For him, the words might have been a trifle facile; a deceitful gloss on death. But for her, they related directly to this new stage of her life. Whatever might transpire, be it Hugo’s disgrace, Amy’s depression, or even her own loneliness – a loneliness honoured in the poem – she would somehow steer a path through all that lay ahead. Every beginning is a promise …
‘Hannah Maria,’ she whispered, still feeling the pressure of the baby’s trusting hand, ‘things may not always be easy, but I give you my solemn word – so long as I live, I’ll be here for you.’
And, looking up at the window where, behind the murky glass, a new, sunlit day was struggling to reveal itself, she pronounced a silent, fervent, exuberantly enormous yes.
By the Same Author
Absinthe for Elevenses
Cuckoo
After Purple
Born of Woman
The Stillness The Dancing
Sin City
Devils, for a Change
Fifty-Minute Hour
Bird Inside
Michael, Michael
Breaking and Entering
Coupling
Second Skin
Lying
Dreams, Demons and Desire
Tread Softly
Virgin in the Gym and Other Stories
Laughter Class and Other Stories
The Biggest Female in the World and Other Stories
Little Marvel and Other Stories
The Queen’s Margarine
Broken Places
“I’m on the train!” and Other Stories
Copyright
© Wendy Perriam 2013
First published in Great Britain 2013
This edition 2013
ISBN 978 0 7198 1172 2 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1173 9 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1174 6 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9385 5 (print)
An Enormous Yes Page 38