by Dawn French
‘Let’s take it slow, and see …’ she says, letting her blood run a bit warmer in her veins again. Thomas has returned her power to her, but this time, it fits her right, she can envisage a place, a position for her that is truthful. A sense of relief floods through her.
She continues, ‘I’ve been lost, Tommy. I can’t even walk properly, I’m just … constantly falling forward and then stepping just in time. It’s no way to get anywhere.’
‘Are you home now?’ he asks, tentatively.
She pauses, then, ‘I don’t think so … yet …’ she says.
‘OK, OK. I’ll wait. Just be right here, waiting. But, my little queen, would you at least take your coat off and lie down here with me for a while? Let me keep you warm? Just a few minutes?’ he says, smiling, and holding the sheets back for her to climb in next to him.
‘Sure you want to? Rosie says it’s hard to cuddle a porcupine …’
They both laugh. Rosie. That girl. That trouble.
Glenn takes her coat off, and lays it neatly on the end of the bed, and she clambers in beside him. Immediately, her body knows his and she knows this is where she needs to be. And soon.
‘That’s it,’ he says as he pulls her close, ‘that’s where my love belongs. What a phenomenally interesting woman you are. Thank you for coming here.’
And they lie together while she thaws.
‘Don’t ever die,’ she whispers.
‘Promise I won’t,’ he whispers back.
An hour or so later, as dawn is breaking outside, Glenn silently pads back along the corridor like a guilty mistress. She glances into Thomas’s office, and sees there, the portrait of herself on the easel. She gasps. Yes, it’s her, his wife.
As she tiptoes to the door, Iva appears from seemingly nowhere in a dressing gown and hands her a small plastic tub.
‘Sausage in beer with cabbage. Will make you strong Mrs W. B.’
Glenn looks at her. In that moment Glenn couldn’t be more grateful for the kindness.
‘Thank you, Iva,’ she says. With that, Glenn slips out of 21 East 90th St, with her head up and new hope.
They both know how much a consideration like this matters when you feel like you’re a million miles away from what is really important.
New Day
Rosie Kitto is a big fat beached whale.
And she doesn’t mind one bit, in fact she is playing it to the hilt, sitting in the corner of the kitchen, loudly directing operations from a large comfy chair on this bright winter morning. She is barking jokey orders at the twins,
‘Get me waffles! Now! With blueberries! And peel the blueberries! Individually! Spit Spot!’
The boys are running about, answering to her every whim, her crazed slaves. Kemble, Thomas and Teddy join in the fun and add their raised voices to the orders, ‘Juice! Here! Toast! Hurry! Eggs over easy! With a side of lobster thermidor! Now! Yesterday! With iced hot water!’
It’s a busy, communal affair, with everyone chipping in, interrupting and messing about.
Iva is in the centre of the lovely chaos, supervising all the actual cooking. Sitting at the end of the counter, wide-eyed, amazed and tipping into occasional bewildered laughter is Zofia, who arrived two days ago to spend the Christmas holiday with her mother in mad New York with all these mad people being mad. Iva explains in Polish to her that this family is crazy and not to worry, no-one is shouting for real. Zofia has her hand to her mouth while she watches, delighted. She is a shy girl, the image of her mother, short and chunky with dark eyes and long dark hair brushed up into a neat, thick pony-tail. She wears a home-made blouse her auntie sewed. She embroidered the collar with bright red thread in the shapes of birds and trees, and this lovingly-made item of clothing sets the young girl apart as a foreigner, so unlike a cool fourteen-year-old native New Yorker. There is, refreshingly, no fashion to her whatsoever, except for her tell-tale cherished Beyoncé phone cover. Zofia is a bright-eyed innocent, and the twins love her. The only way they have communicated with her so far is to make her laugh, and once they discovered what a willing audience she is they doubled their efforts, which is part of their manic face-pulling clowning this morning.
The jollity is infectious, and the more Rosie laughs and laughs the more the twins show off.
In amongst the noise and the chatter and the yelling and the laughing, Rosie clutches her huge belly. She looks at Iva, the only one tuned to her from across the room. Could it be? It’s a few days earlier than expected …
Then there’s another pain,
And another.
Contractions.
This is it.
Now, the havoc changes into a new, different type of chaos as they all realize that this is the baby arriving, and everyone overhelps Rosie until Iva powers through and takes control.
At the same time, down in Soho, Glenn is in her apartment, finishing her breakfast banana and watering the small bay tree Rosie planted for her to have indoors, alongside the basil and rosemary she is growing in pots from cuttings Rosie has taken from the roof garden. She has a little piece of home flourishing here, something to nurture and keep alive alongside herself.
As she lifts the small watering can, a shaft of sunlight nearly blinds her. She blinks and moves out of its way, but then, she has a thought and she steps back into it, closes her eyes, and stays there enjoying the warmth. She walks to the large window and folds back the shutters one by one, letting the golden winter sun flood into the huge room. She breathes it in, everso slightly fearful that she might just crumple to dust. But she doesn’t.
She exhales and feels her heart expanding. How can light do this? It transforms everything. She turns her back to the big glass, and feels the heat spread from her shoulders to her bum. She sees how the light embraces everything in the room, and particularly how it falls onto the small painting she took from the apartment. She has it propped up on the mantelpiece. This portrait of Glenn Wilder-Bingham, lovingly painted by her husband. She adores it, and she notices how well it loves the light. There she is, staring back at her, the resurrected Glenn, the one with a purpose and a future and a family to keep together. The woman who doesn’t want to just visit her life occasionally, the one who wants to properly live it. At that moment, her phone rings, with news from the hospital …
In the waiting room of Lennox Hill Hospital’s maternity ward sit three potential fathers, the twins and Zofia. The men are anxious and pacing. The children are busy with crayons and colouring books. Even the older Zofia is enjoying the careful filling-in between the lines of the endless patterns in the battered dog-eared books.
‘Will there be, like, loads of blood? ’Cause I might barf,’ says Red.
‘Shush son,’ says Kemble.
‘How does it get out?’ asks Three.
‘Shush,’ says Thomas.
‘How did it get in there?’ says Red.
‘Seriously dudes. Zip it. Or know violence,’ says Teddy.
They hear the distant sound of a woman’s strained cry. They all look up and remain, stock still, on alert, like meercats.
In the maternity suite, Rosie has chosen Iva as her birth-partner. Iva, the wisest and most composed person Rosie has ever known. Iva the faithful. Iva the great. This is who Rosie chooses to lay eyes on as she submits to the animalistic state she is into, the searing pain that threatens to gulp her up. Iva has done it before and knows what little whispers of comfort and encouragement to give her friend.
She reminds Rosie that, ‘You not goin’ to die. You just goin’ to break for a little while. That baby fightin’ hard. Come on, Miss Rosie, bet you sorry now that you such a slut …’
The doctor and midwives disguise their astonishment behind little giggles. But Iva’s approach seems to be working. The puffing red-faced Rosie sets her jaw against each onslaught of contractions, as if England were invading Cornwall.
She girds herself with the rallying war cries of home, as she shouts at herself, ‘Get on, maid! Oggy Oggy! Come on my ’ansome!
Proper job!’ between each of the crushing spasms. She pants and screams, loud and hearty, railing at nature.
Come on, Rosie.
This is what you’ve always wanted.
You can do it.
Mighty Rosie Kitto.
Who deserves this gift.
One last push, maid …
The nurse beckons the men into the room, and with the children trailing obediently behind, they all pad in quietly, keeping their voices to reverential hushed whispers.
Rosie is propped up with the lovingly wrapped-up wrinkly pink wonder in her arms. All they can see from the door are tiny fingers experimenting with the air. As they creep closer, they see the baby, eyes wide open and locked onto the mother’s astonished beatific face. Mother and baby gaze at each other in stunned amazement. This is what giant love looks like. Two human beings, meeting for the first time, who will never let anyone or anything come between them. A bond even God couldn’t break.
Teddy, Thomas and Kemble draw close.
‘Who is this?’ Thomas asks, hardly able to speak.
‘This is Kensa. It’s Cornish for first. She’s the first girl in this family.’
‘Kensa,’ he repeats it. They all do, like an echo around the room, they try the name out loud.
‘Kensa.’
‘Kensa.’
‘Kensa.’
‘Yes,’ Rosie says, Kensa Kitto. Say hello, boys. The twins clamber up onto the bed next to her to get a better look.
‘She looks like a monkey,’ says Red.
‘A pretty monkey,’ says Three, making it better.
‘That’s your nose,’ whispers Teddy to Kemble.
‘And that’s your chin,’ says Thomas to Teddy.
‘Hope she doesn’t have my personality,’ says Kemble.
‘She’s so wrinkly,’ says Three.
‘Yep. That will change. For about twenty years, somewhere in the middle of her life,’ says Thomas, and then, ‘she’s … lovely.’
‘Yeh,’ says Teddy.
‘Takes after her mom,’ says Iva.
They all agree, and one by one, they all lean in and kiss Kensa.
Standing outside the door, watching this tender nativity through the glass, is Glenn. This could be everything she fears the most, but it isn’t anymore, because this is the Glenn who opened the shutters, who is grateful to see the beauty of the scene, who longs to be a key part of it, who knows she has much to offer.
Who wants to love and be beloved.
This is she.
She pushes open the door, and as they all stand back and watch, she walks towards the bed.
‘May I?’ she asks.
‘YES. YES. YES.’ Says Rosie.
Glenn carefully lifts the baby into her arms, the first besides her mother to hold her, and with that one compassionate, gentle, gesture, the new life begins.
Acknowledgements
Carol Noble – for being brilliant, and joining me on the first leg of this adventure
Emma Kilcoyne – for never-ending encouragement and ferocious intelligence
Sue Hunter – for endless patience and typing
Debs Walker – for protection and scanning
Dave, Sammy, Emma and Mike – for keeping the home fires burning
Jono and Judith – for being true friends
Louise Moore – for keeping the faith
Jill, Liz, Huw and all at Michael Joseph – for hard work
Maureen Vincent – for anchorage
Robert Kirby – for foresight
Nicole Kidman – for being a mensch
Leigh, Liz, Jennifer and all my Spence buddies
All the kids I babysat in Manhattan
Ma and Pa Bignell – for pasties and support
Billie, Lils and Oly – for being my purpose
Nigel Carrivick – for excellent reading and kitten heels
The mighty B. F. – for reading aloud and for EVERYTHING else
Biggs – for all the endless love
Dolly – for bein’ my faithful chum
AN EXTRACT FROM
ONE
Dora (17 YRS)
My mother is, like, a totally confirmed A-list bloody cocking minging arsehole cretin cockhead of the highest order. Fact. In fact, I, of this moment, officially declare my entire doubt of the fact that she is in fact my actual real mother. She can’t be. I can’t have come from that wonk. Nothing in any tiny atom of my entire body bears any likeness to an iota of any bit of her. It’s so, like, entirely unfair when people say we look alike because like, excuse me, but we properly DON’T thank you. And I should know. Because I look at her disgusting face 20/7 and excuse me, I do actually have a mirror thank you. Which I’ve looked in and so NOT seen her face, younger or otherwise, staring back at me. If I do ever see that hideousness, please drown me immediately in the nearest large collection of deep water. I would honestly be grateful for that act of random mercy.
At 5.45pm today she had the actual nerve to inform me that I will not apparently be having my belly button pierced after all, until my eighteenth birthday. She knows I booked it for this Saturday. She knows Lottie is having hers done. It was going to be our like together forever thing. Fuck my mother and all who sail in her. I hate her. She’s fired.
TWO
Mo (49 YRS)
All things considered, that went rather well. Big pat on own back, Mo. I am definitely getting better at not letting her appalling language upset me. No one likes to be referred to as an ‘evil slag’, or ‘hell whore’, let’s be honest, but I’ve suffered worse at the sharp end of her tongue, so ironically I’m grateful for these comparatively lesser lashings.
I am reminded of the trusty old David Walsh mantra I often recommend to my clients, ‘When, in argument, you feel like taking the wind out of her sails, it is a better idea to take your sails out of her wind.’ It certainly was no breezy zephyr I felt battering my aft as I purposely walked away, it was a Force 10 brute, but I am broad in the beam and made of suitably sternish stuff. As yet, unscuppered. If lilting a tad.
Yet again, no sign of Husband at the eye of the storm. He scuttled off to a safe port in the study to spend time with his ever-ready, ever-understanding lover, MAC. His endless muttered bleatings about female politics being a mystery are weak and wobbly to the point of jelly. Why does he constantly refuse to back me up at these critical moments? I have repeatedly explained the importance of consistency and continuity as far as the kids are concerned. We must present a united front. We should share my opinion at all times. I am, after all, the qualified child psychologist in this family. Other than fathering two children (total of six minutes’ commitment to the project), I’m not aware of his training. However, have to give it to him, he is certainly a supremely skilled slinker-off-er when voices are raised, no one can better his retreating technique. He certainly gets the gold in that backwards race. Oh yes.
Then, he had the audacity to sit in Dora’s bedroom with her for an hour whilst she apparently ‘emptied out’ and explained to him that she feels she and I are enemies and have been for years. I am not her enemy, I am her mother. Sometimes it’s probably the same thing. It needs to be. I am not here to be her friend.
What am I here for actually? To be a guide, a judge, an inquisitor maybe? At the moment I am purely transport, bank and occasional punch bag.
Everso recently, it would have been me sitting next to her on that bed getting a wet shoulder complete with smeared mascara splats.
What a huge difference between fifteen and seventeen years of age. An entire personality flip has happened. Where has my sweet little goth gone? She of the smudgy eyes and red nylon dreadlocks and Tank Girl industrial boots and clamp-on nose-rings? It was so easy to love that one. That one was endearingly injured and tragic. Why have I been sent this Tango-skinned bleached-hair designer slave? I own a human Cindy. Her insufferable rudeness grows with every waking moment. And quite a few sleeping moments I suspect. I’m sure she doesn’t waste any dream time NOT hating m
e. Does hate have a cumulative effect? If so, Dora will be earning buckets of interest on her massive deposits of mum-hate. I just have to accept it, she loathes me.
Today’s particular loathing is about refusing to let her have her belly button pierced. In this particular respect, I feel entirely vindicated. Was there ever an uglier mutilation? The very thought of it makes my unpierced and considerably larger stomach turn. Her choice of ‘parlour’ is that nasty dirty little dungeon opposite the carpet shop in the high street, ‘Pangbourne Ink’. Obviously I’ve never ventured in, but I know the sister of the troll who owns it and she had chronic impetigo last year, so if Dora thinks I am sanctioning such a dreadful thing and in such a dirty place, she can think again.
Of course, soon she will be eighteen and if she chooses to maim herself then, she can pay for the privilege. I am not a medical doctor, but if something terrible were to happen to her belly button, an infection of some sort, wouldn’t that seal her umbilical tubes? How would any potential grandchild of mine get its nourishment? She is risking any future child-bearing possibilities. Is there no end to her selfishness?
THREE
Oscar (16 YRS)
The suffering of the last hour has been unutterably awful. Both of the Battle harridans, the monstrous mater and the dreadful daughter, have been shrieking sufficiently enough to wake as yet undiscovered molluscs at the pit-bottom of the ocean’s silty depths. I have mastered the art of ear-fugging – the application of twisted curls of wet kitchen paper administered to the inner ears. One would imagine this would provide a merciful relief. Yet still, their damnable harpy squawking prevails.