The Birth of Love

by Joanna Kavenna

  *

  For hours she has been lying there, still relishing this absence of pain, despite the violence of her trembling. The night has moved slowly along. Every couple of minutes she feels the distant rumbling of contractions through her body, palpable but not agonising and that is all she cares about. Patrick is asleep in the corner, on a mattress. Brigid can see his arm slung out to one side, and the rise and fall of his body. ‘Let him get his rest,’ said the midwife, as she covered him with a blanket, patted it down. ‘He’ll need his strength tomorrow.’

  *

  After watching her husband for a while, Brigid closes her eyes. Her body reaches urgently towards sleep but then the shivering begins again. She is shuddered awake by one more spasm, then another, to confirm her body’s self-thwarting, its confusion. The clock has moved, but only slightly. Brigid hears the sound of cars, tyres drumming across the bridge, and over the river she can see – if she turns her head she can just see the Houses of Parliament on the opposite bank, and boats moored for the night. Lights twinkling on the water. The city looks soft and tranquil; she has never seen the river before at this empty time of night.

  *

  She closes her eyes again, trying to sink into the stillness. The suspense is the worst part, being in the middle of something and knowing that it will end, somehow, but not knowing what the ending will be. The hours will flow along, but Brigid longs to escape them, to accelerate to the conclusion.

  *

  She only has to endure.

  *

  I must only endure, thinks Prisoner 730004, sitting on her thin bed, and rubbing her eyes. They have drugged her again, and everything is hazy and disturbing; her thoughts have been chemically addled, impaired by their drugs. She despises them, for invading her brain in this way, for pretending this is a cure. And she sits on her thin bed, not really caring to consider the time, because she has so little to gain from the dawn.

  *

  Not many more hours, thinks Michael, sitting on his sofa, having glanced too recently at the clock to permit himself to glance again. Today I will see her, after many years, and she will be much changed. She will be lying in her bed. The bed she lay in with my father, who is now dead. And when I have crouched beside her, I will be free to return to this solitary life, to do anything, to live or die, however I please. Only – and now he cannot stop himself, he looks at the clock – a few more hours, and it will be over.

  *

  Only a few more hours, says the midwife quietly, to Brigid – seeing that she is still awake – and I will examine you again.

  *

  In his study, Robert von Lucius is finishing a letter.

  *

  Dear Professor Wilson, it is early in the morning, and I find I cannot sleep. I have been so concerned about the case of Professor Semmelweis. You are a sage and certain man, and I hope you can tell me the answer to this question: what does it mean if Professor Semmelweis is right? I perceive that even if this question is answered it will not necessarily save him from his rages or determine how he should be treated – though that asylum is no place for him, of that I am sure. But what does it mean for the medical profession, for mothers who give birth in our modern hospitals, if Professor Semmelweis is correct, and if he is generally ignored? And what does it mean for our notion of sagacity, of the temperance and fairness of our sciences, if he is dismissed so roundly, and it transpires he was correct all along? Surely the case must be reopened? Surely someone must conduct a study?

  *

  For myself, I find that I must act. As soon as morning comes I will go to the asylum, and talk more to Professor Semmelweis. I feel I must champion this theory because if there is the slightest vestige of truth in it, if adhering to its precepts might save the life of a single woman, then we must – someone must – bring it to general notice again. I will go to the asylum and make sure I understand very precisely what Professor Semmelweis has proposed. If only my library were a little more extensive, it would house a copy of his book. But I will procure one as soon as I can. However, it is more important to talk to the originator himself, as I am fortunate enough to have personal access to him.

  *

  Professor Wilson, I will write to you again very soon but in the interim I beg you – so far as your studies and work allow you – to make enquiries about the reputation of this theory in your own country, and to advise me of your opinion on the matter.

  Yours ever,

  Robert von Lucius.

  *

  Now Brigid notices that through the window dawn has broken, and the sky has turned pale blue. Robert von Lucius thinks, at last the morning, and now he can act. Prisoner 730004 sees the light at the high window changing, and understands the day has come. And Michael thinks at least now he can rise – he has recently made one last attempt to sleep, curled up on his sofa, but hopelessly alert and stricken by nerves – and he throws off the blanket and moves towards the kitchen. There, he switches on the kettle and he cuts a slice of bread. He puts that in the toaster and waits for the kettle to boil. Then he pours water into a cup and when the toast is ready he spreads it with butter and jam. Normality, he thinks. All this calms him slightly, though his hands are shaking.

  *

  Now I must act, thinks Robert von Lucius, as he hurries into the breakfast room. He pours himself some coffee and takes a bite of a roll. The newspaper has been neatly arranged beside his plate and he glances through it. It is full of news he cannot digest entirely, something about the Emperor on his annual retreat. There has been a scandal at court. Robert von Lucius drinks his coffee down, and feels the warmth in his belly.

  *

  Brigid finds she is hungry, her stomach growling a reproach, and she asks the midwife if she can have some toast. But the midwife says they must wait until the doctors have assessed her. ‘There may be the need for surgical intervention,’ she says, and Brigid feels only disbelief. On the mattress in the corner Patrick is stirring. When he turns towards her, she sees his eyes are bloodshot. He looks tired and as if he hasn’t slept at all. But she must look far worse, she thinks, ravaged internally and still awaiting the final act.

  *

  Prisoner 730004 is given a bowl of nutri-meal, which she cannot eat. ‘Am I to be moved today?’ she says to the guard, but he doesn’t answer. She has been trying not to think of her fellow islanders, in order that they may stay free of her misfortune and thereby happy, but now she allows herself to think of Oscar, and she hopes he is free, and she hopes that Birgitta and her son are not caught. She hopes they have fled into the mountains on the mainland, or the remaining forests along the coast. There is still land which no one uses, vast tracts of unusable land, of no interest to the Protectors. She hopes they have found the guides there, and can live quietly. Or die quietly, together, mother and son. And now Prisoner 730004 succumbs to tears, and she sits there for a time with her head in her hands, weeping as she has not in years, perhaps she has never wept in this abandoned way, because she thinks there is no real hope, not for her and perhaps not for them either.

  *

  This will pass, she thinks, but that does not console her.

  *

  Michael holds the phone to his ear, but Sally will not answer. He wants to tell her he cannot come. He must go to the studio, find her there, explain that he cannot speak on the radio. He will make his excuses and then he will catch a train. So he drinks his tea and finishes his toast. Beyond his window, London is rising into life. The streets are filling with cars. The traffic moves, slowly in the morning sun. In his flat, high above it all, Michael washes his plate and leaves his cup in the sink. He looks around his spartan room and does not know what he should take with him. So he takes nothing, except his wallet. He dresses in his suit, which looks a little shabby this morning. He was too drunk to hang it up the previous night, and now it is lightly wrinkled, the collar crooked. It doesn’t matter, he thinks. His mother will scarcely notice him.

  At the door he turns and surveys his fl
at, as if recording this ordinary scene: the coffee table strewn with newspapers, the sofa cushions flattened by his weight, the bed unmade in the adjoining room. At this moment Michael stands, in perfect ignorance of the future. He has no sense of foreboding. He puts the keys in his pocket and walks along the corridor to the lift. He presses the button and waits for the lift to ascend.

  *

  It is unfortunate, the midwife has told them, but they must wait a little longer. The doctors are on the ward, but they have a couple of other women to assess first. They are called women, not patients, Brigid notes, because of course they are not ill. Swollen and weary, mad with pain or shuddering as the epidural dulls their nerves, but they are not ill. This state is perfectly natural; its conclusion is the birth. Whatever happens, she thinks, it was meant to happen. She is wondering if this is true, as Patrick says to her, ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘I’m just so hungry,’ she says. Patrick looks down at his empty plate. He has – before Brigid’s eyes – consumed two pieces of toast, and drunk a cup of tea. Guiltily, he says, ‘Hopefully you’ll be able to eat something soon.’

  ‘We’ll have a better sense of what will happen when she’s been assessed by the doctors,’ says the midwife.

  *

  So Brigid waits. She waits, trembling on her regulation bed. Patrick washes his face in the sink. Cleans his teeth. He takes a book and tries to read. ‘Let me know if you want anything,’ he says to Brigid. He is sitting on a low chair, trying to read a thriller. Even now, thinks Brigid, as Patrick reads, and as the midwife tidies the room, and as she lies there, inert apart from the involuntary spasms, her labour is continuing, without her intervention or even awareness. Within her body, though she does not notice, everything is changing, the baby is preparing to leave.

  *

  She thinks of Calumn, waking in his little bed, wondering where she is. Crying, ‘Mamamam.’ She has only spent a few nights apart from him since his birth. She wonders if he woke in the night, and if he cried for her and found she had gone. Her mother would have been sleeping in the spare room – she imagines Calumn shuffling along the corridor, opening the door of the main bedroom, finding it empty, not knowing where else to look. Bemused and lonely in the corridor, in his little pyjamas. She should have told her mother to sleep in the main bedroom instead. She hadn’t been thinking, at the time.

  She says to Patrick, ‘Can you call my mother?’

  Patrick takes his phone and dials the house. There is a brief pause and then he is saying, ‘Hello, yes, it’s Patrick here. How was your night? Oh no, no news here. We’re just waiting for the doctors to come in and assess Brigid. But she’s fine. Well, she can tell you everything herself. Here she is.’

  ‘Darling,’ says her mother, as Brigid takes the phone. ‘What on earth is happening? You can’t still be in labour?’

  ‘I had an epidural. So everything slowed down further but wasn’t painful any more.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad. That was sensible of you. But what’s happening now?’

  ‘The doctors are coming in a moment. Then they’ll tell me what stage we’re at.’

  ‘How frustrating for you, dear. What bad luck.’

  ‘Never mind. Anyway, how is Calumn?’

  ‘Oh, he’s fine. A little bit up and down in the night; I think he just knew something was going on.’

  ‘Did he find you in your room?’

  ‘No, I heard him crying in the corridor.’

  ‘Was he upset we weren’t there?’

  ‘Oh, perhaps a little, at first, but then we had a fine old time of it. I took him back to bed and sang him a few lullabies, and he fell asleep soon enough. And then I slept on the sofa bed in his room. So I was there the next time he woke, and – oh Lord – the next. Reminded me of all the sleepless nights I had with you.’

  ‘What’s he doing now?’

  ‘He’s just having some milk. And we’re reading a story.’

  ‘So he’s not too upset?’

  ‘No no, he’s fine. He’s just here. He’s a resilient little fellow, aren’t you darling? We’ll be absolutely fine here until you get back.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  And Brigid imagines her mother holding the phone to Calumn’s ear, the phone touching his shining hair, and she says, ‘Hello sweetie. How are you? It’s Mummy here. I love you so much. And I’m coming back very soon, lovely little boy. I hope you’re having a nice breakfast. Daddy is with me and he loves you very much too. We will be back very soon and then we will all sit down together and eat some food and read some books. Won’t we sweetie? I love you very very much.’

  ‘Is that everything?’ says her mother.

  ‘Did he smile?’

  ‘Oh yes, he knows his mummy, don’t you Calumn?’

  ‘Patrick will call you and let you know what’s happening, if I can’t,’ says Brigid.

  ‘Of course, I understand. I’ve been through it myself. Don’t worry about us at all.’

  ‘Thanks Mum.’

  ‘You look after yourself.’

  *

  Brigid hands the phone back to Patrick. Her mother, always good in a crisis. A coper, self-determinedly. And Brigid yearns for her son, and wants to hold him and kiss him and hear him babbling lovingly at her, and she worries – once again, once more after all the times she has worried about it already – that he will never recover from the arrival of the other child. But this other child – and she turns to the midwife and says, ‘Will it be soon?’

  ‘Oh yes, very soon.’

  *

  Michael is on the platform, and the train is delayed. Sally had offered to order him a taxi, of course she had offered, and almost insisted, but he said he wanted to take the Tube. ‘Madness,’ she said to him, the night before. ‘You don’t want to be jostled around and probably end up late, do you, really? Arrive puffed out and sweaty, hardly in the right frame of mind? When you could come along in an air-conditioned cab?’

  ‘No no, it’s quite all right,’ he said to her. She was obliged to accept his whim. ‘Whatever you prefer,’ she said in the end. ‘You’re the one who’ll be in the studio.’

  *

  So he is waiting for the Northern Line, and then he will have to change at Tottenham Court Road. All around him, thousands of humans, passing through time. Moving at their own pace through the hours and days. Michael looks around at them – at the man with a bulging briefcase, and the woman with a grim fixed expression, as if she hoped for something better, and all those with grey hair and balding heads and potbellies and a few more of their infirmities revealed to the world. A few more hidden away. He knows nothing of their experience of time, though each one has woken to the sunshine and eaten breakfast and conducted their morning rituals, and each one, thinks Michael, lives – though perhaps they do not know it – governed by ancient impulses – a desire for human company, love, intimacy, family, a fear of darkness and the unknown, an aversion to pain, a curious sense of hope, despite everything. Perhaps some of them believe that this series of days – their series of days – will be infinite. Perhaps the repetition has deluded them, so they do not notice the years passing, or perhaps they look up from time to time and see that things have subtly changed, that something in their cycle of days has changed. But maybe they dismiss the thought. Ultimately, he thinks, we must all dismiss this thought, because otherwise how do we live? How do we live through our series of days?

  *

  The train is swinging towards the platform, and now it whirrs to a halt, and its doors open. In a swathe of people, a directed surge, Michael gains the entrance, and is deposited into a bright carriage. The train is crammed with bodies, and so he stands and holds onto a rail. All around him people are doing the same. The carriage is full of overheated humans, dressed in work clothes, shoulder to shoulder. But never, thinks Michael, face to face. Some of them are holding newspapers and struggling to read them. These people are hoping to differentiate them
selves. But they are buffeted and jostled all the same.

  *

  ‘This is a Northern Line train for Mill Hill East. Stand clear of the closing doors.’ It is foolish, thinks Michael, as he is buffeted and jostled in turn, to be too concerned about your own destiny, about the way the Fates toy with you, if they are toying indeed and not concerned with something else entirely. It is foolish to be too concerned, because in the end it is impossible to change things. Small elements might be rearranged, but the grand sweep, well, that is impossible to change. How could I have foreseen anything that has happened, all the events that have accumulated? All the mistakes I have made, the destruction even I have wrought? I was blind, as everyone is who lives within time.

  *

  To blame yourself for lacking foresight is perhaps like blaming yourself for being mortal, thinks Michael. You know nothing of the future. The past is unfathomable, stretching into darkness. The present is where you live. And the future – the future is simply the locale of your hope, the place where you deposit your expectations. And your fears too. But for some reason, today Michael feels more hope than fear. He thinks he may be redeemed. If he can go to her and say – something – what it is, he is not sure. When he is there, perhaps he will know.

  *

  It must or might be, thinks Michael, that – but now the train is pulling into Charing Cross and the carriage empties and fills again, and Michael is knocked on the back and turns his head round, though he is not angry at all. He just wants to see the person who has collided with him, and it is a woman wearing red, looking urgent and troubled as she leaves the train. She is hurrying down the platform, and now the train moves out of the station, and he can no longer see her.