Odd Socks

by Ilsa Evans

  ‘Piss off!’

  ‘Well! No need for language, love,’ Stephen replies as he touches her shoulder gingerly with a fingertip. ‘I know! What about an aspirin? That should help things.’

  ‘I don’t want a freaking aspirin!’

  ‘How about two?’

  I try to tune them out while I dial 000 – and get an engaged tone. I sit for a minute, tapping my fingers on the phone and staring at Bronte, who is clasping her stomach and groaning loudly while watching me over her shoulder. After taking his beanie off for a moment and running his fingers agitatedly through his dark hair, Stephen is now squatting down by Bronte’s side and ineffectually patting her while pulling weird faces at me. I think he’s trying to convey that he is out of his depth. But tough luck, so am I. I try 000 again and this time I get put straight through to a rather nasal female operator who asks me brusquely whether I want police, fire brigade or ambulance. I request the latter, give her my details, describe the situation and hang up. By this time, Bronte is in the midst of yet another contraction and Stephen has turned an ivory colour that looks positively sickly under his fluorescent beanie. I hurry back over to them just as the spasm starts to leave Bronte’s body and she flops back, quivering.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask inanely as I kneel down next to her and grab her hand. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Just air,’ says Stephen, standing up and putting his hand delicately to his forehead. ‘I need some air.’

  ‘Not you, dork! Her!’

  ‘Towels!’ states Stephen as he clicks his fingers emphatically. ‘Towels! Hot water! That’s what we need!’

  ‘What for?’ I query, mainly because I’ve always wanted to know.

  ‘For – um, well . . . ’ His face falls. ‘I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I turn back to Bronte. ‘The ambulance’ll be here soon. Just hang on.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she wails, ‘I just can’t!’

  ‘I know!’ Stephen says happily. ‘The hot water is for a cup of tea! That’s what we all need – a nice, relaxing cup of tea!’

  ‘Do you know what you can do with your freaking tea?’ gasps Bronte, staring at Stephen with a look straight out of The Twilight Zone. ‘You can –’

  ‘And what are the towels for then, Einstein?’ I interrupt quickly. ‘A soothing facial, perhaps?’

  ‘No! A bath. The towels are for a bath. We need to get her in a bath!’

  ‘Actually,’ I say, looking at my pristine carpet thoughtfully, ‘perhaps we could move her somewhere more comfy till the ambulance arrives. What about it, Bronte?’

  ‘I’m not moving,’ pants Bronte in agitation. ‘Mum – try Nick again! Please!’

  ‘Okay then.’ I squeeze her hand soothingly. ‘I’ll try him in a minute. But first I’ll get those towels and pop them under you.’

  ‘That’s what they’re for!’ Stephen exclaims with a grin of relief. ‘Of course!’

  ‘Mum – god! God! God!’ Bronte grabs my hand again and arches herself forwards in pain. ‘GOODD!’

  ‘Bronte, hang on. You’re doing great, just hang in there.’

  ‘Mum! Get it OUT! Get it OUT!’

  ‘The ambulance will be here soon,’ I say with a confidence I’m far from feeling, ‘and then they’ll get it out for you. And now I’ll just grab those towels. Stephen, you’re in charge.’

  ‘Okay.’ Stephen takes a deep breath, pushes his shoulders back and squats next to Bronte again. ‘I know! You need to breathe, schnooks, just breathe. That’s it.’

  I leave the room as Schnooks replies with a few well-chosen obscenities. But by the time I return with an armful of towels, Stephen has her breathing rhythmically and relatively calmly. I’m impressed. I dump the towels on the floor and sit myself down near Bronte’s head, taking hold of her hand again and stroking her forehead. It’s starting to warm up down here, and my toes are feeling less like miniature Popsicles. We sit like that for a few minutes, in relative peace, until the next contraction hits. And this one’s a doozy. Stephen and I look at each other in concern as Bronte’s entire body goes stiff and, with her shoulders straining back, she leans forwards and emits a long, low grunt of pain.

  ‘Remember to breathe, love!’ Stephen urges as he pats her left leg. ‘Just breathe!’

  ‘But it’s coming – NOW! It is, it is!’ Bronte puffs rapidly and then, as the apex of pain passes, she clutches my dressing-gown sleeve frantically. ‘It really is! Have a look – have a look!’

  ‘Really?’ I say doubtfully as I glance down at her tracksuit-encased legs. ‘You’re sure? Why don’t I just ring the ambulance again and see what’s keeping them?’

  ‘HAVE A LOOK!’

  ‘All right then. Hmm . . .’ I gingerly take hold of the waistband of her tracksuit pants and begin to peel them slowly back over her extended belly. But before I can continue with my reluctant stripping, Bronte hefts herself up and, with one impatiently fluid movement, sheds herself not only of tracksuit pants, but knickers as well. And there she is, my daughter, clad only in a tracksuit top with her legs wide apart and knees up – and with more of her nether regions on display than I’ve seen for many a year.

  ‘Yech!’ says Stephen, as he stops patting her leg and goes pale once more.

  ‘Now – LOOK!’ Bronte demands hoarsely.

  Accepting the inevitable, I crawl slowly down to where her legs are bent and spread. I really don’t want to do this – I didn’t think it was all that cute when she was a baby, let alone now, two decades later. I tuck my hair behind my ears and take a deep breath to steel myself. Then, grimacing, I lean over and unenthusiastically peek up between her legs.

  ‘Oh, my lord!’ shrieks Stephen, breathing down my neck. ‘Oh, my dear sweet lord!’

  ‘What is it?’ Bronte asks in panic between pants. ‘What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong!’

  ‘Oh – nothing, nothing,’ I answer quickly as I grab a knee and peer in for a closer look. I’m actually trying to work out exactly what I’m seeing here, because it’s not nothing – not at all. There is definitely something happening down here and I’m pretty sure it’s exactly the something I was hoping wouldn’t be happening. At least, not until the ambulance got here.

  ‘Teresa!’ Stephen whispers loudly in my ear. ‘Teresa! That’s not normal, is it? Has she always had that? It looks like a growth, or is it a genital defect? Oh, my lord, it’s revolting.’

  ‘Will you go and hold her hand,’ I hiss violently at him. ‘Go on – shoo!’

  ‘It’s not nothing!’ Bronte is staring down between her raised knees straight at Stephen, and has easily read his horrified expression. ‘Mum! What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing, schnooks,’ replies Stephen, bobbing up with a cheerful look at Bronte before hunching back down and staring once more at the display with a disgusted grimace. ‘Teresa! Is it a tumour? And how on earth is the poor little baby going to get past?’

  ‘It’s not a tumour, you dingbat!’ I say as I try frantically to decide what to do next. ‘It’s the baby’s head!’

  ‘MUM!’

  ‘It’s fine, Bronte. I’m sure the baby’s just fine.’ I look at Bronte reassuringly, with a confident smile plastered on. ‘You just concentrate on your breathing. In – two, three. Out – two, three.’

  ‘There is something wrong! I know there’s something wrong! I want Nick!’ Bronte wails as she flops back down and starts to tense up once more. Her fists clench and drum on the carpet as another contraction begins its relentless climb. Then her back arches and she groans as her whole body goes stiff again.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s okay.’ I pat her on the knee supportively. ‘You’re doing fine.’

  ‘Aaaaaauuh!’

  And then something really amazing happens. As she arches and groans, I grab her other knee for extra support and lean forwards to get a better look at the action down under. Which is when I suddenly realise with a shock that there’s movement at the station. Towards me. An
d if I don’t put a halt to these proceedings right now, within minutes the miracle of birth is going to be played out virtually in my lap.

  ‘Oh, heavens above!’ Stephen grabs hold of my shoulder and leans across my back for a better look. ‘It’s just like that Alien movie!’

  ‘Stop pushing!’ I shriek at my daughter. ‘Stop pushing – at once!’

  ‘I. Can’t,’ grunts Bronte in response.

  ‘You have to!’ I stare wildly at her while I try to shrug Stephen off me. ‘It’s coming out! And it’s coming out now!’

  ‘Nnnoooo!’ But she does stop pushing for a minute and instead sits halfway up and glares at me, beads of sweat standing out wetly across her forehead. ‘And stop telling me what to do! You’re always telling me what to do! I hate it! JUST STOP IT! AND LET GO OF MY FREAKING KNEES RIGHT BLOODY NOW!’

  ‘What?’ I stare at her in amazement, momentarily distracted because she has never, never spoken to me like that before. Where on earth did it come from? But Bronte doesn’t answer; instead, she flops backwards and, with her face going an extremely unbecoming shade of vermilion, starts groaning loudly as she bears down again.

  ‘Aaaah! Aaaaauuuhhhh!’

  ‘Stephen! Get off me! And, quick, grab those towels!’ I shout with panic. ‘Bronte, I said stop! Stop pushing!’

  But this time there is no response. Abusive or otherwise. In fact, she appears totally oblivious to me. Instead, with her head thrown back and face clenched up in pain, she is making loud guttural grunting noises. I glance across at Stephen for some support but he has reeled back onto his knees and is swaying backwards and forwards, holding one hand to his head and breathing almost as rapidly as Bronte. I reach across and grab his arm but he looks straight past me, takes one more glance at the crowning head and then, turning as white as my dressing-gown, collapses gracefully onto the carpet in a dead faint. Right on top of the pile of towels. I stare at him in disgust but, apart from his chest rising and falling rhythmically, he doesn’t move. I’m on my own.

  Tucking my hair back behind my ears, I look at Bronte. The exertion she is going through has made the veins in her neck stand out in bold relief, and her fists have begun drumming against the carpet again. Obviously it’s pointless appealing to her better nature by begging her to stop pushing, so I let go of her quivering knees and dive back between her legs. And, boy, is there action aplenty happening down there.

  Stephen’s tumour is definitely a baby’s head, and a not particularly clean baby’s head at that. And it’s also just about the whole way out. Having no real idea of what to do now, I flutter my hands about for a few seconds like some dimwit Victorian heroine before deciding the best place for them is in the catcher’s position. Sure enough, as soon as I get them cupped, the head slithers all the way out, and twists around slowly like something out of The Exorcist. I cradle it in my hands and mutter a series of pleas to anyone who might be up above to help me.

  Luckily, heavenly intervention appears unnecessary. With frantic fist-drumming and an undulating bellow that echoes painfully through her body, Bronte bears down one last time and the head is followed (fortunately) by shoulders, arms, a body, and a pair of legs. No penis. In other words, a complete baby girl. In my hands.

  I freeze in position. On my knees, between Bronte’s knees, with my hands cradled around the marbled-red body of a newborn baby whose umbilical cord still pulsates up into the body of her mother. My daughter.

  ‘Hell,’ I breathe as I stare at the baby dumbfounded. ‘Flaming hell.’

  ‘Mum? Mum?’ Bronte struggles to raise herself onto her elbows to see what’s going on. ‘Is it the baby? Is it all right? Why can’t I hear it crying?’

  ‘Crying?’ I repeat stupidly, still staring at the tiny newborn who, just at that moment, obligingly stretches out an impossibly small mouth and begins mewling piteously. Two little eyes screw themselves closed as two little fists clench and unclench with each wavering cry.

  ‘Oh, Mum! What is it?’ Bronte has raised herself almost all the way to a sitting position and is staring rapturously at her newborn. ‘Can I have it? Please?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ With extreme care I pass the tiny, bleating scrap of humanity to her mother. ‘Bronte – she’s beautiful. A beautiful little girl.’

  ‘Oh, a girl,’ breathes Bronte, gazing down at her daughter with instant adoration. ‘Oh, I so wanted a girl. Hello there, darling.’

  With a stupid smile, I wipe my hands on my dressing-gown as I watch the little tableau before me for a few minutes. Bronte continues to mutter welcoming inanities to the baby, who has ceased crying and instead is gazing up at her mother with an intensely interested expression on her scrunched-up little face. Next to them, Stephen is lying on the floor curled up in the foetal position on the towels, snoring quietly.

  I can’t believe I just delivered a baby. Me! Still grinning, I arrange the umbilical cord a little more neatly across Bronte’s belly and suddenly realise my knees are very wet. I get up and my dressing-gown immediately sticks to my legs because it, too, is absolutely soaking. And flecked with stuff that I don’t even want to think about. Slowly, I look down at my beautiful carpet and realise that, sure enough, it’s in a similar condition to my dressing-gown. Just as I’m flexing my bare toes and listening to the dampish squelch they make, the doorbell rings.

  I roll the carpet into the back of my mind, leap nimbly out of the damp patch, and then walk over to the front door with my dressing-gown slapping itself wetly against my shins as I go. Once there, I flick on the outside light, open the door wide and there stand, according to their name-badges, Bill and Sven – the ambulance men. Complete with a large medical satchel and a stretcher on wheels. Better late than never, I suppose.

  ‘Come in,’ I say cheerfully as I usher them inside and close the door before the temperature drops too dramatically. ‘You’re just in time.’

  ‘Excellent!’ declares Bill, a short white-haired gentleman who looks like retirement should have been a distant memory. ‘I believe you’re in labour, madam? Can you tell us how far apart the contractions are?’

  ‘What?’

  Sven, a blonde who is about half the age and twice the height of his partner – and a lot easier on the eye – puts his hand solicitously under my elbow and attempts to usher me towards the stretcher. Naturally, I resist strenuously.

  ‘It’s not me!’ I protest as I shake off his hand with some difficulty, smoothing my dressing-gown over my stomach to emphasise my point. ‘It’s my daughter – she’s just had a baby!’

  ‘In that case,’ says Bill, changing in an instant from considerate and fatherly to dour and disapproving, ‘could you please adjust your clothing. Your left breast is exposed.’

  I look down and, sure enough, it is. I cover it quickly and then look up at them with some embarrassment, but Sven grins and gives me a huge wink. After some initial surprise, I return the wink coquettishly. After all, there’s nothing like a little innocent flirtation to add a layer of fun to any situation. Bill clears his throat noisily and I glance across at him. The layer of fun immediately evaporates.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Yes,’ says Bill sourly, ‘and perhaps, madam, you could direct us to your daughter?’

  Holding my damp dressing-gown firmly closed, I lead them over to the lounge-room with Bill close behind me and Sven pushing the stretcher alongside. Bronte and baby are still in the same position they were when I left. But then again, I guess it’s a tad hard to go for a saunter when you are firmly attached to each other by an umbilical cord. I suppose Bronte could drape it over one arm but you’d have to be pretty desperate for a drink, or something, to attempt it. Bill interrupts my musings by pushing past me and squatting down between Bronte and the still prone Stephen.

  ‘What’s with this guy?’ he asks, inclining his head brusquely towards Sleeping Beauty. ‘Is he the father?’

  ‘Highly unlikely,’ I reply with a grin. ‘No, just a friend. And he fainted – couldn�
��t take it. Men!’

  Bill gives me a stern look, takes Stephen’s pulse quickly and then, obviously dismissing him, turns to Bronte. And the transformation that comes over his face is nothing short of remarkable. Even though she is vastly more exposed than I was, he immediately loses the disapproving look and gives her a huge smile.

  ‘Well! Aren’t you the clever one!’ Bill gently grasps one of her wrists and starts taking her pulse. ‘Well done, young lady! When were you due?’

  ‘Not for about three weeks.’ Bronte gazes down at her daughter beatifically. ‘She came early. And isn’t she just beautiful!’

  ‘She certainly is.’ Bill drops Bronte’s wrist and takes a good look at the baby, running his finger quickly over her tiny body. ‘A real little beauty – you should be proud of yourself.’

  ‘I helped too,’ I add obligingly.

  ‘Really,’ says Bill shortly, giving me a disparaging glance before turning back to Bronte. ‘Now, Mum, how about we snip off this cord and then we’ll be able to wrap up little bub nice and warm.’

  ‘Okay, but I want to donate the cord to the cord bank at the hospital. I’ve registered and all.’

  ‘And I wish there were more like you,’ says Bill approvingly while he takes a pair of curved scissors from Sven, snips the umbilical cord off neatly and pegs it near the baby’s belly. ‘Now we’ll just wrap this little lady up and you’ll have her back before you know it.’

  Bronte hands the baby over reluctantly and then, as Bill passes her carefully to Sven, suddenly doubles over with pain once more. ‘Oh! Oh – not again!’

  ‘That’ll be the afterbirth,’ says Bill as he sets to work. ‘Just a couple of pushes and it’ll all be over. You can do it, Mum.’

  ‘I’ll get the towels!’ I yell at no one in particular as I attempt to wrest the pile from underneath Stephen. He immediately wraps his arm around them and mutters crossly. I give up and instead sprint towards the laundry and the linen cupboard. ‘Just wait a second!’