The Place Where Love Should Be

by Elizabeth Ellis

I breathe again, expecting the lump, the tears. When they don’t come, I wait a moment, and ring the bell.

  ‘Yes?’ The woman is visibly annoyed. ‘I thought I’d explained – we can’t bend the rules. There’s too much at stake, not to mention the paperwork.’

  ‘Please,’ I say, ‘just for half an hour? The nurse on ICU said it would be alright.’ I sound as if I’m stuck on replay. ‘Could you ring her? Please?’

  The woman sighs again and goes to the desk. ‘What name is it?’

  ‘Gardner. His name is Edward and my mother is… she’s registered as Helena Watson.’

  The woman looks at me quizzically then lifts the phone and dials.

  ‘Sam?’ she says, ‘it’s Cheryl in paediatrics. There’s a woman here says she left her baby with us this morning. What? No Sam, very funny, we haven’t lost him.’ She pauses. ‘We’re not supposed to you know. Ok, ok. Bye.’ She puts the phone down and turns to me. ‘You’d better bring him in. But don’t make a habit of it and don’t even bother trying tomorrow. The boss is on duty and there’s no way she’ll allow it.’

  I wheel the pram into the room.

  ‘Half an hour,’ the woman warns.

  I’m already running for the lift.

  Through the door I see a nurse at the desk fiddling with the computer. It’s a different nurse from last night and she looks up with practised indifference.

  ‘Could I see Helena Watson please? Is that ok?’

  ‘She’s sleeping but, yes, you can go in.’

  ‘Is there any change? Any improvement?’

  The nurse raises both her eyebrows, pulls back her chin, enough to suggest it’s a stupid question.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll just go in then.’

  The nurse picks up a clip board and sets off in the opposite direction.

  Only two rooms are occupied. The corridor between is dim and silent. I reach my mother’s room and stand again in the doorway watching her sleep. Here too, the light is subdued, focussed on the monitors. As it was this morning, there’s an air of peace about it, of gentle oblivion. I move to the bed and take her hand, but without her consent it seems an intrusion, an assault on her vulnerability and I pull away. Helena opens her eyes, but sleeps again soon after, lulled by the click and hiss of her machines. I sit and watch, waiting for the minutes to pass.

  Thirty

  My time with Helena is too short. She doesn’t wake again and I cannot tell her about Jack or reassure her that all is well, that all is taken care of. When the half hour has passed, I stoop to kiss her and rush back through interminable corridors to the second floor, to the sunny green walls and the grumpy staff.

  Edward has just woken and is beginning to fret. It’s that time of day, but I’m not about to ask for any more favours. I’ll have to take him to the hotel for his next feed, to the twilight, the stuffy room and another wait. I don’t want to think about tomorrow, what I will do if they refuse to take Edward at the crèche. The boss is on duty, there’s no way she’ll allow it. Moment by moment I think. Each one as it comes.

  At the hotel I feed Edward, but this is the last of the bottles and in any case, there’s no way of washing or sterilising them. I didn’t think that far ahead. Perhaps there’s a lot to be said for breastfeeding. Joanna has an opinion on this too of course.

  I sit on the bed, close my eyes and wait for the internal acrobatics. But nothing comes. No sickness, no sweat. I hear a faint bleat from Edward, so I bundle him into the pram and go back down to the street. There are things I can do, choices I can make. It’s simple.

  Nearby is a sign for an all-night chemist, another for a metro supermarket. There will be ready-made bottles here just as there are at home. But when I ask, the chemist doesn’t sell ready-made bottles and neither does the supermarket.

  ‘Why not?’ I ask the girl at the checkout.

  The girl shrugs, ‘Dunno. No-one wants it I suppose.’

  Now the knock starts up, my hands stick to the pram handle. ‘Surely people round here have babies to feed?’

  The girl shrugs again, pulls her earphones out. ‘We got tins. Down there on the right.’

  ‘That’s no good.’

  ‘Well sorry. Can’t help.’ The girl hitches herself up on a stool, shoves her earphones back in.

  I leave the shop and keep walking, try another convenience store without success. I’ll have to go back to the hotel, pack up, leave Helena, fetch the car, drive home and then?

  And then.

  I walk off, blindly down the wet streets. I’m half-way to the river now. At times I have to walk in the gutter, pushing the pram through chip papers, cartons, cans, sodden copies of Metro and the Big Issue. I have no idea where to go, what to look for; shops are few and far between. I have no food for Edward, nowhere to leave him tomorrow, no way of helping Helena.

  My ears are ringing, my eyes prick, each breath a sharp intake. There are people in the way, Edward begins to cry. I stop abruptly, someone behind walks into me, I stand on the pavement, a small island in the stream of pedestrians flowing round me on either side. My head spins, the knock returns. I’m back in the city a long time ago, on Pentonville Road in the rain.

  Edward is howling now. Still I keep walking, down to the river, past the Tower and St Katherine’s Dock towards Wapping. Bars and restaurants heave with after-work gatherings, warmth and laughter. I walk on while Edward cries and fine rain tangles with mist from the river, catching my eyes, my throat, seeping into the fabric of my coat, of the pram. The bedding will be damp, Edward will be damp, he’ll get ill. He cannot get ill again. I cannot let him get ill again. But I have no food, I can’t even feed him. What kind of mother runs out of food? What kind of mother am I anyway? Why has it all been so hard? Why don’t I just go home? Why can it not just stop?

  The tide is up. I’ve reached a pier where river cruises dock. It’s quiet, no sign of business in the dark at this time of year. Beside it, steps lead down to the water, a heaving, clawing mass beneath me. I park the pram and pull on the brake. I lean in, take Edward and fasten him inside my coat. He’s still crying, rubbing and sucking at his fist. I enclose it in my own, rest my chin on his head to shelter him.

  Across the river I see the lights of Bermondsey, the deep bleak space of Southwark Park. I see my mother wired up in a hospital bed, my mother turning at the bottom of the stairs, I see my mother with a pillow leaning over Joanna’s cot, I hear Joanna crying and then go silent, I see my father and Grandma Rhona in the kitchen and I hear my own voice telling them what I’ve seen.

  Slowly I turn, step over the chain barrier and pick a way down, step by sliding step, until I reach the bottom, a fetid dungeon on three sides and darkness beneath. Edward cries into my coat. Shh, I say. Please shh.

  The river laps, angry, hungry at my feet.

  Thirty-One

  I stand at the water’s edge. Later I would wonder what it was that hauled me back, the splinter of time before I stepped into the river, that made me look up instead of down. A motorbike? A brutal, desecrating roar on the street above me, or the siren, long and low away in the east? But I do I look up and see the pram. Rain falls into my face, I lean back against the dank stone wall, my knees give way and I slide to the ground clutching Edward. He’s stopped crying and brought up a quantity of milk. Not hungry then, just in pain.

  Minutes pass, a clock chimes the hour – seven? Eight? I struggle to my feet, climb the slimy steps to the road. Inside the pram, the bedding is still dry and I put Edward back, tucking him in tightly. He begins to cry again, but I’m numb to the sound, to this cold, bleak night and whatever I’ve just stepped away from.

  It’s still raining as I head back to the hotel. I could take the Tube but I’d have to buy a ticket and that would involve more crowds, more stairs, escalators and lifts. The bus is no less of a challenge – I wouldn’t know where to start.

  Then a hundred
yards away, up a narrow side street, I see another green and white cross, its beacon light flashing. How did I miss this earlier? With a nudge of hope, I turn the pram towards it. Large glass doors open as I approach. Inside is brightly lit, perfect calm, everything neat and clearly marked. Behind the counter a man stands and welcomes me with a smile. He wears a dark suit, his name badge reads: Karim, Pharmacist.

  ‘Good evening,’ he says, his voice quiet. ‘How may I help?’

  And I, prepared for another futile quest, burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, please Ma’am,’ Karim comes round the counter and ushers me to a chair. ‘Please sit.’ He plucks a pack of tissues from a nearby shelf and hands one to me. I take the tissue and blow my nose but I’m weeping uncontrollably now, unravelling in front of him.

  ‘Can I get you something – a glass of water perhaps?’

  I nod, sob, blow my nose again, and Karim disappears into the back of the shop. Edward too begins to cry. Hours overdue for his feed, he must really be hungry now. Karim comes back with a large glass of water which I take and drink. Then I blow my nose again and look up at my saviour standing a respectful distance away. He smiles, kindly concern on his dark face, a thatch of thick hair, beginning to grey, combed neatly across his forehead.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, ‘I only need something for the baby – some formula in bottles – but I can’t find any and he’s hungry. Very hungry.’ This much is obvious.

  Karim goes to another shelf, takes something from it, offering it to me with a slight bow. ‘I think this is what you mean? Is it the correct brand?’

  I wipe my eyes and peer at the small bottle shaped like a torso. ‘Yes, yes that’s it. Thank you.’ I nod and gulp, then remember I will need more than one.

  ‘We can arrange that later,’ Karim says, ‘but for now,’ he indicates the pram, ‘please be our guest. Your little one is hungry.’

  I take the bottle and scrabble beneath the pram for my bag and a spare teat. I find one at the bottom, the cap still in place.

  ‘Shall I warm the bottle for him?’ Karim asks.

  ‘It’s fine, thank you. I don’t think he’ll mind.’ And I’m right. I lift Edward from the pram and the shop falls silent as he settles down to feed, his colour returning to normal, his limbs still again.

  Karim slips away to the back of the shop and returns a few minutes later followed by a young woman. She stands smiling next to him.

  ‘This is my wife Amena,’ he says.

  The woman comes to stand beside me and I see that she is heavily pregnant. She leans down to look at Edward as he feeds. ‘How old is he?’ she asks.

  I have to think a moment. Weeks have turned into months and I didn’t even notice. ‘Three months. No, nearly four.’

  ‘Ah,’ she says, as if a great mystery has been revealed, as if this very fact were cause to celebrate. Perhaps it is, I think as I sit in the shelter and warmth of this welcoming place. How can I not think so too?

  ‘I work here with Karim,’ Amena says, ‘but as you see,’ she puts a delicate hand on her bump, ‘we too will be blessed soon. We have waited a long time for this, Karim and I. Sometimes the best things take a while to come.’ She sits down on a chair next to me and gazes at Edward. ‘You have family?’ Amena asks now. ‘You need family at a time like this.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but it’s complicated.’

  ‘Ah,’ Amena says again, ‘for us too. Our family are all far away.’

  And mine? I have pushed all mine away.

  Edward finishes his feed and lies sleeping. I lift him upright and stroke his back, this gentle action natural now, each time I feel the warm, solid weight of him in my hands, in my arms. I put the cap back on the bottle and Karim offers to take it from me.

  ‘Let me sterilise that for you. Then it will be ready for next time.’

  I want to protest but he disappears again into the back of the shop.

  ‘We have a little surgery here now,’ Amena explains. ‘People come for small things – earache, sore throat. We can help when sometimes it is hard to see a doctor. Karim was a doctor back at home, but he cannot practise here and we did not have the funds to bring his qualifications up to date for this country.’ She holds out her hands towards Edward, ‘Can I, please?’

  I hand Edward to her and watch as her shape softens around him. She will be fine, I think. It will all be fine for her.

  ‘Where is your home?’ I ask.

  A shadow crosses Amena’s face. ‘Home is here now,’ she says. ‘But before, we lived in Bamiyan. It’s a city in Afghanistan, high up in the mountains. We left when the Taliban took over. I wanted to study medicine too, but it wasn’t allowed.’

  ‘So you came here to London?’

  Amena nods, rests her cheek against Edward’s head. ‘We’ve been lucky, many of our friends have not. London is a good place – here you can be from anywhere at all, no one minds. We are safe here. My name – Amena – means safe in Arabic.’

  Karim returns with a small box. ‘All done,’ he says. ‘there’s a spare one too. And some more formula, for next time.’

  My eyes fill again. For this kindness, for these people who have lost so much, for the fear that took me to the water’s edge, and the hope that brought me back. I take out my purse and hand Karim my bank card. He looks at it briefly then gives it back.

  ‘There’s no need,’ he says. ‘We are happy you found what you needed – that we could help.’ Karim looks adoringly at his wife, still holding Edward. ‘And you’ve brought us a little prelude.’

  Amena hands Edward back and I place him gently in the pram, but before wrapping the cover around him, put my hand on his tiny chest and feel the rise and fall, his determined pursuit of life. How could I not want to be here? At what point did I almost give up? There is a difference, after all, between not wanting to live, and wanting to die.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, wheeling the pram towards the door, ‘you’ve been so kind.’

  As I wait for the doors to slide open, I turn and see them standing side by side. ‘Good luck – with the baby.’ Then I leave this quiet sanctuary and step back into the street.

  As I trudge back to the hotel, I know that I will have to ask for help again. I cannot bring myself to contact Mark. He’ll be in Yorkshire until the weekend and he won’t want to leave, not for this. Even for this. There’s my father, but I’m not ready for lengthy explanations, to make excuses to him, or to Joanna. And that leaves Francine but she’s in France and why would she come anyway?

  Thirty-Two

  Francine stood at the sink washing crockery from the living room cabinet. Wind howled at the kitchen window where, in spite of Thierry’s warning, Francine had again forgotten to secure the shutters. For almost two weeks, she hadn’t ventured far from the house. There had been no more nocturnal visits: whatever the campaign to shift her, it had clearly failed so far. She’d heard little from Simon and nothing at all from William. Only Joanna supplied her with an infinite flurry of news, much of which she didn’t feel inclined to respond to. Home, wherever that was, her other life, now anchored firmly on a distant shore.

  It was late when the phone warbled beneath more piles of paper on the kitchen table.

  ‘Francine?’

  Evie’s voice. The second time since she’d been here. Francine hooked the phone under her chin, grabbed a towel and dried her hands. ‘Evie – how are you? Is everything alright?’

  ‘Actually, no, it’s not – that’s why I’m phoning. Francine, I need your help.’

  ‘My help?’ She pulled out a chair to sit down.

  ‘There’s a problem. I’m in London – in hospital.’

  ‘Hospital? Evie what’s happened? Is it the baby?’

  ‘No, he’s fine. He’s here with me.’

  ‘And you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Francine
waited. A gossamer thread now spinning out from Evie – a wrong word and it would snap.

  ‘Is it William?’

  ‘No, it’s not Dad – or Joanna. It’s …’ There was silence at the other end.

  ‘Evie?’

  ‘I’m here. There’s been an accident – it’s a long story, I don’t really know where to start.’

  ‘How about the beginning? Can you do that?’ Francine waited, clutching the phone. Then faintly she heard:

  ‘It’s my mother. My real mother I mean.’

  Evie’s mother? Francine’s mind flipped through a dozen scenarios.

  ‘She’s had an accident – in the car. She’s in hospital. They had to take her to London because… because she’s critical.’

  Francine stood up, the chair scraping on the kitchen tiles, and reached for her half-drunk glass of wine. ‘Evie how long have you been in touch with your mother? When did you meet up with her?’

  ‘About a month ago. It sounds crazy I know but I found her on Facebook.’

  It took Francine a while to register, an image of Helena rising up before her. ‘And she’s had an accident you say?’

  ‘Yes, last night – no, the night before. She had a crash – the car hit a tree. It was foggy – I don’t really know what happened. Except she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. I’ve no idea why…’ Evie’s voice trailed away again.

  ‘I’m not sure how I can help,’ Francine said. ‘What would you like me to do?’

  There was a long pause before Evie answered, her voice still faint. ‘Can you come please? Come to the hospital. It’s difficult with the baby and visiting and I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I know it’s a lot to ask but there really isn’t anyone else.’

  ‘Evie, does anyone else know? Joanna or William?’

  ‘I haven’t told anyone. No-one knows, no-one at all. Only you.’

  Francine shook her head. She’d been so wrapped in her own tiny world, it was suddenly glaringly obvious how much she had missed – all that Evie was going through. Why on earth had she left her to cope by herself all this time? No wonder she looked for help from the one person who would understand. ‘Is this why…?’ Francine began, then knew this was not the time. Instead she said, ‘Does Mark know where you are?’