by Debbie Rix
‘Mr Bailey?’
‘Yes – that’s me…’ He sat upright, his heart jolting with anxiety. ‘How’s my wife?’
‘She’s out of theatre, and she’s going to be fine.’
He relaxed, visibly relieved, sinking back into the chair.
‘You have a son… Do you want to see him?’
He picked the sleeping Angela up in his arms and followed the nurse down the corridor until they reached the nursery.
‘You can’t go in, but you can look at him from here – do you see the label? Baby Bailey?’
In a Perspex cot next to the glass window lay a tiny child with a mop of dark unruly hair. Chuck gazed at the baby’s perfect face and felt a curious, and surprising, sensation – it was love.
‘He’s a big boy,’ said the nurse. ‘I’m not surprised she had trouble. Nearly ten pounds. You must be very proud.’
He was proud, he realised. This child, this boy, was his son – whatever the truth of his paternity. And he would cherish him as if he was his own.
‘Can I see my wife?’ He yearned to see Rachael now. To hold her in his arms, to tell her much he loved her.
‘In the morning – she’s sleeping now. She’s had a hard time.’
Chuck returned the following morning at half-past eight. He carried a huge bunch of pink roses in one hand and held Angela’s hand in the other.
Rachael struggled to sit up in bed. She looked pale, her green eyes slightly bloodshot. She winced with pain, as she leant over to kiss her daughter.
‘Don’t move, honey,’ said Chuck, lifting Angela up, so she could kiss her. ‘Does it hurt a lot?’
‘Yes… quite a lot. But at least I hear the baby’s OK. I’ve not seen him yet. Could you ask them to bring him in?’
When the child was wheeled into Rachael’s room, he was placed next to her bed. Angela clung to the edge of the cot and peered at her little brother. She stroked his head, looking at her mother for approval.
‘That’s right,’ said Rachael. ‘Be gentle… What do you think?’ she asked Angela.
‘He’s got black hair,’ Angela noted with admirable perceptiveness. The baby did indeed have a mop of dark hair. Rachael looked up at Chuck – at his blond crew cut; his bright blue eyes. The baby stirred and gazed at his mother with dark blue eyes – they were like pools of still water. At least his eyes were blue, like Chuck’s; although she feared that would change. All babies, after all, had blue eyes.
‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Chuck said with genuine emotion.
‘Yes… he is.’ Rachael touched the baby’s hand and he gripped her finger tightly. She was so lucky, she thought in that moment, to have this beautiful child and a husband who clearly adored him. ‘Could you lift him out and let me hold him?’
He was a well-developed baby. It was as if he was already a month or two old. Lying in her arms, he studied his mother’s face, staring intently into her grey-green eyes. His mouth opening and closing like a clam.
‘I’ll feed him,’ said Rachael.
‘I can bring a bottle,’ said the nurse, who had been hovering in the background. ‘He’s already had two or three feeds. It would be easier – for you.’
‘No,’ said Rachael. ‘I want to feed him myself.’
The nurse pursed her lips, disapprovingly. ‘Well, you can try,’ she said and left the room.
Rachael was soon comfortably propped up by three pillows; she opened the front of her nightgown and the child snuffled down onto her breast and latched on as if he had been doing it all his life. He sucked hard and Rachael felt such love, such a wave of adoration for him, that it almost took her breath away. Angela watched her mother keenly from the other side of the room.
‘Can you ask them to leave him in here…’ Rachael said to Chuck. ‘I don’t want him in the nursery.’
‘But, honey, how will you get any rest?’
‘When I had Angela, she was with me all the time. I don’t want him taken away. Please Chuck.’
The baby, getting little from her breast, grew tetchy and began to grizzle.
‘Look…’ said Chuck, anxiously, ‘he’s hungry – maybe it would be best to do what the nurse says and give him a bottle.’
‘No… my milk will come in. Just leave him with me.’
News of the ‘foreign’ mother who refused to bottle-feed her baby spread around the ward. Numerous nurses and even a doctor arrived to persuade her that she was doing her child harm.
‘He’s hungry, Mrs Bailey. He’s a big child; he really needs a bottle.’
‘No,’ said Rachael, firmly. ‘He’s not my first child. I know what I’m doing. It will be fine.’
Early the following morning, her breasts throbbing and swollen, she lifted her baby to her nipple, and the milk flowed into his mouth as if a tap had been turned on. There was so much milk, it leaked out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin, causing his eyes to roll up into his head, in sheer bliss.
Rachael was booked into the hospital room for a fortnight, but she discharged herself after just one week. She was desperate to get away from the disapproving glances of the nursing staff and she missed Angela dreadfully. She caused quite a stir when she appeared at the nurses’ station, fully dressed, with the baby in her arms, ready to leave the hospital.
‘You really can’t just leave like that, Mrs Bailey. The doctor hasn’t discharged you yet,’ said the head nurse.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Rachael said, setting off towards the elevator, the baby in her arms. ‘Thanks for everything.’
The taxi driver deposited her at the brownstone just before lunchtime. He carried her bag up the steps and she handed him the key to open the door.
‘You going to be all right, lady?’, he asked, placing her bag inside the hall.
‘I’m fine – thank you,’ she said.
Somehow she carried the baby and her bag up the stairs, but once inside the apartment, she lay down on the bed, the baby lying in the crook of her arm, and went to sleep.
When Chuck came home at lunchtime, having collected Angela from nursery school, he was horrified.
‘Darling… why didn’t you call me? I’d have come to collect you. I worry you’ve come home too soon,’ he said anxiously. ‘I have to go back to work any day now – how can I look after you and both children? Should I get a nurse?’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ve just had a baby – that’s all.’
‘But you had an operation and how will you manage with shopping and looking after Angela?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she repeated.
‘I should call my parents.’
‘No… don’t do that. Please?’
‘It’s the only responsible thing to do. We have a spare room. My mother will look after you.’
Reluctantly, Rachael agreed. Her stitches were still very sore, and she knew she would struggle even to get downstairs and out to the shops.
‘Now, go back to bed, please Rachael,’ Chuck insisted.
He had bought a cot – a dainty lace bassinet, which was already almost too small for the huge baby boy – and had placed it, thoughtfully, by their bed. She laid the baby in it after a feed, and the child fell into a deep sleep. She slept too, and woke later that afternoon, the spring sunshine filtering through the grimy window.
‘I called my folks…’ said Chuck, handing her a cup of tea. ‘They’re coming tomorrow. I hope that’s OK.’
‘Yes…’ she said, untruthfully. She didn’t want Constance and Eric there… She wanted her father. ‘I’d like to call my father – do you think that would be possible?’
‘Sure… I’ll put through a long-distance call.’
He brought her the phone once the connection had been made. ‘It’s Mrs Roper,’ Chuck said, handing her the receiver.
‘Mrs Roper…’
‘Yes… is that Rachael? Oh goodness, all the way from America… How are you, dear?’
‘I’m fine. I wondered if my father was there…’
‘No, dear, he’s st
ill at work. I have to admit, he is rather late. I seem to remember he mentioned an evening meeting. Oh I’m sorry. Is there anything wrong?’
‘Oh… No, not at all. I just wanted to let him know that I’ve had the baby – a lovely big boy. Everything’s OK…’
‘Oh, that is good news; I’ll be sure to tell him when he gets home. He’ll be so sorry to have missed you, but we’ll have a glass of sherry to celebrate.’
‘Thank you – tell him… maybe we can speak at the weekend…’
The following day, Rachael felt more rested. Chuck took Angela to nursery school, and then waited at home with Rachael and the baby until his parents arrived late that afternoon. It was their first visit to the apartment.
Lying on the bed, Rachael could hear them in the hallway.
‘Well congratulations!’ said Eric. ‘Our first grandson. Can we see him?’
Chuck led the way to his wife’s room. The baby had just been fed and lay in soporific bliss in his little bassinet.
‘Look at all that hair!’ Constance said, disapprovingly. ‘I’ve never seen such a thing…’
‘He’s got Rachael’s hair,’ Chuck said quickly. ‘Beautiful thick dark hair – eh, honey?’
Rachael smiled weakly from her bed.
‘Well, we won’t disturb him now – as he’s sleeping,’ said Constance. ‘Rachael… I shall prepare some supper, if Charles will show me the way.’
Chuck then returned to his office, leaving Constance and Eric in charge.
When Chuck arrived home, just after seven, Rachael could hear the three of them chatting quietly in the drawing room. Once or twice, she overheard Angela crying – just petulant tears, presumably brought on by her mother-in-law refusing something that Angela had demanded – a cookie before she had finished her main meal, or something similar. Then she heard the bath running and Constance’s strict tones: ‘Now, Angela, it’s time for your bath. Be a good girl.’
Angela was clearly intent on being as disobedient as possible. She began to scream.
Alarmed, Rachael struggled to get out of bed. She almost doubled up at the tearing pain that ripped through her lower abdomen but breathed deeply and stood up, pulling on her dressing gown. She walked unsteadily through into the bathroom.
‘Angela, angel, Mummy’s here.’
The child stood naked, her fists clenched by her side. Constance was kneeling next to her.
‘Oh, Rachael, you really shouldn’t have got up,’ said Constance, impatiently. ‘She’s absolutely fine. She just won’t get in the bath.’
Rachael reached out for her child, who ran to her, pleading to be picked up.
Chuck wandered in.
‘Hey… you’re up!’ he said delightedly, kissing his wife’s neck. ‘Now, Angela, what’s all this noise about – don’t you want a bath?’
Angela stopped crying, and instead held out her arms to him. He picked her up, knelt down by the bath, felt the water with his hand and swished it around.
‘Hey… feels good, Angela – not too hot, not too cold – just right! Like Goldilocks… Hey – that’s you… little Goldilocks.’ The child giggled. ‘Want to get in?’
Angela wriggled to get into the water and sat happily splashing, playing with a toy rubber duck.
‘I could have done that,’ said Constance, curtly.
‘I’m sorry…’ said Rachael apologetically. ‘It’s just that she knows Chuck so well. He’s so good with her.’
‘Seems to me,’ said Constance, ‘that she’s been spoiled. Anyway, I’ll go and see to supper. I’ll bring you a tray later.’
Rachael was sitting up in bed, holding the baby, when Constance brought in a tray of roast beef and mashed potatoes – not something Rachael would have chosen to eat so soon after an operation.
‘Oh… he’s awake,’ said Constance, laying the tray on the bedside table. ‘Can I take a peek?’
The baby opened his dark eyes and studied her.
‘His eyes are very dark…’ said Constance, peering at him intently, ‘they don’t look at all like Charles’, or yours for that matter.’
‘No… he looks more like my… mother,’ said Rachael hurriedly. ‘She had the same dark brown eyes.’ She thought back to her mother’s pale grey green eyes and blanched inwardly at the lie she had just told.
‘Really, honey?’ said Chuck, coming in behind his mother. ‘Such a shame I could never meet her.’
‘Do you have photographs of your parents?’ asked Constance.
‘No. We had to leave Budapest in such a hurry. We left with the clothes we stood up in.’
‘How awful,’ said Constance. ‘I can’t imagine how terrible that would be.’
‘Yes… it was very hard. My father had lived in our apartment all his life. It was filled with beautiful things – a grand piano of my grandmother’s, silver framed photographs, beautiful furniture… all gone.’
‘You poor thing,’ said Constance with genuine sympathy. It was as if the loss of these physical possessions was more distressing than the loss of Rachael’s own mother. This was something she could understand and empathise with. ‘Just fancy,’ Constance said, shaking her head, ‘losing a grand piano…’
After a week, Rachael had recovered sufficiently to suggest to Chuck that she could now manage alone.
‘I just want it to be us…’ she said. ‘Just the family; could you ask your parents to go?’
‘Just the family – I like the sound of that.’ He kissed her. ‘But only if you’re sure? I do have to work… I can’t afford to take any more time off.’
‘I’ll be fine now. I’m having the stitches out tomorrow and I feel well – honestly.’
‘We ought to register the baby,’ said Chuck, ‘before I go back to work properly. We need a name. My parents have been asking constantly. They want him named after some distant ancestor.’
Rachael looked alarmed.
‘Don’t worry – I’ve told them we’re going to make a decision once we’re alone – unless you already have an idea?’
‘I do have an idea… yes. Something I’ve been thinking about…’
‘Well – what is it? Do you want to name him after your father?’
‘Maybe…but I was thinking of Thomas.’
‘Thomas…?’ He paused, coming to terms with the name. ‘So … after…’
‘Do you mind?’ she asked hurriedly.
‘No… I don’t mind. I understand.’ He smiled, encouragingly, but she could tell he was a little hurt.
‘You’re so kind to me, Chuck. Thank you. It could be the Hungarian spelling. Tomasz… but maybe that would be a bad idea. And we could name him after you too…You’re going to be his father after all.’
‘Poor kid – he’s going to be landed with a heap of names…How about this… he could be Thomas Eric Charles George? The American spellings, he is after all going to be an American child. And you could call him Tom for short.’
Rachael could feel he was trying really hard to accommodate her.
‘Or maybe Thomas Charles George Eric…’ she suggested, tentatively.
‘Well why not…?’ he said at last. ‘Thomas is a good name. I’m sure there’s some “Bailey ancestor” called Thomas. And at least this way neither one of our fathers can be upset. I’ll go down to city hall and see to it straight away.’
The following morning Constance and Eric returned to Vermont. As Rachael watched the cab carrying her parents-in-law away from the apartment and back to the station, she breathed deeply and collapsed onto the sofa. The baby grizzled and she picked him up and put him to her breast. He guzzled milk greedily, gulping it down with great gasps of air.
‘Slow down, slow down, little Thomas, or you’ll have wind, my boy.’
He looked up at her with his dark brown eyes, eyes that reminded her so much of his father, eyes she had grown to love and that said: ‘I’ll always love you.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gloucestershire
May 2017
&n
bsp; In the days following their argument, neither Hamish nor Sophie could forget the things that had been said in the heat of the moment. ‘You’re not enough for me,’ Sophie had told Hamish. It had been a cruel thing to say, and she felt guilty about it, but she refused to apologise until Hamish had accepted her basic argument – that having a child was crucial to her happiness. Hamish felt desperately hurt; he became resentful and moody, and began to come home late.
‘I’m a bloody doctor,’ he said, when she challenged him about it. ‘I work in surgery – what do you expect?’
‘But your lists used to be quite regular affairs – nine till five or six at the latest. What’s changed?’
‘Ever heard of the word emergency?’ he’d snapped.
Sophie couldn’t quite believe that all his late nights were due to medical emergencies, but she was reluctant to argue with him. There were more important things at stake – like persuading him that should have another round of IVF.
In spite of the frosty atmosphere between them, she managed to get him to agree, reluctantly, to another attempt. Buoyed up with the prospect of this new opportunity, she threw herself into pleasing him, hoping that delicious meals and a tidy house would ease the strains on their relationship. She even bought new underwear and, against her better judgement, materialised in their bedroom one night wearing black stockings and suspenders.
‘Ta-da!’ she said, twirling around for him.
Hamish already had his head hidden beneath the duvet. He peered over the top of the bedding.
‘What on earth do you look like?’
‘Oh…’ said Sophie, crestfallen. ‘I thought you might like it.’
‘What… you thought I’d like the sight of my wife dressed like a tart.’
‘I just thought…’ Sophie began.
‘I know what you thought,’ Hamish interrupted. ‘That I’m a bloke and all we think about is sex. And sex with a woman in stockings, even better. And as you happen to need to have sex with me, why not dress up like a hooker… Goodnight.’ He pulled the duvet back over his head and turned away from her.