An Innocent, a Broad

by Ann Leary

  That afternoon I wandered around our new home and visualized my daily routine. At seven in the morning, the time I usually went to the SCBU to nurse Jack, he would awaken, I imagined, so I would put a fresh diaper on him, nurse him, and then set him in his little basket to sleep while I showered and then enjoyed my own breakfast. At eleven I would nurse Jack again, then put him into the “pram” that Jo had loaned me, and we would take our morning stroll around the neighborhood. This would allow Denis time to work on writing his show. Arriving back at the house around noon, I would carry the pram up to the flat and leave the sleeping Jack in it while I ate lunch and had a nap. Then, in the afternoons, I would do the laundry and tidy up the flat. Later I would make dinner for Denis and me, and the three of us would take an evening stroll around the neighborhood before we tucked Jack into bed for the night at seven-thirty. Then, in the evenings, I would read or watch TV while Denis went to work.

  During the first days and weeks after Jack’s birth, I had been amazed at my heightened energy level. Jo commented on it frequently. After Florence’s birth, she told me, she was absolutely “knackered” for months. She never could have done all the running around that I was doing, she said. At the time I just assumed I was of heartier stock than the average Brit. Sure, the English have a scholarly advantage over the average American, I thought, but in a match of strength—a rasslin’ match, for example—you’d always want your money on the American. Bolstered by hormones, I met life with a personally unprecedented gusto. I’d never had major surgery before and was pleased to discover that my recuperative powers were so superior. Within days of Jack’s birth, I was skipping down the stairs to the SCBU two at a time, frantic to see my baby. I ate like a horse, raced back and forth between the hospital and the nurses’ home and the park many times a day, and at night I laid my head upon the pillow and instantly fell into a deep and restorative sleep. I had no idea that what makes new mothers so tired—so dreadfully, horribly tired—is not the giving birth but the actual taking care of the baby.

  During those first weeks on Thornhill Road, my day began not at seven, as I had planned, but rather at around one in the morning. I kept Jack’s basket on a large ottoman at the foot of our bed, and every hour or so, he would awaken. His first little cry would cause me to sit bolt upright in bed, and within a microsecond I had scrambled on all fours down to the end of the bed to scoop him up. Then I would carry him back to my pillow. This always required me to move across the bed supported by both knees and one knuckle, the other arm clutching Jack, mama-baboon style, against my chest. Propped up against my pillows, I would nurse Jack drowsily but not allow myself to doze off for fear that Denis or I might crush him in our sleep. I would nurse Jack back to sleep, and then I would crawl back to the end of the bed to place him in his basket. I would go back to sleep and would be awakened again at two, then at three, and every hour after that each night.

  All the eating and bathing and sleeping in that flat was done by Jack, and he did all these things several times each hour. All the strolls around the neighborhood and house tidying that I had imagined were pipe dreams. Most days I would find myself still dressed in my nightgown at five in the afternoon. My hair would be plastered to my head, and I would be nursing Jack and shoveling handfuls of meat into my mouth. (I was on a ham bender and had decided that the bread-placement part of making the sandwich was simply too exhausting.) Denis would usually stagger into the room, having just woken up from a nap, and, hungrily eyeing the meat, he’d make a move for it. My mouth too full to speak, I’d issue a throaty growl, and he’d retreat into the kitchen to forage for himself. We both were testing the human capacity for sleeplessness, and our marriage had turned into a Darwinian experiment of sorts.

  IN ENGLAND, IF a woman has a normal delivery that produces a healthy child, she and the baby are usually sent home within twenty-four hours. Once she arrives home, the local health authority is notified of the birth, and for the next ten days, if necessary, every day a midwife visits the home to check on the health of the mother and child. After ten days the midwife hands the family’s case over to a health visitor, who is a registered nurse. British citizens are required to allow the health visitor to come at least once, to assess the family’s living conditions and to ensure that parents and baby are coping well. When I first heard about this home visiting, I thought it was wonderful. No wonder British babies have a higher survival rate than American babies do during their first year, I thought, having recently read this statistic. And how nice for the parents not to have to take the baby out to a germy doctor’s office during those first weeks, if something is wrong.

  In fact, the health visitor seemed to be viewed by most of the English people I knew as a mixed blessing. It is comforting to have a professional come into your home to offer assistance, but, in fact, mandatory health visiting began as an effort to control epidemics in London slums. Because the practice had its origins as a sanitary rather than a strictly medical concern, people still partially view it as the government’s snooping into families’ lives. Jo had told me that when she was a little girl, the health visitor tended to show up unannounced, which would cause her mother to shriek, “The bloody health visitor! Quick, clear up!” Jo said that health visitors have an uncanny knack for showing up “just when the mum has lost her temper and clipped her oldest child on the ear,” and so their visits were usually viewed with some trepidation, which was exactly how I viewed the impending visit of our health visitor.

  Before we were released from the hospital, we had to register with the local council of Islington. Within a week of our arrival, the health visitor phoned to say that she’d like to “call round” the next morning. I hung up the phone and burst into tears. The jig is up, I thought. The British government is sending a health worker to assess our abilities as parents and, seeing how woefully incapable we are, will remove Jack and place him in a foster home, with qualified, experienced parents. I looked around the flat and had no idea where to begin cleaning. Every vertical surface, every chair back, radiator, door, and hanger was draped with drying laundry—all of it Jack’s. Jack’s personal habits, which involved milk spewing from his mouth after every feeding, and other fluids incessantly leaking from below, required a complete change of clothing nearly every hour. The machine that was supposed to wash and dry the clothes just washed and tossed them for what seemed like hours. When the drying cycle was finished, the clothes came out soaking wet and had to be hung to dry. The sink was filled with dirty dishes. Our bedroom was a disaster. We had never found the right time to unpack our clothing, so we’d just started pulling things out of our suitcases as we needed them and then throwing them wherever we felt like it before passing out in bed each night. Denis had been booked into a club hours from London the night before and had arrived home in the early morning, but I had no pity. I bullied him out of bed, and he tried to help me get the place in order, but it was no use. Every time we folded something of Jack’s, it needed to be unfolded and worn. The dirty jammies and onesies and bibs just kept coming. The kitchen washing machine was no match for our four-pound son’s wardrobe. I finally decided that if we at least cleaned the kitchen and bathroom, we couldn’t be brought up on charges, so we scrubbed and cleaned, and then Denis brought home fish and chips for dinner.

  The next morning the health visitor arrived, as she had announced, at ten o’clock. She buzzed us on the intercom, and I buzzed her in, against my better judgment. Denis had worked late again the night before and had awoken during most of Jack’s nighttime feedings. Now he couldn’t be roused. I envisioned the health visitor as a hefty, highly starched matron along the lines of the SCBU’s Miss Borthwick, who would no doubt cast a disapproving eye about our flat and, seeing Denis passed out in bed, demand that he produce a urine specimen right before her eyes for a drug test.

  I heard a sharp knock on the door, and when I opened it, with Jack draped over my shoulder, I met one of the cheeriest, prettiest girls I had ever encountered in England. She wore sma
rt, casual street clothes, not the matron’s uniform that I’d imagined, and she grabbed my free hand and shook it.

  “I’m Jane Williams,” she said. “What a lovely flat.”

  Jane followed me into the sitting room, and I was at a bit of a loss as to what to do next.

  “Would you like something to drink?” I asked.

  “I’d love a cup of tea, actually,” replied Jane.

  Of course, why hadn’t I thought of that? The English always offer tea to visitors.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s just go into the kitchen.”

  As soon as I started to fill the teakettle, Jack woke up and began crying, and I started to get flustered, bouncing him in one arm and trying to turn on the stove with the other.

  “I’ll hold him for you, if you’d like,” offered Jane, and I gratefully handed him over.

  By the time we finished our tea I felt as if we were old friends. Jack lay draped across Jane’s lap, facedown, like a sack of potatoes, sleeping peacefully. Jane told me that many babies cry and fuss because their tummies hurt, and this position helps them. When I told her about the constant feeding and spitting up, she suggested that instead of feeding him every time he fussed, I should try putting him in this position. She said his little tummy was probably just too full. She also said that, in her opinion, always comforting babies with food might later cause eating disorders, since the child learns that food is not only nourishment but an emotional crutch.

  “That’s just a theory of mine,” she said. “Try cuddling him, and then, if he still whinges, feed him.”

  “Well, okay,” I said, “but I don’t know if you’ve ever cared for a baby who was as premature as Jack. He only weighed about two pounds when he was born, and—”

  “Oh, yes,” said Jane. “I know. I’ve seen all his records. There’s another baby on my watch who was less than two pounds when he was born. Lives not far from here, really. He’s doing remarkably well. I’ve had quite a few SCBU graduates the past few years,” she added with a reassuring smile, and then I bombarded her with all the fears, doubts, and concerns I had encountered during our first week at home, and Jane answered all my questions with reassuring, educated responses.

  “Look, he’s waking up,” said Jane as Jack let out a little bleat. She turned him over and looked into his face. “He’s gorgeous!” she exclaimed, and my heart swelled with pride.

  “Are you familiar with infant massage?” asked Jane.

  “Not exactly,” I replied.

  “Well, last summer I took a course in Sweden in massage therapy, and I’m really fascinated by it. So when I returned to London, I began to learn infant-massage techniques. I’d be happy to teach you some methods that might be beneficial to Jack. Massage is excellent for the respiratory and circulatory systems.”

  Jane hadn’t inspected my bathroom or asked where my husband was hiding himself. Instead she was showing me the exact spot on Jack’s tiny little foot where a pressure point existed that, when gently massaged, would relieve colicky symptoms. She showed me how to work my fingers in small circles all over his back and up and down his legs.

  “There’s a theory that massage might help prevent the developmental delays that many preemies experience. I don’t know that it’s been scientifically proven yet, but it can’t hurt. Look how he’s enjoying this,” Jane said, “and it actually has been proven that massage helps strengthen the immune system.” Jane was obviously a massage nut, and I felt like she’d been sent from heaven above. Then, before I knew it, it was time for her to leave.

  “So soon?” I asked, trying to conceal the desperation in my voice.

  “Yeah, I’ve two more calls before lunch.”

  “When can you come back?” I asked, making an effort not to whine.

  “I shouldn’t think you’ll need me back. You’re doing a great job,” Jane said. “You’re so relaxed! Most first-time mums in your position are total wrecks. You Americans are so easygoing! Here’s my card. If you have any questions at any time, feel free to phone me.” Then Jane was gone, and I was left holding my blissful, utterly massaged baby boy.

  SEVENTEEN

  DENIS AND I met Betty, our eighty-five-year-old neighbor, during our first week in the house on Thornhill Road. We were sitting in the back garden with Jack when she approached, shuffling toward us in a faded housedress, bent so far forward at the waist that at first I thought she was looking for something on the ground. When she finally reached the bench where we sat, she tilted her head up, allowing a view of one bewhiskered ear, one eye, and half of a near-toothless smile, and said, giggling into her hand, “’Ave you seen me pussy?”

  Denis and I, both certain that we were in the company of a woman in an advanced state of senility, with exhibitionism on her decaying mind, cried out, “NO!” and “PLEASE, NO!” and “SHOULDN’t YOU BE INDOORS ON SUCH A HOT DAY?” shielding our eyes and ducking our heads.

  “’E’s rather old,” replied Betty. “Almost twenty, me Timmy is, but still ’e likes to wander. All I’ave in this world is me pussycat.”

  “Oh,” I said. “How long has he been missing? Maybe we can help you find him.”

  “True, ’tis hot. Still, I like to take in a little sun of an afternoon,” Betty said, her eye now cast on the bench where we sat.

  Denis sprang to his feet. “Sit down! I have some phone calls to make,” and Denis made his escape, with lightning speed, into the house.

  Jack was asleep in my arms, and I moved over on the bench to make room for Betty, who sat down gratefully. It was now clear that she suffered from an advanced case of osteoporosis, as she retained the bent, leaning conformation even while seated. Betty told me, with her face tilted up in my direction, that she lived on the second floor and, with very little encouragement from me, began sharing her life story, which I won’t detail on these pages except for the amazing fact that Betty had lived in that same house on Thornhill Road most of her adult life. When she began to describe the night that the neighborhood was bombed during the Blitz, I pumped her for details, but as soon as she got to the part where the air-raid sirens sounded, she strayed into an account of the duplicitous behavior of a former housemate named Lily. In those days, according to Betty, the house’s denizens were all female lodgers, and Betty told me that afternoon, and over the course of many afternoons in that garden in the weeks to come, about her very close friendship with Lily. From what I could gather, Betty was bitterly jealous of Lily’s friendship with another resident of the house, named Nell.

  “Lily always liked a nice ’ot cuppa, even of a steamy summer afternoon, but that day I made the tea, and Lily announced that she and Nell”—Betty always spit out Nell’s name with a look of extreme distaste—“already ’ad their tea iced, thank you very much, in Nell’s room.”

  Though I tried, I never did get the fine details about the German bombers, but I did get a pretty clear picture of the level of sexual tension that had existed in the house, which ultimately led me to the conclusion that Betty and several other wartime lodgers might have been frustrated lesbians. Which brings me to another point. I’ve never been great at determining the sexuality of others, but in England I was totally lost in this regard. Denis and I had become friends with several British comedians by then, and upon first meeting them, I thought each and every one was gay. This also held true for most of the hospital staff at University College Hospital and the majority of parents. In America, if a man is lean, relatively fashion-conscious, particularly witty, and enjoys the company of women, it’s a pretty safe bet he’s gay. Similarly, in America one might assume that a somewhat masculine woman who is hairy, clueless about fashion, and particularly enjoys the company of other women is a lesbian. In England people of both sexes, whether gay or not, find the company of women enjoyable, and to further confuse things, men know an awful lot about fashion and women seem to know a lot about everything except for fashion.

  By the time we moved to Thornhill Road, I doubted my initial hunch that all our neighbors we
re gay. Sure, Robert and Brian, who had the other third-floor flat, were both incredibly sweet and hilariously funny, and Brian referred to Robert as “luv,” but based on what I had seen of heterosexual male behavior in Britain, this meant nothing. Also, Caroline, the landlord, wore Birkenstocks with socks almost every day, but I had met several mothers at the hospital who did so as well.

  “If I didn’t know better,” I said to Denis after spotting Caroline in the garden French-kissing her friend Sandra not long after we had moved in, “I’d think everybody in this house was gay except for us.”

  “Everybody in this house is gay except for us, and … and, I suppose, Timmy,” replied Denis, who has always had pitch-perfect gay/straight cognizance. Eventually everybody in that house let us know that they were in fact gay, except Betty and Timmy, and they were all very kind to us and became very fond of Jack—except for Timmy, who, I was convinced, was plotting the baby’s murder from the day we first set foot through the door.

  I have always been an animal lover. As a child I planned to be a veterinarian when I grew up. A veterinarian who raised dogs and horses, lived on a cattle ranch, and was married to a cowboy. As I matured, I slowly saw the insanity of my dream—you have to get good grades to go to vet school, and there are no cowboys in the Boston area—but I retained my love for animals until Jack was born. Then I began to see most four-legged creatures as predators.

  That summer there had been a series of horrible dog attacks in the London area that made the news. In London, as in most American cities, pit bull terriers and rottweilers had become trendy among gang members. The pit bulls were used in dog fights and as props for their owners to look cool and menacing walking down the street. Kids began breeding these dogs indiscriminately in housing projects and tenements and were producing some vicious dogs who began attacking neighbors, children, and other pets. In a London park, a man walking home from work was attacked by a couple of pit bulls and savaged so badly that there was really nothing left of his face. Each morning I read the tabloid accounts of these maulings while sitting in the park near our flat and I clutched Jack protectively against my chest. Denis read the same accounts and used them for material in his stand-up routine. Before Jack, I was always making friends with strange dogs in parks, but now, even if the dog was being walked past on a leash, even if it was a Labrador or a cocker spaniel, I veered off the path to make room for it, longing for a large stick or a gun to use as a defensive weapon.