by Gil McNeil
‘I can see this is a really village project.’
‘Oh yes. They’re all taking it really serious, and you’d better give them the top prize – they’ve worked really hard, you know, the lot of them. The whole village, practically. If they haven’t given plants they’ve given barrowloads of compost. Me and Frank drove up and down in that car collecting it all, and it took us hours, I can tell you. But as my old dad used to say, spend a penny on the plants and a shilling on the hole, and it’s certainly paid off, hasn’t it? I’ve never seen such healthy veg. Even my Ted, god rest him, he would have been hard put to match it, and he was a champion, you know. Won the gold medal for his cauliflowers, three years in a row. And caulis can be tricky, as you know. Well, you probably do know, being judges.’
‘Oh yes, quite.’
‘Do come and meet some more of the team.’
Mrs Pomeroy firmly steers the judges away from Elsie, who doesn’t seem at all bothered and concentrates on getting her wine glass refilled.
Molly says she’s feeling a bit hot, so we go back outside into the garden with Charles.
‘Well, I think that went all right.’
‘Yes. And it was a brilliant idea to have Mabel show them the play house.’
‘Oh that was Mrs Bishop’s idea. Do you want some coffee, by the way? I got some decaff specially for you, Molly.’
‘Lovely.’
‘I won’t be a minute then.’
He goes off back to the house, and I notice Molly’s gone a bit pale.
‘Are you all right, Moll? You seem a bit quiet.’
‘Yes. I’m fine. But promise you won’t panic.’
‘What do you mean? No, I won’t bloody promise. What?’
‘Well, I think my waters just broke. Either that or this seat’s suddenly got wet.’
‘Oh my god.’
I leap up, and sure enough she looks like she’s sitting in a small puddle.
‘Jesus Christ. All right, don’t panic.’
‘I’m not panicking, I’m fine. It’s you that’s panicking. Just calm down and take deep breaths.’
I don’t believe this. She’s the one about to give birth, and she’s telling me to take deep breaths.
‘Oh god, all right, just hang on, and I’ll go and get the car.’
‘You might have trouble fitting it through the garden gate, don’t you think?’
‘Oh right. Yes. OK, well, can you walk? We can take it slowly, and get you to my car. Oh bugger, we walked up. My car’s back down the lane.’
Molly smiles and says she’ll be fine walking, and then Charles comes back.
‘I’m afraid I can’t find the decaff – Mrs Bishop must have put it somewhere, but I can make tea. What’s the matter?’
‘Molly’s gone into labour and my car’s down the lane and I don’t think she should walk, do you? I think it’s too far.’
‘I’m fine, really.’
‘What? Oh. You mean? Oh. Right. Well, use my car, yes, take mine. I’ll go and get the keys. And he rushes off to the house.
He says he’ll pick up Alfie and Lily from school later, in my car, and I give him my car keys, which I finally find in the bottom of my handbag after another mini panic. Jesus, I’m going to be a complete wreck before we even get to the hospital.
By the time we drive off everyone seems to know that Molly has gone into labour, and they all wave us off, and Elsie heartily recommends that Molly has an epidemic like her June, who apparently said they could have cut her legs off and she wouldn’t have known a thing about it. So that’s encouraging. Actually, I think I might need one if I don’t calm down soon.
The judges seem very impressed that Molly has put in an appearance even though she’s in the middle of giving birth, and I hear one of them saying they’re obviously all terribly dedicated while I’m getting Molly into the car.
I make her get in the back, just in case she needs to lie down or anything.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
She’s puffing quite a lot.
‘You can stop that puffing right now. You’re not at the puffing stage, are you? Jesus Christ, tell me you’re not at the puffing bit yet.’
‘No. I’m just practising.’
‘Well, bloody stop it. Just breathe. Are you getting proper contractions?’
‘Oh yes. I have been for quite a while.’
‘How many minutes apart?’
‘I haven’t really timed them – I’ve lost my watch.’
‘What? Well, why on earth didn’t you say?’
‘Oh, it’s bound to take hours – stop fussing.’
‘Molly. If you’re getting one-minute contractions and start pushing in the back of this car, I will never forgive you. Is that clear? Oh I know, I’ve just had a really good idea. I’ll call an ambulance on my mobile and get them to meet us, somewhere along the way. Shall I do that?’
‘No, really, it’s not anywhere near every minute yet. I’m sure it’ll be hours.’
It’s really weird driving through town with Molly in the back panting and puffing. People are going to the supermarket, and generally dithering about, and I want to wind down the window and yell at them to get out of the way.
Actually, the car is so flash it has electric windows and all sorts of buttons, which I don’t really understand and don’t dare push, and we have to listen to ‘Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush’ quite a few times because I can’t work out how to turn off the CD player. I daren’t fiddle about with it in case I find the emergency airbag-testing button or something interesting like that.
I’ve got a funny feeling I may have pressed the button that warms up my seat, because it feels really hot, but that might just be residual panic warming up the leather. But at least it’s automatic, and Charles said you really can’t go wrong unless you put it into four-wheel drive, and then it might make a funny noise. It feels very high up, and I can almost understand why Range Rover drivers are always such pricks. It makes you feel so superior. Well, if you haven’t got a woman in labour on the back seat it probably does.
I’m driving quite fast, and I’m sort of hoping a police car will pull us over and then escort us to the hospital with flashing lights. But naturally when you really need a policeman to tell you off for speeding they’re all back at the police station polishing their helmets.
* * *
When we arrive at the hospital I want to drive right up to the front door, but Molly insists we park properly or Charles will get his car clamped. It takes me ages to find a space, and then I can’t get the bloody thing parked because it’s so enormous. I finally manage but then I can only open the door about three inches, and realise I’ll have to limbo out. Which won’t really work with Molly, so I have to reverse back out, help her out and then drive back in. At this rate the baby will be born in the bloody car park.
‘Come on, let’s go. Are you all right?’
‘I think so.’
‘You’re doing brilliantly. Just take your time. Shall I go and find a wheelchair?’
‘Don’t you bloody dare. Ooh, here comes another one.’ We stand in the middle of the car park, and she turns to face me and puts her arms on my shoulders. And then she presses down, really hard, and I almost fall over.
‘Oh that was great, that really helped.’
‘Good.’
Bloody hell. If she’s going to do that all afternoon I’m going to end up about three foot six.
The labour ward seems fairly efficient, apart from the retarded receptionist who takes ten minutes to type Molly’s surname into her computer before pressing the wrong button so she has to start all over again. But they soon have us in a room, with Molly hooked up to a monitor. She’s at four centimetres, apparently, which could mean she’s got ages to go yet, or it could mean all hell will be let loose in the next hour and a half.
She’s being very calm, and talking about having a go with the gas and air, but so far she’s managing with deep breathing and the
odd bit of squeezing my hand. I’m trying really hard to avoid too much of that pressing-down-on-my-shoulders thing.
‘I haven’t got my bag. I’ve got things for the baby, but it’s all in my bag at home. I’ve got my tapes in there as well – I wanted to have music.’
‘I can ring Janice, or Mum, and get them to bring it in, if you like.’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea. Go and call Janice, she’s got keys, and could you ring Doreen, actually maybe Janice could pick Lily up from Charles’s, and then she can stay with her until my mum gets here. I called her this morning, because I had a feeling this might happen, so she’s already on her way. And while you’re at it get yourself a coffee or something. You look like you need one.’
‘All right, if you’re sure you’ll be OK on your own for a bit. Do you want anything?’
‘Opal Fruits.’
‘What?’
‘Opal Fruits. I had them last time, and I really want some now. Except I think they’ve got a stupid new name now.’
‘Like Snickers.’
‘Yes. Whoever thought that one up must be a total moron.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, chocolate. Mars Bar or a Topic. And maybe some juice?’
I ring Mum, who gets very excited and says she’ll ring Janice and one of them will bring Molly’s bag over. I find the hospital shop and stock up on chocolate bars and juice, and Opal Fruits/Starbursts, and then have a quick look round to see if they’ve got anything else Molly might fancy.
They’ve got the most tragic collection of baby clothes you’ve ever seen, all in horrible pastel colours with teddy bears in white satin on the front. Why can’t they just have plain stretchy towelling ones? I mean who really wants a peach Babygro with a satin lamb on the front?
But lurking at the back is a plain white cotton sleepsuit, which is a newborn size and looks so tiny it makes you want to burst into tears just looking at it. I buy it in case Molly’s bag doesn’t arrive in time. And then I see some face wipes and some lip balm, which I remember wanting when I had Alfie, so I buy them as well, along with a couple of bottles of mineral water. The cafeteria is right next door so I have a quick cup of possibly the nastiest coffee I’ve ever tasted and then go back to Molly.
She loves the sleepsuit, and drinks the juice. Various doctors and midwives troop in and out and all say something slightly different, but basically she’s doing really well and the baby’s heartbeat is fine, and we walk about a bit, and then I rub her back, and she does a bit of rather tight hand-holding and shoulder-pressing and I lose all the feeling in my fingers, and then she really starts to find it a bit tough, and she says it’s much worse than it was with Lily and she wants an epidural. And she wants it Now.
I go out and find the midwife. She’s sitting having a cup of coffee and I don’t really like to interrupt her. But on the other hand I don’t want Molly in pain while she sits here having a coffee break. She gives me a filthy look.
‘Yes.’
‘Um, she’s finding it a bit hard now. She’d like an epidural.’
‘Right. Well, I’ll be along in a minute.’
‘I’ll just wait here for you, shall I? While you call the anaesthetist? Only I think someone told us that only an anaesthetist can do it, and they sometimes take a while. So if you don’t mind I think I’d rather you phoned now, and then finished your coffee. I mean there’s no reason why she should wait any longer than she needs to, when she’s in pain. Is there?’
I give her what I hope is a rather determined look, but I think it might have gone a bit threatening. She reaches for the phone.
They rig up a mobile epidural so Molly can still move about but she can’t really feel anything, and she gets a lot more chirpy and eats her Mars Bar while nobody’s looking.
The nurses are changing shifts and a new midwife comes on, called Billy, who is very obviously gay, and reminds me of Graham Norton, although without the shiny suit, obviously, or the celebrity guests.
‘Hello, my darlings, and how are we today?’
I like him already.
‘Fine now the epidural’s kicked in. What on earth is that?’
He’s brought in a giant pink rubber ball with him, like a space hopper only with no ears to hold on to.
‘It’s a birthing ball. You sit on it and bounce around and it opens up your pelvis.’
‘I’m not sure I really fancy bouncing just at the moment.’
‘Oh no, it’s not for you, not with your epidural. It might get a bit tricky, you might get all tangled up with your line or something. No, I thought I might have a go, to cheer you up. I think you need a laugh when you get to this stage, don’t you? And some women like to give it a good kick. Actually, one of my patients threw one at her husband last week. Nearly knocked him over, although I wouldn’t recommend that. But he was a right prat, so I didn’t blame her. Now, would you mind if I had a quick look, sweetheart, just to see how you’re doing? If that’s OK with you?’
No popping. Excellent.
‘Fine.’
‘Ooh six centimetres. Well done. Well, this baby’s not hanging about. IVF, was it?’
‘What?’
‘IVF. My friends Amy and Donna, they went IVF. Did you two have to wait long? Only it took ages for them to get on a list.’
It takes a minute for this to sink in, and then Molly laughs and says, ‘Um, we’re not actually a couple. This is my best friend, Alice. My partner’s away at the moment, working.’
‘Oh. Well, I’ve just made a right tit of myself then, haven’t I? Oh please don’t tell anyone – they’re in a terrible flap out there trying to be all PC. We don’t get a lot of lesbian couples in here, and Sister’s trying so hard not to be shocked. Bless.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, I won’t say anything.’
‘I can just tell we’re going to get on – you’re going to be one of the ones I really like. I’ll be back in a minute – is there anything you want? Water, or ice or anything? We’ve got ice chips now, like on the telly.’
‘Oh, well, yes, ice chips would be great.’
‘Okeydokey. Back in a jiff.’
‘Bloody hell. Shouldn’t one of us have shorter hair or something? I mean if we were lesbians wouldn’t one of us have short hair?’
‘Alice. Don’t be a twit.’
‘Sorry. It’s rather flattering really, but I hope they don’t say anything to Mum when she brings your bag in. She’ll have a complete fit.’
Billy, who says all his friends call him Silly Billy and we can as well, only not in front of the doctors, says that Molly is doing brilliantly. But gradually over the next hour he stops cracking jokes and starts watching Molly quite closely, and she goes very quiet and says she feels sick, and Billy says that’s normal and she says she knows it is, but couldn’t she just have a little sleep?
She’s lying down now, and Billy’s put her back on the monitor, which suddenly starts bleeping. He fiddles with the switches and says everything looks fine but I think he’s getting worried, and so am I.
Then in the space of about ten minutes everything gets really scary. Billy is doing her blood pressure, which he says has gone up. A lot. She looks really pale now, and then she starts to ramble a bit, and mutters something about the chickens and how tired she is, and then she says she’s got a terrible headache and she starts to cry.
I stroke her back, and Billy goes off and comes back with a doctor, and the next thing I know she seems to be almost asleep and they’re rushing her bed along the corridor to a theatre for an emergency Caesarean. It’s all really frightening, and I’ve got a horrible feeling I might be sick.
A nurse takes me into a cubicle outside the theatre and tells me to put on a gown and mask, and a hat, and hurry up because they’re not going to hang about. They’re green elastic J-cloth things, and I spend quite a long time trying to put the hat on before a nurse tells me that that bit is actually meant to go over your shoes, and the hats are on the shelf over there.
; By the time she leads me into the operating theatre Molly is already on the operating table. They’ve put a green cloth screen up over her chest so she can’t see what they’re doing, and she still looks really pale, but now she looks frightened as well. I hold her hand and she starts saying something about how if anything goes wrong I’ll look after the baby, won’t I, but I pretend not to hear.
‘You will, won’t you? Promise me, Alice.’
‘Yes, I promise, but it’s going to be fine.’
‘And Lily too?’
‘Yes. Now stop it.’
If she carries on like this I’m going to end up in hysterics, and I bet they throw you out of theatre if you start sobbing.
There are two doctors and an anaesthetist who’s fiddling around with all sorts of wires, which he’s attaching to Molly by a clip that goes on one of her fingers, and she’s got another drip in her hand now. There are three nurses as well as Billy, and one of them is wheeling over a trolley full of instruments, all of which look pretty terrifying, and then another doctor comes in and says she’s a paediatrician, and she’ll be checking the baby over as soon as it’s delivered, so we’re not to worry if they don’t pass it straight over. Billy says this is just a precaution and they always get the paediatrician in for C-sections. Jesus Christ. I was bloody worried enough before the paediatrician turned up.
Molly’s crying again, but silently. Tears are sliding down her cheeks and on to the green sheet she’s lying on, making a dark circle which starts to spread outwards, and I watch it getting bigger and keep stroking her hand, and then she starts to shiver, which Billy says is quite normal, and often happens when they top up an epidural ready for a Caesarean.
God, I hope it’s nothing to do with her having eaten that Mars Bar. I briefly wonder if I should tell them, because I’m sure you’re not supposed to eat things in case you’re sick when you’re unconscious. But if she’s not unconscious it must be all right. Although when she closes her eyes she looks pretty close.
I try not to look over the screen, and keep stroking her hand, but somehow I can’t help it, and then without any warning at all, which frankly I could have done with, the young woman doctor picks up a scalpel and cuts a line across Molly’s tummy and I come so close to fainting it’s a miracle that I actually remain upright. I can’t believe Molly hasn’t leapt off the table in agony, but she looks like she hasn’t felt a thing. God, this is amazing. It’s so shocking that you want to scream at them to stop, but at the same time it’s completely fascinating.