ever touched – even the dancewear model’s make-up brush seemed like a Brillo pad compared to this.
‘ Dad. Did the baby really come out of Mum’s bottom ?’ I remembered whispering, whipping my hand away from Stella’s head with the sudden realisation of where it might have been. It occurred to me that all the facts of life I’d been given must just have been elaborate wind-ups; Stella’s head was far too big to come out of any hole that I’d ever been aware of. Perhaps pregnant ladies developed trap doors that swung down when the time came, like the one we had in our loft.
‘ No. Well, yes. She came out of her….hmm….vagina. Mum’s told you about vaginas, hasn’t she?’ For the first time since arriving at the hospital, Dad sat up and gave me his full attention. ‘Hey, weren’t you supposed to stay at Mrs. P’s until the baby came?’
I looked pityingly at him. ‘Well, yes, but the baby’s already come, hasn’t she? And I was with you, not Mrs. P. So do boys have vaginas underneath their willies then, or what?’
I had only recently become even vaguely au fait with the workings of the human reproductive system. When I was about five I’d asked my friend Esther’s mother where babies came from, and with considerable embarrassment she had pointed south and said, ‘From a little hole at the top of ladies’ legs’, and so for years I used to look at my inner thigh and wonder exactly whereabouts this magic hole would open to let the baby out, and how. Daft, really – it never even occurred to me to get Mum to elaborate on this information, until she was about eight months pregnant, and I asked her one day how the baby would manage to swim down the inside of her leg without getting stuck.
The ward doors opened, and we both looked up to see Mum being pushed through in a wheelchair. Her face was ashen white, her hair was a flattened, matted mess, and worst of all, she was crying hysterically. Dad practically flung Stella on to my lap, and ran over to her.
‘ Darling, oh, my darling, what’s the matter?’
Mum couldn’t speak. Tears just flooded down her face, and she shook her head. Fear sat like a brick in my gut – something must have gone terribly, terribly wrong. Perhaps Stella wasn’t ours at all. Or perhaps Mum had needed an emergency stomach removal.
The nurse who was wheeling Mum up to her bed beckoned to a passing orderly, gesturing to him to close the curtains around us. He complied, averting his eyes away from Mum’s grief, and with a practised flick of the wrist, wrapped our family up around the bed like an overwrought but well-intentioned birthday present for Stella. The nurse and Dad together levered Mum out of her wheelchair and steered her on to the bed, gently lifting her legs for her and swinging them under the blanket.
Dad just held her, rocking her back and forwards, the same as he did to me when I had a nightmare, and she was still crying. I could only watch in mute panic. Was Mum going to die? He looked over the top of her mussed-up head at me, and made ‘clear off for a minute’ faces. I hesitated, torn between a wish to stay and help calm her down, and a strong desire to go away until Mum came back to normal again.
As I reluctantly handed Stella over to our parents, I whispered in her minuscule ear, ‘Mum’s not usually in a state, you know, but she had an accident and needed stitches. Don’t worry. I’ll pass you over to her for now, but I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘ Good girl.’ Dad fished 50p out of his pocket. ‘Go and see if you can find a vending machine to get yourself something nice, and pop back in ten minutes, OK?’
After some considerable flailing along the nylon walls around the bed, I eventually found the opening in the curtains and slipped through, pretending to walk out of the ward. As soon as I was out of their line of vision through the chink I’d left in the curtains, I doubled back again and round the other side of the cubicle.
‘ Dad. Did the baby really come out of Mum’s bottom ?’ I remembered whispering, whipping my hand away from Stella’s head with the sudden realisation of where it might have been. It occurred to me that all the facts of life I’d been given must just have been elaborate wind-ups; Stella’s head was far too big to come out of any hole that I’d ever been aware of. Perhaps pregnant ladies developed trap doors that swung down when the time came, like the one we had in our loft.
‘ No. Well, yes. She came out of her….hmm….vagina. Mum’s told you about vaginas, hasn’t she?’ For the first time since arriving at the hospital, Dad sat up and gave me his full attention. ‘Hey, weren’t you supposed to stay at Mrs. P’s until the baby came?’
I looked pityingly at him. ‘Well, yes, but the baby’s already come, hasn’t she? And I was with you, not Mrs. P. So do boys have vaginas underneath their willies then, or what?’
I had only recently become even vaguely au fait with the workings of the human reproductive system. When I was about five I’d asked my friend Esther’s mother where babies came from, and with considerable embarrassment she had pointed south and said, ‘From a little hole at the top of ladies’ legs’, and so for years I used to look at my inner thigh and wonder exactly whereabouts this magic hole would open to let the baby out, and how. Daft, really – it never even occurred to me to get Mum to elaborate on this information, until she was about eight months pregnant, and I asked her one day how the baby would manage to swim down the inside of her leg without getting stuck.
The ward doors opened, and we both looked up to see Mum being pushed through in a wheelchair. Her face was ashen white, her hair was a flattened, matted mess, and worst of all, she was crying hysterically. Dad practically flung Stella on to my lap, and ran over to her.
‘ Darling, oh, my darling, what’s the matter?’
Mum couldn’t speak. Tears just flooded down her face, and she shook her head. Fear sat like a brick in my gut – something must have gone terribly, terribly wrong. Perhaps Stella wasn’t ours at all. Or perhaps Mum had needed an emergency stomach removal.
The nurse who was wheeling Mum up to her bed beckoned to a passing orderly, gesturing to him to close the curtains around us. He complied, averting his eyes away from Mum’s grief, and with a practised flick of the wrist, wrapped our family up around the bed like an overwrought but well-intentioned birthday present for Stella. The nurse and Dad together levered Mum out of her wheelchair and steered her on to the bed, gently lifting her legs for her and swinging them under the blanket.
Dad just held her, rocking her back and forwards, the same as he did to me when I had a nightmare, and she was still crying. I could only watch in mute panic. Was Mum going to die? He looked over the top of her mussed-up head at me, and made ‘clear off for a minute’ faces. I hesitated, torn between a wish to stay and help calm her down, and a strong desire to go away until Mum came back to normal again.
As I reluctantly handed Stella over to our parents, I whispered in her minuscule ear, ‘Mum’s not usually in a state, you know, but she had an accident and needed stitches. Don’t worry. I’ll pass you over to her for now, but I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘ Good girl.’ Dad fished 50p out of his pocket. ‘Go and see if you can find a vending machine to get yourself something nice, and pop back in ten minutes, OK?’
After some considerable flailing along the nylon walls around the bed, I eventually found the opening in the curtains and slipped through, pretending to walk out of the ward. As soon as I was out of their line of vision through the chink I’d left in the curtains, I doubled back again and round the other side of the cubicle.
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