and Mum in the space of a year. I wanted to die myself.
The sea was wild that morning as we headed down the gangway; the boarding platform swayed and creaked with the swell and suck of the tide, squashing down on the huge rubber tyres that formed a bulwark to the ferry terminal, and the sound and fury made my head spin. We sat on the top deck, and the wind flayed our faces and made light of our tears, and she held my hand tight, smiling, proud, as we took in the city skyline together one last time.
‘Will you promise to be brave for Mummy?’
I hadn’t called her Mummy in years.
* * *
She should be here now, sharing this with me. I’d have told her by now; told her it was Ruben and why I didn’t want him involved. Seeing me in pain, seeing me alone, she’d be cross, at first. Why did I have to make everything so
difficult
? But her disappointment in me would last an hour, a minute, no time at all; and nothing but nothing could encroach upon her love for her grandchild. Right now she would be busy nesting for me; bustling around, sweeping the floors, bleaching the toilet, washing, ironing, packing, unpacking and repacking my overnight bag, keeping a tight rein on her excitement, quietly timing the contractions. She’d wait until the final howling pangs of labour, till I was vulnerable and helpless, poleaxed by pain and battered with fatigue and then, only then, would she run me up to the hospital. Would they still have the Volvo? I like to think so. As we drove, Mum would quietly tell me she was moving in for these next few weeks – just while I got my bearings. Spent, I would acquiesce. Secretly, silently, I would be grateful. Oh, Mummy . . .
I stare at the bathroom ceiling. Cobwebs. Not the magical, symmetrical gossamers of fable and fairy tale, just limp strings of dirt that I can no longer reach. Maybe
that’s
something I’ll let Dad and Jan take care of. I pull the plug, and immediately feel a spasm. Another lacerating contraction nails me to the emptying bath. For ten seconds that seem to last ten minutes I’m screaming forhelp as someone rams a knife deep inside me and drags it around my womb in broad, circular sweeps: out, then in, then out again. It passes, leaving only the faintest after-shiver. Time seems to have speeded up now. I find myself wondering if I should ring James Mac. I need to make sure, just one last time, that he’s nowhere near that wretched crackhead mother of his. I’m shivering all over as I haul myself out of the bath. In the mirror I catch my face unawares, older and harried, the pinch of my forehead snarled above my nose in fearful anticipation of what lies ahead; yet my eyes are dancing with excitement, goading the fireworks, counting me down to the Big Bang.
Not long now. Contractions are ten minutes apart. Stinging, scorching. Soaring. Impossible.
I go under, give in to the howling of my womb, clenching, unclenching, clenching, unclenching.
Taxi should be here any moment.
Happiness.
The distance between my own life and this tiny new life within is just a few small steps. Mum had it right. Finally, I’m anchored. I might have been blown away, once, lost chasing rainbows – or shadows. Not now; not any more. As I steady myself against the door jamb, breathing, blowing, riding out the rising tide of pain, I feel wonderful. It hits me, hard and beautiful. I’ve arrived somewhere – someplace safe and gorgeous. The distancebetween what I want and what I have is just the width of a tender thread, now. Finally, and for the first time since you went, Mum, I have a sense that my life is taking a deep breath, clearing its throat, preparing to start again. A blare of horn from below. I shuffle out and down to the taxi.
10
He didn’t even dump me; didn’t tell me it was over.
That first Sunday when he didn’t show I waited till mid-afternoon before I accepted Ruben wasn’t coming round. I thought it would just be something obvious; work had called him in or his Mum was
The sea was wild that morning as we headed down the gangway; the boarding platform swayed and creaked with the swell and suck of the tide, squashing down on the huge rubber tyres that formed a bulwark to the ferry terminal, and the sound and fury made my head spin. We sat on the top deck, and the wind flayed our faces and made light of our tears, and she held my hand tight, smiling, proud, as we took in the city skyline together one last time.
‘Will you promise to be brave for Mummy?’
I hadn’t called her Mummy in years.
* * *
She should be here now, sharing this with me. I’d have told her by now; told her it was Ruben and why I didn’t want him involved. Seeing me in pain, seeing me alone, she’d be cross, at first. Why did I have to make everything so
difficult
? But her disappointment in me would last an hour, a minute, no time at all; and nothing but nothing could encroach upon her love for her grandchild. Right now she would be busy nesting for me; bustling around, sweeping the floors, bleaching the toilet, washing, ironing, packing, unpacking and repacking my overnight bag, keeping a tight rein on her excitement, quietly timing the contractions. She’d wait until the final howling pangs of labour, till I was vulnerable and helpless, poleaxed by pain and battered with fatigue and then, only then, would she run me up to the hospital. Would they still have the Volvo? I like to think so. As we drove, Mum would quietly tell me she was moving in for these next few weeks – just while I got my bearings. Spent, I would acquiesce. Secretly, silently, I would be grateful. Oh, Mummy . . .
I stare at the bathroom ceiling. Cobwebs. Not the magical, symmetrical gossamers of fable and fairy tale, just limp strings of dirt that I can no longer reach. Maybe
that’s
something I’ll let Dad and Jan take care of. I pull the plug, and immediately feel a spasm. Another lacerating contraction nails me to the emptying bath. For ten seconds that seem to last ten minutes I’m screaming forhelp as someone rams a knife deep inside me and drags it around my womb in broad, circular sweeps: out, then in, then out again. It passes, leaving only the faintest after-shiver. Time seems to have speeded up now. I find myself wondering if I should ring James Mac. I need to make sure, just one last time, that he’s nowhere near that wretched crackhead mother of his. I’m shivering all over as I haul myself out of the bath. In the mirror I catch my face unawares, older and harried, the pinch of my forehead snarled above my nose in fearful anticipation of what lies ahead; yet my eyes are dancing with excitement, goading the fireworks, counting me down to the Big Bang.
Not long now. Contractions are ten minutes apart. Stinging, scorching. Soaring. Impossible.
I go under, give in to the howling of my womb, clenching, unclenching, clenching, unclenching.
Taxi should be here any moment.
Happiness.
The distance between my own life and this tiny new life within is just a few small steps. Mum had it right. Finally, I’m anchored. I might have been blown away, once, lost chasing rainbows – or shadows. Not now; not any more. As I steady myself against the door jamb, breathing, blowing, riding out the rising tide of pain, I feel wonderful. It hits me, hard and beautiful. I’ve arrived somewhere – someplace safe and gorgeous. The distancebetween what I want and what I have is just the width of a tender thread, now. Finally, and for the first time since you went, Mum, I have a sense that my life is taking a deep breath, clearing its throat, preparing to start again. A blare of horn from below. I shuffle out and down to the taxi.
10
He didn’t even dump me; didn’t tell me it was over.
That first Sunday when he didn’t show I waited till mid-afternoon before I accepted Ruben wasn’t coming round. I thought it would just be something obvious; work had called him in or his Mum was
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