‘It’s just . . .’
Matron looked concerned, now.
‘Is there no one who can
help
you with this?’ she asked – and the fury, the nagging, needling, sleep-starved fury bit deep into my reeling head.
‘Who? The
daddy
, you mean?’ I said.
‘I didn’t say that.’
You did though. You did.
I staggered back out and took a taxi home, seethingall the way at the injustices and obstacles I’d encountered, right from my first scan. A woman who won’t do as she’s told, a woman with opinions, it seems, is a woman they’ll make no concessions for. It’s straight to the back of the queue for you, Miss Uppity. And
Mummy
, by the way! This is the
Women’s
Hospital and they’re conspiring to dumb us all down into one woozy hub of fecundity. But there’s the rub: I’m not a Mummy, am I? Not yet. I’m not Rachel, not Ms Massey, not even Dearie or Love. To the hospital I exist only in relation to my unborn baby, and until it is born I don’t exist at all.
So I’m back here in the flat, marooned, breathing it out, fighting through a conflict where the pain rolls through me and I’m elated because this might finally be The One, then pleading and pleading for it to stop, so violent is the kill. The folly of a ‘natural’ birth dies with each agonising spasm. First thing I’ll do is inform the midwife about the change of birth plan; gas and air, epidural – I’ll be taking whatever’s on offer, thank you very much. I crouch in the corner of my living room, breathing, breathing, exhaling that almost silent, self-conscious whistle of controlled pain. The very nearness of the walls is making me swoon and sweat. The bucking and tearing in my womb is shocking, but between contractions – and the space between them shows no sign of diminishing – the pain of being kept awake is much, much worse. My head is jittery and reeling, I feel vacant andblunt and I am so, so weary now. The space between my skull and my eyes wells up with the feeling you get after drinking too much coffee, or being trapped in a crowded lift, of drugs gone wrong. I have to get out of the flat.
*
Outside the night is fading out into dawn, but the moon still looms, full and fat behind a scrim of cloud. The air is cold and slimy, though there’s a wind coming up from the river. It feels good in my lungs and for a moment it pares back that strung-out feeling in my head and I’m excited all over again by what lies ahead. Next time I pass through here, I’ll have a baby with me. My heart soars at the thought.
I drag my massive, cumbersome frame down Belvidere Road, past the school, past rows of Georgian mansions that are still handsome in their ruin. There are lights on here and there, students cramming or crackheads cooking – either is just as likely down here. After Mum died, Dad used to come here often, just to walk and wander wherever the roads took him. He’d drink in rough pubs, and somehow they’d suss it out; they’d leave him alone. His friends saw it as self-destructive, some kind of penance. I saw it differently. He came here to heal, to fall in love with living again. This was his stomping ground when he first met Mum, and it was where he first came alive. In coming back, he was tryingto recapture those feelings; to retrace his steps back to when he was on fire with the lust for life and all its possibilities.
And it worked, for Dad. It worked. Jan used to see him wandering around. She’d see him as she drove home when she’d been working late at night; she’d see him early in the morning, walking, always walking. But instead of dismissing him as a crank or pitying him like their colleagues did, Jan fell for him. Her curiosity turned to fascination, and from there they became conspirators, friends, lovers. There’s witchcraft in these streets.
A wind breezes through me and I feel it again, that awesome star blaze in my loins I used to feel as I hurried up this road the other way, off to meet Ruben. To yield to him. I’ve
Matron looked concerned, now.
‘Is there no one who can
help
you with this?’ she asked – and the fury, the nagging, needling, sleep-starved fury bit deep into my reeling head.
‘Who? The
daddy
, you mean?’ I said.
‘I didn’t say that.’
You did though. You did.
I staggered back out and took a taxi home, seethingall the way at the injustices and obstacles I’d encountered, right from my first scan. A woman who won’t do as she’s told, a woman with opinions, it seems, is a woman they’ll make no concessions for. It’s straight to the back of the queue for you, Miss Uppity. And
Mummy
, by the way! This is the
Women’s
Hospital and they’re conspiring to dumb us all down into one woozy hub of fecundity. But there’s the rub: I’m not a Mummy, am I? Not yet. I’m not Rachel, not Ms Massey, not even Dearie or Love. To the hospital I exist only in relation to my unborn baby, and until it is born I don’t exist at all.
So I’m back here in the flat, marooned, breathing it out, fighting through a conflict where the pain rolls through me and I’m elated because this might finally be The One, then pleading and pleading for it to stop, so violent is the kill. The folly of a ‘natural’ birth dies with each agonising spasm. First thing I’ll do is inform the midwife about the change of birth plan; gas and air, epidural – I’ll be taking whatever’s on offer, thank you very much. I crouch in the corner of my living room, breathing, breathing, exhaling that almost silent, self-conscious whistle of controlled pain. The very nearness of the walls is making me swoon and sweat. The bucking and tearing in my womb is shocking, but between contractions – and the space between them shows no sign of diminishing – the pain of being kept awake is much, much worse. My head is jittery and reeling, I feel vacant andblunt and I am so, so weary now. The space between my skull and my eyes wells up with the feeling you get after drinking too much coffee, or being trapped in a crowded lift, of drugs gone wrong. I have to get out of the flat.
*
Outside the night is fading out into dawn, but the moon still looms, full and fat behind a scrim of cloud. The air is cold and slimy, though there’s a wind coming up from the river. It feels good in my lungs and for a moment it pares back that strung-out feeling in my head and I’m excited all over again by what lies ahead. Next time I pass through here, I’ll have a baby with me. My heart soars at the thought.
I drag my massive, cumbersome frame down Belvidere Road, past the school, past rows of Georgian mansions that are still handsome in their ruin. There are lights on here and there, students cramming or crackheads cooking – either is just as likely down here. After Mum died, Dad used to come here often, just to walk and wander wherever the roads took him. He’d drink in rough pubs, and somehow they’d suss it out; they’d leave him alone. His friends saw it as self-destructive, some kind of penance. I saw it differently. He came here to heal, to fall in love with living again. This was his stomping ground when he first met Mum, and it was where he first came alive. In coming back, he was tryingto recapture those feelings; to retrace his steps back to when he was on fire with the lust for life and all its possibilities.
And it worked, for Dad. It worked. Jan used to see him wandering around. She’d see him as she drove home when she’d been working late at night; she’d see him early in the morning, walking, always walking. But instead of dismissing him as a crank or pitying him like their colleagues did, Jan fell for him. Her curiosity turned to fascination, and from there they became conspirators, friends, lovers. There’s witchcraft in these streets.
A wind breezes through me and I feel it again, that awesome star blaze in my loins I used to feel as I hurried up this road the other way, off to meet Ruben. To yield to him. I’ve
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