Zoë felt as though she had been pregnant for years. Getting out of the bath with ease, painting her toenails, and running up and down the stairs were distant memories. Her body, which was constantly practising for the birth by tightening up and relaxing, had become a burden over which she seemed to have very little control. But she was happier than she had ever been. It was a peaceful kind of happiness grounded in her now solid belief in Richard’s love for and commitment to her. The first weeks of their marriage had not been easy, and even at the start of the New Year she had still been worried that he resented her and didn’t want their baby. But by the time the first signs of spring had started to break through, she had been convinced that he had, as Julia had predicted, put the past behind him. In recent weeks, his concern for her, his efforts to help at home and the increasing tenderness with which he treated her had laid her fears to rest. And there was no doubt in her mind that his impatience for the baby to come matched her own. She was grateful, and not a day went by that she didn’t think of how things might have been. But, despite her eagerness for her pregnancy to be over, she was increasingly nervous about the prospect of the actual birth.
Zoë knew nothing about babies and had never even held one; her sequestered life with Eileen hadn’t included friends or neighbours who had them. The women at the antenatal classes she attended passed on tips from their mothers or sisters, but the prospect of giving birth seemed like stepping off a cliff with one’s eyes shut. But she did have Richard; a different, more considerate, loving Richard, just the way she had always wanted him to be.
From time to time, she missed the dazzling light, endless horizons, searing summer heat and soft insistent winter rains of home. She missed Jane, who was now working at Perth airport and had recently got engaged to a Qantas pilot. They wrote to each other often, and Jane had promised that as soon as she and Tony were married later that year, she would come to London. But, more than anything, Zoë missed Julia, who had stood by her and given her strength in those miserable and fearful weeks before and after the wedding. Julia and Simon had left London for Paris at the end of January, around the same time as Zoë had left the BBC.
‘We’ll talk,’ Julia had promised, ‘every day; well, at least every other day. I’ll call you. It’ll only be a tiny blip on the Branston phone bill, and I’ll get a flight over as soon as my niece is born. It’s so exciting, Zoë; you do realise I’m going to spoil her rotten.’
‘It’s a boy,’ Zoë had said with a laugh.
‘Rubbish. She’s a girl, I feel it in my bones. I hope you’re not going to call her Eileen or, worse still, Anita.’
‘Danielle,’ Zoë said, ‘or, if I’m right and it’s a boy, Daniel.’
Their telephone conversations were like life support for Zoë. Confiding both the fears and satisfactions of pregnancy, and her growing confidence in Richard, was, Zoë realised, a way of working out her own feelings, building her confidence in her ability to cope with the prospect of motherhood and the reality of marriage. It had helped her to manage her mother and Richard’s parents, all of whom were like sharp bits of grit in Zoë’s shoe.
Writing to tell Eileen that she was married, and why, had been incredibly hard, as had surviving the wait to hear how her mother had taken the news. Eileen had written five pages about the sacrifices she had made to give Zoë everything she herself had lacked. She was, she said, let down and shamed by Zoë’s behaviour. But on the last page, the tone changed. Richard sounded like a good man, she said; she hoped that when the baby was born, they would come to Australia so that she could meet her grandchild.
‘We will go,’ Richard had promised when he read the letter. ‘Or maybe she could come here.’
‘Never,’ Zoë said, shaking her head. ‘My mother will never get on a plane or a ship. If she’s ever going to meet you and the baby, we’ll have to go to Australia.’
In the letters that followed, Eileen had avoided actual recriminations but her disapproval was evident and Zoë continued to be haunted by guilt. Being the focus of her mother’s constant attention had been hard enough but the burden of having failed her so miserably was harder still, and she was thankful for the thousands of miles that separated them.
Richard’s parents had been equally horrified when he had called to tell them he and Zoë were married, but they had sent a generous cheque. And, on the day of Julia and Simon’s wedding, totally unprepared for Zoë’s pregnancy, they had managed to grit their teeth long enough to play the role of prospective grand parents. She wondered sometimes how much distress it had caused them and was grudgingly grateful that, thanks to their tight-lipped commitment to Richard, the flat was theirs for as long as they wanted. In these final months, compelled to rest, she had spent many contented hours on the window seat, reading and looking out over the rooftops of London, and, as the afternoons drew to a close, listening for the sound of Richard’s footsteps on the stairs, his key in the door.
On a mild evening late in May, Richard came home, armed as usual with a bulging briefcase but this time also with a Dorothy Perkins carrier bag.
‘This,’ he said, holding it out to her, ‘is yours.’
Zoë peeped into the bag and drew out an emerald green miniskirt and a black T-shirt. ‘Good heavens, I’d forgotten all about these.’
Richard dropped into a chair and put his feet on the coffee table. ‘Maybe, but the dames in the CR group haven’t forgotten you.’
‘So you went there?’
‘I did indeed. And you were right, the house is in Delphi Street. I met the amazing Gloria and ate an indecent amount of her pineapple upside-down cake.’
‘And they were keen as mustard to let us film them and do an interview with Gloria. And they were keener still to hear about you.’
‘They? Who else did you meet?’
‘A rather nice older woman called Marilyn, and Claire, fair hair in a big plait. Said she went there for the first time the same day as you. She lives there now.’
‘Lives there?’
‘Yep. Left her husband just after Christmas; her raised consciousness made her realise she didn’t want be treated like a domestic servant. Several women live there. It’s a pretty big house, three floors.’
‘Wow,’ Zoë said. ‘I thought Claire felt as out of place as I did.’
‘Obviously not. I told tales on you, I’m afraid. Told them why you went and how surprised, and then how embarrassed, you were.’
‘Oh, you didn’t!’
‘They’d already worked it out, Zoë. They laughed, sent you their love and they’re coming to see you.’
‘They’re not! You didn’t give them the address, did you?’
‘Yes. Claire’s really sweet and Gloria’s a hoot. Women’s experience is universal,’ he said, quoting Gloria and mimicking her accent. ‘We all speak the same language.’
‘Those women are the last thing I need,’ Zoë said. ‘Hopefully they’ll forget about me.’
Richard took off his jacket and loosened his tie. ‘I’ll remind them when we go back to film,’ he said, teasing her. ‘I’ll mention that you’d like some company.’
‘No! They’re not . . . they’re so . . . I mean . . . I just don’t think we have anything in common.’ She leaned forward and went to push herself up, catching her breath at the sudden warm gush of liquid between her legs. ‘Oh my god, my waters have broken!’ she cried, sitting down again in shock.
Richard darted to the hall and was back in an instant with towels warm from the airing cupboard. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked anxiously, packing them under and around her. ‘It’s a couple of weeks early. Shall I ring the hospital?’
‘I suppose so. I don’t know. Yes, ring them, ask them what to do.’
From her damp position on the sofa, Zoë heard him dial the number. It seemed to take forever; the definitive whirr of the dial and then the slacker sound of it rotating back into place. She was awestruck by the enormity of what was about to happen, by the feeling that her life would never be the same again.
‘They said to go now,’ Richard said, standing in the doorway. He had gone a deathly white.
‘Well, we’d better go then. I’ve got that bag packed in the bedroom, like they told us. I’ll just put on a dry dress and then . . . then . . .’
‘We’ll go.’
‘Yes.’
He helped her to her feet, pulling her towards him. ‘I love you, Zoë,’ he said, kissing her. ‘And I’m terrified.’
‘Me too. I mean, I love you too, and I’m terrified too. Are you still sure you want to be there?’
Richard nodded. ‘Absolutely! Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ And he steered her towards the bedroom.
‘What, now?’ Julia exclaimed. ‘You mean, she’s actually in labour right now?’
‘Right now. We’ve been here hours but it’s just going on and on. She got the first contractions in the car. It’s awful, Jules; she’s in so much pain.’
Julia swapped the phone to her other ear and sat down on the sofa, ‘Calm down. How long do they think it’ll be?’
‘Could be ages. They said first babies often take about twenty hours. I can’t tell you how horrible it is, I can’t bear seeing her like this.’
‘But it’s wonderful, so exciting,’ Julia said. ‘She is okay, isn’t she? You should be in there with her now, Richard, supporting her. Get back in there and sit with her. Hold her hand or rub her back, or whatever they tell you to do.’
‘I’m supposed to be in charge of the gas and air thing.’
‘Well, go and do that. It’s meant to make it easier, isn’t it?’
‘Takes the edge off the pain. I feel such a shit, Jules, she’s so brave and I’m, I’m such a hopeless . . .’
‘A hopeless shit,’ she finished for him. ‘And now you’re being a wet, hopeless shit, so stop it.’
‘I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to her.’
‘Now you’re being really wet,’ she said, thinking she sounded like the games mistress at her old school, jollying on the girls who hated playing hockey when the ground was hard with ice. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to her, she’s only having a baby. Women do it all the time. She’ll be fine. Now, you go on back in there and give her my love. And ring me again when anything happens.’
‘Trouble?’ Simon asked, coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.
‘Zoë’s in labour and Richard’s panicking.’
Simon gave a little whistle through his teeth. ‘I bet he is. You know Mike, my cousin? He had a terrible time when Tina was in labour. They almost had to anaesthetise him.’
‘Oh, really!’ Julia said. ‘How pathetic. Women are the ones who have to waddle around like whales for months, go through agony having it, and you men want us to feel sorry for you?’
‘Darling heart,’ Simon said, clutching his hands to his chest in mock horror. ‘You can’t blame a chap for worrying about his wife at a time like this. It’s only because we love you so much. We all know we’d be lost without you girls.’ He put his arms around her, his hands on her buttocks. ‘I’d be worried if it were you, I don’t want anything to hurt you.’
‘Simon! You are doing that slimy toad thing you do with difficult guests.’
‘Well, maybe. But I certainly don’t touch up the guests’ arses at the same time. That’s something I save just for you.’
Julia laughed, pushed him away from her and tugged at his towel. He stood there stark naked as they faced each other, both relishing the rising tension.
‘You know what has to happen now,’ Simon said softly, taking a step towards her in an attempt to look menacing. And Julia, no longer able to contain her laughter, let out a shriek and ran to the bedroom with Simon following close behind.
Richard walked out onto the street wishing he could have a drink, but, in the absence of alcohol, smoked two cigarettes in rapid succession. Very soon he would be a father and the prospect was awe inspiring. For weeks now, he’d been imagining himself on a river bank teaching his son to fish; god knows why, he’d never held a fishing rod in his life. At other times, he was pushing a swing on which his daughter sailed higher and higher, squealing in delight, dark curls flying in the wind. He was about to become responsible for another human being, and the beauty and weight of it brought him once again close to tears. Grinding the remains of his cigarette onto the pavement, he went back into the hospital lobby and up the stairs to the labour ward.
‘Ah! Mr Linton,’ the sister said. ‘Things are moving much faster now. We’ve transferred your wife to the delivery room. Would you like to put on a gown and come in? Remember what I told you about how the gas and air works?’
Richard washed his hands, donned the gown and followed her along the corridor, past another delivery room, from which blood-curdling screams echoed through a closed door. Zoë, by contrast, was quiet. She was propped up on pillows, her knees drawn up and her pale face beaded with sweat.
‘How is it?’ he asked, feeling totally useless.
‘Ghastly,’ she said between breaths. ‘I am never having another one. Never, ever, in my whole life.’
‘No, darling,’ he said, grabbing her hand. ‘Of course not, one’s enough for . . .’
But she was panting furiously now and pointing to the cylinder by the bed. Richard grabbed the mask, put the elastic over her head and switched on the supply.
Zoë inhaled deeply and seemed to relax a little.
‘Let’s have a look at how we’re doing,’ the sister said, lifting the green cloth covering the lower half of Zoë’s body. ‘Oh, that’s much better, Mrs Linton, you’re dilating nicely now. Big breaths, that’s right, lovely big breaths, you’re doing really well.’
Zoë let out a low grinding howl that made Richard shiver. He put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she yelled. ‘Don’t anybody touch me.’
He leapt back in shock, looking at the sister for help.
‘Don’t take it personally,’ the sister said. ‘Her whole body is acutely sensitive. It’s quite common. She really is doing wonderfully well. I don’t think it’s going to be long now; after all that hanging about, she’s dilating very quickly. Doctor’s on his way.’
Richard tried to take deep breaths in time with Zoë; it felt like an act of solidarity, as well as helping him to calm down. Everything he had ever done seemed remote and superficial compared with this. This is what it was all about – the great unending cycle of life and death, a cycle that only love could make worthwhile. He wanted to hold Zoë and tell her how much he loved her; how desperately sorry he was for his moods, his ambition, his absences, everything he had ever done wrong. In this moment, with her face crimson and scrunched into a grimace, she was more beautiful to him than when he first saw her.
The curtains were flicked aside and a middle-aged doctor appeared. ‘Nearly there, Mrs Linton? Good. Let’s have a look, please, sister.’ He positioned a stool between Zoë’s legs and sat down.
‘Is she okay?’ Richard asked.
The doctor looked him up and down. ‘You’re the husband, presumably? Well, your wife is doing splendidly, nearly there. If you’re sure you want to stay, just keep quiet and out of the way, and if you’re going to throw up or faint, do it outside.’
‘I’m staying,’ Richard said, feeling new strength flow into his body. ‘I’m definitely staying.’
‘I want to push,’ Zoë yelled suddenly.
‘Not yet,’ the sister said. ‘Just pant, big breaths and then pant.’
Zoë breathed and panted, breathed and panted, groaned and growled. And Richard ground his teeth and sank his nails into the palms of his hands.
‘Next contraction, you can push,’ the doctor said, looking up over the top of his glasses from his seat between Zoë’s legs. ‘We’re coming along nicely.’
As the next contraction gripped her, Zoë let out a low, animal-like roar and grabbed Richard’s hand. She looked about to explode with the effort of pushing, and the strength with which she crushed his fingers startled him.
‘Good, well done,’ said the doctor. ‘I can see the head.’
The sister beckoned to Richard. ‘Want to come and see your baby’s head?’
Standing behind the doctor at the end of the delivery table, Richard’s skin prickled with goosebumps and a great lump swelled in his throat at the sight of the dark, slimy bulge of the baby’s head. ‘Oh my god, Zoë,’ he said, ‘I can see her, I can see her head. She’s got dark hair. It’s incredible.’
‘Push hard now, Mrs Linton, hard as you can.’
Zoë roared again.
‘Splendid, we’ve got the head now,’ the doctor said. ‘Well done. Same again next contraction and we’ll have the shoulders.’
Richard caught a glimpse of the back of the tiny head, with its moist swirls of hair, cradled in the doctor’s hands. He was weak with emotion.
‘Right, here we go,’ the sister said. ‘Give us another big push now, there’s a good girl.’
And, as Zoë ground her teeth, tears sprang into Richard’s eyes. With a swooshing noise, the tiny body slipped out of the impossibly small gap and Zoë let out a cry of shock and relief.
‘You have a son,’ the doctor said. ‘Congratulations.’
His view obstructed by the nurse and the doctor, Richard went to Zoë’s side, took her hand and kissed her. ‘You were right all the time, Zoë; we’ve got a son.’ He knew he would always remember this moment – the most dramatic, thrilling experience of his life – and he felt incredibly grateful for being able to share it with her. He picked up the flannel that lay on the bedside table, rinsed it under the tap and began to wipe the sweat from Zoë’s face. ‘You were wonderful,’ he said, kissing her tenderly again. ‘So brave. I’m so proud of you.’
On the other side of the room, the sister had weighed the baby and was wrapping him in a small white blanket.
‘Is he all right?’ Zoë asked.
The doctor looked up. ‘Perfectly,’ he said. ‘All the right bits and pieces in all the right places.’
But while the words were reassuring there was something about his tone that struck alarm in Richard.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ For the second time that night he thought he might faint and he knew absolutely that, for some reason, the extraordinary peak of joy had passed.
The sister handed the white bundle to Zoë, giving Richard a nervous sideways smile.
‘What is it?’ Richard demanded again, and the doctor turned away.
Behind him, Richard heard Zoë gasp. As he turned back to her, he saw the tiny perfect face, its darkness a stark contrast against white linen. And, in that moment, he knew this child had nothing at all to do with him.