Three Months Later . . .
LIBBY LET HERSELF OUT of the house and walked up the road towards the bus stop. There was a cool chill that morning and her breath was visible in the autumn air; she pulled her coat around her body as best she could. She’d not bothered to buy a proper maternity coat, thinking it was a waste of money, but at thirty-four weeks pregnant she was beginning to regret not having anything that would cover her ever-expanding bump.
It was only a ten-minute bus ride to the library where she and Simon were attending an NCT course today. It had been his suggestion they go, as a way for Libby to make ‘mum friends’, as Simon had put it. And it was true that she hadn’t done much socialising since she’d moved back to Surrey; with everything she needed to do to get ready for the baby’s arrival, she’d not had much spare time.
As Libby approached the library, she heard her phone ringing.
‘Si, I’m just arriving,’ she said as she answered.
‘Libs, I’m so sorry but I’m not there yet, I’m still at the rugby club. The bloody car has broken down in the car park and I’ve got to wait for the RAC to come.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘I don’t know, the engine won’t start. I’m so sorry; will you be OK going on your own?’
Libby stifled a sigh. ‘Sure, I’ll be fine.’
She hung up and headed into the library, where a librarian pointed her towards a meeting room at the back. When she got to the door, Libby glanced in. There were five couples, all sitting in chairs arranged in a semicircle, facing a middle-aged woman wearing a cheesecloth top and floral boots. The woman was holding a plastic model baby and what looked like a knitted breast. There were two empty chairs in the semicircle.
‘Ah, you must be Libby,’ the cheesecloth woman said when she spotted her. ‘Come on in. We’ve left spaces for you and Simon.’
Libby faltered at the door.
‘Don’t be shy, we won’t bite.’
The five couples were all staring at her and Libby could see some of them looking behind her for her partner. Did she really want to go through this today, discussing placentas and cracked nipples with a bunch of strangers all pitying her for being there alone? Surely there were better things she could be doing with her time?
‘I’m sorry, something’s come up,’ Libby said, and she turned and fled.
As she walked away from the library, Libby congratulated herself on her decision. Now she could go to Sainsbury’s to do some food shopping, and then she could spend the afternoon washing, labelling and putting away the bags of baby clothes that her sister had given her. Rebecca had recently discovered she was having a girl and had immediately announced that all the clothes she’d used for Hector were no longer suitable. Libby had happily agreed to take Hector’s old baby clothes and had been surprised when her sister had volunteered to drive down and drop them off last weekend. They still weren’t exactly close, but Rebecca had been uncharacteristically supportive over the past few months. Libby had also reached a tentative peace with her parents, who were delighted she was back in Surrey and were clearly making an effort to support her rather than control her. Although, true to form, her mum hadn’t been able to stop herself from making the odd critical remark about Libby’s choice of pram, cot, and even nappy brand.
As Libby was walking past the train station, she heard an announcement drift over the wall.
‘The next train is the 10.13 service to London Waterloo.’
Libby paused. If she hurried, she might have time to buy a ticket and catch the train to London, her last chance for a day in the city before the baby was born. Or she could stick to the plan, go to Sainsbury’s and prepare for the baby’s arrival.
An hour later, Libby emerged into the bustle of Vauxhall Bus Station. It was almost six months to the day since she’d last been here, carrying two hastily packed rucksacks, her life in tatters. Libby could remember getting lost trying to find the right stop for the 88, and then being tutted at by passengers as she struggled to pay for her bus journey. Now, she strode over towards Stop B, boarded the waiting bus, and paid with a touch of her card.
Libby moved instinctively towards the stairs to the upper deck, then stopped. That was where she and Frank had always sat together, but she hadn’t heard a word from him since the horrible day of their fight, back in July. She’d initially given him space as he’d wanted, and because she’d been so busy with everything going on in her own life. When she’d finally plucked up the courage to call him, about a month later, his phone had rung and rung and eventually cut off. Libby had tried calling several times since, but the same thing always happened and she’d come to the reluctant conclusion that Frank didn’t want to hear from her. With a small sigh, Libby moved away from the stairs. The lower deck was busy and, despite her heavily pregnant state, no one offered her a seat as she moved down the aisle.
The bus pulled off and Libby looked out the window, taking in the view as they drove up towards Vauxhall Bridge. She remembered how strange and overwhelming this had felt when she had first arrived in London, an unfamiliar city with its traffic and tourists and constant buzz of movement. Now she realised how much she’d grown used to it over her short stay in the city – and how much she missed it since moving back to Surrey.
‘Oi, are you blind?’
A loud voice to Libby’s left caused her to look round. An elderly lady wearing a transparent plastic rain hood was glaring at the teenage boy in the seat next to her.
‘Can’t you see that girl’s pregnant? Or were you pretending you hadn’t noticed, so you wouldn’t have to give up your seat?’
The teenager looked between the old woman and Libby in confusion.
‘It’s fine, I’m quite happy standing,’ Libby said.
‘That’s not the point,’ the woman barked. ‘In my day, young men were taught to give up their seats for women, especially those in your condition. Come on, lad, move it!’
The woman gave the boy a sharp jab in the ribs with her elbow and for a moment Libby thought he was going to shout at her, but she was giving him such a steely look that he obviously thought better of it. With a grunt, he stood up and slouched away.
‘Well, come on then, sit down.’
Libby really had been happy to stand, but there was no way she could disobey this formidable old woman, so she lowered herself into the vacant seat next to her.
‘That’s quite a bump you got there. You expecting triplets?’ the woman said, nodding at Libby’s tummy.
‘Just the one.’
‘Blimey. When you due?’
‘Tenth December.’
‘Good luck with that. It’s going to be a whopper by then.’
Libby was used to this by now, complete strangers approaching her to talk about her pregnancy. A few weeks ago she’d been in Boots when a stranger had walked up to her, put both hands on her stomach without asking permission and pronounced it was going to be a boy.
‘This your first?’ the woman on the bus asked, and when Libby nodded she sucked her teeth. ‘I remember when my son was born. The labour took three days and the doctors said it nearly killed me.’
‘Wow, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I was fine, love, I’m as tough as old boots. And you should be all right too, with those big hips of yours.’
Libby wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult, so she nodded and then turned the other way to look out of the opposite window. The bus was on John Islip Street, making its way up towards Chelsea College of Art & Design. She remembered putting up posters around here with Dylan; it had been a wet day and they’d gone to a café for a cup of coffee while they waited for the rain to pass. She’d not heard from Dylan since that day she’d visited him in the hospital either, and the memory of him made her chest ache. Libby suddenly wished she’d taken the Underground today, rather than the bus with all its painful memories.
She felt a sharp tap on her arm and turned back to the woman sitting next to her.
‘The thing I always say to people is: realise you’re not in control.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You youngsters these days are so used to planning and controlling everything, and you approach giving birth in the same way, with your books and birth plans and all that malarkey. It’s nonsense.’
‘I do like to plan things,’ Libby said, with a small smile.
‘Well, you can forget all that right now. A baby’s gonna come the way a baby wants to come, and there’s not much you can do besides lie back and let Mother Nature do her work.’
Libby looked at the woman. ‘Do you know what? I was meant to be at an NCT course today, but I think you’ve summed up in one minute everything I need to know about having a baby.’
Her companion chuckled. ‘Well, I’m no NCT expert, whatever the hell that is. But anything you want to know about birth and babies, you just ask.’
‘All right then.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Is the pain really as bad as people say?’
‘Worse. That’s why you’ve got to take all the drugs they offer you. Next?’
‘How did you cope with all the sleepless nights? I’m really bad when I’m tired, I can’t function properly.’
‘You got to sleep when the baby sleeps. But having a baby also gives you all these strange hormones which mean you can survive on hardly any sleep. Next?’
‘How do you know when labour’s starting? I keep getting these little twinges every now and then, Braxton Hicks contractions, they call them, but how do you know when it’s the real thing?’
The woman gave a wry laugh. ‘Oh, you’ll know all right, love. A woman has a sense when the baby’s about to arrive, it’s instinctive. When your time comes, you’ll know it’s for real.’
‘Thank you. That’s been genuinely helpful.’
‘You’re welcome.’
They rode on and Libby watched the familiar sights of the 88 bus route fly past the window. The Home Office, where Dylan had gone off on a rant about the British government and Libby had got the giggles. Parliament Square, where they’d been accosted by tourists wanting to take Dylan’s photo. Horse Guards Parade, where Libby had stopped for ages to watch the soldiers on their beautiful horses. It was hard to believe that had only been a few months ago; it felt like another lifetime.
As the bus approached Trafalgar Square, Libby leant down to try and pick her bag up from the floor, but she couldn’t reach past her bump.
‘Here, let me,’ the woman next to her said.
‘Thank you.’
‘You getting off here?’
‘Yes, I’m going to the National Gallery.’
‘Oh, you like that place, do you?’
‘I’ve only been once. I thought I might visit today, though, my last chance for a while.’
‘I’ve not been for years,’ the woman said. ‘I used to go all the time before I had my son, I could spend days wandering round.’
‘You sound like a friend of mine,’ Libby said, as she reached forward to ring the bell.
‘There was this painting I used to love, I can’t remember its name now. That’s a sure sign I’m getting old, isn’t it?’
‘Trafalgar Square,’ the bus announcement declared, and passengers began to move towards the doors.
‘Well, thanks for all the baby advice,’ Libby said, standing up.
‘Good luck with it all, love. And remember, you can’t control your birth, so don’t even try.’
‘I won’t! Bye.’
Libby joined the passengers waiting to disembark. There was a woman with bags of shopping up ahead, struggling to carry them all off the bus and a queue was building up around her.
‘Bacchus and Ariadne,’ Libby heard muttered behind her. ‘How could I forget that?’
The shopper finally managed to get off and Libby was caught up in the flow of passengers towards the bus door. As she disembarked, she was hit by a blast of cold wind from Trafalgar Square and she pulled her collar up. The lights on the pedestrian crossing had turned green and Libby stepped out into the road. It was almost twelve thirty now, so she had plenty of time to wander round the gallery, maybe even treat herself to lunch in the café. What should she go and see first? Frank had said the Renaissance rooms were his favourite, so maybe she should start there.
Libby reached the other side of the crossing and stepped up on the pavement, then stopped as something in her brain clicked. Bacchus and Ariadne. Why was that name ringing a bell? She’d heard it before, someone had told her about the painting.
Frank had told her about the painting.
Libby spun back round. The pedestrian lights had turned red and the traffic had started to move again. At the other side of the road, she could see the 88 bus driving past and caught a flash of the old woman. She lifted up her arm and waved frantically at the bus.
‘Wait!’ she shouted, but her voice got lost in the hubbub of Trafalgar Square.
Libby watched the bus crawl on towards Pall Mall. The traffic was heavy and the bus was moving slowly, but Libby could hardly rush through the vehicles and bang on the window. She knew from her excursions with Dylan that the 88 would turn right onto Waterloo Place and then stop by Charles II Street. If she ran, could she get there in time? Libby looked down at her stomach, so swollen she couldn’t even see her own feet. Then she looked back up at the departing bus, took a deep breath, and started to run.