REMEMBER AGES AGO when I said that I was happy last year, with my fabulous, flirty life full of parties, clothes and hairdos? Did I say ‘happy’? That’s not really what I meant. It would be closer to say fucking stupid. The fact that I thought I was living a perfect life didn’t actually mean that there wasn’t something wrong; it just meant that I hadn’t spotted it.
I don’t particularly want you to stay and watch me being stitched together again, so let’s move forward a couple of hours, to the post-natal ward.
Picture a darkened, quiet area, populated by bay after bay of sleepy mums gazing into cribs at their snoring babies, gently lifting a blanket to cover the little bodies, softly stroking a perfect tiny cheek, touching a velvet head.
Post-natal is nothing like that.
There are never less than two babies crying at all times, because when one starts, it wakes up the one nearest to it, which in turn wakes up the next one along, and so on, creating a domino crying effect. This never happens in reverse; one satiated tummy sending its owner swiftly off to the land of nod does not, unfortunately, send the others. And, of course, the more babies that are awake, the more mums are awake trying to calm them. The air is filled with the deafening roar of low, soothing voices.
The ward is in semi-darkness, leaving just enough light for the nursing staff to move around safely and keep everyone awake.
‘You doing overtime this weekend, Abby?’ says a loud voice walking past, accompanied by the slosh of a bedpan.
‘Not sure yet. Mark wants to go to Monster Trucks.’
The ward is made up of four beds on each side of enormous bays, of which there are three or four. I have been assigned to the first bed on the left in the third bay along from the door. Go past the nurses’ station and head into the bay almost opposite. Look, there I am, lying wide-eyed and exhausted on my back. Two of the other beds in the bay are empty and all but one of the other babies and their mums are asleep at the moment – one is being fed – so our bay is blissfully peaceful. For now.
Come a bit closer to me. Right in. Now look at my daughter. Isn’t she just the most amazing, the most beautiful, the most miraculous thing you’ve ever seen? Her face is so perfectly oval, her lips so full and kissable. She is going to have the boys queuing up at her door, just like her mum. And have you ever seen eyelashes like that?
Don’t say, ‘Yes, on Nick Maxwell.’ It’s not helpful.
The mum opposite is looking at me as her baby suckles – perhaps she wants to chat – but I can’t sit up yet, so I’ve turned my head to gaze unwaveringly into the Perspex crib at my sleeping daughter, watching over her, protecting her from harm. My legs are still paralysed, so if harm comes this way I will shout very loudly.
It’s four a.m. I’m pretty much immobile for the next three hours, so let’s move on and have a look at how everyone else is doing on my daughter’s birthday.
At six o’clock, Hector is up, singing in the shower. There he is, look, cheerfully rubbing shampoo into his hair, eyes shut tight as white foam runs down his face, drips off his chin on to his chest, trickles down his belly . . . OK, stop there – no need to see where the foam goes next.
‘I get knocked up, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down!’ he’s singing loudly. That makes me smile – it’s like our song, isn’t it? He hasn’t slept much since he got into bed three and a half hours ago, with all the events of the day running ceaselessly through his head. Suddenly he stops himself singing and his face becomes grave and concerned. And there’s a flicker of guilt, too, isn’t there? I bet he’s thinking about Jake at that moment, feeling bad for feeling so good.
He’s out now, rubbing himself dry, so I think we should leave him some dignity and see what news Sarah and Glenn have got. Hey, come on – leave.
Here they are, slumped on plastic chairs either side of Jake’s huge bed. The intensive care unit is everything that post-natal isn’t: peaceful, quiet, dark. But Sarah and Glenn have been kept awake by something else.
Look at poor Sarah’s face. She’s not so white any more – she’s now got dark circles under her eyes that give her face its only colour. She’s resting her head on the bed, her arm across Jake’s legs, and at intervals she jerks and raises her head suddenly, looks him up and down, checking every inch of him from the top of his bandaged head to the ends of his toes. Then, after staring at him for five solid minutes, she slowly lays her head down again. She is restive while he rests, stressed by his sedation, made anxious, for once, by his total inactivity.
Glenn has not slept at all. Right now, at six o’clock, he is back in the chair opposite Sarah, staring at his wife and son, hands clasped between his knees. At intervals during the night he has paced the room, looked out of the window, stood and gazed at his dozing wife, touched Jake’s foot. Do you think he feels responsible for all this? Well, he bloody well should.
Only Jake slumbers on, undisturbed.
Back in post-natal and it’s seven-thirty. The nurses decide it’s morning and open the curtains in every bay to the sound of ‘Good morning, ladies!’ as if we’ve all been snoring lazily in our beds well past the time that we should decently have been up and about. Around the ward, eleven pairs of swollen, bloodshot eyes peer resentfully up from their pillows at the cheery greeting.
Here comes the mum opposite me, dressing gown on, for a chat hopefully. I’m still dead from the waist down – not in that way, cheeky – so if I want company or attention, I’m utterly dependent on people coming to me.
‘Keep an eye on Keanu for a minute, would you?’ she says to me, lying encased in concrete. ‘Just popping outside for a smoke.’
‘I can’t do anything,’ I say, but she’s already gone. As I watch the back of her off-grey dressing gown retreating towards the main door out of the ward, I am suddenly more sure than I have ever been about anything that her name is Michelle. But her friends call her Meesh.
God, this paralysis in my legs is so frustrating. I really want to go over and peer at the baby in the crib, just so I can make a mental note of how much prettier Plum is.
And I’m still dying to cradle my new daughter properly in my arms. They placed her on my collarbone when she was first born, but she was far too close to my face for me to see her properly. From here, I can just reach out and touch her in her crib, and rub her back when she snuffles, although the side of the crib digs into my arm. Her back feels so solid, so complete. I can feel shoulder blades and the bumps of a spine and tiny ribs that go in and out with each gasping breath. My splayed hand is the width of her back, which curves and fits perfectly into my fingers.
Think back to that green two-dimensional image Hector and I looked at four months ago on the scan day. Isn’t it amazing that now it’s this firm, warm, breathing person, with her own bones and lungs, blood and hair? She will have her own personality, her own identity, she will like things and dislike things and make choices and feel happy or sad or disappointed or confused. It’s a life, a brand-new life, for her, and for me. She has made the jump with me into this new, fragile place and I wonder if she’s as glad to be here as I am.
My fingers are going numb. I wonder why that is. Maybe I’m having a massive allergic reaction to the anaesthetic and my air pipes are going to swell up and seal shut, suffocating me in my bed. It could even be a blood clot or something and it’s even now making its slow, emotionless way to my heart where it will block all the little valve thingies and give me a heart attack and I’ll be cold by the time the woman opposite comes back from her fag. I’m calling the nurse.
‘Take your arm out of the crib,’ she says two minutes later. ‘You’re cutting off the circulation.’
While there’s not much going on, just take a look at the windows of the bay. They’re all closed, and locked, would you believe? I asked earlier on if they could be opened as it’s so hot in here – apparently new-born babies are perfectly safe in blistering sub-tropical heat as long as you count the togs – and the nurse told me they weren’t allowed to open the windows ‘because of the babies’.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we don’t want the babies falling out of the window, do we?’ she said, as if she has witnessed first hand the tragedy that ensues when one of these flaccid, unaware little beings get an idea into their head. She raised her eyebrows at me, as if I really should know better. I’m staring at her and all I’ve got is the Mission Impossible music going through my head to the image of a determined line of babies climbing on to each other’s shoulders to reach the window ledge so they can catch their first glimpse of the outside world.
I guess I’ve got a lot to learn about being a mum.
Ooh, did you see that? It’s weird, but I think I just spotted my toes moving. I can’t actually feel them moving, it’s more like I’m imagining that they’re moving. Wow. Oh, thank God for that. I might be able to get up in a minute.
Let’s move forwards an hour. It’s almost nine now and look at me, sitting up with my darling Plum in my arms! What I hadn’t thought about when my toes were defrosting was the white-hot, searing agony across my belly that would follow. I got some strong pain relief pretty quickly, and it didn’t come with a glass of water, if you know what I mean. The nurse pulled the curtain round the bed to give it to me, thankfully. I need to try and preserve the gram of dignity I have left.
Plum is warm and heavy in the crook of my arm. She’s had a bit of a feed and now she’s dropped off again. I love the fact that she obviously feels safe with me. Her body and mine fit together.
Have you seen what she’s wearing? It’s the little white starry sleepsuit that Hector gave me in the office canteen yesterday. It was still folded up in my handbag. She looks like a princess in it, doesn’t she? It’s so perfect. I’m holding her foot in my other hand. It’s as small as a mouse.
There’s someone standing at the end of the bed and it makes me jump. But it’s all right, it’s Sarah, looking pale and tired. I’m guessing she’s had a bad night’s sleep too.
‘Sarah! Hi. Come and sit down.’ She smiles as she looks at my daughter and gently runs a finger down Plum’s cheek.
‘She’s gorgeous, Rachel. Really beautiful.’
‘Thanks, Sarah. How’s Jake this morning?’
She sits on the chair and becomes more animated. ‘The doctor came first thing and took him off for a scan. He said that the swelling had gone down so much they would let him wake up.’ Her eyes fill with tears and I get a sick feeling. ‘He opened his eyes about twenty minutes ago and asked for some ice cream.’
‘Oh, Sarah, thank God!’ I half lean forward and embrace her with one arm. I’m grinning like a fool.
‘I know.’ She’s nodding but can’t speak for a moment. I hold her hand as she cries. ‘I can’t tell you . . .’
I look at Plum. She doesn’t have to tell me.
‘Have you spoken to him about why . . .?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, not really. Church Road is right near his school, so I can only imagine he was trying to get there for some reason. It’s so strange.’
‘Sar, you know where Church Road leads, don’t you?’
‘Yes, on to Yew Avenue. Why?’
‘Think about it. Yew Avenue turns into the bypass after the Hickman Roundabout, doesn’t it? And what’s on the other side of the bypass to Church Road?’
She stares at me for a moment, trying to work it out. Then suddenly her eyes widen and she pulls in a breath. ‘Mill Lane? Do you mean Mill Lane?’
I’m nodding. Do you remember when I drove to Hector’s house yesterday after work, we drove into a much more rural road that had fields on each side, and huge farmhouses glimpsed through the hedgerows? That’s Mill Lane. Very close to Hector’s house.
‘It’s just a theory, Sarah. You’ll need to speak to him about it, but it doesn’t seem likely that he would be trying to get to school in the middle of the night, does it?’
‘No, no. You’re probably right. Oh my God, he was just trying to get to his dad, wasn’t he? Christ, my poor little mite.’ She rubs her eyes roughly.
‘Do you know who found him?’ She shakes her head. ‘Nick Maxwell.’
‘Who’s he?’
I look meaningfully towards Plum.
‘What, you mean . . .?’ I nod and Sarah’s eyes widen further. ‘Jesus. Jesus. That’s incredible.’
‘I know. He witnessed the whole thing – the motorcyclist wobbling, Jake flying back . . .’ I get a sudden vivid slo-mo image of Jake’s little body falling on to the pavement, hitting the tarmac, skidding along it, his face, his downy cheeks torn and damaged by the rough surface. This is what has kept Sarah awake all night.
‘I know. Thank God someone saw it – hopefully they can prosecute the motorcyclist. He must have known he’d hit something.’
‘Of course he did. You’d know if you hit a hedgehog on a motorbike, let alone a child, even in the dark.’
‘That’s what I thought too. God, Rach, I hope your Nick can remember some details about it. I hope they catch the bastard that hurt my boy and lock him up for ever.’
I’ve got my doubts about that, but I’m not going to tell Sarah. ‘Yeah, me too.’
Sarah falls silent for a moment, then looks up at me again. She seems calmer now, doesn’t she? More at peace than I have seen her for weeks. It’s a relief.
‘You know what, Rachel? Now I think about it, I’m not sure that I even care. Compared to everything else that’s happened, it doesn’t seem important. Jake’s survived, he’s fine. What else matters? Oh, yes, I know, he’s got injuries but they’re just physical, they’ll heal. I am just so relieved that he has no psychological damage, nothing that will affect him his whole life. I couldn’t have borne it if someone had . . .’
She doesn’t have to say it. I’m relieved about that too.
‘And Glenn’s coming home.’
She’s looking at me sideways, as if she’s expecting me to disapprove, but I think she’s right. I’ve always thought that men who cheat should be speared with hot barbecue tongs, dismembered – I mean separated from their member – and have their toenails and nasal hair pulled out with pliers on alternate days until there are none left. And dumped. Something like that, anyway. You can vary the details. But that was in my old life – my empty, selfish, pointless life. Now that Plum is in the world, I can see that nothing is as important as her happiness.
‘I’m happy for you, Sarah. Jake will be ecstatic.’
‘He will, won’t he? Particularly when we tell him he’s off to Disneyland.’
‘Wow!’
She looks shattered. She’s pale and has dark circles under her eyes and her limbs are too heavy to move easily. But her eyes are shining and she is bright inside. Sarah’s life is back in the place where it belongs. With Jake and Glenn, together.
Before my second visitor, I have to make a phone call. I’m still not great at walking but fortunately there’s a pay phone on wheels. Finally Meesh in the bed opposite is back, which is a relief because Keanu is squawking. She leaves him to cry and helpfully brings the phone over to me with a smile.
‘Guess where I am?’ I say, when the phone is answered.
‘Hospital?’ she says. How does she do that?
‘Ye-es. And I’ve got someone here who wants to meet you.’
There’s a pause. Then, ‘Oh my God! I’m a granny! Oh my God! Where are you? Which hospital? Which ward? I’m on my way!’
I haven’t even told her she has a granddaughter.
My next visitor arrives. Thankfully it is just moments after the nurse takes out my catheter and removes the wee bucket from under the bed. Urine travelling through a clear plastic tube across the blankets over your legs is not the most fetching accessory I’ve worn. I’ve got my back to the archway that serves as entrance to the ward so I don’t notice anyone there until I’ve picked Plum up and am turning to sit back down with her in my arms. The tall figure standing at the end of my bed staring at us makes me jump again. I am so much less poised than I used to be, now that I’ve got more to worry about than what my hair is like.
‘Oh!’
‘How are you, Rachel?’ Actually, he’s staring at Plum, not at me. ‘What did you have?’ He dumps an enormous purple dinosaur on the end of the bed and I eye it uneasily. It’s three times the size of Plum and if it fell on her would probably suffocate her.
‘A little girl. A daughter.’
‘A daughter,’ he whispers, perhaps more to himself than to me or Plum. ‘A daughter.’ Is it my imagination or is he a bit taller since last summer?
‘Why are you here, Nick?’
He looks up at me. He’s holding a bunch of daffodils and crocuses that remind me of spring and new life. ‘Come on, Rachel, you know why. She’s my daughter too.’
I feel cold suddenly and pull Plum closer to me. She does not feel like anyone’s daughter except my own. I don’t know how he has worked this out but he has not been involved in any part of this, except the initial set-up. Surely he doesn’t think he can just come along now and expect . . .
‘All right if I sit?’ he says, perching himself on the edge of the bed. A nurse appears to change the water in the jug by the side of my bed and he looks up and smiles as she passes. She colours and smiles back, lingering a moment.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ she says, staring at him. I am, apparently, invisible.
‘Oh yes,’ he says, flashing that confident, almost arrogant smile at her. For God’s sake, why doesn’t he leave? I do not want him here, do not want him being near my daughter.
The nurse leaves eventually. He watches her go appreciatively then turns back to me and Plum. He pauses for a moment to regain his thoughts.
‘How’s the little boy today?’ he asks suddenly. ‘Has he—’
‘He’s conscious,’ I say harshly. I don’t add ‘No thanks to you’, because actually it is thanks to him. But I don’t feel that way. I feel as though he’s personally responsible for Jake’s injuries. I feel as though he’s personally responsible for drought, disease and acne at the moment.
‘Oh, thank God for that,’ he says, relaxing visibly. ‘I haven’t slept a wink all night. I’ve just been thinking about it all the time, what he looked like when I found him, his little arm all twisted, the blood on his face . . .’ His voice trails off and he concentrates hard on his lap for a few moments. ‘I went up there first thing, but no one would tell me anything.’ Good God, look at his face – do you think he’s going to cry?
‘Nick, he’s fine. He bumped his head but he’s absolutely fine now. Really.’
He nods but he doesn’t look up and his lips are pressed hard together. ‘Thanks,’ he whispers.
I leave it a few moments before asking, ‘Did you manage to give a description to the police?’
He nods and clears his throat, looking up at me. ‘Yeah, quite a good one. I followed the bike for a few minutes before it happened, so I noticed the registration plate. I can’t remember all of it but I did notice . . .’ He trails off suddenly and his cheeks fill with colour.
‘What? What did you notice?’
‘Well, it’s a bit embarrassing. I noticed that all the letters made up a kind of sentence, or statement, if you made a word out of each of them.’ I’m frowning, so he carries on.
‘It was S, then three numbers, then AAB. I was looking at it for a few minutes, trying to make words, which is a little game I play sometimes when I’m driving. Anyway, eventually I came up with: Sex in August, April Baby. The police reckon they’ll be able to track the owner down, from that.’
‘Oh, well, good.’ I’m more than a bit taken aback. Couldn’t he have thought of any other four words starting with those letters, especially as he had several minutes to think about it? Like maybe Stupid Arsing Arse Bastard – I came up with that one in a matter of seconds.
‘I was thinking about you, about the baby, when all this happened,’ he says suddenly, apparently reading my mind. ‘I wanted to speak to you at work yesterday but it was difficult – you were down in Telesales and I was upstairs and I didn’t really have an excuse to come all the way down there, you know. I didn’t want a scene but it was impossible to get you on your own, without other people . . .’
‘Paris, you mean?’
‘Yeah, all right. I didn’t want her to know about . . . to overhear . . .’ He stops, then looks up at me earnestly. ‘I love her, you know, Rachel.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah.’ He smiles as he thinks about her. ‘Anyway, someone in ITU told me you were here so I’ve come here now to talk to you about . . . everything. I am your daughter’s father. I’ve worked it out. I’m right, aren’t I?’
This is it. This is the moment I set Plum on one path or another. She is not yet one day old and already I have the power to make life-altering decisions for her. For me, I don’t want Nick Maxwell in my life. I can use this moment to deny him, get rid of him for ever. But what would Plum want? I’m looking at Nick, but then I look down at her lying comfortably in my arms and I find that her liquid black eyes are open and staring at me. I look into their depths and I can almost read what it says there. She is imploring me to do the right thing. She can’t speak, can’t act for herself, so she is relying on me, her mum, her fierce protector, to help her and do what is right for her. How can I deny those eyes?
I look back at Nick and smile. ‘Do you want to hold her?’
To his credit, he looks a little surprised and very pleased. Perhaps he wasn’t so utterly sure that he was the father. ‘Can I?’ he says, holding out his arms.
‘Make sure you support her head.’ I reach over and place my daughter in her father’s arms, leaving my hands there too. ‘Just, just . . .’
‘It’s all right, Rachel. Don’t worry.’ He bends his head and gazes into her face. Reluctantly I withdraw my hands. ‘Hello, er—’ He looks up at me again. ‘What’s her name?’
Bloody hell! I haven’t even thought about it! I’ve been calling her Plum all night, but she can’t go to school with a name like that. ‘I don’t know. She’s just Plum at the moment.’
‘Plum? OK. Hello, Plum. I’m your father.’ I’m really glad for some reason that he didn’t say ‘daddy’. Father is exactly what he is. ‘It’s totally amazing to meet you.’ He looks at me again and he’s grinning. ‘She’s got your nose.’
He’s saying exactly the right things, isn’t he? ‘Oh, do you think so? I think she’s got such a lovely little button nose but I really can’t see any resemblance.’
‘Oh yes, no doubt about it. Just like you. A total stunner.’
Oh, for goodness’ sake. Look at me. I’m blushing. He really knows how to turn it on, doesn’t he? And I am pathetic! Get a grip.
‘When did you find out anyway? You’ve not said anything all this time.’
He doesn’t raise his head. ‘Pretty much since I saw you at Christmas, I suppose. I heard some rumours, then I saw that you’d put some weight on. I started thinking then, but I wasn’t sure until you let Personnel know what your due date was.’ He looks at me with that lopsided grin. No, it’s not having any effect. ‘I work in Personnel. It wasn’t difficult to count back from the twentieth of April.’
‘So why didn’t you speak to me about it?’
His eyes flick up at me, then back down to Plum’s sleeping face, as if he can’t bear not to be looking at her. I know how he feels. We’re holding this entire conversation with our eyes locked on Plum.
‘Well, I couldn’t speak to you about it at work because of . . .’
‘Paris.’
‘Well, yeah. Plus I didn’t want everyone there knowing my personal business.’
‘OK, so why not ring me?’
‘I lost your number.’ He shrugs. Just like that he dismisses the weeks of misery I endured last summer.
‘But it’s in my personal records at work. You’re in Personnel, why not retrieve it from there?’
‘Yeah, I know, you’re right. I did look it up once, even wrote it down in my diary. I was going to call you that night, from home, but it was awkward. I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to be . . . I don’t know. I didn’t want to intrude. No, no that’s not it exactly.’ He sighs and looks up at me. ‘I didn’t want—’
‘You didn’t want your wife to find out,’ I finish for him, rolling my eyes.
‘Oh, for crying out loud, not you as well! Where the bloody hell is this stupid rumour coming from?’
‘Keep your voice down.’ I notice that some of the other mums and their visitors have looked round at us briefly. ‘Look, it’s no use keeping up this pretence. There’s no one else here to convince, so you might as well just come clean.’
‘Oh, Jesus, for the last time, I am not married!’
The ward falls silent suddenly and many more heads turn our way to stare. Nick’s words hang suspended in the air for a few moments, then dissipate like smoke. I am concentrating very hard on straightening Plum’s blanket around her.
‘OK, right,’ I whisper angrily, ‘so the woman who answered the phone when I rang you up was who exactly? The cleaning lady?’
‘When did you ring me up?’
‘Oh some time last year, just after we . . . It doesn’t matter anyway. The point is, who answered the phone? She said she was Mrs Maxwell. Explain that.’
He sighs, he fidgets, he strokes Plum’s soft leg. Then he raises his head and looks into my face. ‘So it was you, all this time. Just because of . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘You’re right, she’s not the cleaning lady. Well, not in an official capacity, anyway.’
‘She’s not my wife either. She’s my mum.’
I stare at him. Suddenly he looks very, very young, sitting there with our daughter in his arms, head bent over, slight flush on his smooth cheeks. ‘Your mum? But I thought . . .’
‘I know what you thought. But you got it wrong, didn’t you? Rachel, I’m nineteen.’
‘Nine . . .?’
‘No, not nine, for Christ’s sake. That’s ridiculous. I’m nineteen. In fact, I’ll be twenty next week.’
‘Y . . .? You . . .?’ Fucking hell. He’s nineteen. Jesus, that’s almost illegal. But just look at him – the full sensual lips, the long black eyelashes, the beautiful hair, the student card that’s fallen out of his jacket on to the bed. Oh dear God.
‘I never said I was older, did I?’
‘Well no, you didn’t, but you never said you were a nineteen-year-old student living with his mum, either, did you? My God, Nick. I don’t know what to say to you. Christ, you’re a father and you’re barely old enough to wet the baby’s head.’
‘I am not a kid, Rachel. Did I ever behave like a kid? Did you ever think for a second that I was only nineteen? Well, did you?’
‘Well, no, but . . .’
‘There you go, then. The actual number of years since someone was born doesn’t matter. What matters is how people behave, their actions. It’s maturity that counts, not actual years.’
I’ve gone all quiet and thoughtful. Actually, I’m thinking about what Nick was like last summer. Was he mature? Did he act like a responsible adult, in spite of his age? Not really: there are two strikes against him.
‘You’re not old enough to be anyone’s father, Nick. Yes, you are right, it’s maturity, not age, that counts, but you fall down on both counts.’
‘Why do I?’ Look at him pouting now. Shall I ground him for a week?
‘Because you did not behave maturely, did you? Firstly, your behaviour at the end of our relationship was very childish, just ignoring me without any communication at all.’
‘So?’
‘And secondly, you got me pregnant. That’s totally irresponsible and immature, isn’t it? So your argument about your maturity just doesn’t stand up. Forget it.’
He stares down at our daughter, his bottom lip stuck out. Then he looks up at me. ‘You hypocrite.’
‘What?’
‘You. You’re a total hypocrite. I know for a fact that you have dumped people without telling them why in the past. Yes, I have been speaking to people at Horizon. At least three of them told me that you dumped them by not returning their phone calls. And you blame me for getting you pregnant, as if your actions had nothing to do with it? If I remember my biology GCSE correctly—’
‘It was only last year.’
‘Actually, it was two years ago. But that’s not the point. You know as well as I do that it takes two people to make a baby. And you didn’t use a condom either. How responsible is that?’
Just focus on Nick for a moment, because I am opening and closing my mouth like a hungry baby, but no words are coming out.
Do you think he’s right? Have I been irresponsible and immature?
I don’t think you should answer that. We all know, deep down, if we think about it hard and long enough, what the answer is going to be, don’t we?
I turn to Nick. Look at my face now – I think that’s probably the most friendly I’ve been towards him since – well, since 28 July last year.
‘So. You’re not married, you’re just nineteen.’
‘Nearly twenty. But yes, that’s the situation.’
‘Hmm. Well, I have to admit, weird though it is, it certainly uncomplicates things.’
‘Does it? How?’
I shake my head with a smile. ‘You wouldn’t believe the soul-searching I have been doing about your poor wife. How Plum’s birth will affect your relationship; where Plum will go for Christmas; how she will get on with her half brothers and sisters, particularly if their mum is permanently resentful about your affair and brainwashes them into thinking Plum is the enemy; what kind of snide remarks or even underhand thumping she will be subjected to every day if she comes to stay with you during the school holidays; who will sit at the head table for her wedding because as her parents we should both be there, but no doubt your wife will have her own idea about that; whether Plum will have to put up with rude comments about me from your wife’s family for the rest of her life. All that stuff.’
With his face like that – eyes wide and staring, jaw slack – you can really see just how young he is, can’t you?
‘Jesus,’ he says, shaking his head. Then, ‘Jesus,’ again. It seems he is momentarily unable to say any more.
‘OK, can I have her back now, please? I think she wants to go back to her mummy.’ I reach out my hands and wiggle my fingers.
‘Bye bye, Plum,’ he says, not handing her over. ‘At least for now.’
I look up sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Rachel, I want to be part of her life. You can’t deny me that. I’m her father.’
Shit. This is what I have been dreading. Although the whole idea of Nick seeing Plum regularly has lost a lot of its horror now that his wife is no longer on the scene.
‘OK. We’ll work something out. But she’s living with me.’
He puts his hands up. ‘Fine. Absolutely fine. I think that’s definitely best.’ Yeah, because a three-year-old toddler with vomit down her pyjamas bursting unannounced into a room can kill a romantic mood stone dead.
‘Good.’
‘And I’m going to give you money for her. That’s what I want to do – it’s the right thing to do.’
You know, maybe he is more mature than I thought after all.
I smile at him and lean towards him to touch Plum’s head. ‘Thank you, Nick.’ Quickly I kiss his cheek, then draw back, and our eyes lock for a moment. Then we both look away, look down towards the beauty of our daughter, our heads almost touching.
What I can’t see, but you can, is Hector, standing just on the other side of the archway. He’s got a troubled look on his face as he watches us. See that carrier bag? It looks excitingly bulky, doesn’t it? But now he looks as if he’s not so sure. He glances at the bag then focuses back on Nick Maxwell, sitting on the side of my bed, holding my baby, and enjoying an intimate moment with me. And as he watches, I lean forward and kiss Nick on the cheek and he can hear me, quite plainly, as I say, ‘Thank you, Nick.’
It’s just after nine fifteen now. Let’s go back a couple of hours and see what Hector has been doing since we left him getting out of the shower.
We know he was up early, so he was ready to leave the house hours before anywhere was ready to receive him. Here he is now, standing at that huge glass wall in his kitchen with a cup of coffee. The clock says seven thirty, so still hours to go before visiting starts at the hospital.
Half an hour later and here he is again, with the Hoover out, cleaning up the living room. He’s still glancing repeatedly at his watch, though. How much do you want to go and put your arms round him right now and give him a great big kiss? I know I do.
Eventually it’s eight thirty and he’s in his car, driving into town. The shops don’t open for another half an hour so he parks outside the one he is most excited about and stares at the locked door for twenty-eight minutes until the manager appears inside and unlocks it. He spends an hour in there, deliberating over a very special purchase, then makes one more quick stop before heading straight to the hospital where everything in the world he cares about are.
On the ground floor he gets into a lift and then hesitates over which floor to visit first. His anxiety for Jake struggles with his joy for me and in his mind he pictures the neo-natal ward next to the I.T.U. One is a bright, sunny place, filled with smiling faces and cheerful nurses carrying vases full of fresh flowers; the other place is dark and shadowy, a quiet place where the nurses wear grim expressions and carry nothing but tubes and thermometers and bedpans. His future lies in the sunny place, his love, his life. But there is no fear there, no anxiety, and he has no doubt that his brother and sister-in-law will be feeling both this morning. He must go to Glenn first. His finger goes to the ‘3’, but wavers again without pressing it and moves to the ‘1’. It pauses there too, then moves decisively to the ‘3’ and presses it firmly.
In Intensive Care he strides quickly to the bay where Jake’s bed is, rounds the corner and stops in horror. The bed where Jake lay unconscious last night is empty, stripped of all personalization, the blankets folded up on the end, the sheets in a heap on the floor. Nearby is a giant laundry basket on wheels, other used sheets hanging loosely over the edges. Hector spins and looks frantically around the ward. He sees a nurse and hurries over to her.
‘The – the boy, the little boy, Jake McCarthy, he was here, in that bed . . . where is he now? He’s not . . .?’
‘Oh, yes, little Jake. Yes. He went downstairs, about an hour ago.’
‘Downstairs?’
‘Yes. He came round this morning so the doctor said he could be moved down to the paediatric ward. There are other children there, and it’s much brighter, so he’ll—’
‘Oh thank you, thank you!’ He touches her arm briefly then turns and hurries back towards the lifts.
‘You’re more than welcome,’ she says, flushing as she watches him go.
This is Spencer Ward, the children’s ward. It’s much more cheery, isn’t it? I love the way they paint Tigger and Pooh on the walls in every children’s ward in the country, to give the kids that move around from hospital to hospital some sense of continuity and familiarity. Or maybe there’s a single set of NHS Winnie the Pooh stencils that tour the country.
Hector locates Jake’s bed and arrives to find Jake sitting up in bed eating ice cream, Sarah and Glenn sitting either side of him, grinning.
‘Hec!’ Glenn shouts and stands up to embrace his brother. ‘Look at him, Hector, look! Doesn’t he look fantastic?’
Hector looks at Jake’s ice-creamy lips and bright eyes and has to agree. ‘My God, Glenn. He looks amazing. Is he . . .?’
‘They said his brain scan is clear. He’s fine, absolutely fine. The doctor says he has hard bones.’
Hector looks from Glenn to Sarah and Jake. Jake is still very pale but he is animated now, eagerly tucking into the ice cream with one hand while Sarah holds the bowl still for him. His other arm is hanging in a foam sling that’s round his neck. ‘All right, Jakey? Good to have you back with us. How are you doing?’
‘I’m having ice cream for breakfast and ice cream for lunch and ice cream for tea,’ Jake says enthusiastically. ‘And then we’re going to Disneyland.’
‘Wow, that’s fantastic. You’re very lucky, aren’t you?’ The boy nods. Hector turns to Glenn and says very quietly, ‘Do you think there’s any danger that he might link running away from home with loads of presents and treats, and try it again?’
Glenn shrugs. ‘Maybe. I think it’s more likely that he’ll link running away with fear and pain, and coming home with treats and presents. Anyway, it’s never going to happen again. We won’t let it, will we, Sar?’
Sarah gazes up at her husband and smiles. ‘No way.’
‘Great,’ says Hector, ‘because I’ve bought him a present too!’
And so here he is, right now, standing outside the neo-natal ward, watching me with Nick. As he bounced down the corridor only a few moments ago, everything was right, everything was perfect, in fact, and he had an excited, bubbly feeling inside. Today, early this morning, Plum’s brand-new life started, and he wants to start a brand-new one too. His old life of loneliness and worry, with just his mum to care for, was coming to an end. Very soon, he would have two new beautiful people in his life, two very precious, very loved people to kiss goodbye, and come home to, and worry about, and devote his life to. He is grinning broadly as he walks, swinging the carrier bag, nodding and saying ‘Good morning!’ to any stranger he encounters. People are looking at him and smiling, particularly as he is heading towards neo-natal. There goes a new dad, they are all thinking with a smile, How lovely. He doesn’t care. He is a man in love.
But it all freezes into greyness as he arrives at the ward and sees Nick on my bed. Worse than seeing Nick there is the fact that I look totally comfortable with him, and that he is holding little Plum. With a sickening jolt Hector is reminded that Plum is not his daughter and in fact he is not a new dad at all. He is nothing to this baby. He sags and instinctively takes a couple of steps backwards.
‘Everything all right?’ says a voice behind him. He turns to find a cheerful-looking nurse standing there holding a vase of flowers. Just as he imagined.
‘I’m working on it,’ he says, smiling at the nurse who turns faintly pink and smiles warmly back.
‘Need any help?’ she asks him, although she is clearly very busy herself.
He bows slightly. ‘You are very kind, er . . .’ he glances at her name badge, ‘. . . Maggie. But I feel that really I should be asking you that.’
She blushes more deeply. ‘Oh, er, ha ha, not really, don’t be silly, it’s no trouble at all.’
He inclines his head again, then turns back to look into the ward. Nick is still there, although he looks as if he’s getting ready to leave. He’s standing up and now Hector has a clear view of Plum, in my arms, which means he can see that she is wearing the little white starry sleepsuit he gave to me yesterday, and this sight fills his chest with air and returns nearly all the bursting feeling. He grins again as he watches Nick leave and his fingers twitch on the carrier bag. He lifts it up to take out the small, red velvet box inside, which he slips into his jacket pocket – plenty of time – then walks confidently around the corner to the bed.
My third visitor is Hector who arrives seconds after Nick leaves, and he is by far the most welcome. I have been smiling so much today that my face is hurting, but still I manage a wide grin when I see him.
‘Hector! Oh, I’m so glad to see you!’ He comes over to the bed, leans down and kisses me warmly on the mouth. His face stays kissing-close as he looks at me.
‘Morning, gorgeous. How did it go?’
‘I didn’t sleep a wink and neither did she, but it was the most fantastic night of my life.’ He leans over the crib and touches Plum’s curved back. ‘Oh I’m so glad to see you.’ It’s Saturday, but he’s dressed up smartly in a shirt and tie anyway. I frown. ‘Are you going to work later?’
He turns to me, a serious expression on his face. ‘No, Rachel, I’m not. Why do you say that?’
‘The tie, the suit. You look like you’re off to a job interview.’
He smiles and sits down on the edge of the bed where Nick has just been sitting. Only much closer. ‘Of course I’m dressed smartly. It’s an important day, isn’t it? Plum’s first full day in the world. I’m going to meet her properly soon, when she wakes up.’
‘Oh.’ The ache of tears comes into my throat. Isn’t he just so wonderful, to dress smartly to make a good impression on my ten-hour-old daughter?
He’s fidgeting now, though. He clears his throat. ‘The thing is, Rachel, there is another reason why I’ve dressed smartly today.’
‘Is there?’
‘Ahem. Yes.’ He puts his hand into his jacket pocket, then pulls it out again. ‘But first things first.’ He lifts a carrier bag on to the bed and pulls out a beautiful plush snail, covered in patches of different textures. Somewhere inside is a bell that rings as Hector passes it to me. ‘I bought a little present for . . . for who? Who is she? She can’t be Plum all her life, can she? She’ll be terribly bullied at school.’
‘Ruby. Her name is Ruby.’
‘Ruby? That’s very pretty. I like it.’ He turns to the crib. ‘Hello, little Ruby. I’m really happy to see you again. I hope you like your present.’ Gently he places the snail at the end of the crib, then strokes Ruby’s head with one finger. ‘You’re so lovely,’ he says, almost not loud enough for me to hear.
‘She is, isn’t she?’
He turns to me. ‘I mean you, Rachel.’ He’s looking at me earnestly now and his hand is back inside his jacket pocket. Suddenly I feel as if I know what is coming but at the same time I’m terrified to believe it. He slides off the bed and gets down on the floor, then kneels up. The ward has gone silent again and I can feel all heads turned towards us, but I can only look at Hector, lovely, wonderful Hector, the man I have loved for a lifetime – Ruby’s lifetime.
‘Rachel, you inspired me, you still do and I think you always will. I am madly in love with you. I don’t want to live another moment without you. Please, please, say I can be your husband, and Ruby’s daddy?’
I burst into laughs, or sobs, or a combination of both, and nod vigorously, smiling and crying. He leaps up and engulfs me in a hug and everyone on the ward claps and cheers and at that moment my mum arrives and wakes up all the babies.
THE END