A Special Relationship (21 page)

I followed the advice of this hyper-censorious internal counsellor – and stepped out of the shower, determined to put everything right. As I dressed and dried my hair, I told myself that, from this moment on, calm lucidity would prevail. I would go to the hospital tomorrow morning and apologize for not showing up today. I would seek out Nurse McGuire, and let her know that I perfectly understood her concerns about my mental well-being yesterday, but would then demonstrate that I was in control by breast-feeding Jack with uncomplaining aplomb. And on the domestic front, I’d soothe all of Tony’s concerns by going Stepford-ish for a while, and playacting the perfect wife.

So, not only did I make my husband a cup of tea, but I also arranged a large plateful of his favourite biscuits and found a bottle of Laphroaig (his malt whisky of preference). Then I negotiated the stairs, nearly losing my balance (courtesy of far too many items on the tray) on at least two occasions. When I reached his office door, it was closed. I used my foot to knock.

‘Tony’ I said.

He didn’t answer – even though I could hear low-volume music coming from within.

‘Tony, please – I’ve got your cup of tea …’

The door opened. He looked at the laden tray.

‘What’s this?’

‘Sustenance for your literary endeavours. And an apology.’

‘Right,’ he said with a nod. Then, relieving me of the tray, he said, ‘Think I’d better get back to the desk.’

‘Going well?’

‘I suppose so. Don’t wait up.’ And he closed the door.

Don’t wait up.

Typical. So
bloody
typical. Pissing on my parade, per usual. And while I’m trying to be so good.

Stop it. Stop it. He’s working, after all. And you did have that little
‘set-to’
(to be
bloody
English about it) just before, which you can’t expect him to get over in ten minutes … even if he did make that shitty comment about …

Enough. Tony’s right. You really should just go to bed. The only problem is: having just been asleep for the past twelve hours …

All right, all right. Stay busy. Do something to make the hours pass.

That’s how I ended up unpacking just about every box and crate still strewn around the house. The entire process took around six hours and I had to work around what remained of the builders’ mess. By the time I was finished, dawn light was just making a tentative appearance – and I had the weary, but satisfied buzz that comes from finishing a major domestic chore that had been naggingly unfinished for months. Walking around the house – now nearing a state of actual liveability – I felt a curious sanguinity. There was finally a sense of space and proportion and (most of all) order.

Order was something I truly craved right now.

I ran a bath. I sat soaking in the tub for nearly an hour. I told myself:
You see … a little displacement activity, and
the gods of balance and equilibrium land comfortably on your shoulders. Everything’s going to be fine now.

So fine that, after I got dressed, I felt fully energized – even though I hadn’t been to bed all night. I peeped in on Tony in his office. He was crashed out on his sofa … but I did notice a stack of new pages on the ever-growing manuscript pile. So I tiptoed over to his desk, made certain his radio alarm was set for nine am, then scribbled a fast note:

Off to the hospital to see our boy. Hope you like the clean-up job on the house. Dinner tonight on me at the restaurant of your choice? I await your reply.

Love you …

I signed my name, hoping that he’d respond favourably to the idea of the sort of pleasant nights out we used to have in Cairo. With Jack due home within days, this would be our last chance to roll out of the house unencumbered.

I went downstairs. I checked my watch. Just after seven am. I opened the front door and noticed that someone on the far side of the road was in the middle of building work, with an empty skip out front for assorted debris. I glanced back at the stack of empty cardboard boxes and now-broken-down packing crates, and thought: this would save a trip to the dump. I also remembered how everyone on the street emptied their attics into our skip during the first stage of our renovations. So I decided that there would be few objections if a few items from my house ended up intermingling with my neighbour’s debris.

However, as I was in the process of dumping the second lot of boxes into this large bin, a house door opened and a man in his mid-forties came out. He was dressed in a dark grey suit.

‘You know, that is
our
skip,’ he said, his voice full of tempered indignation. Immediately I became apologetic.

‘Sorry, I just thought that, as it was kind of empty …’

‘You really should ask permission before tossing things into other people’s skips.’

‘But I just thought …’

‘Now I’d appreciate it if you’d remove all your rubbish—’

However, he was interrupted by a voice which said, ‘Oh for God’s sake, will you listen to yourself.’

The gent looked a little startled. Then he became immediately sheepish, as he found himself staring at a woman in her late forties – blonde, big boned, with a heavily lined face (blondes always start to fracture after the rubicon of forty is crossed), but still striking. Equally eye-catching was the very large Labrador she had by her side. She had been walking by us when she heard our exchange. I recognized her immediately: she was the woman who had spoken to me approvingly in the newsagents after I forced Mr Noor to be polite to me. And I could tell from the reaction of the Suit that he was distinctly uneasy in her presence. He avoided her accusatory gaze and said, ‘I was simply making a point.’

‘And what point was that?’

‘I really do think this is between myself and—’

‘When I was having my new kitchen put in last year, and there was a skip out front, who filled it up one night with half the contents of his loft?’

The Suit now looked appalled – because he had been publicly embarrassed. From my few short months in England I knew that embarrassment was considered the most fearsome of personal calamities – and to be avoided at all costs. But whereas in America, the guy would have countered by saying something politic like, ‘Mind your own effing business,’ here he suddenly went all pale and diminished, and could only mutter, ‘Like I said: I was just trying to make a point.’

To which my Good Samaritan with the Labrador gave him a cold, knowing smile, and said, ‘Of course you were.’ Then she turned back to me and asked, ‘Need a hand with the rest of the boxes?’

‘I’ll be fine. But I …’

‘Nice to see you again, Sally’ she said, proffering her hand. ‘It
is
Sally, right?’

I nodded. ‘Julia?’

‘Well done.’

The gent cleared his throat, as if to announce his departure. Then he turned tail and hurried back into his house.

‘Twit,’ Julia said under her breath after he was gone. ‘No wonder his wife walked out last month.’

‘I didn’t know …’

She shrugged. ‘Just another domestic drama – like we’ve all had. And, by the way, I heard you’re a new mother. Wonderful news. I would have dropped over with a little something, but I’ve been away most of the last two months in Italy with my son Charlie.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Fourteen. And what did you have – a boy or a child?’

‘A boy’ I said, laughing. ‘Jack.’

‘Congratulations. How’s life without sleep?’

‘Well … he’s not home yet.’

Then I explained, in the briefest way possible, what had befallen him.

‘Good God,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ve really had a ghastly time of it.’

‘Him more than me.’

‘But are you all right?’

‘Yes and no. Sometimes I can’t really tell.’

‘Got time for a cup of tea?’

‘I’d love to – but I really need to be at the hospital early this morning.’

‘Completely understood,’ she said. ‘Anyway, drop by whenever. And do throw as much rubbish in that fool’s skip as you like.’

With a pleasant smile, she ended our little encounter.

I followed her instructions, and threw all the remaining empty boxes into the skip, along with four brimming bags of builders’ debris. Then I walked to the tube, thinking: ‘I actually have a friendly neighbour.’

At the hospital, I was on my ultra-best behaviour. And I was hugely relieved to discover that Jack’s return to Paediatric ICU had been a brief one, as he was back on the normal baby ward. The usual unit sister was there as well – eyeing me up carefully, the way one does with anyone who’s been labelled ‘a loose cannon’.

But I gave her a big smile and said, ‘Is Nurse McGuire around? I think I owe her an apology for being so extreme yesterday.’

Immediately the unit sister relaxed. Acts of Contrition usually do that.

‘I’m afraid she’s off on a week’s holiday – but when she’s back I’ll tell her what you said.’

‘And I am sorry I didn’t make it last night. It’s just … well, to be honest about it, I was so tired I simply passed out.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Every mother is exhausted after giving birth. And the good news is: that little relapse last night was nothing more than that. In fact, you might be able to bring him home as early as tomorrow.’

I was all smiles. ‘That is great news.’

‘Are you up for feeding him now? He’s definitely hungry.’

Doing my best to disguise my unease, I nodded, keeping the fixed smile on my face. The unit sister motioned for me to follow her. We walked down the ward to Jack’s crib. He was lying on his side, crying loudly. I tensed – wondering if he’d really start bawling when I picked him up. But I tried to mask this by saying, ‘He sounds really hungry.’

The unit sister smiled back. Then there was an awkward moment, where I stood by the crib, not knowing if I should pick him up, or if the sister was going to hand him to me. Looking rather warily at me again, the sister motioned for me to take him. My hands were sweaty as I reached in. And yes, his squeals did amplify as I lifted him up.

Keep your nerve, keep your nerve,
I told myself.
And, for God’s sake, don’t look fearful.

I pulled Jack close to me, rocking him gently. His crying redoubled. I quickly settled down into the hard straight-back chair by the crib, opened my shirt, released my left breast from the nursing bra, squeezed the area around the nipple in an effort to expend a little milk, but felt nothing but solidified concrete.

Don’t think about it, just get him on the breast and hope that you don’t start screaming. Sister is studying your every move.

I gently directed Jack’s head toward the nipple. When he found it he began to suck ravenously. I shut my eyes as the pain hit. But then his voraciousness suddenly paid off – as his vacuum-like suction cleared the ducts and milk poured forth. It didn’t matter that his steel-trapped gums were squeezing the hell out of the nipple, or that my level of discomfort was rising by the minute. He was eating.

‘Are you in a bit of pain there?’ the unit sister asked.

‘Nothing that can’t be managed,’ I said.

This was the correct response, as the sister nodded approvingly and said, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

As soon as she was out of sight, I leaned over and whispered into Jack’s ear, ‘Thanks.’

After ten minutes, I transferred Jack to the other nipple – and, once again, his hoover of a mouth cleared all obstructions within moments and milk flowed freely.

Of course, I’ve read the usual pop psychology stuff about how physical blockages can lead to psychological blockages. But though I used to be sceptical of this kind of body/mind linkage, I have to admit that when I left the hospital that morning, I felt as if I had finally rid myself of the gloomy impasse in which I had lived since Jack’s birth.

‘Well, God bless my nephew’s suction,’ Sandy said when I called her around nine am her time to tell her that, finally, I had been able to feed my son without the use of a dreaded breast pump. But when I said that I was now feeling almost blissed-out, she said, ‘Great to hear it – but don’t get yourself into a state if you suddenly slip back into the glums again. Once Jack comes home you’re going to be dealing with broken nights – when three hours of uninterrupted sleep will seem like a total triumph.’

‘But I haven’t been to bed all night, and I feel totally terrific.’

‘Why didn’t you get to bed last night?’

‘Because I was asleep all day yesterday.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘Really, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I needed to shut down for a while. And now, I feel as if my equilibrium is back to normal, and I’ve really got things back into proportion, and I’m feeling genuinely at one with things.’

Long pause. I said, ‘You still there, Sandy?’

‘Oh, I’m here. But I’m also wondering if you’ve suddenly turned into a Moonie.’