Dear Thing (38 page)

Six years of Yoga for Fertility, every Wednesday night without fail, and she’d never lived in the now before this moment.

When the contraction was over, Romily arranged herself on the floor on all fours. ‘I need you behind me,’ she panted.

‘Right.’ Claire moved straight away, placing herself in position with her hands out as if she were trying to catch a ball. She stared. She wasn’t quite sure what she was seeing.

‘Romily,’ she said. ‘I think – I think I can see the top of his head.’

‘Is he bald?’

‘No.’

‘That’s good news.’

Claire couldn’t help it – she laughed. Romily, looking over her shoulder, laughed too, until she was overtaken mid-breath by another contraction.

A quick tap on the door. ‘Hello?’ called a female voice.

Claire looked rapidly from Romily, head down, pushing, the baby’s head emerging a little bit more, to the door, where she could see a silhouette in the glass panel.

‘Does someone need a midwife?’

Claire jumped up and rushed to the door. The woman waiting outside was young-looking, blonde, competently dressed in hospital scrubs covered by a mac. She carried a bag and her hair was tied back. ‘She’s about to have the baby,’ Claire said.

The midwife took in the room: the towels, the blankets, the furniture pushed aside, and Romily in the middle of it on all fours, pushing.

‘You’re not kidding,’ she said and, shedding her mac, went to the sink to wash her hands. She pulled on a pair of gloves from her bag. ‘What’s your name, love?’

‘Romily,’ said Claire. ‘Her name’s Romily and she’s having a baby boy.’

‘That’s wonderful. You’re doing a great job, Romily. I can see your baby already. Lovely to have him here at home.’

Romily came out of the contraction with a whoosh of air. ‘Claire,’ she gasped. She held out her hand.

‘Looks like you’re a brilliant coach,’ said the midwife. ‘Romily, my name is Harriet and I’m here to help you. Though it doesn’t seem like you need me at all, to be honest.’

‘Don’t you dare leave,’ Claire told the midwife, taking Romily’s hand. She crouched beside her, stroking her hair back from her face.

‘Don’t
you
dare leave,’ said Romily. ‘I need you.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I was alone when Posie was born. I was so lonely, Claire. I didn’t know what I was going to do at all. I didn’t know how to be a mother. I didn’t know you could learn it.’

‘Everything is going to be okay.’

‘Yes. Yes, it is. And everyone is going to be happy. I swear to you, Claire. Just don’t leave me.’

‘Go ahead and push, Romily, as hard as you can, when the contraction comes,’ said Harriet. ‘That’s it. Nice and steady, now. Have a little rest, you’re doing wonderfully.’

‘I didn’t mean to fall in love with him,’ Romily said. ‘I didn’t want to. You never would have known if you hadn’t found the letters. I wouldn’t have said anything.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Claire, rubbing her back.

‘It’s not okay. I like you so much. I used to be a little afraid of you, to be honest. You were so together, so beautiful.’

She screwed her eyes up and groaned, a deep uninhibited sound, and squeezed Claire’s hand so hard it hurt.

‘Good, Romily, good work, that’s the head delivered. He’s lovely. Just one more hard bit left to deliver the shoulders, and we’re all set. You’re doing my work for me today.’

Romily panted. She hung her head. Then she took a deep breath and looked at Claire.

‘This isn’t the hard bit,’ she said. ‘This isn’t the hard bit at all. But you’ll be good at it. Wait and see.’

‘Wait for the contraction, Romily, and go with it, and we’ll be nearly done.’

‘Wait and see,’ said Romily again.

‘Romily, breathe,’ said Claire. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Keep calm and breathe. You’re doing so well.’

The baby. The baby was nearly here. The baby that had changed everything, that would change everything again.

The contraction came. Romily pushed. Claire held her. And the midwife said, ‘Here he is!’

Romily sagged on her hands and knees and Claire supported her. Behind them, she heard a snuffle and a hiccup, impossibly high-pitched and small. And then a wail.

She looked over her shoulder. The midwife held the baby. He was all red legs and arms, hands splayed, dark hair and an
open mouth. He cried, the strongest sound she had ever heard.

‘Here he is,’ said the midwife again, ‘a lovely and healthy baby boy. He looks great. Couldn’t be better. I’ll help you lie on your back, Mum, so I can hand him over and you can have a cuddle while I finish off.’

Romily shook her head. Her eyes were closed.

‘Give him to Claire,’ she said.

‘Oh, are there two mummies?’ said the midwife brightly. She picked up a towel from the ones Claire had scattered around and partly wrapped the baby in it. His eyes were half-open; his nose was a smudge. He looked like Ben sometimes when he was waking up in the mornings.

‘No,’ said Claire, unable to tear her eyes away. ‘There’s only one mummy. He’s Romily’s baby.’

‘I’m a surrogate,’ said Romily. ‘I don’t want to hold him. Please, give him to Claire.’

‘I can’t hold him,’ said Claire. She knew just how he would feel, this crying, squirming, beautiful baby. Strong and alive and real and only minutes old. If she held him, even for a moment, she would believe he belonged to her. His warm, smooth skin, still too loose for his body, his damp hair, the skinny limbs, the papery fingernails.

‘Please,’ said Romily. Something hot and wet, a tear, landed on Claire’s arm. Romily had her eyes closed, her head averted. Claire was still supporting her.

‘Well,
somebody
needs to take him,’ said the midwife. ‘I have to deliver the placenta.’

‘I can’t,’ said Claire, every fibre of her body wanting to.

‘If I hold him, I’ll want to keep him,’ said Romily. ‘Don’t make me.’

‘He’s yours.’

‘No.’

Behind them both, the baby cried for his mother. It was the most wonderful, the most terrible, sound in the world. The first few minutes of life could set the tone for everything that followed. Claire knew. She’d read the books. This baby had been thrust into a cold, confusing world and he wanted comfort, warmth, the person who loved him the most.

‘Romily,’ she pleaded.

There was a knock on the door, a triple rap. Romily raised her head.

‘Ben’s here,’ she said. ‘Thank God.’

Claire jumped up and opened the door. He was frantic, wild-eyed, unshaven, in running clothes. He grabbed her shoulders. ‘I just got your message. What’s happening? Are they all right?’

‘Everything is all right but we need you to take the baby.’ She pulled him into the room. She heard Ben gasp at the sight of his son, wrapped in a white towel, in the midwife’s hands.

‘Is this Daddy, then?’ the midwife asked. For the first time, a note of exasperation was in her voice.

‘This is Daddy,’ said Romily, her eyes closed again. ‘He’ll take the baby.’

Ben held out his hands. ‘Is it— is he— oh.’

Claire watched as the midwife gave him the baby. The awe on Ben’s face, the way he instantly cuddled the bundle to his chest.

‘Oh,’ he said again. He stroked a finger down his son’s cheek and the baby stopped crying and instinctively turned his head towards it. Claire could feel the softness in her imagination, the downy hair. She backed up so that she was pressed against the door. ‘Hello, little one,’ whispered Ben. It
was by far the loudest sound in the room. ‘Hello, my little boy.’

In the periphery, the midwife was busy with Romily again. They had a murmured conversation and the midwife helped Romily to her feet and to her bedroom. The real world was here, with Claire’s husband holding his child. The baby gazed up into Ben’s face; she could see that his eyes looked like Ben’s.

The baby clothes were still on the sofa, along with the bag of bottles. The midwife was in the bedroom to help. Everyone was safe, they were happy. No one needed her.

‘Oh Claire,’ said Ben. ‘Look at him, darling.’

But he didn’t look up, wrapped in his world of two.

Claire opened the door and slipped away. Outside, the rain had turned into snow.

ROMILY WAS ALONE
. She sat propped up on pillows in her bed, the duvet pooled around her waist, with The Jam in the CD player to mask the silence and the whooshing sound of the breast pump.

She was fine. She was a little sore, and very tired, but the midwife had checked her out thoroughly and she was absolutely fine. She had lain on the bed listening as the midwife had talked with Ben about the baby – how healthy he was, how beautiful, how they should care for his cord and when he should have his first feed – all the advice Romily had probably been given in the moments after Posie was born and which she couldn’t remember now because she’d been too drunk with sudden love for her daughter to take it in. And then she had heard the front door closing after the midwife and Ben coming to her room, carrying the baby.

She’d jumped off the bed and closed the door before he could get there. ‘I can’t see him,’ she said through it.

‘He’s perfect, Romily.’

‘He’s not mine.’

‘Claire’s left. I don’t think she wants to see me.’

Romily leaned her forehead against the door. ‘You have to take him away, Ben. Please.’

There was a pause. Through the flimsy wooden door she could hear rustles of clothing, a tiny faint grunt. She spread her hand on the door as if she could reach through it, through the few inches, to touch them both.

Ben walked away. She listened to him gathering things in the front room, talking in a soft voice to the baby. She imagined Ben wrapping him up warm in the clothes Claire had left. And then the front door shut behind them and there was silence.

She had not been alone, never fully alone, for thirty-seven weeks. Even before that, even when Posie was not with her, even before Posie had been born, she had carried a sort of image of Ben around with her every minute. She had held him in her heart, a fictional version of her best friend who could be hers in some way. Even though it had hurt her; even though it would hurt those she cared about; even though it had driven other real people away.

Now she couldn’t carry him any more. Not even a version of him that would never exist. She had lost Ben and his son in one fell swoop, in one last push, in one birthing.

Romily sat in her bed and worked the breast pump. Her hand was beginning to ache, but so far nothing had come out. Mammals were built to feed their children with their bodies. It was a defining characteristic. Any horse could do it; any antelope, any mouse. Giving birth activated the hormone prolactin, which stimulated milk production. It was stimulated more by an infant’s sucking motion, which this pump, of rubber and plastic, had been specially designed to emulate.

It was not the same.

When Posie had been a baby, it would only take one cry and Romily’s breasts would be leaking. The front of her shirt would darken in wet patches of milk. Not even a cry; a sniffle, or the way she turned her face, when stroked, to root. The way she opened her mouth at the scent of milk when Romily held her. The tiniest movement or sound was enough to prompt Romily’s body to hold her close, skin to skin, and nourish her.

Romily closed her eyes. She felt as if she’d barely opened them today. She thought of those small sounds, through the door. She thought of the small head, with its downy dark hair – she knew, without looking, that it was dark – nestled in the crook of his father’s arm. The unfurled mouth, the squashed red cheeks, the toothless gums. The scent of his skin, still pungent from her womb. Her hands ached from pumping, her arms ached from not holding him. Her dear thing.

The milk wasn’t coming. On her lips, she tasted salt. The bottle was sealed, safe and sterile, but Romily still turned her head aside so that when the milk did come, it would not be touched by her tears.

The CD had finished playing a long time ago. Only a few drops of milk had come out, what the midwife had called the colostrum, but it was something. It would be good for the baby. She put the bottle into the refrigerator next to the strawberry jam. The midwife, kindly, had put the towels into the washing machine, so Romily hung them up. She put in her father’s blanket to wash. Half an inch of snow sat on the windowsill. Outside, all was silent. It would be a white Christmas.

If she thought of the snow, she would think of the long queue of cars that had stopped her getting to hospital. She
would think of the shoppers waiting in traffic, she would think of Claire driving in the other direction, she would think of Jarvis and Posie on a delayed train, she would think of Ben shielding the baby’s face from flakes of snow. She would think about being alone, about being drained and empty.

She would not think of the snow. She turned on the lights on the tree and went back to bed.

As soon as she’d pulled the duvet up around her, she heard a key in the door. ‘Romily?’ called Jarvis. Posie didn’t say anything but Romily knew her footsteps, knew her movements, felt her in the deep instinctive part of her that made milk, that had no words, where there was love.

‘Mum?’

Her daughter’s face was flushed. There were flakes of snow in her hair. She still wore her wellies and her coat. Romily opened her arms to her and Posie came into them and Romily held her. Her cold skin, warming. Her child-smell and the beating of her heart.

‘I love you,’ Romily told her. ‘I am your mother and I love you.’

‘Are you okay? Have you had the baby?’

‘I’m fine. I’ve had the baby. He’s with Ben. You can see him soon.’

‘The train was delayed. We ran from the station. I was scared, Mummy.’

Romily held her. She rocked her and she breathed her. She had been so small. Now she was so tall and clever and tender. Romily kissed her forehead.

She felt Jarvis watching from the doorway. She held her hand out to him and silently, he climbed onto the bed with them and put his arms around them both.

WHEN THE DOORBELL
went, she nearly didn’t answer it. She was busy, anyway, using a small brush to paint the edges and corners of the room that was a spare bedroom again, with a half-full tin of paint that she’d found in the back of the shed, left over from decorating the downstairs loo. It was a sort of indeterminate blueish slatey grey with the name of Providence Harbour, and Claire had chosen it because it was not sunshine yellow, and because it seemed to have the most paint left in it. And because she could not sit still, and because she kept being drawn back to this room, stripped of its furniture and its hopes.