Longest Whale Song (16 page)

Mum doesn't really look beautiful at the moment. Her face is all slack and she's got the wrong sort of expression. Her mouth's slightly open but she doesn't look as if she's smiling, she looks as if she's groaning, though no sound is
coming out. I do so hope she's not groaning inside her head.

‘Mum, Aunty Liz came round and she's bought us heaps of food and stuff, and guess what, she's bought you the most lovely film-star black nightie. Shall we bring it next time, Jack, and dress Mum up in it?'

‘I'm not sure I want your mum looking so gorgeous when I'm not here to keep an eye on her,' says Jack.

‘Aunty Liz bought Samson this sleepsuit too – doesn't he look sweet in it? Mum, look at Samson. I'll hold him right in front of you and you just take one quick peek, yeah?'

I hold him out but Mum's eyes don't flicker.

‘He's got this dear little humpback whale embroidered on the front. Humpbacks are baleen whales, Mum, remember? He's spouting through his blowhole – they actually have two blowholes side by side. He's jumping right up out of the water because he's just like an acrobat. He leaps up and down and flips over just for fun.'

My arms are aching and I have to put Samson down again, on Mum's chest. I want her to sigh once more, just a little tiny sigh to show she knows we're here – but she just breathes steadily in and out, in and out, in and out.

I put my face on the pillow again and try to breathe along with her, keeping time. Mum's breaths are very slow so it's quite hard. I think of all the whales swimming purposefully under the sea and then coming up for air.

‘Come up for air, Mum,' I whisper, but her eyes are still closed as she swims in her sleep.

Samson is getting fretful lying on his back. I try to turn him round but he doesn't feel secure without arms wrapped round him. He starts wailing in earnest.

‘Shall I take him?' I ask Jack.

‘Just leave him crying a minute or two,' he says.

I know why. He's hoping Samson's crying will wake Mum. We stare at her as our baby wriggles and screams. My own arms ache to pick him up and comfort him. How can Mum bear it? She
must
be able to hear him.

Other people hear him too. The same silly plump nurse comes bustling back.

‘Oh dear, this poor little chap needs a cuddle,' she says. She plucks Samson from Mum's chest. Maybe if she'd left him just a few seconds longer, Mum would have sighed again, or twitched. Atear might have rolled down her cheek . . .

‘You should have
left
him,' I say.

‘I beg your pardon, Sugarlump?' says the nurse.
‘He was bawling his head off, poor little chap.'

‘Yes, thank you, Nurse. I'll take him now,' says Jack. ‘We're going to take him home.'

‘Have you seen Sister?'

‘Yes, I've seen Sister. Little Sam's been checked over by the paediatrician, all the paperwork's been completed. I've seen the social worker, I've been declared a fit father, I've got a suitable childminder – so we're all set,' says Jack, taking Samson from the nurse. ‘Say goodbye to Mum, Ella,'

‘We're taking Samson home now, Mum, but we'll bring him back soon,' I promise.

‘We'll do our best for him, babe,' Jack whispers.

Then we walk out of the room, Jack and Samson and me. I hear noises behind us, and my head whips round in case it's Mum sitting up, swinging her legs out of bed, hurrying after us. But it's just the nurse pulling back the covers and rinsing the cloth in the basin, ready to wash Mum all over again, clearly not trusting us to have done it properly.

‘I can't stick that nurse,' I mutter.

‘Neither can I,' says Jack. ‘Poor, poor Sue. She must be hating it so.' His voice cracks.

‘You can't cry, not when you're carrying Samson,' I say.

Jack sniffs. ‘OK, Miss Bossy-Boots. I'm not crying, see.'

We take Samson down all the long corridors. Visitors smile at us, and one lady stops Jack and coos at Samson.

‘Oh, the little lamb! Are you taking him home?' she asks.

‘Yes, we are.'

‘So where's his mum?' she asks.

Jack takes a deep breath. ‘She's still here in the hospital,' he says.

The lady looks worried. ‘She's all right, isn't she?'

‘She – she's just resting for a while,' says Jack.

We walk on to the main entrance and then step out into the sunshine. Samson stirs in his blanket, screwing up his little blue eyes. He starts whimpering.

‘It's all right, Samson, this is outdoors and it's lovely, so much better than that horrid old hospital,' I say, rubbing his cheek with my finger.

Jack's already fitted a special baby seat into the back of his car. Samson doesn't like the idea of being strapped into it and cries hard.

‘It looks so uncomfy for him. Can't I just hold him in my arms?' I say.

‘It wouldn't be safe enough. I'm not risking any more accidents in this family,' says Jack. ‘He'll stop crying when I get the car going.'

He's right. Samson stops screaming and starts nodding sleepily. I reach out and hold his hand, whispering to him, ‘We're going home, Samson, you and me and Jack.'

It doesn't really feel like home when we get inside. It's cold and empty, and it smells of cooking fat and Butterscotch's cage. Jack carries Samson upstairs. Mum started turning the little box room into a special nursery for him. She turned up her nose at baby pastels and fluffy bunnies and cute kittens. She painted it white, with a slightly wonky frieze of jungle animals running all round the top. She'd found an old chest of drawers in an Oxfam shop and scrubbed it down and painted it a dark jungle green, with orange and scarlet and purple flowers twining round the handles. She was going to paint my old cot and a wardrobe to match, but ran out of time. She hadn't yet found another home for all our suitcases and old clothes and posters, and Jack's drum kit, and a big pile of cardboard boxes we'd never unpacked since we moved in.

Jack and I stand in the doorway, considering. Samson is a very small baby but there doesn't seem any way we can squash him in.

‘I know, Samson can come in my room,' I say.

‘That's sweet of you, Ella, but I don't want him
waking you up in the night, it's not fair. We'll put his cot in my room, OK?' says Jack.

It's easier said than done. We can't manoeuvre the cot out of the door because there's too much stuff wedging it in. Jack eventually collapses the cot and takes it out bit by bit while I joggle Samson up and down in my arms. He's crying quite hard now, bewildered.

Jack tries to put the cot back up again in his bedroom but he can't get the pieces to fit together. Samson is screaming now, clearly starving. Jack curses and goes to make up his bottle. He settles me in an armchair and gives me Samson to feed, then goes back to the cot. I hear him clanging and cursing above us. Samson tries hard to concentrate on his meal, but maybe it doesn't taste quite the same as the hospital milk. He starts fussing and whimpering, and when I sit him up and pat his back gently to burp him, he's suddenly sick all over his spouting whale. It's only milky stuff but it smells horrid.

‘Jack!
Jack!
'

‘What?'

‘Come quick!'

There's a sudden crash and a very rude word. Jack comes rushing downstairs into the living room.

‘What is it? What's happened. What's up with him?' he gabbles.

‘He's been sick, look!'

‘Oh, Ella, I thought it was something serious! I had the cot all set up at long last, just the final screw – and now I've dropped it and it's all in bits again. For goodness' sake, what are you playing at?'

‘But he's been
sick
. I don't know what to do.'

‘Mop him up, for God's sake.'

‘Well, what with?'

‘I thought you were meant to be
bright
. Use anything for now, any old towel. I'll buy baby wipes tomorrow. Then see if he wants to finish his bottle. I expect he just drank the first part too quickly.'

‘You don't think he's ill or anything?'

‘Give me strength! Ella, all babies are sick.'

‘Since when are you the world expert on babies?'

‘Hey, hey, less of the cheek. Now I'm going back to fix that wretched cot.'

I stick my tongue out at his back.

‘I saw that,' says Jack.

‘How?'

‘I'm a teacher. I've got eyes in the back of my head,' he says, going up the stairs.

I hear him in the airing cupboard.

‘Here, clean towel,' he says, throwing it down the stairs.

I lug Samson out into the hall and sit on the bottom step with him, gently mopping his front.

‘Poor stinky little boy. There, that's better, isn't it? You don't really want the rest of your bottle, do you?'

When I'm sick I couldn't possibly eat anything afterwards. I especially couldn't gollop down a long drink of tepid milk. But Samson's lips clamp down on the teat of his bottle and he drinks with desperate intent.

‘Slowly now, or you'll be sick all over again,' I say.

Samson takes no notice and drinks until he's drained his bottle. I sit him up and pat him very gingerly indeed, but he's not sick this time. He does something else instead. He grunts, his face going very red. It's very clear what he's doing.

‘Oh dear, now you're stinky all over again,' I say, sighing.

I listen for sounds of progress upstairs but Jack's still cursing and muttering.

‘He'll be finished soon – and then he can change you and pop you into bed in your new cot,' I say to Samson.

He's
very
stinky now and squirming uncomfortably. I think how
I
would feel in his situation. ‘Shall I try and change you?' I ask.

I fetch the big pack of nappies in a carrier bag and go to the loo to get a handful of toilet paper. It'll only take a moment to whip the dirty nappy off, wipe his bottom and put the new nappy on. I'll do it all by myself and show Jack just how capable I am. Tomorrow I'll tell Mum that she doesn't have to worry about Samson in the slightest – I can feed him
and
change him, easy-peasy.

I lay him down gently on the carpet and start unbuttoning his sleepsuit, and then his nappy, and oh – oh – oh, I can't possibly . . .

‘Jack!
Jack!
'

There's another crash, another curse. He comes pounding down the stairs.

What
now
?' he bellows – and then he sees. ‘Oh Lordy!'

‘I thought I'd change him, but I didn't know it would be so
much
– and he keeps wriggling – and I just
can't
!' I say, starting to cry.

‘Hey, hey, it's OK. Oh God, I can't either. No, wait, come on. I'm the dad. I have to cope. Deep breath.
Not
a good idea in the circumstances! Sam, lie
still
, little chap, it's going all over everywhere.' Jack tries to hold his little waving legs and then starts wiping – and wiping and wiping.

‘Perhaps we'd better give him a bath to get him really clean,' he says. ‘Did your mum buy him a
special baby bath? We can't just pop him in the proper bath, I couldn't hold him properly and he might bang his head.'

I go and search the crowded box room but can't find a bath anywhere. We end up commandeering the washing-up bowl. I fill it up with hot water, but Jack thinks it might be
too
hot. He tells me to test it using my elbow, which is totally weird. When I think it's exactly right, I haul it onto the draining board, and then Jack very slowly lowers Samson into the water. He keeps his hand cupping his head so he can't possibly go under. Samson's arms wave in the air, startled at the feel of the water.

‘Oh, maybe it's still too hot!'

‘No, no, it's fine now, he just needs to get used to it.'

‘Doesn't he look cute in the washing-up bowl!'

‘Yes, he's our little saucepan, aren't you, Sam,' says Jack, gently tickling his tummy.

Samson wriggles and kicks.

‘Oh look, he's trying to swim! Jack, can we take him swimming when he's a bit older? I wish I'd learned properly when I was little. They do special mother-and-baby classes down at the pool.' My voice wobbles. I think of Mum in her lovely red swimming costume, holding little Samson and bouncing him around in the shallow end. Then I
think of Mum now, lying flat on her back, motionless.

‘I know,' Jack says softly, reading my mind. We both sniffle as we watch Samson, and then snuggle him up in yet another clean towel.

‘Remind me to put the washing machine on,' says Jack. ‘In fact, I think it's going to be on permanently now. God knows what the electricity bills are going to be like.
All
the bills – and Aunty Mavis too. It's not so bad now, while your mum's getting maternity pay. I just don't know what we'll do when it stops.'

‘Mum will be better then,' I say firmly.

Jack takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. You're right, Ella. We'll think positive.'

He picks Samson up. ‘Are you clean as clean now, little saucepan?' He leans forward and blows a raspberry on his tummy, and then I wrap the towel round him.

We take him into the living room so we can sit on the carpet and dress him more comfortably in front of the radiator.

Jack puts the sweetest little T-shirt on Samson, totally doll-size. ‘Shall we leave him kicking on his blanket without a nappy? It'll be nice for him to have a little freedom,' he says. ‘I'll take a photo of him, and then we can show your mum. We'll keep
a little record. He's had his first feed at home, his first nappy change, his first bath, and now his first little kick.'

Jack goes to find his camera, fusses around, choosing all kinds of angles, and eventually focuses, bending right over the baby. Samson focuses too. Asudden spurt of wee arches up and splashes all over Jack's chest.