Odd Socks (3 page)

‘Sorry,' I say quickly.

‘Yes,' says Bill sourly, ‘and perhaps, madam, you could direct us to your daughter?'

Holding my damp dressing-gown firmly closed, I lead them over to the lounge-room with Bill close behind me and Sven pushing the stretcher alongside. Bronte and baby are still in the same position they were when I left. But then again, I guess it's a tad hard to go for a saunter when you are firmly attached to each other by an umbilical cord. I suppose Bronte
could
drape it over one arm but you'd have to be pretty desperate for a drink, or something, to attempt it. Bill interrupts my musings by pushing past me and squatting down between Bronte and the still prone Stephen.

‘What's with this guy?' he asks, inclining his head brusquely towards Sleeping Beauty. ‘Is he the father?'

‘Highly unlikely,' I reply with a grin. ‘No, just a friend. And he fainted – couldn't take it. Men!'

Bill gives me a stern look, takes Stephen's pulse quickly and then, obviously dismissing him, turns to Bronte. And the transformation that comes over his face is nothing short of remarkable. Even though
she
is vastly more exposed than I was, he immediately loses the disapproving look and gives her a huge smile.

‘Well! Aren't you the clever one!' Bill gently grasps one of her wrists and starts taking her pulse. ‘Well done, young lady! When were you due?'

‘Not for about three weeks.' Bronte gazes down at
her daughter beatifically. ‘She came early. And isn't she just beautiful!'

‘She certainly is.' Bill drops Bronte's wrist and takes a good look at the baby, running his finger quickly over her tiny body. ‘A real little beauty – you should be proud of yourself.'

‘I helped too,' I add obligingly.

‘Really,' says Bill shortly, giving me a disparaging glance before turning back to Bronte. ‘Now, Mum, how about we snip off this cord and then we'll be able to wrap up little bub nice and warm.'

‘Okay, but I want to donate the cord to the cord bank at the hospital. I've registered and all.'

‘And I wish there were more like you,' says Bill approvingly while he takes a pair of curved scissors from Sven, snips the umbilical cord off neatly and pegs it near the baby's belly. ‘Now we'll just wrap this little lady up and you'll have her back before you know it.'

Bronte hands the baby over reluctantly and then, as Bill passes her carefully to Sven, suddenly doubles over with pain once more. ‘Oh! Oh – not
again
!'

‘That'll be the afterbirth,' says Bill as he sets to work. ‘Just a couple of pushes and it'll all be over. You can do it, Mum.'

‘I'll get the towels!' I yell at no one in particular as I attempt to wrest the pile from underneath Stephen. He immediately wraps his arm around them and mutters crossly. I give up and instead sprint towards the laundry and the linen cupboard. ‘Just wait a second!'

I can hear Bronte grunting loudly as I fling the linen cupboard open, grab another armful of towels and head back towards the lounge-room fast, with them pressed against my chest. But, quick as I am, I'm still too late. There, on my red, pink and pale moss-coloured, low-pile carpet sits a placenta in all its glory. And while they might be perfectly functional bits
of anatomy, they are not visually appealing at
all
. I pull a disgusted face, drop the towels at my feet and decide that I need a drink desperately.

‘Well done!' says Bill encouragingly. ‘All finished now. Hey, Sven, do you want to pass that little lady back over to Mum?'

Sven obligingly passes the now snugly wrapped baby to her mother, who stretches out her arms impatiently and immediately begins murmuring sweet nothings into her daughter's ear once more. While she is thus engaged, Sven removes the placenta efficiently and then leans against the stretcher, watching Bill, Bronte and baby bond. I kick the towels over towards the couch and grin wryly at Sven, who grins wryly back. I must say, he is
very
cute. I perch on the arm of the couch, arrange my dressing-gown and cross my legs gracefully. But when I look up to see his reaction, Sven has turned his back to me and is rummaging around in his bag. He grabs a vial of clear liquid and passes it to his partner who, leaning over, wafts it under Stephen's nose. The effect is immediate. Letting go of the towels, Stephen sits straight up and, with his fluorescent beanie askew, stares wide-eyed at the assorted gathering.

‘Where
am
I?' he asks melodramatically while he flutters his hands about. ‘What's happening?'

‘You fainted,' I reply shortly, uncrossing my legs and relaxing. ‘Thanks for that.'

‘Oh, I
did
? And – Bronte!' Stephen looks around until his gaze settles on the new mother and her offspring on my not-so-clean carpet. He goes pale again.

‘Steady on there!' Sven drops to one knee and puts a supporting arm around Stephen. ‘Take a few deep breaths and try to relax.'

‘Oh, my!' Stephen breathes rapturously, gazing up with
instant adoration at his saviour. ‘The name's Stephen. That's spelt with a ‘ph', of course,
not
a ‘v'. Stephen Rowe.'

‘Sven Parkes.'

‘Hell,' I mutter, rolling my eyes as I watch Stephen recline in Sven's arms, batting his eyelashes while taking exaggeratedly deep breaths. I wonder if he realises how much he looks like a landed trout.

‘Enough.' Bill obviously doesn't think much of Stephen's performance either, judging by the look he sends him. ‘C'mon, Sven, give us a hand.'

Sven laughs good-naturedly at his partner before grinning down at Stephen and slowly releasing him. I briefly consider fainting to get some attention but reject the idea because, knowing my luck, Bill would give me mouth-to-mouth. Sven straightens up and, with his partner, pulls the stretcher over next to Bronte. They expertly pull a lever or two and fold it down to floor level.

‘Now, young lady, we're going to lift you and bubs up onto this contraption and whisk you off to hospital so you can get the once-over. Okay?'

‘And I'll follow in my car,' I say to Bronte as I pass over her tracksuit pants, ‘so I'll meet you there.'

‘There's no need unless you
have
to,' Bill says, glancing at me again and obviously still not all that pleased with what he sees. ‘Your daughter and the bubs will both just be given a check-up and then put straight to bed.'

‘Oh. What do you think, Bronte?'

‘He's right, Mum,' Bronte says, trying to insert her little finger into her daughter's grasp. ‘Like, I'm sure we'll be fine. You should just go back to bed and come in later.'

‘
Much
later,' adds Bill, looking at me as if I've been keeping Bronte up needlessly. ‘She needs her rest. And, madam?'

‘Yes?'

‘You are exposing yourself
again
.'

I look down and, sure enough, my left breast has made yet another partial bid for freedom. I readjust my dressing-gown but, because it is so weighted by dampness around the hem, it is difficult to keep it quite as together as usual. Accordingly, I fold my arms across my chest and glare back at Bill.

‘Thank you so much for pointing that out,' I say. ‘
So
helpful.'

‘My pleasure,' he replies sanctimoniously as he follows Sven and the stretcher towards the front door. Stephen jumps up quickly and helpfully rushes ahead to open the door. And then, before I can even give Bronte a kiss, they have lifted the stretcher across the threshold and are wheeling it down the garden path. Stephen, who is still propping the door open, suddenly spots his reflection in the hall mirror and gives a shriek.

‘Oh, my
lord
!'

‘You don't look that bad,' I reply, distracted by the imminent departure of my daughter and her newborn child. ‘Just like you've had a bit of an adventure, that's all.'

‘My
dear
Teresa . . .' Stephen tucks tufts of dark hair fastidiously under his beanie and then turns this way and that to check the effect. ‘I don't want to have
adventures
, schnooks – just adventur
ers
.'

‘Really.'

‘Yes, just think of me as a reward. Like the spoils of war. And now –' Stephen gives his reflection an approving nod before turning to me with a smug smile ‘– I'm off to help the guys because I think I'm in with a chance there. Wish me luck!'

‘Good luck!' I say agreeably, although I bet it's considered bad etiquette to pick up ambulance guys at the scene. And if it isn't, it should be. Wrapping my damp dressing-gown around
me firmly, I hug myself with both arms because it's still pitch dark outside and very, very cold. My toes move past freezing towards that numbness that's the first stage of frostbite. I watch Stephen hurrying up the path to offer his totally unnecessary assistance and wonder if he realises his beanie glows in the dark. What with that, and the fact his black satin pyjamas can hardly be seen, he resembles nothing more than a mobile neon streetlight.

‘Bye, Bronte! See you soon!' I call, waving at my daughter as she is lifted into the back of the ambulance. ‘I'll be there in a few hours!'

‘Bye, Mum.' Bronte finally takes her attention from the baby long enough to give me a little wave. ‘Oh! Mum – could you try Nick again for me? But don't tell him!'

‘Sure, I'll just breathe heavily.' I start hopping up and down in the foyer to warm myself up because it feels like the dampness around the bottom half of my dressing-gown is starting to ice up. Then, as soon as the rear door of the ambulance is closed securely and Bronte is no longer in sight, I shut my door and lean against it. There's a lump in my throat that was
not
caused by the cold outside. I delivered a baby!
I
delivered a baby! And not just any baby either. I delivered my very own gran . . . grand . . . well, my daughter's baby! I don't think I'm ready for the ‘g' word quite yet.

I'm also not ready to go to bed. Adrenalin is coursing through my body and I feel way too hyped up to sleep. In fact, I wish I had someone here I could talk to, to discuss what just happened and to share the miracle with. Apart from Nick, who, given the fact that he was unreachable in a crisis, deserves to wait a little bit for the news. And apart from Bronte's father, who is currently cruising around the Solomon Islands and thus doesn't deserve the news at all. For a brief moment I consider ambushing Stephen before he goes back to bed, but then
decide against it. Mainly because I'm fairly sure adrenalin will be coursing through his body too, although for an entirely different reason.

But I can't wait to tell everyone at work about this! And if they don't believe me, well – I've got the proof. In fact, I've got more proof than I really need and would have vastly preferred it on a couple of towels rather than spread across my pale moss-coloured, low-pile carpet right in front of the couch.

Languidly I reach out, turn off the jets feeding frothy bubbles of foam into the spa bath and lean back, stretching my legs. I take a deep breath of the jasmine-scented air and then smile with sheer pleasure. Because there's plenty to smile about. I've got a lovely home, helpful neighbours, a loving family, a daughter I get along with very well (I'm going to ignore that little outburst earlier, on the grounds she was in extreme pain), great friends, fun boyfriend, reliable job, and now, in addition to all this, I've personally delivered the next generation! I start humming ‘She'll be coming round the mountain when she comes', simply because it feels appropriate, and reflect on the fact that, apart from my lounge-room carpet, life is totally under control and I'm coasting along pretty damn well. One hundred percent content – satisfaction guaranteed.

I punch my fist in the air and let out a loud ‘yee
hah
!' before taking a deep breath and submerging myself beneath the foamy water while I slowly count how long I can stay under
without resurfacing. One, and two, and three, and four . . . I manage to get to sixty-nine, not quite my all-time record, before I've got to emerge and take a big, gulping breath. Then I stretch out again while snowy froth settles cocoon-like around me, and I scoop it up neatly before it can drip off the edge and onto the floor.

After everyone left, I spent quite some time staring at the birthing area and deciding what to do about the stains. Finally, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I'd probably do more harm than good if I attempted to clean it, so I laid some of the unused towels across to soak up the excess moisture and then left it. I'll ring some professional carpet cleaners in a couple of hours and get them over here a.s.a.p.

Then I gave myself a quick wash and shoved my dressing-gown into the bin before, with both breasts on full display, I crawled into bed and tried valiantly to get back to sleep. But it wasn't any good. As I'd suspected, I was much too high to sleep. Instead I just tossed and turned as I replayed the morning's events over and over. I finally gave up the effort just as I came to the conclusion I was a damn hero, despite that sanctimonious pillock of an ambulance man. So, instead of trying to sleep, I made myself a strong cup of hero coffee laced with a liberal amount of hero rum and ran myself a hero bath. And here I am, fully submerged and happily counting life's little blessings.

I sigh contentedly and rearrange myself more comfortably. Like a surfacing submarine, my left breast immediately pops up out of the foam. I give it a disdainful look because this particular breast appears to be misbehaving on a regular basis today. And, if it keeps it up, it'll get the chop – literally. Because, for quite some time now, I've been seriously considering a breast reduction not just for my left breast, but also for the right.

I'm rather well endowed – and that's putting it mildly. And over two decades of being ogled, and whistled at, and having to listen to the same stupid tit-jokes from dorks who think they are thigh-slappingly hysterical (and, to add insult to injury – or vice versa – it's usually
my
thigh they're slapping) is over two decades too long.
Then
there's the problem with buying clothes – as if being nearly six foot tall isn't bad enough!
And
the backache from the uneven weight distribution – I adjust myself in the bath as I think of this and stare down at the offending glands. Then I pick up the soap from the side of the bath and balance it on my recalcitrant left breast – it immediately slithers off and disappears beneath the bubbles with a hollow plop. Yep, totally useless.