Little Disasters Page 2

  ‘No, he’s at home, with Frankie and Kit.’

  I imagine her boys lost to the depths of sleep; her husband unable to settle; and Jess’s loneliness as she sits in A&E with a poorly baby who can’t tell her what the problem is.

  She gives me a quick, tense smile, and pulls a charcoal cardigan around her. Her top slips, revealing a black bra strap, sleek against her blanched almond of a shoulder, her improbably smooth skin. The top of her ribs and her clavicle are exposed and I realise she is noticeably thinner than when I last saw her just over a month ago at the school nativity. Under the glare of the fluorescent strip lights, she seems more vulnerable; less assured. And very different to the woman I first met ten years ago, who buzzed with excitement at the thought of having her first child.

  LIZ

  Thursday 22 November, 2007

  Two

  ‘Shall we give him another five minutes – and then we’ll need to start?’ Cathy, the antenatal teacher, tilts her head at Jess, the only expectant mother with an empty chair beside her.

  ‘No, let’s begin. He’s in a cab now, but he’ll be a while longer.’ Jess smiles at each couple. I’m so sorry, her expression says. That look dispels any momentary irritation and I feel a rush of sympathy for a fellow mother-to-be whose partner hasn’t been able to make the 7.30 start. Beside me, Nick shifts in his seat and I am grateful that his job as a secondary school teacher means that, though he will never be rich like Jess’s hedge fund manager husband, he is unlikely to ever be late for such things.

  We have been waiting for Ed Curtis for nearly fifteen minutes now and the very pregnant woman who introduced herself as Charlotte is breathing heavily: possibly as a result of having the largest bump among us, though it’s difficult not to read bad temper in each sigh.

  Charlotte strikes me as someone who is always five minutes early. A corporate lawyer, she has already told us it is imperative she quickly establish a routine. She favours Gina Ford and will be pumping breast milk to stimulate her supply and provide her husband, Andrew, with enough to do the night feeds. ‘It’s the least he could do,’ Charlotte says with a sardonic, surprisingly sexy laugh, and it isn’t clear if Andrew will be doing this to compensate for getting her pregnant or because so much of the burden of early parenthood lies with a breastfeeding mother. ‘He’ll be doing all the nappies too,’ she says, and she doesn’t appear to be joking.

  There are nine expectant parents, sitting on black plastic chairs and smiling nervously at each other, this Thursday evening. Five women, all over seven months pregnant, expecting their first babies in the new year. Three of the fathers have rushed straight from work and look out of place in this preschool nursery decorated with collages of dried pasta and finger paintings. Andrew’s suit trousers ride up to expose red silk socks and an inch of hairy ankle, and it seems unimaginable that this man, who looks a good ten years older than me, will be getting down on a floor with a baby any time soon.

  But it is going to happen to us all. The tiny pegs in the hall with their laminated labels and names in Comic Sans font tell of a world we are going to have to get used to. One filled with human beings so alien even their names differ from those of our childhoods: Olivia, Ethan, Jade and Ayaan; Callum, Chloe, Mia, Zac. There are small icons on those labels – an umbrella, a football, a butterfly – and pairs of bright wellington boots, neatly stacked under each bench. And it is something about the care with which these have been placed, and the sense that each preschooler is seen as an individual – Millie with her fish; Ollie with his cricket bat – that reinforces the magnitude of what is going to happen. These aren’t babies we are having but small people for whom we will feel responsible for the rest of our lives.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure?’ Cathy, neat and grey, a mother of three girls in their twenties, looks relieved to be getting started. ‘Let’s begin by introducing ourselves properly and explaining why we want to do this course.’

  She turns to the pregnant mother on her right: a slight, blonde woman with rosy cheeks, an eager smile, and a partner whose body language – crossed arms and legs, eyes fixed on a spot in the distance – suggests he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  ‘I’m Mel,’ the woman says, ‘and this is my husband, Rob. I’m a primary school teacher and I want as natural a labour as possible with minimal intervention.’ She beams as if she knows she’s given the right answer. ‘Ideally a home birth.’ She turns to her husband, who grunts his assent. ‘Rob?’

  ‘I work in the City, and I’m here because my wife told me to be,’ he says. A ripple of laughter from Charlotte and Andrew, and from a younger man with a broad physique and reddened skin.

  Mel’s cheeks redden but she smiles, indulgent. ‘As you can see, there’s no pretence with Rob.’

  ‘Supporting your partner’s very important,’ Cathy says, as she fiddles with the felt beads around her neck. ‘Birth, and the whole perinatal period – the time around the birth – can be deeply unsettling. It’s crucial mothers feel supported by their partner. Now.’ Her tone brightens. ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘Me. I’m Susi,’ the girl sitting next to the youngest man says. She smiles broadly and, like her partner, speaks with an Australian accent. ‘I’m in HR; Andy’s in IT. We’re over here from Oz, half a world away from our families. So being taught how to give birth, and meeting some other mums, seemed like a good idea.’

  ‘Do you have any friends who are having babies?’ Cathy frowns slightly. Susi looks younger than me, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six; tall, strong and wide-hipped. She shakes her head.

  ‘No! They’re all out on the lash and having a fine old time!’

  ‘Getting pregnant was a bit of a surprise,’ Andy adds. ‘But people have been having babies forever without much hassle, and I’m sure we’ll manage just fine.’

  He smiles broadly at his wife and I wish I could view birth and motherhood as this easy. I know too much about the potential difficulties of childbirth and the lottery of a happy childhood to relax about it all.

  I shift uncomfortably while Charlotte introduces herself and her husband, who looks genuinely embarrassed as she describes him as a leading intellectual property lawyer. (‘Not leading, Charlotte.’ ‘Well, that’s what The Times said.’)

  ‘And why did you want to take this course?’

  ‘Well.’ Charlotte looks as if she has practised this answer. ‘I suppose one always wants to prepare for things: finals, law exams, marriage, children. Parenthood’s a major change, isn’t it? But no one learns how to do it in any detail. And I just want to get it right.’

  I smile at her. Perhaps we aren’t dissimilar, after all. I’m specialising in paediatric medicine and had to deliver a baby to qualify as a doctor but I’m anxious about being a mother. I effectively brought up my younger brother but I have no positive role model: my relationship with my mother is problematic and I’ve no sister or older relative to ask for help.

  I’ve always sought answers in books but the medical textbooks and child-rearing books feel inadequate. Yes, I understand the theory of routine versus attachment-based parenting, I know about developmental milestones and the whole host of childhood illnesses, but there has been nothing to prepare me for how I might feel when I first hold this child. I don’t know if I will love it unconditionally, or be able to interpret, or understand, its emotions. I need to learn how to mother if my maternal instinct – a nebulous concept that’s supposed to be natural but what if it isn’t? What if I lack it as clearly as my mother? – fails to kick in when I hold my child.

  ‘What about you, Liz?’ asks Cathy.

  ‘Well,’ I stall, because I can’t admit to any of my fears out loud, ‘I’m a junior doctor, so I’m not too anxious about the birth itself: I’ll take any pain relief including an epidural I’m offered. I’m here to meet other mothers with babies the same age.’

  ‘You’ve certainly found some potential friends here. All your babies should be born within a month or two, so you can provide vital support duri
ng those first few weeks.’ Cathy turns to the only woman who hasn’t spoken. ‘And what about you, Jess?’

  Jess smiles. Mine is far from a ‘glowing’ pregnancy – I’ve had severe morning sickness and have still managed to balloon out of all proportion – but there’s no better word to describe Jess’s state. Her hair shines under the unforgiving light, and she has managed the ideal: a perfect pregnancy silhouette of full breasts, neat bump, sharp cheekbones and slight frame. In any group of women, there is always one who is the most effortlessly cool. That’s Jess, but the fact she is so obviously the Queen Bee doesn’t alienate. Her enthusiasm is so infectious I want to share it. This is how I should be feeling, isn’t it? As if motherhood is the most fantastic adventure – not something about which I am apprehensive at best, fearful at worst.

  ‘I just want to be the best mother I can,’ Jess says, and her voice is low with the hint of a rasp to it as if she’s entrusting us with a delicious secret. She strokes her bump, and looks down at it as if talking to her unborn child. ‘We know we’re having a boy and I want him to know he’ll be so cherished, and so very important.’ She hesitates, picking her words carefully. ‘I don’t think we need to parent as our parents did . . .’ and her voice suddenly turns bright so that any unease is fleeting, like a cloud passing over the sun. ‘I want my boy to know that he is the centre of my world.’

  Perhaps it’s the hormones, but what should sound unbearably trite and painfully obvious is exquisite, and moving. We sit in silence for a moment, in this room with its crates of plastic cars and Duplo blocks and its smell of Milton disinfecting liquid, and sweat.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ Nick says.

  ‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘Being that sort of mother, or feeling confident that I’ll be able to be that sort of mother, that’s what I’d like to take away from here.’

  Jess smiles back at me then, with the clear-eyed anticipation of a woman who has no reason to expect anything but the best for her child. And, as the rain pelts against the windows, Jess’s optimism transforms that nursery. I feel a tentative hope that I will be an adequate mother. I won’t be perfect but I will be good enough.

  The door bursts open, a skittering of leaves blasting into the room on a vicious draught.

  ‘Ed!’ Jess’s smile grows broader.

  ‘Hello, darling. Hello, everyone. I’m so, so sorry.’ Ed Curtis moves fluidly, briefcase in hand, as he bends to kiss his wife and settle into the empty chair.

  ‘Huge apologies. I couldn’t get away and then the District Line was delayed. What have I missed?’ He leans forwards, palms on his thighs, legs apart, a broad smile on his face. It is impossible not to be charmed by this other half of a golden couple. Not to forgive his delay, because of course his job is high-pressured. He glances around the group and, when he spots Charlotte, his brow furrows in sudden recognition and his smile grows even wider.

  ‘Charlotte? ‘

  ‘Ed.’ She has flushed a deep red, the blood rushing up her throat from her fussy, pussy-bow collar.

  ‘Charlotte Fitzgerald?’ ‘Charlotte Mason, now.’

  ‘How are you?’ He looks delighted, Charlotte noticeably less so. ‘Sorry, sorry, everyone. Jess: Charlotte and I were at uni together. What a small world!’ He shakes his head, unable to get over the coincidence. ‘We must catch up properly.’

  ‘Yes, yes we must.’ She is still flushed but looks surprised, even flattered. Her husband glances at her enquiringly and she squeezes his hand.

  ‘Well, how lovely – but perhaps you could chat later?’ says Cathy, irritation catching her voice. ‘I’m conscious that time is ticking on and we’ve lots to get through today.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’ve interrupted. Where were we again?’ Ed smiles at her and Cathy visibly softens as if she’s been caught in a sudden shaft of soft, warm light.

  ‘Jess was just telling us all about her hopes for motherhood – and how very excited she is.’

  LIZ

  Friday 19 January, 2018, 11.35 p.m.

  Three

  Jess looks afraid. Hospitals put her on edge, I understand that: it’s hardly surprising given her traumatic experience giving birth to Betsey. But she looks more than wary: she seems acutely scared.

  ‘How long has she been like this?’ I ask, my tone soft and conversational, as if my examining a friend’s child is a perfectly normal scenario.

  ‘On and off all evening. She usually settles easily, but she didn’t tonight.’

  ‘Has she slept at all?’

  ‘A little. She woke at nine, crying . . . and she was still unsettled when Ed checked on her, a little later . . .’

  ‘And that’s when she was sick?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just the once?’

  There is the slightest hesitation. Half a second but it’s enough for me to notice. ‘Yes. Just the once,’ she says.

  I look at her closely. Her smile is forced: not an expression I’ve ever seen her make but then this is an unprecedented situation. ‘Is that something that’s happened before? Is she a sickly baby in general?’

  ‘No.’ Jess shakes her head. ‘I know you haven’t seen that much of her but she’s not a baby who throws up a lot. She can be grizzly and bad-tempered, particularly when she’s teething, but I can’t understand why she would be like this.’

  I shrug off the hint of reproach – I don’t know this baby like I know her other children; work this year’s been particularly busy – and slip a thermometer under Betsey’s armpit.

  ‘I’m just going to have a look at her while we carry on talking,’ I explain. ‘Can you put your arm up for me, Betsey?’ She bleats, her bottom lip quivering as she looks to Jess for reassurance.

  ‘It’s all right, darling. It’s Mummy’s friend, Liz.’ Jess removes her hand from Betsey’s to make it easier for me, but I sense her reluctance. She’s never liked anyone else handling her children, not even when Kit and Rosa were learning to walk and I’d automatically pick up her boy if he fell nearest to me.

  I remove the thermometer.

  ‘Her temperature’s normal. Has she had any pain relief ?’ ‘Ed gave her some Calpol after she threw up.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Just after ten. Before we came in.’

  ‘And you hadn’t given her any before then?’

  ‘No . . . Perhaps I should have but, well, you know how I feel about giving them drugs . . .’

  Jess is suspicious of any medicine. It’s one of the things we’ve clashed about. Betsey hasn’t had her MMR, Jess erroneously believing that the vaccine is linked to autism, and I was both incredulous and angry when she told me about this. It partly accounts for our recent distance: I can’t bear the fact she’s relying on the ‘herd’ effect: other people’s children being vaccinated to protect her own. But I can’t be irritated now. I’ve more immediate concerns.

  ‘Because I know you and Betsey I’m going to call my colleague, Ronan, in while I examine her properly, OK? There’s nothing to worry about. It’s hospital protocol. Then I’m going to look at your tummy, Betsey.’ I speak in my soft, no-nonsense voice to the baby, who is whimpering raggedly, a bead of spittle on her lips.

  ‘Ronan?’ I pull back the curtain and half-duck out. The junior doctor looks terrified, either of making a mistake or of me. ‘Could you join us?’ He slides into the cubicle beside me, his long, gangling limbs folding into the space.

  ‘I’m just examining Betsey’s chest,’ I explain to both of them, as I unbutton her Babygro. There’s no rash on her torso. No indication of meningitis. But my immediate relief is temporary. Betsey is grizzling properly, now, and her cry intensifies as my fingers caress the crown of her head. She flinches. A head injury? It’s something I’m automatically concerned about. I stop and part her mass of dark hair.

  ‘Did you know there’s a slight swelling at the back of her head?’

  It’s not an obvious bump but I can feel a slight bogginess obscured by Betsey’s damp, dark curls. I watch Jess closely.<
br />
  ‘Umm, no I didn’t.’

  I’m surprised. It feels like rolling your fingers over a waterbed. Was she really so distracted she didn’t notice when she’d placed Betsey in her car seat, or transferred her to her buggy? Surely she would have felt it, or Betsey would have cried out, just as she did when I tried to examine her now?

  But Jess looks at me blankly. Her face is closed as if she’s blocked off her emotions. A chill of unease creeps up my spine.

  ‘Is she crawling?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s just started – and pulling herself up.’

  ‘It looks as if she’s knocked it . . .’

  My friend looks – there’s no other word for it – shifty.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, her tone bright and high.

  And then she clears her throat as if she’s suddenly thought of something she should have mentioned at the start. ‘Look. She did bash it earlier.’

  ‘She bashed it earlier? Oh, Jess, why didn’t you mention it? This could explain the sickness. When did this happen?’ Relief flows through me, in a sudden flood. Jess – always so perfectionist when it comes to parenting – will have feared being judged. But there’s no need for that because it sounds as if there’s a perfectly innocent explanation, after all.

  ‘It was around four o’clock,’ she begins. ‘Just after we’d got back from picking up Frankie. She was crawling in the kitchen and she slipped and hit her head.’

  ‘So how did she fall, exactly?’ I perch on the side of the bed, the paper towel puckering under my bottom. I’m listening and I’ve all the time in the world, my posture says. I haven’t, of course – I’m concerned that we might need to scan Betsey, but I need to take a comprehensive history first.

  ‘I was getting Frankie a snack,’ Jess says. Her voice is constricted, as if she’s about to cry. ‘Betsey was crawling around. The floor was clean but slippery for some reason. I wasn’t really concentrating; I was getting things ready for the kids’ tea. And then I heard a sort of gentle thud, and Betsey was lying on the floor, pulling the kind of face she does when she’s wondering whether or not to cry.’