The Little House Read online

  ‘In our day fathers were completely banned,’ Frederick said. He turned to Elizabeth. ‘You wouldn’t have wanted me there, would you?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ she said. ‘I gave birth to two children in two different countries, and never had a class in my life.’

  ‘I want to have a completely natural childbirth,’ Ruth said firmly. ‘I want to do it all by breathing. That’s what the classes are for. And I am counting on Patrick to help me.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ Elizabeth reassured her. ‘And, Patrick, you know all about it, do you?’

  ‘Not a thing!’ Patrick said with his charming smile. ‘But Ruth has given me a book. I’ll bone up on it before the day. I just can’t get on with the class, and a roomful of people watching me.’

  ‘I should think not!’ Frederick said. ‘It’s a private business, I should have thought.’

  ‘And it’s more difficult for me,’ Patrick said, warming to his theme. ‘Everyone knows me, they’ve all seen me on the telly. I could just see them watching me trying to massage Ruth and dying to rush home and telephone their friends and say, “We saw that Patrick Cleary give his wife a massage”.’

  ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t,’ Ruth said. ‘They’re all much too interested in their own wives and babies. That’s what they’re there for, not to see you.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Frederick. ‘Fame has its disadvantages too.’

  ‘But I’ll read the book,’ Patrick promised. ‘I’ll know all about it by the time it happens.’

  But Patrick had not read the book. It was in his briefcase on a journey to and from London. But he had bought a newspaper, to look for news stories for the documentary unit, and then there were notes to make, and things to think about, and anyway the journey was quite short. The book, still unread, was in his pocket as he helped Ruth into the maternity unit of the hospital.

  As soon as the nurse admitted Ruth it was apparent that something was wrong. She called the registrar and there was a rapid undertone consultation. Then he turned to them. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to do a section,’ he said. ‘Your baby is breeched and his pulse rate is too high. He’s rather stressed. I think we want him out of there.’ He glanced at Ruth. ‘It’ll have to be full anaesthesia. We don’t have time to wait for Pethidine to work.’

  The words were unfamiliar to Patrick, he did not know what was going on, but Ruth’s distress was unmistakable. ‘Now wait a minute …’ he said.

  ‘We can’t really,’ the doctor said. ‘We can’t wait at all. Do I have your permission?’

  Ruth’s eyes filled with tears and then she drew in a sharp breath of pain. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose so … Oh, Patrick!’

  ‘Permission for what?’ Patrick asked. ‘What’s going on?’

  The registrar took him by the arm and explained in a quick undertone that the baby was in distress and that they wanted to do a Caesarean section at once. Patrick, out of his depth, appealed to the doctor, ‘But they’ll both be OK, won’t they? They’ll both be all right?’

  The doctor patted him reassuringly on the back. ‘Right as rain,’ he said cheerily. ‘And no waiting about. I’ll zip her down to surgery and in quarter of an hour you’ll have your son in your arms. OK?’

  ‘Oh, fine,’ Patrick said, reassured. He looked back at Ruth lying on the high hospital bed. She had turned to face the wall; there were tears pouring down her cheeks. She would not look at him.

  Patrick patted her back. ‘It’ll all be over in a minute.’

  ‘I didn’t want it to be over in a minute,’ Ruth said, muffled. ‘I wanted a natural birth.’

  The nurse moved swiftly forward and put an injection in Ruth’s limp arm. ‘That’s the pre-med,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You’ll feel better now, and when you wake up you’ll have a lovely baby. Won’t that be wonderful? You go to sleep like a good girl now. You won’t feel a thing.’

  Patrick stood back and watched Ruth’s dark eyelashes flutter and finally close. ‘But I wanted to feel …’ she said sleepily.

  They took the bed and wheeled it past him. ‘What do I do?’ he asked.

  The nurse glanced at him briefly. ‘There’s nothing for you to do,’ she said. ‘You can watch the operation if you like … or I’ll bring the baby out to you when it’s delivered.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ Patrick said hastily. ‘You can bring it out.’

  They went through the double swing doors at the end of the brightly lit corridor. Patrick suddenly felt bereft and very much alone. He felt afraid for Ruth, so little and pale in the high-wheeled bed, with her eyelids red from crying.

  He had not kissed her, he suddenly remembered. He had not wished her well. If something went wrong … he shied away from the thought, but then it recurred: if something went wrong then she would die without him holding her hand. She would die all on her own, and he had not even said, ‘Good luck’, as they took her away from him. He had not kissed her last night, he had not kissed her this morning, in the sudden panic of waking. Come to think of it, he could not remember the last time he had taken her in his arms and held her.

  The book in his pocket nudged his hip. He hadn’t gone to her antenatal classes, he hadn’t even read her little book. Only two nights ago she had asked him to read a deep-breathing exercise to her when they were in bed, and he had fallen asleep by the third sentence. He had woken in the early hours of the morning with the corner of the book digging into his shoulder, and he had felt irritated with her for being so demanding, for making such absurd requests when everyone knew, when his mother assured him, that having a baby was as natural as shelling peas, that there was nothing to worry about.

  And there were other causes for guilt. He had moved her out of the flat she loved and taken her away from Bristol and her friends and her job. He hadn’t even got her little house ready for her on time. He hadn’t chosen wallpaper or carpets or curtains with her. He had left it to his mother, when he knew Ruth wanted him to plan it with her. He felt deeply, miserably, guilty.

  The uncomfortable feeling lasted for several minutes, and then he saw a pay phone and went over to telephone his mother.

  She answered on the first ring; she had been lying awake in bed, as he knew she would. ‘How are things?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Not well,’ he said.

  ‘Oh! My dear!’

  ‘She’s got to have a Caesarean section, she’s having it now.’

  ‘Shall I come down?’

  ‘I don’t know … I’m waiting in the corridor … I feel at a bit of a loose end … It’s all a bit bleak.’

  ‘I’ll come at once,’ Elizabeth said briskly. ‘And don’t worry, darling, she’ll be as right as rain.’

  Elizabeth leaped from her bed and pulled on her clothes. She shook Frederick’s shoulder. He opened one sleepy eye. ‘Ruth’s gone to have her baby. I’m going down there,’ she said. There was no need for him to know more. Elizabeth never lied but she was often sparing with information. ‘I’ll telephone you with any news.’

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Three in the morning. Go back to sleep, darling, there’s nothing you can do. I’ll call you when I know more.’

  He nodded and rolled over. Elizabeth sped downstairs and put the kettle on. While it came to the boil she made sandwiches with cold lamb from last night’s joint, and prepared a thermos of strong coffee. She put everything in a wicker basket and left the house, closing the front door quietly behind her.

  It was a wonderful warm midsummer night; the stars were very bright and close and a harvest moon broad and yellow leaning on the horizon. Elizabeth started her little car and drove down the lane to the hospital at Bath, and to her son.

  His face lit up when he saw her. He was sitting on a chair outside the operating theatre, very much alone, looking awkward with his jumper askew over his shirt collar. He looked very young.

  ‘No news yet?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re operating,’ he said. ‘It’
s taking longer than they said it would. But a nurse came out just now and said it was quite routine. She said there was nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I brought you some coffee,’ she said. ‘And a sandwich.’

  ‘I couldn’t eat a thing,’ he said fretfully. ‘I keep thinking about her … I didn’t even kiss her goodnight, she was asleep by the time I got to bed last night, and I didn’t kiss her before she went in.’

  Elizabeth nodded and poured him a cup of coffee and added plenty of brown sugar. He took the cup and wrapped his hands around it.

  ‘I didn’t go to her classes either,’ he said. ‘Or read her book.’

  ‘Well, they didn’t do much good,’ Elizabeth said. ‘As things have turned out.’

  He brightened at that. ‘No,’ he said. ‘All those breathing exercises and in the end it’s full anaesthetic.’

  Elizabeth nodded and offered him a sandwich. He bit into it, and she watched the colour come back into his cheeks.

  ‘I suppose she’ll be all right?’ he said. ‘They said it was quite routine.’

  ‘Of course she will be,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Some women choose to have a Caesarean birth. It’s much easier for the baby, and no pain at all for the mother. She’ll be fine.’

  Patrick finished his cup of coffee and handed it back to his mother just as the theatre doors opened. A nurse in a green gown, wearing a ballooning paper hat over her hair and a white paper mask over her nose and mouth, came through the door with a small bundle in a blanket.

  ‘Mr Cleary?’ she asked.

  Patrick got to his feet. ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is your son,’ she said. ‘And your wife is fine.’

  She held the baby out to him and Patrick rubbed his hands on his trousers and reached out. He was awkward with the baby; she had to close his hands around the little bundle. ‘Hold him close,’ she urged. ‘He won’t bite!’

  Patrick found himself looking into the tiny puckered face of his sleeping son. His mouth was pursed in mild surprise, his eyelids traced with blue. He had a tiny wisp of dark hair on the top of his head and tiny hands clenched into tiny bony fists.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Patrick asked. ‘Quite all right?’

  ‘He’s perfect,’ she assured him. ‘Seven pounds three ounces. They’re just stitching your wife up now and then you can see her in Recovery.’

  Elizabeth was at Patrick’s shoulder looking into the baby’s face. ‘He’s the very image of you,’ she said tenderly. ‘Oh, what a poppet.’

  The baby stirred and Patrick nervously tightened his grip.

  ‘May I?’ Elizabeth asked. Gently she took the baby and settled him against her shoulder. The damp little head nodded against her firm touch.

  ‘Shall I take you in to see your wife?’ the nurse asked. ‘She’ll be coming round in a little while.’

  ‘You go, Patrick,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’ll look after Cleary Junior here.’

  Patrick smiled weakly at her and followed the nurse. He still could not take in the fact that his baby had been born. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right.’

  Elizabeth had already turned away. She was walking slowly down the length of the corridor, swaying her hips slightly as she walked, rocking the baby with the steady, easy rhythm of her pace. ‘And what shall we call you?’ she asked the little sleeping head. She put her lips to his ear. It was perfectly formed, like a whorled shell, surprisingly cool. Elizabeth inhaled the addictive scent of newborn baby. ‘Little love,’ she whispered. ‘My little love.’

  It was nearly midday before Ruth woke from her sleep and nearly two o’clock before the baby was brought to her. He was no longer the scented damp bundle that Elizabeth had walked in the corridor. He was washed and dried and powdered and dressed in his little cotton sleep suit. He was not like a newborn baby at all.

  ‘Here he is,’ the nurse said, wheeling him into the private room in the little Perspex cot.

  Ruth looked at him doubtfully. There was no reason to believe that he was her baby at all; there was nothing to connect him and her except the paper bracelet around his left wrist, which said, ‘Cleary 14.8.95.’ ‘Is it mine?’ she asked baldly.

  The nurse smiled. ‘Of course it’s yours,’ she said. ‘We don’t get them mixed up. He’s lovely, don’t you think?’

  Ruth nodded. Tears suddenly coming into her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said weakly. She supposed the baby was lovely. But he looked very remote and very isolated in his little plastic box. He looked to her as if he had been assembled in the little box like a puzzle toy, as if he were the property of the hospital and not her baby at all.

  ‘Now what’s the matter?’ the nurse asked.

  ‘I bought that suit for him,’ Ruth said tearfully. ‘I bought it.’

  ‘I know you did, dear. We found it in your case and we put it on him as soon as he had his bath. Just as you would have wanted it done.’

  Ruth nodded. It was pointless to explain the sense of strangeness and alienation. But she felt as if the little suit had been bought for another baby, not this one. The little suit had been bought for the baby that she had felt inside her, that had walked with her, and slept with her, and been with her for nine long months. It was for the imaginary baby, who had an imaginary birth, where Ruth had breathed away all the pains, where Patrick had massaged her back and held her hand and talked to her engagingly and charmingly through the hours of her labour, and where, after he had been triumphantly born, everyone had praised her for doing so well.

  ‘You want to breast-feed him, don’t you?’

  Ruth looked at the sleeping baby without much enthusiasm. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave him here with you, and when he wakes up you can ring your bell and I’ll come and help you get comfy. After a Caesarean you need a bit of help.’

  ‘All right,’ Ruth said.

  The nurse gave her a kind smile and left the room. Ruth lay back and looked at the ceiling. Unstoppably the tears filled her eyes and ran out under her eyelids, hot and salty. Beside her, in his goldfish-bowl cot the baby slept.

  In half an hour the nurse came back. She had hoped that Ruth would have broken the hospital rules and put the baby in bed beside her, but they were as far apart as ever.

  ‘Now,’ she said brightly. ‘Let’s wake this young man up and give him a feed.’

  He was not ready to wake. His delicate eyelids remained stubbornly closed. He did not turn his head to Ruth even when she undid the buttons of her nightgown and pressed her nipple to his cheek.

  ‘He’s sleepy,’ the nurse said. ‘He must have got some of your anaesthetic. We’ll give him a little tickle. Wake him up a bit.’

  She slipped his little feet out of the sleep suit and tickled his toes. The baby hardly stirred.

  ‘Come along now, come along,’ the nurse said encouragingly.

  She took him from Ruth and gave him a little gentle jiggle. The baby opened his eyes – they were very dark blue – and then opened his mouth in a wail of protest.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said. Quickly and efficiently she swooped down on Ruth, propped the little head on Ruth’s arm, patted his cheek, turned his face, and pressed Ruth’s nipple into his mouth.

  He would not suck. Four, five times, they repeated the procedure. He would not latch onto the nipple. Ruth felt herself blushing scarlet with embarrassment and felt the ridiculous easy tears coming again. ‘He doesn’t want to,’ she said. She felt her breasts were disgusting, that the baby was making a wise choice in his rejection.

  ‘He will,’ the nurse reassured her. ‘We just have to keep at it. But he will, I promise you.’

  The baby had dozed off again. His head lolled away from her.

  ‘He just doesn’t want to,’ Ruth said.

  ‘We’ll give it another try later on,’ the nurse said reassuringly. ‘Shall I leave him in with you for now? Have a little cuddle.’

  ‘I thought he had to go into his cot?’

  She smiled. ‘We could break the rules just this once.’r />
  Ruth held him out. ‘It hurts on my scar,’ she said. ‘Better put him back.’

  Four

  PATRICK came at visiting time at four in the afternoon with a big bouquet of flowers. He kissed Ruth and looked into the cot.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He won’t feed,’ Ruth said miserably. ‘We can’t make him feed.’

  ‘Isn’t that bad? Won’t he get hungry?’

  ‘I don’t know. The nurse said he was sleepy from my anaesthetic.’

  ‘Did she seem worried?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Ruth exclaimed.

  Patrick saw that she was near to tears. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Look at your lovely flowers. And dozens of bouquets at home – it looks like a florist’s shop. They sent some from my work, and my secretary told Radio Westerly and they sent some.’

  Ruth blinked. ‘From Westerly?’

  ‘Yes. A big bunch of red roses.’

  ‘That was nice.’

  ‘And your little chum.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That David.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. It seemed like years since she had last seen David.

  ‘And how are you, darling?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘My stitches hurt.’

  ‘Mother said they would. She said that we would all have to look after you especially well when you come home.’

  Ruth nodded.

  ‘She said she would come down later if that was all right with you. She didn’t want to crowd us this afternoon. But she and the old man will come down this evening if you’re not too tired.’

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow?’ Ruth suggested.

  ‘They’re very keen to see the grandson,’ Patrick prompted. ‘Dad especially.’

  ‘All right, then.’

  ‘They asked me what we would be calling him. I said that we’d probably stick with Thomas James.’