The Little House. Philippa Gregory

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.’

      

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