Morag Joss - Among the Missing aka Across the Bridge

We drink our tea. I make another pretense of calling Ron, and we wait by the light of the stove. Then the contractions stop. We wait. She shifts about, complains of backache, of gas, goes to pee. We wait, for an hour, and still no more contractions. Then she goes to lie down. When she gets up, it’s quite dark. She announces she is hungry and starts foraging in the kitchen. She comes back with a plate of crackers and cheese and, for God’s sake, beetroot.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

I shake my head and turn away from the sound of crunching and the sight of her tongue licking crumbs from the corners of her mouth. She is joking now while she shoves the food in and chews. Her gusts of laughter smell of vinegar. She says the baby was just practicing, keeping her on her toes, she’s heard this can happen several times, up to three weeks before the birth. I have to agree this is possible, and then I find I have nothing more to say. The thought of this not being her time depresses me unbearably. I sit staring at the stove with my arms tight around myself. I have no taste for what I must do, I simply want to get it over with. If it becomes any more drawn-out than this, I am afraid I may be unable to go through with it.

She slumps back to the kitchen with her empty plate, and it’s when she is calling out to me to let Ron know it was a false alarm that she has another contraction, one that stops her breath in her throat and produces a long, quiet moan. I wait, pretending I haven’t heard. After a quarter of an hour, she reappears.

There’s a look on her face now that wasn’t there before, a steadiness. She is going into battle. When the next contraction comes, nineteen minutes later, she’s ready for it, and for the next one, another nineteen minutes later. In between, she walks up and down and gibbers on about Ron, will he bring her some shoes when he comes, because without them how will she get to the jetty? After another hour and three more contractions, I tell her it’s time to forget about him. He must have lost his phone or something. The contractions are getting stronger, and we must handle this ourselves. I remind her about the little white boat. I tell her we’ll take it downriver, keeping close to our side of the bank, and land it at the bridge jetty. Ron won’t be far away, but even if he can’t be found, somebody there will call an ambulance and it’ll come straightaway now that the bridge is open. It will get her over to hospital in Inverness within minutes.

“And you’ve got at least twelve more hours to go,” I say. “Plenty of time.”

She looks at me in terror. “We can’t go on the river in that boat! You know what Ron says, it’s not safe. And it’s pitch dark!”

“Then you’ll have to have the baby here,” I tell her. “You couldn’t walk along the bank to the bridge jetty now, even with shoes. You can’t climb up through the trees to the road. Do you want to have it here? I’m not a midwife.”

“I can’t even make it down to our jetty like this, in bare feet,” she cries.

“Of course you can,” I say. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

I can’t offer her my arm, can I, because I’m carrying her bag in one hand and the oars (which I brought into the cabin weeks ago to keep dry) in the other. She’ll have to manage. It’s a drizzly night, but a fuzzy three-quarter moon shines down through the cloud. This is helpful because I haven’t thought to bring a flashlight. Annabel hesitates. She peers through the dark to find an easy way down to the jetty, but there isn’t one. I shout at her to hurry up. Soon she is sliding around on clumps of wet, warty seaweed and sharp stones, falling and cutting her feet and hands, gasping with pain. Every step is treacherous. After half an hour she is not even halfway, and she screams at me that she’s going back. I shout at her not to be stupid. She has no choice. On she goes, yowling louder as she treads on lacerated feet through freezing saltwater puddles. When another contraction comes, she stops and moans and struggles to stay upright. I walk ahead, listening to her as she snivels and stumbles behind me.

I turn and watch her. She slips again, falls sideways, and lands heavily on her hip. “Get down on your hands and knees,” I call out. “Safer for the baby.”

Down she gets, lifting her backside high as the next contraction comes. When it has passed, she begins to move forward, sobbing, lumbering on all fours and her belly hanging to the ground. I turn and keep walking to the boat. I wait for her there, watching her crawl after me.

When she gets to the jetty, she takes fright again at the size of the boat and how strong the river is, until I ask her if she wants to go back up to the cabin. Just as I get her in, she falls forward onto her hands and knees and nearly tips the boat over. Slowly she turns herself around and sits down in the stern. The boat is so low in the water it wouldn’t take a very big wave to capsize us. I hope I’ve timed this right. The river is at its lowest ebb, the flow tide is just starting to come in. It will be at its highest and strongest in about six hours.

I manage the rowing quite well, although we are going against the incoming tide. We don’t speak, to begin with. I’m busy keeping an even stroke, and she’s groaning and rolling about, almost hysterical. I tell her it’s dangerous to throw herself about like that and she’ll slow us down.

“But it hurts! Oh, God it hurts, it fucking hurts!” she sobs, rocking herself to and fro.

“Breathe the way you’re supposed to and keep still,” I tell her. I’m already exhausted. My arms are aching and my heart is pounding, and the bad thing is we have slowed down. Though the wind is blowing hard down the estuary, we are going against the tide and it is stronger than I expected. This is going to take much, much longer than I thought.

Out of my mouth comes a little cry, more of surprise than pain. It’s nothing sharp or stabbing. It’s like cramp, as if I’m being grabbed around the middle and squeezed by a great pair of toothless jaws that crush but don’t bite. I’m standing over a pan of water in the kitchen that I’m heating up for something or other, and suddenly I can’t remember what. Low down in my belly a hardening begins, the grab tightens. I wait, watching the trembling surface of the water in the saucepan with concentrated interest: a miniature ocean, wraiths of steam wafting off it, tiny waves beating themselves against the side. Taking a deep breath isn’t as easy as it should be. Suddenly I can picture my lungs hanging in my chest, two wrinkled, complaining old bellows pushing for room. Next I realize the floor is wet, my feet are wet from fluid that’s trickling down my legs. Another band tightens around me, squeezes, and lets go just in the split second before I’m going to cry out, this time in fear. Instead, I breathe. It is so absolutely simple. And I am so afraid.

I hurry to find Silva and blurt out that it’s starting, and she takes in what I’m saying with a level look, staring me in the eyes. She doesn’t glance even once at my stomach. She’s dismissive, in fact, and I try to absorb some of her calm, but at the same time her composure unsettles me. When she calls Ron, he doesn’t answer, and if this surprises her, she doesn’t show it. She leaves him a message and tells me there are hours and hours to go yet. The one thing we’ve got is plenty of time, she assures me, and I force myself to understand she is right. But although the gripping in my belly has subsided, my fear rises. The cabin is tiny and hot and even with just the two of us, crowded. I never did find my phone, so I have to pester Silva to keep trying Ron on hers. I get more and more afraid. I can’t keep track of time, either. There is no clock.