Cath Staincliffe - Trio

‘C’mon, Mum!’ Theresa yelled. She’d had her hair dressed long, always conscious of her ear, and found a broad lace hairband to frame her face and cover her ears. They had set her hair in ringlets and woven silk flowers through them to match her dress of ivory silk. Kay thought she looked like someone from a medieval painting.

The mother of the bride hurried to her place in the group. She had been going to weight-watchers for six months in anticipation of this day, she’d lost eight pounds, that was all, eight rotten pounds after weeks of Ryvita and cottage cheese. The outfit she had bought – a light, grey jersey sleeveless dress and jacket – was her usual size, but it was the best quality, cut well so it looked simple and elegant. She had dyed her hair a rich brown and covered up the sprinkling of grey hairs she had. You couldn’t see much of it beneath her large, grey hat, but she’d take that off once they had done the photographs.

‘Now, everyone, say Manchester!’ the photographer said. They all obliged.

‘What about Aberdeen?’ Craig called out.

‘Go on then,’ the photographer said, ‘after three.’

She would miss her. It was so hard letting them go.

Theresa

The university in Boston ensured that all staff had adequate healthcare plans and when Theresa became pregnant there was no problem in covering the costs of antenatal care.

Her mother had been practically delirious when she’d received the news. Had rung them and then written, burbling with excitement. A few days ago a parcel had arrived: new baby clothes. She’d sent babygrows, vests, mittens and bootees – yellow and white. There was a second parcel with a note attached: Theresa – these were what you had when you came to us, I’ve been keeping them for you, love Mum. She unwrapped it and found a shawl, silk-and-wool, with a delicate scalloped design, and a little hand-knitted coat in lemon. When you came to us. Someone had dressed her in these, got her ready for her new family. She wondered who. And who had provided the clothes? Had her real mother knitted the coat? She felt a little uneasy thinking about it. It didn’t matter really. The shawl was lovely and she would use it for her own baby.

‘She never had this,’ Theresa remarked to Craig one night as they lay in bed, his hand on her belly feeling the baby wriggling inside. The sheets pulled back so they could see the movements too.

‘She had you though. And Dominic and Martin and Michael.’

‘But it’s different.’

‘Yes?’ He waited.

‘It’s not a straight swap, is it? Having a child of your own or adopting one. They were probably encouraged to think of it like that when there were loads of us up for grabs.’

He looked at her, narrowed his eyes at the unexpected sting in her words.

‘But you don’t get your baby,’ she continued, ‘you don't go through all this feeling it grow and then having it and knowing it already, knowing it came from you. Ow!’ She gasped as the lump stretched the skin on the left of her belly. ‘It must still hurt. Being infertile. Even if you get a family through adoption. Mum’s never given birth, I can’t share all that with her.’

He drummed his fingers on the rounded lump still visible and it twisted away in response. She gave a little laugh. ‘What about your mum, did she ever tell you what her labours were like?’

‘Good God, woman -’ he flared his nostrils and raised his eyebrows – ‘are ye mad? Dates and times and birth weight and that was quite enough biological detail as far as my parents were concerned.’

‘They’re not that bad.’

‘They are. Not quite under the gooseberry bush maybe, but pretty damn near. D’you think the wee one can hear us?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I can sing it a wee lullaby, teach it a little of its sacred Scottish ancestry.’ He rubbed his hand over the dome, put his mouth just below her navel and sang: ‘Ally-bally, ally-bally bee, sitting on his Mammy’s knee, waiting for his wee bobbie, to buy some Coulter’s candy… ’

She giggled. ‘It tickles.’ She pushed his head. He grunted and kissed her belly. He continued to stroke at it in circles, making the sweeps a little wider each time.

She made a small sound in her throat. He knew exactly what it meant. He slid his hand down the slope of her belly, over the bush of pubic hair and slowly, slowly in amongst it. She arched her back slightly and twisted, offering him a nipple. He licked it and felt the reaction where his fingers lay.

As they made love she thought of the baby, conceived this way and soon to be born as a result. The whole thing seemed prosaic and precious and preposterous at the same time.

She felt sweaty and couldn’t stop trembling. She was relieved though. They hadn’t done a C-section on her. The rates in some of the hospitals were frightening. A testimony to the medicalisation of childbirth and to the triumph of technology over necessity. Plus there was the risk of people suing each other all the time. She’d heard things were more relaxed in parts of the UK. You could have home births and domino schemes where you just went in for the actual delivery and home as soon as you liked.

She had tentatively enquired about a home birth in Boston and the obstetrician had looked at her as though she had suggested stuffing and roasting her child at birth. So she had concentrated on stressing her desire for a normal delivery, even if that meant a long labour. Thank God the baby had been presenting in the right position and she had deliberately delayed going into the hospital until the contractions were well established. By the time she allowed Craig to get her into the car the pains were so intense that she was unable to sit down and had to travel in the back with her bum in the air.

Her waters broke in the corridor. A shocking sensation but one that amused her too. Nature triumphs again. She caught Craig’s eye, the glint in her own helping him relax.

‘They’ll add it to the bill,’ he hissed at her. ‘Cleaning charges.’

They wanted to wheel her to the maternity suite but she couldn’t sit in the chair and in the end they allowed her to walk, stopping every few yards to weather a contraction. Once there, she changed into a loose-fitting nightdress she had brought with her. Craig tried to help but his nervousness made him incapable of fixing the buttons.

A midwife checked her pulse, blood pressure, felt her stomach and said she needed to do an internal examination. She asked Craig to step outside.

‘I want him to stay,’ Theresa said. ‘He’s seen it all before.’

Craig raised his eyebrows. She wasn’t usually so blunt, but needs must.

The midwife didn’t press the matter.

‘Eight centimetres dilated,’ she announced. ‘That’s very good. If you just get comfy we’ll pop this round you so we can see how Baby’s doing.’

Theresa shook her head. She had read countless books on childbirth, attended classes, taken up yoga, and knew that if she put the monitor on her ability to move about would disappear. ‘I don’t want to lie down, not yet.’

‘This is just so we can make sure all is well with Baby, we can see on the screen at a glance if there’s any problem.’

Before she could argue, a contraction swept through her, robbing her of words. She pitched forward, leaning over the bed, and Craig hurried to hold her from behind.

‘We’d rather leave it for now,’ Craig said. ‘You have those listening devices, don’t you?’

The midwife nodded and went to get the sonic aid.

Theresa straightened up. ‘Oh, God, she doesn’t like it, does she?’

‘Dinna fash yerself. You thirsty?’

‘No.’

‘Hungry?’

‘No. Put that chair the other way round, I’ll try sitting on that.’