Caroline Anderson - Anyone Can Dream

The child was tiny—minute, delicate little fingers that gripped Charlotte’s own and wouldn’t let go, her eyes clear and bright, fixed on Charlotte’s face.

The ache in her heart seemed to grow until she could almost feel the swelling in her chest. What would it be like, she wondered, to hold your baby in your arms? To have that serious gaze trained so intently on your face, and know that you were the most important person in that tiny child’s world?

All too soon Jet was warm and comfortable on the bed with the baby settled again at her breast, then with a minimum of fuss she delivered the placenta, exclaiming over it in fascination.

‘I never saw it with the first one,’ she told Sue. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’

Sue lifted up the membranes and showed how they had enclosed the baby, and Jet reached out a hand and touched the fine tissues.

‘It seems incredible that they can be so strong,’ she said in wonder. ‘They’re so thin. I thought they’d be thicker, tougher, somehow.’

Her gaze dropped back to the baby. ‘She’s lovely.’

Charlotte smiled. ‘She is—very beautiful. Well done.’ Her arms felt achingly empty. She turned to Sue. ‘Any needlework for me to do?’

Sue was busily tidying up at the business end, and paused thoughtfully.

‘Little graze on the back wall—it should be OK. The perineum’s intact and there’s no muscle damage.’

Charlotte, who hadn’t yet handled a repair alone, was only too relieved. She thanked the couple for allowing her to witness the birth of their baby, then went back out into the ward.

It seemed hectic after the tranquil scene she had just witnessed, a bustling, chaotic mass of busy people all going about their endless tasks.

Ants, she thought, bustling, busy little ants. And what for? Perhaps because everyone else’s arms feel empty, too.

As she walked towards the nursing station to find out if anyone was looking for her, she saw William striding towards her. His eyes met hers, and a quick smile touched his eyes.

‘Hi. How’s it been?’

‘Fairly quiet,’ she told him. ‘I’ve just witnessed my first water birth.’

‘Ah—peace and tranquillity?’

‘Oh, yes—it was beautiful. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about it when you’ve got time, because I’ve heard all sorts of things about it being dangerous, but it seemed incredibly un-dangerous, somehow.’

He nodded. ‘It all boils down to screening and vigilance. Have you had breakfast?’

She shook her head.

‘Let’s go down to the canteen, then, and we can talk while you eat. I could do with another cup of tea.’

When they were settled at the table, Charlotte tucking into her steaming pile of bacon and egg and tomato, William with a cup of coffee and a similar plateful with an additional stack of toast—‘Looks too good to walk past,’ he’d said—they turned back to the subject of water births.

‘So,’ he asked, lazily stretching himself out sideways and propping one elbow on the table, ‘what do you want to know? The history?’

She shook her head. ‘I know the history of water birth, from Moscow in the 1960s to Leboyer and Odent, and now thanks to them and people like Janet Balaskas and the Active Birth Centre it’s used extensively in this country, particularly for home births. Right?’

He nodded. ‘Right. You’ve done your research.’

‘I should hope so,’ she retorted. ‘Still, books can only tell you so much. It’s the other things.’

‘Like?’

‘How long have you used water pools here?’

‘Oh, about a year. The old boy thinks they’re akin to witchcraft, but Alex Carter and his team are firmly in favour.’

Charlotte assumed that ‘the old boy’ was Derek Blythe, the consultant in charge of their firm, who was known for being firmly rooted in the interventionist era. He had a higher rate of Caesarian sections, forceps deliveries and episiotomies than any of the other consultants, and she had already discovered that the midwives regarded him as a hazard to be avoided at all cost! It followed, therefore, that if he was against water births, then the midwives were very likely to be for them.

William confirmed her thoughts. ‘I have yet to speak to a midwife who disagrees with it provided it’s used only when appropriate,’ he told her.

‘Which is?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Oh—we tend to rule out multiple pregnancies, malpresentations, previous adverse history, anyone who needs monitoring electronically—and of course the midwife has the authority to get the mother out at any time if she feels things aren’t going well.’

‘How often does that happen?’

He shrugged. ‘Not often. When necessary. People tend to want to get out of the water themselves if they lose confidence for any reason, or want to feel more securely screwed to the floor—the loss of gravity is a bit unsettling for some, but nearly everyone finds the time they spend in the water helps them enormously.’

Charlotte nodded. ‘Jet seemed to cope very well.’

‘Jet? Oh, damn, I missed it!’ he said, clearly disappointed. ‘Oh, well, how did it go?’

‘Lovely.’ Charlotte told him all about the birth, and he nodded in satisfaction.

‘Good. Great. She had a fairly grim labour with the first, apparently, and we were hoping this would be better for her. We’ve noticed a huge decrease in the amount of pethidine we’ve used since we’ve had the pools—we put the second one in only a couple of months ago because the first had been so successful. Now there’s hardly a day goes by when they aren’t in use, and it seems to make an enormous difference to the level of pain women feel.’

He tore off a chunk of toast and eyed Charlotte speculatively. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow night?’

The change of subject fazed her.

‘Tomorrow?’ she said blankly, casting about for a more feasible excuse than washing her hair.

‘Mmm. Only I’ve got a Janet Balaskas video and a whole lot of articles on the subject—I thought you could come over and look at it and talk it through with me.’

Peversely, disappointment warred with her relief. Only business after all, she thought, and then gave a little sigh.

‘That would be fine. I haven’t got any other plans.’

‘Great. I’ll give you the address—have you got anything to write on?’

She fished in her handbag and came up with an old envelope.

‘Do fine,’ he said, and she watched as he scribbled the address in a broad, bold hand, then drew a little map on the bottom of the scrap of paper. ‘OK?’

She took it, noticing again his long, straight fingers and the way the dark hair sprang away from the skin all around his wrist, in sharp contrast to the blinding white of his coat. Strange how something so ordinary could be so absolutely fascinating, she thought absently as she tucked the envelope back in her bag.

‘About seven?’

She nodded. ‘That would be fine.’

‘Good.’ His smile warmed her, but his next words chilled her right back down again. ‘Don’t bother to eat,’ he said. ‘I’ll knock something up during the evening—make a change from eating alone.’

She nearly protested, but something in the quality of his voice stopped her. Instead she met his eyes, and beneath the gentle smile she saw a lonely man. So she didn’t refuse, because she too had spent too many Saturday nights alone with nothing but the telly for company. One less couldn’t be a bad thing.

It was a tall, red-brick Victorian semi in a quiet residential road close to the park. Quelling her misgivings, she parked outside under a glorious copper beech tree and walked briskly up the red and black diamonds of the front path to the door.

There was a bell-pull set in the wall, the brass gleaming, and as she tugged it she heard a bell jangling far inside the house.