Joanna Kavenna - The Birth of Love

‘Neeeearrr.’

‘I don’t think he wants it, Brigid. Now, have you been speaking to your midwife? What’s her name?’

‘Jenny.’

‘Yes, her.’

‘I have regular appointments with her, yes.’

‘Why don’t you call her up today? See if she can’t speed things up for you?’

‘Thanks Mum, but really Tuesday’s not so long away,’ Brigid said loudly, confidently, even though she didn’t believe it. Just then the pain surged within her and she gritted her teeth. She turned away and fumbled in a cupboard. Breathe, she thought. Remember to breathe. Oblivious anyway her mother was continuing, determined to convince her.

‘I think you’ve been very heroic and so on, yes Mummy has been a heroine hasn’t she Calumn, but I think we should let her have her new baby now, shouldn’t we? So we can all meet it, so Calumn you can see your new friend, yes you can … Mummy hasn’t wanted to let the baby out yet because she likes having it in there so much. But perhaps now she might let it out. Perhaps she’ll let the doctors help her soon. Won’t that be exciting?’

‘Shall I pour you some tea, Mum?’ said Brigid.

‘Oh let me do it, dear. Really, you should go and lie down. Come on Calumn, you and I will pour Mummy a cup of tea, yes? Shall we? And would Mummy like some pineapple with it? Is Mummy having her pineapple?’

‘Mummy has eaten quite enough pineapple, thank you,’ said Brigid. ‘Not that it helps.’ Her mother was busy with the teapot, smiling periodically at Calumn, who was holding onto her trouser legs.

‘It’s true, isn’t it Calumn, that pineapple seems not to have helped your mummy. So now she needs the nice doctors, that’s what Grandma thinks. That’s what Grandma thinks, though Mummy doesn’t believe Grandma. Poor Grandma!’

*

So Brigid bridled, even in her weakened state. Even as another pain threatened to evolve, she bridled. She was exhausted and irritable; certainly she felt she could neither surrender fully to her mother nor could she stand firm against her. Anyway her mother had innumerable strategies and was clearly in a better state to marshal her victories. She was staring blankly at her mother, thinking about what she would say, how she would neutralise the latest line of enquiry, she was phrasing something when she felt the pain again, deep, rising to a peak and then breaking and receding. She remembered this, this rhythm of pain; she had once lived a day to this rhythmic rise and fall.

*

‘More juice?’ her mother was saying to Calumn, holding up his cup while he shook his head. And Brigid was trying to grasp the pain she had felt, hold it close. She longed for pain, more pain, a still more direct and inescapable pain. That was just one of the small perversities of her state. And now her mother was talking about the floor in her kitchen, how she needed it re-tiled, how the tiles she wanted were so expensive, while Brigid thought about how she craved pain, a pain which would drag this pregnancy to an end. This was how you became glad about labour. It was the only possible release from this discomfort, this enslavement to the overgrown body. You longed so urgently for release that you accepted agony, welcomed physical distress. She smiled, as she thought how absurd it was, that she was nursing this pain to herself, feeling friendly towards it.

*

‘I have various things I should do, sorting out the house and making sure I’ve sent away all my copy-editing,’ she said. ‘And a friend of mine is coming round for coffee quite soon. But of course you’re very welcome to stay. You might like to play with Calumn.’

‘Who’s your friend?’

‘Stephanie.’

‘Stephanie?’ said her mother, imperiously. A stranger! And she the gatekeeper, the guardian of the front door! It was that sort of expression, thought Brigid.

‘Yes, a former colleague, from school.’

Her mother was peering into the fridge, rustling through the bags of mouldy vegetables. ‘Your fridge is rather empty,’ she said. Calumn was behind her saying, ‘Rid-rid-ridd-rid.’

‘Well, I haven’t been to the shops for a while. Calumn, come over here, sweetie, let’s have some milk. A cup of milk?’ He put out a hand, took the milk.

‘I remember when I was pregnant with you, I was so busy in the final days,’ said her mother. ‘I made two months’ worth of meals and put them all in the freezer. Labelled them all. Lasagne. Shepherd’s Pie. Fish Pie. Rhubarb Crumble. All in labelled containers. I was determined not to be caught short after the birth. I cooked for days and days, hour upon hour. I wasn’t quite as big as you, but still, it was a major undertaking. I dragged myself around our kitchen, without all these labour-saving devices everyone relies on these days, and morning to dusk I cooked. And when I’d put the last container in the freezer, I felt the beginnings of labour.’

‘Very precise timing,’ said Brigid, though she had heard the story before.

‘So precise. My body knew it could let itself go. I had finished the cooking. And we ate so well after the birth. Not too well, naturally, because I wanted to lose my baby weight as soon as possible. But your father, God rest his soul, ate well. And I had enough. I always think when I look at photos from that time, how slim I was, even just after the birth,’ said her mother, who was far from fat now but had perhaps sagged a little in recent years. Age had dragged her skin down, though there wasn’t much flesh on her bones. She was a handsome elderly woman, Brigid supposed. Carefully set hair, dyed a blonder shade of white. High cheekbones, tastefully applied make-up. She wore pastel shades which suited her well enough. Well-cut trousers, low shoes. She was small but she held herself well. She had shrunk in recent years, but she wasn’t bent-backed. She was cleaning the surfaces with a regal air, as if she rarely had to stoop to such work but was doing it for her daughter.

‘Don’t do that, Melissa will clean tomorrow,’ said Brigid.

‘Nee-nar nee-nar,’ said Calumn, racing out of the room, and Brigid’s mother went to fetch him. There was a cry as he was retrieved and the kitchen door was shut behind him.

‘Thanks Mum,’ said Brigid.

‘You shouldn’t be carrying him around in your state. Not a big boy like you, Calumn. Such a big strong boy! Can’t Patrick take some time off work?’

‘It’s very busy at the moment. Besides, he’s saving it up for when the baby’s born. He’ll only get a couple of weeks.’

‘What does he do all day in that office anyway?’ said her mother.

‘Well, somehow he passes the time,’ said Brigid. ‘The hours pass and then he comes home again.’ The doorbell rang again, and Brigid waddled off to answer it. Stephanie was on the doorstep, with a baby in a pram, a tiny grub-like creature, its eyes shut, occasionally making little grumbling noises and sucking its fingers. The grub was called Aurora, but really it was a pre-human, with its furry body, its asymmetrical skull. It was still foetal, with its jerky little movements, its utter dependence on the mother, everything involuntary, unmeditated. It hardly needed a name, it was still so clearly an extension of its mother.

‘Oh, how beautiful she is,’ said Brigid, kissing Stephanie, adoring the baby for the requisite amount of time, picking up a little finger and holding it, careful not to wake her.

Calumn was trying to peer into the pram.

‘Gently, gently, Calumn,’ Brigid said. ‘Don’t wake the baby.’

‘Bah bah bah,’ said Calumn, loudly. The baby stirred but didn’t wake.

‘Ssssh, Calumn, very gently. Speak quietly, ssshhh,’ said Brigid.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Stephanie. ‘But can we bring the pram into the kitchen? Just so I can push it backwards and forwards, make sure she stays asleep as long as possible?’