bedsteads, the floors of caves . . .
The price of pleasing Mother.
But no, that wasn’t it . . . it was the secret price of life. So this was it, this was what it cost, this was the charge every single person walkingon every single street had exacted before they had even been born.
The door opened and a man in a white coat walked in at the head of a short retinue. She recognized the curly-headed woman behind him from the maternity clinic.
Sometimes it is hard to be a woman
.
White Coat addressed a few words to the latest midwife, who passed him Natalie’s notes to survey.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘the pre-eclampsia case.’
He studied Natalie’s notes and addressed a few questions to her. Somehow she answered. As she did, she felt the pace of the pain slacken and die away.
A belt was run round her belly and White Coat examined the display on the machine.
‘Not much going on there,’ he observed.
He told her what would happen next. The anaesthetist would give her an epidural; she would be induced on a syntocinon drip. The belt monitoring her contractions would need to remain in place from now on. A blood pressure cuff, too.
And with that he swept out, followed by his attendants.
The latest midwife muttered, ‘Well, that was a waste of time, wasn’t it?’ and Natalie realized that this was how her attempt at labour could be seen: pain for no purpose.
She began to say something to Richard, but was silenced by a final desultory pang. Like a last crack of heartbreak from a love affair that never had the chance to progress.
The anaesthetist was glassy and calm, and set about working his magic with the benign assurance of one whose ministrations are always welcome. Afterwards she found herself small again, shrunk back down to size, hooked up to the epidural, the blood pressure monitor, the contraption that kept track of her contractions and a catheter bag; paralysed from the waist down, and watching the jagged peaks and troughs that represented her contractions, spewed out on a printout. She supposed she ought to be grateful.
Richard settled in the green chair next to her and ate another hospital sandwich. He looked pale but relieved.
At least this way you’ll be safe.
‘We’ll check on you in four hours and see how you’re doing. Try to sleep. You’re going to need all the strength you’ve got,’ this latest midwife said and disappeared.
But of course Natalie couldn’t sleep, and once again the dark hours ticked by to the soundtrack of Richard’s snoring, broken, once, by screaming from the next room. There goes another one, Natalie thought. Lucky thing; at least for her it’s over. She tried to think of happier times but it was a struggle, and she found she had to go back – a long way back – to find a memory that was bright and strong enough to face down her fear.
No, not the honeymoon in Florence, nor the dinner at Pierre Victoire when Richard had finally proposed. Not even the ring shopping, or the pure gratification of finally being able to tell her mother she was getting married. No, not the takeaway pizza they’d ordered on their first night in the house they’d bought together,nor the exchanging of contracts or signing of the mortgage . . .
Her home life had been comfortable, convenient, steady, reassuring . . . There had been consolidation, but not much adventure. Not since she’d jacked in her job and gone off travelling just after the millennium, spurred on by Tina’s insistence that she should take control of her life and do something for herself. And look how that had turned out!
Oh God, what had she been thinking, she’d been such a fool – leaving Heathrow for Auckland after the goodbye kiss with Richard, feeling so pleased with herself, setting off to visit her brother and spend a couple of months sightseeing on her own. And what had she gone and done? On the other side of the world, she had allowed herself to be someone else. To be with someone else.
One night only, in a
The price of pleasing Mother.
But no, that wasn’t it . . . it was the secret price of life. So this was it, this was what it cost, this was the charge every single person walkingon every single street had exacted before they had even been born.
The door opened and a man in a white coat walked in at the head of a short retinue. She recognized the curly-headed woman behind him from the maternity clinic.
Sometimes it is hard to be a woman
.
White Coat addressed a few words to the latest midwife, who passed him Natalie’s notes to survey.
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘the pre-eclampsia case.’
He studied Natalie’s notes and addressed a few questions to her. Somehow she answered. As she did, she felt the pace of the pain slacken and die away.
A belt was run round her belly and White Coat examined the display on the machine.
‘Not much going on there,’ he observed.
He told her what would happen next. The anaesthetist would give her an epidural; she would be induced on a syntocinon drip. The belt monitoring her contractions would need to remain in place from now on. A blood pressure cuff, too.
And with that he swept out, followed by his attendants.
The latest midwife muttered, ‘Well, that was a waste of time, wasn’t it?’ and Natalie realized that this was how her attempt at labour could be seen: pain for no purpose.
She began to say something to Richard, but was silenced by a final desultory pang. Like a last crack of heartbreak from a love affair that never had the chance to progress.
The anaesthetist was glassy and calm, and set about working his magic with the benign assurance of one whose ministrations are always welcome. Afterwards she found herself small again, shrunk back down to size, hooked up to the epidural, the blood pressure monitor, the contraption that kept track of her contractions and a catheter bag; paralysed from the waist down, and watching the jagged peaks and troughs that represented her contractions, spewed out on a printout. She supposed she ought to be grateful.
Richard settled in the green chair next to her and ate another hospital sandwich. He looked pale but relieved.
At least this way you’ll be safe.
‘We’ll check on you in four hours and see how you’re doing. Try to sleep. You’re going to need all the strength you’ve got,’ this latest midwife said and disappeared.
But of course Natalie couldn’t sleep, and once again the dark hours ticked by to the soundtrack of Richard’s snoring, broken, once, by screaming from the next room. There goes another one, Natalie thought. Lucky thing; at least for her it’s over. She tried to think of happier times but it was a struggle, and she found she had to go back – a long way back – to find a memory that was bright and strong enough to face down her fear.
No, not the honeymoon in Florence, nor the dinner at Pierre Victoire when Richard had finally proposed. Not even the ring shopping, or the pure gratification of finally being able to tell her mother she was getting married. No, not the takeaway pizza they’d ordered on their first night in the house they’d bought together,nor the exchanging of contracts or signing of the mortgage . . .
Her home life had been comfortable, convenient, steady, reassuring . . . There had been consolidation, but not much adventure. Not since she’d jacked in her job and gone off travelling just after the millennium, spurred on by Tina’s insistence that she should take control of her life and do something for herself. And look how that had turned out!
Oh God, what had she been thinking, she’d been such a fool – leaving Heathrow for Auckland after the goodbye kiss with Richard, feeling so pleased with herself, setting off to visit her brother and spend a couple of months sightseeing on her own. And what had she gone and done? On the other side of the world, she had allowed herself to be someone else. To be with someone else.
One night only, in a
Similar Books
