Time, on the other hand, seemed to stand still for Shirley. She had to hold up her own bump when she was walking now, because it felt so heavy. She was always hungry but her stomach was squashed flat against her ribs and she could only eat tiny meals. Nobody would get in the lift with her at the dole office, in case the doors got stuck and she went into labour. Shirley finally felt unable to travel to work on the bus any more, when she was nearly squashed under a couple of strapping Australian tourists wearing backpacks, and she reluctantly took maternity leave. She lay on the sofa for most of the day, eating crisps and watching daytime television. (She liked the mouth-watering cookery slots best of all. Shirley couldn’t be bothered to cook anything herself, but it was still very pleasant to watch other people doing it. It was relaxing and harmless.) She realized that her emotions were in tatters. She cared about everyone and everything in the world. The listeners phoning in to the TV agony aunts, with their personal problems, brought tears to her eyes, where she would previously have scoffed at their hopelessness.
‘Oh, you poor creature,’ she would say to the screen, ‘dump that heart-scald like a hot tin bucket!’ Or something like that. ‘Why can’t you see that this relationship is going nowhere?’ Television presenters became her closest friends, like another set of parents almost. (Sane and normal parents.) She felt quite desolate when the programmes came to an end, each lunchtime. The signing-off music made her heart plummet all the way down to the floorboards. The rest of the day stretched ahead of her like a prison sentence. She hated the soaps that were on in the afternoons. They bored her. All the girls were far too pretty.
She longed to tidy the flat but couldn’t summon up the energy to even open the curtains. She thought that their home wouldn’t look so awful if it was painted white and had a few bright prints hanging on the walls, but unless some decorators from a makeover show came round and did it for her, it would never be done.
‘I’m a mere pod. A helpless host,’ she said to the hideous wallpaper one day. ‘My life is in limbo until this baby is born. What a stupid, stupid,
stupid
way to reproduce! God, what were you thinking of? Why can’t we just lay an egg and keep it in the airing cupboard for nine months? What is the
point
of all this stretched skin and aching tiredness and greasy hair?’ Then, she was sorry. At least she had the luxury of lying about while her entire body was drained of nutrients and calcium and whatever else the baby needed. Some poor women had to work right up to labour, and immediately afterwards too. In some countries, the women had to go on working on the land, with newborn babies tied to their backs. She remembered her mother’s words of comfort in times of trouble:
There’s always someone worse off than yourself
. Somehow, it wasn’t very comforting to Shirley to know that another person might be suffering more than she was.
Declan brought home flowers some days, small pink rosebuds and white daisies; or a parcel of breast of chicken and chips from the restaurant, all wrapped up in silver foil. Her mother called in too, to wash the dishes and criticize the decor. Marion and Eddy kept their distance, for the sake of politeness. But they told her to call them any time of the day or night, if she required any help at all. And Marion bought her some lovely pyjamas to wear in the hospital. And a brand-new dressing gown and slippers. And of course, Kate called in twice a week, just to be nosy. And to marvel over Shirley in her shabby flat with the worn carpets; such a difference to her own modern show-home.
She couldn’t wait to feel the first pangs of labour, Shirley said. She was so bored she thought she might develop some psychiatric problems, just to pass the time. She might start phoning radio stations and chatting about current affairs. The sooner she went into labour, the sooner the birth would be over.
‘Are you going back to work, after?’ Kate wanted to know.
‘Well, that’s easy,’ said Shirley. ‘My wages wouldn’t cover the cost of a nursery, so I’m giving up work.’
‘Won’t you be bored to death?’
‘No. Not at all. We’re going to go for long walks, the baby and me. And bake biscuits, and read library books and visit Mum and Dad, and lots of things.’
‘Sounds fascinating. Why don’t you take in another couple of kids, and make some money child-minding?’
‘Holy smoke, Kate! Let me get used to my own baby first, before you plan out my life’s work. I’m tired, you know?’
‘You’d want to get out of this dump, Shirley. The carpet alone would be enough for me. It’s filthy.’
‘It’s just old. You always did have a thing about carpets.’
‘Why don’t you let your in-laws help with a mortgage?’
‘It wouldn’t be right. They have other children to support.’
‘Why don’t you sell the ballroom?’
‘Why do you ask so many questions?’
‘Well, why don’t you? I don’t know why you hang around here, when you don’t have to. That’s all.’
‘At the moment, I haven’t the energy to cut my own toenails, Kate. I don’t suppose you’d oblige me?’
‘Don’t even think about it, Shirley. Get your fantastic husband to do it. Mr Oh-So-Wonderful.’
‘Ouch! That sounds like jealousy to me. Is there a wee problem in Paradise?’
‘There is not.’
‘Are you sure? You can tell me if there is.’
‘Absolutely nothing wrong at all.’
But there was. Kate was still feeling anxious. And she had no idea why. But she’d rather die in agony than admit it to Shirley. Kate said cheerio to her sister, and went home to have a long soak in her luxury corner bath with gold-plated taps.
Shirley was munching her way through a six-pack of salt and vinegar crisps late one Friday night, when she felt the first sudden small contraction. A small nip that made her gasp. Just a few seconds long, she noted. Ha! Easy! She was delighted that it didn’t seem to hurt very much at all. It was just like a boring old period cramp, but slightly more urgent. Good on those lucky crystals, harnessing the hidden power of the mind to resist pain. And they’d only cost her two pounds in a health-food shop! She felt suddenly at one with her ancient female ancestors – mysterious and strong as their warrior-husbands. Giving birth (without pain relief) on a bed of wet granite! Pain and hardship were bread and butter to the Celts. That was why the Irish were the toughest people on the planet. All the weakness had been bred out of them, down through the centuries.
She confidently finished the crisps, licked her salty fingers, had a quick shower, changed into the new pyjamas and then told Declan to fetch her hospital bag from the bedroom.
‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘The baby’s not due for another week.’
‘I’m fairly sure I felt a contraction. We’ll wait and see is there another one. Will we?’ She sat down beside him.
‘Yes. And if there is one, we’ll go straight to the hospital. Okay? There’s plenty of petrol in the car.’ He brought the bag of night-clothes and toiletries from the bedroom and began to switch off the lights in the flat and to blow out Shirley’s scented candles and incense sticks. Shirley shifted her weight on the sofa and then sat up straight.
‘Oh.
Oh!
There’s another one. Stronger than the last one. Should we be timing this? I can’t remember.’
‘Are you sure it was a contraction, Shirley? Could it be all the crisps you’ve eaten, giving you cramps? There was only fifteen minutes between those pains.’
‘I can’t explain it to you, Declan. But I just know the baby’s coming. I feel really weird, and kind of motherly.’
‘Okay. Come on, then. We’ll go to the hospital. It can’t do any harm. I’ll just call Mr Kelly and tell him we’re on our way.’
Mr
Kelly was Marion’s consultant and he’d been more than happy to see Shirley too, throughout her pregnancy. (Shirley knew now that you didn’t call consultants
doctor
.) For once in her life, she didn’t mind that rich people could afford to have consultant surgeons on standby like this. Not that she’d need him, of course. She was determined to give birth naturally, all by herself. If it was good enough for other women, for thousands of years, it was good enough for Shirley Winters. She was glad it was dark when she went out into the yard in her pyjamas and dressing gown, though. What would the Celts think of her? A pink flannel dressing gown wasn’t the same as a hand-woven cloak, pinned with a golden brooch the size of a bin lid.
‘Are you sure you won’t get dressed, Shirley?’ Declan wanted to know. ‘What if it’s a false alarm? You’ll feel daft coming home again.’
‘No, these PJs are very comfortable,’ said Shirley. ‘And they’re nice and new. And besides, after the baby is born, I’ll be all ready for bed.’
When they were in the car, Shirley had another pain. This time, it took her breath away, such was the intensity of it. She began to worry, but she didn’t tell her husband how concerned she was. She was the brave one after all, the no-nonsense Earth Mother. Kate was the one who caused a scene if they ran out of HP sauce or coconut hair conditioner. The Moon Goddess had brought Declan to her, and she would see their first child born safely too. She closed her eyes and began to chant some soothing words. Declan was suddenly nervous as he backed the car out of the yard. He hadn’t started his medical training yet but he knew it wasn’t routine to go into labour so quickly. He prayed that the baby wasn’t in distress. He was barely able to remember how to drive the car. It took four turns of the key in the ignition before the engine could be coaxed into life. Then he forgot to check his rear-view mirror and knocked over three empty bins. They rolled down the drive and made a noise like thunder when they crashed into the gateposts. His nerves were in shreds as he ran down to move them out of the way. Shirley was moaning softly when he got back. She wouldn’t admit to being in pain, but her face was deathly white under the street lights. Declan kept jamming the gears and jumping on the brakes at the traffic lights. Every light seemed to be red. ‘Come on,’ he urged them. ‘Come on! Go green! Please, God, let there not be a broken-down lorry in the way, tonight of all nights.’
When they arrived in the maternity unit car park, half an hour later, Shirley was in tears. The chants hadn’t worked and she’d dropped her lucky crystals in the car. And she couldn’t pick them up because she couldn’t bend over, or even see past her bump to the car floor. Declan was sick with worry. He was afraid to look at his watch. The contractions were becoming longer and much more powerful. In fact, each pain had barely faded away before the next one began to gather strength. Shirley was holding her breath for the entire length of each contraction, contrary to the advice of the pre-natal classes.
‘You’ve got to breathe,’ he told her.
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘It hurts more when I breathe.’
‘Little tiny breaths. Please, Shirley. You’ll get dizzy otherwise. Too little oxygen is as bad as too much. Pant like a dog. Come on.
Aha, aha, aha!
’
‘I can’t.’
‘Shirley! Please.
Breathe
.’
‘All right!
Aha!
OH! It hurts!’ They abandoned the car at the door and went inside. The foyer was very warm and dimly lit and smelt of furniture wax and floor polish. There was no one else waiting at the reception desk.
A nurse wrote down their details. Shirley wanted to lie down under a warm blanket and go to sleep. Preferably for a week. Declan wanted a fleet of expert medical staff to appear at the desk and whisk Shirley away to safety. He was hopping with impatience. The nurse was maddeningly calm.
‘First baby, is it?’ she said, politely.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you’re going to be here all night – if your contractions have only started. Can take a long time with first babies.’
‘Please,’ begged Declan, ‘the contractions are very close together. And she’s not breathing enough. I’d like her to be seen now.’
‘We’re very busy tonight. All the suites are occupied. I’ll see what I can do. Please take a seat.’
‘Look, I don’t want to sound like a snobby git, but my wife is a private patient of Mr Kelly’s, and he said he would see us as soon as we arrived.’
‘Mr Kelly isn’t on duty tonight, I’m afraid, Mr Greenwood.’
‘He’s on his way in. We’ve already called him. He’s a family friend.’
‘I see. Well, follow me. I’ll see if I can fit you in somewhere, but this is probably unnecessary.’ Snobby git is right, the nurse thought. But she didn’t dare to offend a friend of the consultant. The three of them walked slowly down a long, shiny corridor. They could hear someone shouting,
‘Push!’
and something metal crashing to the ground. Declan closed his eyes with sheer terror. Just then, Shirley doubled over with a pain so huge she thought someone had stabbed her in the back with an axe. She felt her back, in fear. Then, she turned round, very slowly. She was sure she’d see a seven-foot-tall Viking standing there in full battle regalia and a sheepskin hat. Her knees seemed to forget how to hold her up. She knelt down on the floor and stubbornly held her breath until both Declan and the nurse were begging her to breathe gently and calm down. Her face was rigid with shock.
‘It’s unbelievable,’ she gasped. ‘It just gets worse and worse and worse, and then it eases off, and then it comes back again without waiting for a rest. Why isn’t there a…
rest
? I thought there’d be a rest between…
pains
…’
‘Are you sure this began only a short while ago?’ The nurse was now as worried as Declan but she didn’t show it. She showed Shirley into a cubicle and carried out a swift internal examination. ‘You’re about four centimetres,’ she said quickly.
‘Four what?’ cried Shirley, still squirming with embarrassment. Did that nurse just have her hand
inside
her body or was she hallucinating? Mr Kelly hadn’t done that. With the scanner showing him everything, he hadn’t needed to.
‘Dilated. Your cervix is about four centimetres open.’
‘Right! How many does it have to be open?’
‘Ten.’
‘Oh, my God! No way! How long will that take?’
‘It’s okay, pet. Look, I’ll get you sorted with some painkillers, and gas and air? Just a moment, I’ll have to break your waters.’