Birth in Suburbia, Carol Falaki [electronic reader .TXT] 📗

“He died at birth, Debbie. He would be thirty-seven now. His birthday is in April, and my mum still celebrates it. Hamish, his name was Hamish and he was her first baby. She had a terrible time, although she won’t talk about it, never has, so I’m not sure exactly what happened. My mum is frightened that the same thing that happened to her will happen to me. She can’t tell me that, she has spoken to Nigel, but she
doesn’t want to frighten me; instead she has gone out of her way to keep busy and distracted, hence the tele-shopping, and Major William.”
“I didn’t realise,” Debbie said. “I’ve never seen a photo of Hamish, do you have one?”
“No, Mum never saw him. They took him away.”
“Was there something wrong with him?”
“They told Mum he was perfect, but you know, it was different then. They used to think they were protecting women, and the mothers wouldn’t be able to handle it, but I think it just made it worse. She still wonders what he looked like. If she had a memory of his face I think it would have been easier for her. Instead she was left with nothing.”
“The poor thing,” Debbie said, “It must have been awful for her. I just can’t … don’t want to imagine it. She’ll be fine, won’t she, once you have had your baby?”
“Yes, I’m sure she will. I think my being pregnant has brought it all back for her, what she is doing now, all that other stuff, it’s just an escape.” Helen said. “This Major person, I’ll ring her on her mobile while they’re having lunch, mum and him, just to check everything’s okay. Meanwhile, don’t you get upset on your own Debs. Ring me anytime.” They hugged and parted. Waving Helen goodbye Debbie called after her,
“Promise to ring me if you feel fed up? It works both ways.”
It wasn’t until she walked up the path and the
familiar unspoken, sickening ache returned to her stomach Debbie realised she had not thought about Sean during her visit to Anne.


Chapter five

Helen


Nigel was home. Helen walked in to the welcome atmosphere of an affectionate cuddle in a warm kitchen diffused with the smell of hot chocolate and toast. She sat at the kitchen table and bent awkwardly to stroke their cat, Mr Tibbs, who wrapped his flexible body around her legs purring loudly. When Helen told Nigel what her mum was up to, Nigel was reassuring,
“She’s very well able to look after herself. Let her have a bit of fun, darling. I’m sure this Major bloke will be okay. I mean, your mother is hardly likely to be a victim of date rape, and she’s more likely to be bored to death than murdered. All this stuff she’s doing, well, it’s her way of coping, and of taking her mind off the imminent arrival of our baby. You know she’s worried sick about it.”
“I know.”
He agreed to dig the plants in for Anne at the weekend with one proviso. “If our little soccer star arrives before the weekend she’s not on. I hope your mum realises that.”
Helen nodded. “Chance would be a fine thing love,” she said patting her stomach. “Not even a twinge.” Helen felt a pang of guilt. Secretly she knew that their ‘soccer star’ was probably a girl, but she couldn’t tell Nigel. He was unaware that a couple of weeks earlier, during a scan to confirm their baby’s position, Helen had been unable to resist when asked if she wanted to know the sex of her baby. She hated to keep anything from him but they had agreed at the beginning of her pregnancy to keep the sex of their baby a surprise for the day. Her guilt was compounded by the way he had his heart set on a boy. She consoled herself with the knowledge that the scan is not always right. She said to him: “Girls can play football too.”
Nigel smiled. “I know love, but not as well as boys.” He kissed her forehead tenderly, as if to seal her thoughts.
“Girls can do lots of things,” she said, smiling.
Helen saw the familiar twinkle in his eye, his train of thought successfully distracted, so she was not surprised when, later, they lay spooned together in bed and with his arms around her neck and belly, he whispered to her, “You know I am going to dig those plants in for your mum at the weekend darling?”
Helen murmured sleepily, aware of the closeness of his body.
“Did I hear you mention a small reward?” Nigel whispered. She nestled into him; her guilt tempered for
the moment. He was a gentle and thoughtful lover but for Helen the imminent birth of their baby could never be far from mind.
“Perhaps it will help get things going,” came into her thoughts, like an uninvited but welcome guest. She couldn’t help remembering what she had read - prostaglandin found on the head of sperm can help ripen the cervix, soften it ready for labour, if the time is right.
Later Helen lay awake, listening to Nigel’s easy snoring, and watching the patterns of light on the bedroom wall as the breeze engaged the curtains. She rested her hand on her belly. She did this often lately, especially when she was desperately tired but unable to sleep; when there were too many things to think about. Her baby’s irregular assaults on her abdominal wall did nothing to help, and, lo and behold, her bladder felt full again.
“Hello Chloe,” she whispered to the infant child inside. Helen imagined her baby’s eyelashes, her tiny fingers and toes, her toenails, her mouth; a tear came to Helen’s eye. She accepted the tear, as she accepted everything. It was part of the covenant of pregnancy.
Her baby was living and growing in her own miraculous universe, here inside her, so close and yet strangely unreal. She turned and watched the clock until sleep came to her at last.


Chapter Six

Liz


“Do you miss London? Wellonsey must be so bloody boring after London,” Chrissy asked when she telephoned Liz to invite her to the barbecue on Saturday. Her answer was no.
“Sometimes London is too much,” Liz told her, “Like a war zone. If you’re not advancing you’re retreating. Even in the middle of the night there’s no peace. You lie in your bed and you can still hear the traffic swarming round the city, even from the outer limits, zone four, ten miles from the city centre.” Liz had no plans to move back to London. She hoped to continue with her career. She had kept in touch with her previous employer and would free-lance. Liz had thought she might ‘expand’ into costume design for maternity wear. She was fine here at her mum and dad’s for now.
Sleep did not come easily to Liz. There were questions that kept her awake at night. Had she really known Jack? How could she ever trust anyone again?
Was her baby going to grow up without a father? How could she manage on her own?
Liz had been with Jack for five years. He was not easy to live with, moody and deep, with an unpredictable temper, usually brought on by alcohol. His mood could change in a matter of moments triggered by, what were from Liz, innocent remarks. His interpretation of situations was often incomprehensible or skewed.
He knew how to upset her using secrets she had told him during their most intimate moments. Private, secret things became weapons. Escape became her one defence. He knew her well and used her willingness to forgive and to forget, her ability to see good in everyone. To Jack this was a weakness, something to take advantage of. He called Liz naive and gullible, among other things.
She realised after a few months of being with him that living with Jack was like living with two different people.
Jack was clever enough to hide the darker side of his nature from the outside world. To others, with the exception of her boss Cathy, who had intuitively sensed his true nature, he was ‘a good laugh’, clever, indulgent, even charismatic, and that was how Liz saw him at first. The good Jack. The bad Jack was manipulative and cruel.
During the later part of their relationship he had enjoyed his freedom, going out to the pub,
meeting the lads, business meetings - whatever. He always had ‘important’ things to do. Liz was not allowed to question his movements, but she had to explain all of hers to him.
He didn’t like her seeing her friends and, over time, Liz had become more and more isolated; she had even changed the style of clothes she wore; it made life easier not to provoke him. Her work took her out of their home, which at times had begun to feel like a prison.
Jack appeared to sense when she was unsettled and considering leaving him. She never had to say it. At these times he would become loving, and sometimes morbid, telling her how he could never live without her.
“I want to be buried with you, Liz. You are the only one who has ever understood me.” Crap, all of it.
Now she had escaped him her perspective had changed. She could see what he was, and she felt used; worse than that she felt incredibly stupid. Why had she stayed with him for so long?
Here, in the comfort and peace of her old bedroom, at home, she couldn’t understand it. She had loved him, but his love and his approval were like the end of a rainbow. The more you chased it the further away it went.
He had maintained his power over her by undermining her confidence, convincing her she would
never find anyone else and she couldn’t survive without him.
“Have you put weight on?”
“I liked your hair better before.”
“That colleague of yours, Sandra, she’s very friendly, does she work out?” She could see through his method so clearly now, now she had the confidence to look. The silver was off the mirror; the glass was clear. He was manipulate and selfish. He wanted her to feel insecure.
Often they would go to his favourite place to eat, a small Chinese restaurant close to where they lived. And this is how it would go.
The evening would start with pleasant conversation, good food, and romantic comments all washed down with cheap wine and swallowed like water in the desert, but followed by: “You fucking bitch, you know I hate it