Odd Socks (2 page)

‘I can't,' she wails, ‘I just
can't
!'

‘I know!' Stephen says happily. ‘The hot water is for a cup of tea!
That's
what we all need – a nice, relaxing cup of tea!'

‘Do you know what you can do with your freaking tea?' gasps Bronte, staring at Stephen with a look straight out of
The Twilight Zone
. ‘You can –'

‘And what are the towels for then, Einstein?' I interrupt quickly. ‘A soothing facial, perhaps?'

‘No! A
bath
. The towels are for a bath. We need to get her in a bath!'

‘Actually,' I say, looking at my pristine carpet thoughtfully, ‘perhaps we
could
move her somewhere more comfy till the ambulance arrives. What about it, Bronte?'

‘I'm
not
moving,' pants Bronte in agitation. ‘Mum – try Nick again! Please!'

‘Okay then.' I squeeze her hand soothingly. ‘I'll try him in a minute. But first I'll get those towels and pop them under you.'

‘
That's
what they're for!' Stephen exclaims with a grin of relief. ‘Of
course
!'

‘Mum – god! God! God!' Bronte grabs my hand again and arches herself forwards in pain. ‘GOODD!'

‘Bronte, hang on. You're doing great, just hang in there.'

‘Mum! Get it OUT! Get it
OUT
!'

‘The ambulance will be here soon,' I say with a confidence I'm far from feeling, ‘and then they'll get it out for you. And now I'll just grab those towels. Stephen, you're in charge.'

‘Okay.' Stephen takes a deep breath, pushes his shoulders back and squats next to Bronte again. ‘I know! You need to
breathe
, schnooks, just breathe. That's it.'

I leave the room as Schnooks replies with a few well-chosen obscenities. But by the time I return with an armful of towels, Stephen has her breathing rhythmically and relatively calmly. I'm impressed. I dump the towels on the floor and sit myself down near Bronte's head, taking hold of her hand again and stroking her forehead. It's starting to warm up down here, and my toes are feeling less like miniature Popsicles. We sit like that for a few minutes, in relative peace, until the next contraction hits. And this one's a doozy. Stephen and I look at each other in concern as Bronte's entire body goes stiff and, with her shoulders straining back, she leans forwards and emits a long, low grunt of pain.

‘Remember to breathe, love!' Stephen urges as he pats her left leg. ‘Just breathe!'

‘But it's
coming
– NOW! It is, it is!' Bronte puffs rapidly and then, as the apex of pain passes, she clutches my dressing-gown sleeve frantically. ‘It really is! Have a look – have a look!'

‘Really?' I say doubtfully as I glance down at her tracksuit-encased legs. ‘You're sure? Why don't I just ring the ambulance again and see what's keeping them?'

‘HAVE A
LOOK
!'

‘All right then. Hmm . . .' I gingerly take hold of the waistband of her tracksuit pants and begin to peel them slowly back over her extended belly. But before I can continue with my reluctant stripping, Bronte hefts herself up and, with one impatiently fluid movement, sheds herself not only of tracksuit pants, but knickers as well. And there she is, my daughter, clad only in a tracksuit top with her legs wide apart and knees up – and with more of her nether regions on display than I've seen for many a year.

‘
Yech!
' says Stephen, as he stops patting her leg and goes pale once more.

‘Now –
LOOK
!' Bronte demands hoarsely.

Accepting the inevitable, I crawl slowly down to where her legs are bent and spread. I
really
don't want to do this – I didn't think it was all that cute when she was a baby, let alone now, two decades later. I tuck my hair behind my ears and take a deep breath to steel myself. Then, grimacing, I lean over and unenthusiastically peek up between her legs.

‘Oh, my lord!' shrieks Stephen, breathing down my neck. ‘Oh, my dear sweet lord!'

‘What is it?' Bronte asks in panic between pants. ‘What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong!'

‘Oh – nothing, nothing,' I answer quickly as I grab a knee and peer in for a closer look. I'm actually trying to work out
exactly what I'm seeing here, because it's not nothing – not at all. There is definitely
something
happening down here and I'm pretty sure it's exactly the something I was hoping wouldn't be happening. At least, not until the ambulance got here.

‘
Teresa!
' Stephen whispers loudly in my ear. ‘Teresa! That's not
normal
, is it? Has she always had that? It looks like a growth, or is it a genital defect? Oh, my
lord
, it's revolting.'

‘Will you
go
and hold her hand,' I hiss violently at him. ‘Go on – shoo!'

‘It's
not
nothing!' Bronte is staring down between her raised knees straight at Stephen, and has easily read his horrified expression. ‘
Mum!
What is it? What's wrong?'

‘Absolutely nothing, schnooks,' replies Stephen, bobbing up with a cheerful look at Bronte before hunching back down and staring once more at the display with a disgusted grimace. ‘Teresa! Is it a tumour? And how on
earth
is the poor little baby going to get past?'

‘It's not a tumour, you dingbat!' I say as I try frantically to decide what to do next. ‘It's the baby's
head
!'

‘MUM!'

‘It's fine, Bronte. I'm sure the baby's just fine.' I look at Bronte reassuringly, with a confident smile plastered on. ‘You just concentrate on your breathing. In – two, three. Out – two, three.'

‘There
is
something wrong! I
know
there's something wrong! I want
Nick
!' Bronte wails as she flops back down and starts to tense up once more. Her fists clench and drum on the carpet as another contraction begins its relentless climb. Then her back arches and she groans as her whole body goes stiff again.

‘It's okay, it's okay.' I pat her on the knee supportively. ‘You're doing fine.'

‘Aaaaaa
uuh
!'

And then something really amazing happens. As she arches and groans, I grab her other knee for extra support and lean forwards to get a better look at the action down under. Which is when I suddenly realise with a shock that there's movement at the station. Towards me. And if I don't put a halt to these proceedings right
now
, within minutes the miracle of birth is going to be played out virtually in my lap.

‘Oh, heavens above!' Stephen grabs hold of my shoulder and leans across my back for a better look. ‘It's
just
like that
Alien
movie!'

‘Stop pushing!' I shriek at my daughter. ‘Stop pushing –
at once
!'

‘I. Can't,' grunts Bronte in response.

‘You
have
to!' I stare wildly at her while I try to shrug Stephen off me. ‘It's coming out! And it's coming out
now
!'

‘Nn
noooo
!' But she
does
stop pushing for a minute and instead sits halfway up and glares at me, beads of sweat standing out wetly across her forehead. ‘And
stop
telling me what to do! You're
always
telling me what to do! I hate it! JUST STOP IT! AND LET GO OF MY FREAKING KNEES RIGHT BLOODY
NOW
!'

‘What?' I stare at her in amazement, momentarily distracted because she has never,
never
spoken to me like that before. Where on earth did it come from? But Bronte doesn't answer; instead, she flops backwards and, with her face going an extremely unbecoming shade of vermilion, starts groaning loudly as she bears down again.

‘Aaaah! Aaaaa
uuuhhhh
!'

‘Stephen! Get
off
me! And, quick, grab those towels!' I shout with panic. ‘Bronte, I said
stop
! Stop pushing!'

But this time there is no response. Abusive or otherwise. In fact, she appears totally oblivious to me. Instead, with her head thrown back and face clenched up in pain, she is making loud
guttural grunting noises. I glance across at Stephen for some support but he has reeled back onto his knees and is swaying backwards and forwards, holding one hand to his head and breathing almost as rapidly as Bronte. I reach across and grab his arm but he looks straight past me, takes one more glance at the crowning head and then, turning as white as my dressing-gown, collapses gracefully onto the carpet in a dead faint. Right on top of the pile of towels. I stare at him in disgust but, apart from his chest rising and falling rhythmically, he doesn't move. I'm on my own.

Tucking my hair back behind my ears, I look at Bronte. The exertion she is going through has made the veins in her neck stand out in bold relief, and her fists have begun drumming against the carpet again. Obviously it's pointless appealing to her better nature by begging her to stop pushing, so I let go of her quivering knees and dive back between her legs. And, boy, is there action aplenty happening down there.

Stephen's tumour is
definitely
a baby's head, and a not particularly clean baby's head at that. And it's also just about the whole way out. Having no real idea of what to do now, I flutter my hands about for a few seconds like some dimwit Victorian heroine before deciding the best place for them is in the catcher's position. Sure enough, as soon as I get them cupped, the head slithers all the way out, and twists around slowly like something out of
The Exorcist.
I cradle it in my hands and mutter a series of pleas to anyone who might be up above to help me.

Luckily, heavenly intervention appears unnecessary. With frantic fist-drumming and an undulating bellow that echoes painfully through her body, Bronte bears down one last time and the head is followed (fortunately) by shoulders, arms, a body, and a pair of legs. No penis. In other words, a complete baby girl. In my hands.

I freeze in position. On my knees, between Bronte's knees, with my hands cradled around the marbled-red body of a newborn baby whose umbilical cord still pulsates up into the body of her mother. My daughter.

‘Hell,' I breathe as I stare at the baby dumbfounded. ‘Flaming hell.'

‘Mum?
Mum?
' Bronte struggles to raise herself onto her elbows to see what's going on. ‘Is it the baby? Is it all right? Why can't I hear it crying?'

‘Crying?' I repeat stupidly, still staring at the tiny newborn who, just at that moment, obligingly stretches out an impossibly small mouth and begins mewling piteously. Two little eyes screw themselves closed as two little fists clench and unclench with each wavering cry.

‘Oh, Mum! What is it?' Bronte has raised herself almost all the way to a sitting position and is staring rapturously at her newborn. ‘Can I have it? Please?'

‘Of course, of course.' With extreme care I pass the tiny, bleating scrap of humanity to her mother. ‘Bronte – she's beautiful. A beautiful little girl.'

‘Oh, a girl,' breathes Bronte, gazing down at her daughter with instant adoration. ‘Oh, I
so
wanted a girl. Hello there, darling.'

With a stupid smile, I wipe my hands on my dressing-gown as I watch the little tableau before me for a few minutes. Bronte continues to mutter welcoming inanities to the baby, who has ceased crying and instead is gazing up at her mother with an intensely interested expression on her scrunched-up little face. Next to them, Stephen is lying on the floor curled up in the foetal position on the towels, snoring quietly.

I can't believe I just delivered a baby. Me! Still grinning, I arrange the umbilical cord a little more neatly across Bronte's belly and suddenly realise my knees are very wet. I get up and
my dressing-gown immediately sticks to my legs because it, too, is absolutely soaking. And flecked with stuff that I don't even want to think about. Slowly, I look down at my beautiful carpet and realise that, sure enough, it's in a similar condition to my dressing-gown. Just as I'm flexing my bare toes and listening to the dampish squelch they make, the doorbell rings.

I roll the carpet into the back of my mind, leap nimbly out of the damp patch, and then walk over to the front door with my dressing-gown slapping itself wetly against my shins as I go. Once there, I flick on the outside light, open the door wide and there stand, according to their name-badges, Bill and Sven – the ambulance men. Complete with a large medical satchel and a stretcher on wheels. Better late than never, I suppose.

‘Come in,' I say cheerfully as I usher them inside and close the door before the temperature drops too dramatically. ‘You're just in time.'

‘Excellent!' declares Bill, a short white-haired gentleman who looks like retirement should have been a distant memory. ‘I believe you're in labour, madam? Can you tell us how far apart the contractions are?'

‘What?'

Sven, a blonde who is about half the age and twice the height of his partner – and a
lot
easier on the eye – puts his hand solicitously under my elbow and attempts to usher me towards the stretcher. Naturally, I resist strenuously.

‘It's not me!' I protest as I shake off his hand with some difficulty, smoothing my dressing-gown over my stomach to emphasise my point. ‘It's my daughter –
she's
just had a baby!'

‘In that case,' says Bill, changing in an instant from considerate and fatherly to dour and disapproving, ‘could you please adjust your clothing. Your left breast is exposed.'

I look down and, sure enough, it is. I cover it quickly and
then look up at them with some embarrassment, but Sven grins and gives me a huge wink. After some initial surprise, I return the wink coquettishly. After all, there's nothing like a little innocent flirtation to add a layer of fun to any situation. Bill clears his throat noisily and I glance across at him. The layer of fun immediately evaporates.