I closed my eyes. I couldn’t remember anything that had happened except the sudden pain and the knowledge I had to get to hospital.
“When you came in, your labour was established, and your baby was in distress. Your womb had torn so you had to have a caesarean under general anaesthetic. The doctor will explain more when she sees you, but your body’s been through an intense ordeal, which is why it’s taken you some time to come around. You’ll start to remember more, but give yourself time. A general anaesthetic can be quite debilitating.”
“Why is he in intensive care? What’s wrong with him?”
The nurse put her hands on mine. I felt her roughened fingers stroking my wrist. “Your uterus was badly ripped. It’s unusual, especially with first births, but it happens. That’s why you went into labour early. We can cope with quite early labours these days, but your baby was in distress and needs a bit of help. He’s being well looked after, so you should try to rest now.”
I listened to the flip, flip, flip of her departure and tried to think of nothing.
Later still, I was woken. It was the same nurse, moving briskly, and I noticed her dark hair was tinted with pink tips. The room was bright with morning sunshine.
“Are you hungry?” She had a Suffolk voice, a local accent, and it comforted me. I shook my head; it wasn’t food I needed. “You really should eat, you know.” She emptied the half drunk water back into the jug and picked it up. “I’ll just be a sec. I’ll get you some more water.”
When she was gone I saw that I was in a room on my own, but that through the open door, opposite the desk, was a long ward. I could hear talking and the squeaking wheels of a trolley.
The nurse returned. “Are you sure you won’t eat? Shall we try?” She had a plate of buttered toast in her hand, but I shook my head; if I ate I’d be sick. She seemed to consider what to say, chewed her lip, then put down the toast. “You must be very worried, but he really is in good hands.”
Tears drowned my vision. The pain across my stomach tightened. I couldn’t bear to hear those words again. Sobbing, half aware of her placing a firm arm around my shoulders, I heard her whisper over and over again, “it’s okay, it’s okay.”
Distraught as I was, I still recognised the lie.
Drifting in and out of sleep I wasn’t aware of time passing. The pain from the caesarean had eased and I had been given pills in a small plastic cup. Anti-depressants maybe. Or morphine. Either way, they dulled the pain and my face was dry, tearless. The smell of school dinners and a plate of greyish meat and potatoes arrived. My stomach contracted but I managed to push some of the gravy around and eventually tasted some. It was unpleasant but my mouth salivated anyway, taste buds urging me on after too long without nutrition. It amazed me that my body wanted to survive, even when it was damaged.
I knew I’d done well when the nurse, the one from the night before with the purple eyeliner and pink-tipped hair, took the plate and rewarded me with an indulgent smile. “There now. You must be feeling better.”
On her badge was the name: Nurse Hall.
Once my tray was removed I had a visitor. Not a nurse; this woman wore a white coat, unbuttoned to reveal a smart suit beneath, and I couldn’t think why anyone would dress like that in a hospital. Her lipstick matched the maroon of her shirt, although her nails were cut short and bare of varnish.
I watched her take out some papers from her briefcase and remove the top off a pen.
“I’m Doctor Marion Cross. Did the nurse tell you I was coming?”
I shook my head.
“I’m here to talk to you about your son.”
Oh God, I thought, simultaneously desperate to hear and dreading what she was about to say.
“He’s in a critical condition, but stable.”
So my baby was clinging to life. Dr Cross brought her chair closer to the bed.
“You went into early labour because your womb had ruptured. The thickest part of the uterus wall had torn, and you were haemorrhaging. We performed an emergency caesarean, but your baby was deprived of oxygen when your womb ruptured.”
“Will he die?”
“What happened to you was a rare occurrence, but rupture can be disastrous for both mother and child. About one in 20 babies don’t survive.”
I closed my eyes. My stomach ached.
“But he’s stable, and we have every hope he’ll be fine. Miss Wilks, I’m afraid your uterus was not repairable.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were bleeding extensively. An emergency hysterectomy had to be performed. I’m so sorry.”
No womb. No more babies. The full force of this information hit me so hard I struggled to breathe.
“The drip in your arm is providing you with antibiotics, to make sure you don’t catch any infections. But the wound looks to be healing.”
“Can I see him?” I gasped.
Dr Cross nodded. “Of course. You can be taken to the ward in a wheelchair, and you need to be very gentle with yourself. Both you and your baby have been through a terrible ordeal. I should warn you, he looks fragile. Try to express some milk. Breast milk is far better for him than formula, and it will help you to feel involved in his recovery.”
Recovery. The word was a talisman.
“He’s small, and he needs help. His birth was problematic, and we won’t be able to assess any impairment just yet, but he’s a fighter. His dad has already seen him; would you like us to call your partner to say you’re awake?”
But it wasn’t you I wanted.
Nurse Hall took me down to intensive care in a wheelchair. I didn’t speak on our way there. There was nothing she could say that would help, but she chatted anyway, telling me of the dog she just bought, and how it pissed on her bed when she was at work. When we arrived at the unit she wheeled me to a sink, and we both washed our hands. Then she pushed me to the incubator.
Inside was my baby boy. He didn’t look like the baby I’d imagined. He wasn’t pink and fat. He looked so tiny, so thin. The bones on his face too clearly defined. His eyes were closed. He was pale, almost blue. From his nostril a small tube was taped to the side of his face. My heart pounded, my breathing strained.
“He’s so small.” I whispered.
“Yes he is. But babies are amazing, you know. They’re tougher than they look.” She put her hand on my shoulder, leaned forward and lifted the card attached to the incubator. “He’s just over four pounds, he needs to gain weight. How do you feel about expressing your milk?” She pointed to a big machine in the corner with a hose attached to a large suction cup, looking like something that belonged in a cow shed rather than a hospital. “Would you like to do it now? The sooner the better, before your supply dwindles. Then you can feed him.”
The machine was named Daisy, a reference to the fact that it reduced the woman to cow status. I was still in the wheelchair, so Nurse Hall brought it to me. She lifted my gown, exposing my breasts, and placed a plastic cone over each breast in turn to suck out my milk. I hadn’t read about breastfeeding yet – I thought I had plenty of time – but Nurse Hall talked to me throughout. “Keep looking at your son, it will help to stimulate the supply. That’s it, good girl.”
I focused on my baby while being milked. Not a baby at my breast, but a plastic suction cup.
“The substance you’re producing now is called colostrum. See how yellow it is? It’s very rich, and gives your baby just what he needs. He only needs a small amount – his stomach is only as big as a grape.” I watched her pour the milk in a syringe. “He’s being fed naso-gastrically at the moment, to give him a rest, but it would be good to progress him to a bottle when he’s stronger. He’s too weak to feed from the breast just yet, but we’ll try him soon.”
She lifted my son from the heated incubator, quickly swaddled him in a blanket and handed him to me. He was so light, like a tiny bird. There were fine hairs covering his frail body and his nappy swamped him.
Together we fed him, Nurse Hall placing the syringe into the tube and gently teasing it out, droplets down the tube like tears. He hardly seemed to be taking anything but she was satisfied. “Have you thought of a name for him?”
“I like Joel.”
Nurse Hall smiled. “He looks like a Joel.”
Suddenly, giving him a name, an identity, was the most important thing in the world. I needed to make him real. I looked into his face and called him by his name for the first time. Joel. My son.
Cate decided to take Paul Chatham up on his invite to the drinks party.
It was just past three when she left her house. She would be early, but couldn’t think how else to kill the time. Paul lived close to the town centre and she soon arrived outside his modest semi in Acacia Way. The house was modern, yet the shrubs and trees were established and rampant, and the front door was a bright yellow, making it stand out from its more conservative neighbours.
Ringing the bell she racked her brain for Paul’s partner’s name – something unisex like Nicky or Jo. A neat, middle-aged man opened the door, dressed casually in deck shorts and a linen shirt and holding a pair of secateurs.
“I’m really early, I know. I’m Cate.”
He offered a smooth hand. “Welcome. I’m Sam. Paul has told me all about you.” He glowed with health and exuberance, and his springy dark hair and warm brown eyes gave the impression of an affectionate puppy. She liked him instantly.
He led her through to the back of the house, down the hall with its immaculate cream carpet and through the Shaker-style kitchen in Pea green, tiles underfoot. On the granite counter stood several bottles of wine, sherry and cling-filmed bowls of nibbles.
The back double doors were flung back, and sunlight flooded through. In the garden Paul was lounging on a steamer chair, reading a newspaper. Although initially surprised to see her he immediately looked delighted. “Cate, by Jove! I didn’t think we’d have the pleasure. What’s your poison?”
Sam came forward, listing the drinks on offer. “Or there’s a lovely Sancerre in the fridge.”
“Great,” she said, looking around the immaculate garden. “Wow.”
“Do you garden?” Sam called from the kitchen. Cate shook her head as he came towards her and put the cool glass in her hand. “Well, you won’t have the time, what with working and being a single mum.” There was no judgement in his expression, just observation.
She drank the wine more quickly than she should have, hardly tasting the grape, but enjoying its relaxation of her limbs. Sam busied himself with pruning, staying close by to listen to the conversation. She already felt a bit drunk, and wanted to release all the thoughts buzzing in her brain like hornets.
“Now, Cate,” said Paul, touching her knee with the tips of his fingers, “I’ve been thinking about your lonesome status and I may have the solution. Have you thought about finding a nice prison officer to satisfy you?”
“Oh please. They’re all so macho, I think the testosterone would choke me.”
“Tut tut, no stereotyping here please. I happen to know a very nice officer who thinks you’re the dog’s bollocks.”
She groaned. “Let me guess. Dave Callahan.”
“Heavens, no. That rogue? I was thinking of a sensitive soul by the name of Officer Burgess.”
“Mark? But he’s just a child!” The idea of him fancying her was amusing.
“He’s about five years younger than you, that’s all. And once his skin clears up he’ll be quite handsome. There’s lots to be said for a toy boy, isn’t that right, Sam?”
Sam minced back towards them, his gait obviously an exaggerated parody to make her giggle. He perched on the end of Paul’s chair and took the glass from his hand, sipping thoughtfully. “The thing with love is,” he said, looking at Paul, “you can’t control it. It chooses you.”
Paul reached out and took his glass back. “And who said anything about love? What this girl needs is a good shag.”
Cate spluttered into her glass.
“Christ, Cate, you’re only – what? 27?”
“I’m 30 in August.”
“You should be having fun, not moping about because your daughter’s with her father. You should find a decent bloke and get laid. It’ll do you good.” As Paul finished speaking the doorbell rang.
“And here,” said Sam, “could be our first candidate.”
By 5p.m. the garden was buzzing with an eclectic collection of Paul’s colleagues and friends. Although there were a few people from the prison, Cate noted that they were all, like Paul, defined by difference. There was Ray, the shy librarian who plodded the prison landings with his book trolley in the vain hope a prisoner would want to read about Anna Karenina rather than the Krays. There was the eccentric sociology teacher, with his piggy eyes and Father Christmas beard whom the inmates universally respected. Then she spied Wayne Bugg, the ‘Care Bear’ officer from the induction unit who was ridiculed by staff and prisoners alike. Yes, Paul has chosen well. These people would not be offended or prejudiced by his sexual orientation. She noticed that the Governor had not been invited. Nor Dave Callahan, which was a relief.
When Mark Burgess arrived she was struck by what a schoolboy he looked. Without his uniform of stark black trousers and white lapelled shirt he should have looked more grown-up, but his casual clothes only replicated another kind of uniform: his black jeans and navy T-shirt had a boyish quality, and someone so skinny should really avoid such a tight fit. He seemed to be in a mild panic, his eyes darting about for a familiar face, and when he caught her eye his relief was obvious. She watched him bound over, a glass of beer sloshing in his hand. Up close he was shorter than he seemed in the prison, no longer bolstered by standard issue boots. He took in her appearance with an admiring glance. “You look great.”
She was embarrassed. “I don’t feel it. I’m a bit drunk.”
“Only a bit? Well, we’ll have to fix that then, won’t we? Wait here.” She watched him rush back into the house and disappear into the kitchen.
As she stood waiting, Sam caught her eye and winked. “Oh, please,” she mouthed, “rescue me,” just as Mark resurfaced with a large glass of white wine and a second glass of beer and dashed back to her side. Sam was about to walk over when another guest approached him, engaging him in conversation. Sam looked over at Cate and pulled an apologetic face.