“Please,” I whimpered, “tell me what’s happening?”
The nurse wheeled a machine to his side, moving me away, focused only on Joel. I wanted to rush forward, to grab him and shake life into him. I heard running feet. I was moved aside, and all I could see was a doctor’s back and the edge of the plastic crib. Luke was crying and I picked him up. Another nurse saw me, whispered to the doctor, then came over, guiding me from the room.
The door was shut, the blind pulled down obscuring the window. But under the gap I saw the movement of white coats and hands, the pumping of arms as they tried to save my son. Our son.
I watched, holding Emma’s baby.
Black Book Entry
It’s Sunday, and as usual the atmosphere in the prison is tense. I try to keep my own feelings in check, whatever is happening elsewhere. There are no civilian staff in the prison on weekends, just officers and inmates. And the chaplain, of course, if religion is your drug. There are no education sessions, no offending behaviour courses, no shrinks to analyse us. We’re as close to being free as prison gets, but this also brings boredom and the dreaded time to think. For some inmates it’s too much, and the day will be splintered with catfights and tantrums.
Also, it’s the day for canteen, when we collect our measly wages, or spend the money family or friends have sent us, on the limited but still precious items which we will squirrel or barter, trying to make it last until next weekend. It’s like a primary school tuck-shop and we jostle like school kids, impatient to hold the chocolate bar in our hand, or pull the nicotine into our gasping lungs. We can also buy cheap shampoo or beauty products but some women moan about the lack of choice, longing to feel pretty, if only for one day, because Sunday afternoon is visiting time.
Convicted prisoners like me can be visited once a fortnight, and squabbles puncture the weekends between visits, as the women try to distract themselves from thinking of the husband or boyfriend they can’t see, the son or daughter they can’t hold. On visiting Sundays, the tension is different. Imagine waiting to see the face of someone not seen for far too long, or a child who has grown older and taller; the terrible silence as you search for something to say when your world is so grey. Then, the pain and loneliness and fear crashing down when the order comes for goodbyes to be said. The tears of the children are the worst, especially those too young to understand. Afterwards we return to our cells. Newer inmates, or those who have just been told about family events they have missed; that a boyfriend or husband has been unfaithful, that a son has cut his first tooth, cry into their thin pillows.
These things will be true for the other women, but for me today is just another step towards freedom. The parole board meet in two weeks and I’m wishing the hours away like a girl impatient for Christmas. I should be released. I’ve been a good inmate. I’m a hard worker, the screws like that. They don’t think of me as a bully; they don’t see me fight. I give fags to women who have run out, and don’t demand two in return.
The officers are changing shift, and Officer Burgess is replacing Officer Callahan. In prison you learn to listen.
The thing about officers is that they can’t keep their dicks in their pants or their tongues between their teeth. Especially the young ones, since they’ve got so much to prove. Arriving on duty Mark Burgess sprang along the corridor like he’d won the lottery, stopping at Janie’s door to ask if she’d got anyone visiting her later. He likes Janie best because she doesn’t scare him. When he goes past my open door he never stops.
Dave Callahan was on duty last night and he’s in the office, feet on the desk, reading the
Sunday Sport
. Inmates aren’t allowed any pornographic pictures, but the officers can bring them in anytime they like. I stand by my cell door and listen.
“Morning, Dave. Fancy a brew?”
“No, ta mate. I’m off in five.”
“Everything alright last night?”
“Yep. No trouble. I had a decent kip”
“I had a good weekend too.”
“Yeah?” Dave sounds like he couldn’t care less.
“Went to a party at Paul Chatham’s.”
“At the queer’s house? Did you see his boyfriend?”
“He was alright, actually.” Mark sounds uncomfortable.
“Were there other poofters there?” Now Dave is interested.
“No. Cate Austin was, though.” I prick up my ears.
“She’s a looker, but she’s got a stick up her arse. Did she relax any?”
“She did. All the way, as it goes.” There’s innuendo in the way Mark speaks and a long silence follows. “You lucky bastard.”
“Yeah,” Mark says, “all the way.”
I’m as surprised as Dave. I need to fit this piece into the jigsaw picture I’ve been building of her, and I don’t know where to put it.
I go to Janie’s cell, where she’s drawing a picture of a cat. It looks like a child’s drawing.
“Hey, Rose. I got a letter from my dad yesterday.” She takes it from under her pillow, already opened and creased even though she can’t read the words. “Will you read it to me?”
“Of course I will, poppet. First though, I want you to tell me what happened on Friday. On your little trip into Ipswich. Did you find the address I gave you?”
I’m making light of it, of course. I’m desperate to know. But like all accomplices Janie must be managed. She’s not as brave as me. I can feel Mum and Rita watching over me, warning me to be steady.
“Oh, yes. It was easy. My teacher’s so nice, she didn’t even mind when I arrived late. She knows it’s the only day I have on the out, and she likes it when I go to the park and bring her a daffodil. Last week I went into Boots and tried on all the tester perfumes. She said I smelt like a garden centre when I walked in the classroom.”
I try not to be impatient, but sometimes it’s hard with Janie.
“Did you find the house?”
“Yes, that map you gave me was good. The house was just like you said. I had a little look through the windows, like you told me to, but I couldn’t see anyone. Nice place though. Great big lounge with a smart TV – worth a few bob – and one of those L-shaped sofas.”
“What else?”
“There was a baby chair in the room.”
“A baby chair? Are you sure?” I sense Mum is with me, warning me to leave it.
“Yeah, you know – one of those bouncy ones. It was pink with yellow stars on it. And a little bar with plastic rattles, just like for a new baby. ”
“Pink, you say? And new?” The spirits are noisy in my head, telling me to stop delving into things that can only hurt me.
“Which is funny,” Janie scratches her head, “’cos in that photo in her office her daughter looks way too old for a chair like that.”
“Office?”
“In the probation officer’s room. That photo of her daughter, Amelia. She isn’t a baby anymore.”
“No.” I feel strange, a bit dizzy.
“You think Cate Austin’s got another kid?”
“Janie, ” I say, carefully, “that house is not Cate Austin’s.”
She frowns, “whose is it then?”
“A friend. She must have had another baby.” I rub my temples, and take a few deep breaths. “You’ve done well, Janie.”
Janie beams at me, always glad to be of service, and I stagger out of her cell, into my own , and collapse onto the bed.
Think, Rose, think.
A new baby. Does she have red-gold hair?
Rita and Mum are with me, in the cell. Warning me.
Tick, tock, tick, tock. The minutes pass until the parole board meet.
Cate Austin’s parole report is the key to my freedom. She must recommend my release or I won’t get my parole. I need to show her I’m reformed.
I’m getting to know her better, thanks to Janie snooping in her office. I know her daughter is called Amelia, and she is four or five years old. I know there are no photos of any man. And now it sounds like she might have fucked Officer Burgess if he’s telling the truth about her going ‘all the way’. She should’ve known better then to go with a schoolboy like him, who couldn’t wait to start boasting. Why are women so weak when it comes to sex? She has to be all professional in the prison, but her personal life is a mess, just like Emma’s was.
I’m putting the pieces together and forming a picture. So, she needs a man. And I know that Amelia had an accident. Cate having a child could be helpful. She’ll understand how it would feel, to lose a baby. Two babies.
She seems so pulled in, so tight, that I can’t imagine her blooming with pregnancy or nursing a baby. I didn’t imagine there could be any softness there.
After Joel was born I was all soft flesh, all rounded and plump like some medieval wet nurse. But that soon changed. When he died, the fat melted off me, like my bones were hot irons. I never regained the weight, and even now my hips jut into the thin mattress in the night, my belly sunk in resignation. But it’s my breasts that suffered the most. Once plump with milk, they hang limp and empty.
Black Book Entry
“We think his heart just gave way. I’m so sorry.”
It was just one hour after Joel’s death and Dr Cross was talking. The door to my room was closed, the blind down. Luke had been taken from me and returned to his mother. You’d been called straightaway, and had arrived from work flustered and scared. You were at my side, your sweaty hand gripped vice-like to mine. You couldn’t make sense of it, refused to believe it. “But he was getting better,” you kept saying. “He was out of danger.”
Dr Cross paused to let what she was saying sink in. “We thought so, yes. It was looking positive. Before we get the post mortem report it’s difficult to say, but it’s likely he had a congenital defect. A weak heart.”
You were shaking your head in disbelief. “But he was in intensive care. He was being looked after. How could you have missed something like that?”
“We couldn’t have detected it without invasive tests, and Joel was too weak for that. It’s likely that his heart just gave way. The staff did all they could to resuscitate him. Of course we will know more after the autopsy.”
“No,” you said, your voice breaking up, “for God’s sake his little body has been through enough.”
But the doctor was adamant, her calm voice unequivocal. “It will mean we can establish the exact cause of death.”
“What difference does it make?” You slumped on to the bed, anger giving way to grief, and began to sob. “We’ve still lost our son.” You buried into me, your grief wracking my body and I wanted to push you away.
This is your fault,
I thought. As you leant against me, sobbing, I couldn’t feel anything for you but anger. Your unruly hair scratched my face; your tears dampened my neck. But my eyes were dry.
They left us like that for a long time, as you tried to make sense of our son’s death.
“I’ll never forgive myself,” you said. I would never forgive you either.
There was a light tapping on the door and the door slowly opened. It was Nurse Hall. She came to us, putting her arm around us both.
“I’m so very, very sorry.”
I could hear in her voice that she’d been crying, and in my surprise I looked at her face. Her eyes were red. She sat on the bed next to me, her hand on mine, your head on my shoulder. We sat like that, the three of us, listening to our own thoughts, none of us knowing what to say. Suddenly there was a buzz and Nurse Hall pulled apart from us to check her pager. She read it, switched it off. “They’re ready for us.” We slowly stood, and Nurse Hall held the door as we trudged into the corridor. She took my elbow, supporting me, and we began the terrible journey to see Joel.
They’d put Joel in a side room, in a crib. He was wrapped in a white fleecy blanket. His face was pale and slick, like a plastic doll. You held on to the side of the crib for support, your sobs rising again as you stared at our dead son. Nurse Hall stroked your back, in tears herself. You leaned in to kiss Joel. When your lips touched that impassive cheek, I thought you would collapse. Nurse Hall steadied you, helped you to the chair, and I too kissed Joel. His skin felt warm. I placed my cheek to his, desperate to feel breath.
Please, God, let it be a mistake. Let him wake up.
But there was no God to listen. No miracle. Just a chasm of nothingness. There was no meaning to anything. I wondered if my mum was watching.
We sat with Joel’s body for about an hour, and I knew it was way past Nurse Hall’s time to leave work but she didn’t move to go. I appreciated that.
“I want to go home,” I said.
Nurse Hall nodded. “Of course. Would you like me to go and pack your bags? I could complete the discharge paperwork.”
“Yes. Yes, please.”
When Nurse Hall returned she had packed all my belongings into a plastic bag. She led us out of the room, and back down the corridor. We passed the neo-natal unit, but I didn’t look in. We passed the maternity wards.
It slowly dawned on me that we were nearing Emma’s room.
To my horror, I saw the door was open.
I couldn’t cope with this, I needed to slow everything down, and my feet began to drag. I needed to make you stop.
We were getting closer, and I could see Emma, and her husband. He was holding Luke, showing him a small toy. Emma was smoothing a skirt out on the bed, carefully folding it, placing it into a suitcase. Her husband leaned over to her and said something, and she kissed Luke, smiling. She was preparing to leave as well, but she was taking her baby with her.
You hadn’t seen her yet, but I knew that if you did, if you saw Luke, it would all be over for me. In just a few seconds my whole world would collapse, and still each step took us closer to danger.
She was picking up her bag now, in moments she would step into the corridor, just as we reached her room.
Like a sail crashing down, I dropped to the floor.
I crouched, doubled over my heart in agony. You cradled me, lifted my hair from my face, as you soothed and stroked.