Читать книгу A Mother’s Sacrifice - Gemma Metcalfe - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

Louisa

Now

‘The bloody clasp is jammed and I can’t undo it.’ James shakes his head at me from where he is wedged into the small gap between the front and back seats of the car, his breath steaming up the rear window. ‘The cold’s probably expanded the metal.’

‘I think that might be heat.’

‘Who made you such a smart arse?’

‘Obviously not you.’

He shakes his head but a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

As I wait for my highly intelligent husband to figure out the workings of a Mamas & Papas car seat, I stamp my boots against the frosted gravel which crunches underfoot, the winter chill causing my toes to tingle. ‘Told you we should have bought a four-door.’

‘Not now, hey, Lou.’ James rakes his hand through his hair. ‘It can’t be that bloody difficult.’

‘Should I try?’ I ask, edging closer to the window. I reach out and place the tips of my fingers against the cold glass, lightly tracing the outline of Cory’s nose and mouth. ‘Please get him out. I think I’m having physical withdrawal symptoms from him.’

‘Stop being so bloody dramatic.’ James proceeds to huff and grunt as his fingers fiddle with the metal clasp. He’s becoming agitated, something he’ll never admit to but he definitely is. I jangle the house keys against my thigh, the first throes of panic threatening to overtake as my imagination pictures a fire crew, the steely blade of a chainsaw, fiery embers raining down upon my son’s hands and face.

It’s now just over forty-eight hours since I brought Cory into the world. It’s quite surreal to arrive home with him. If I’m honest, I can’t quite believe the hospital allowed us to take him. And yet here he is, a living, breathing person as opposed to a figment of my imagination. He’s pretty much how I imagined him to be in my dreams, slightly more slender, his fingers longer and his lips fuller. He definitely cries more than I imagined and I never once dreamed of changing a nappy like that first one back at the hospital.

‘Come on, James, he’ll be frozen solid.’ I know I need to calm down and savour the moment, to not allow my anxiety to smear the memory of arriving home with Cory. We are, after all, supposed to be ‘making memories’, a phrase which regularly pollutes Facebook, a phrase which pre-pregnancy made my heart sink into my stomach because my memories back then consisted of sitting in my pyjamas watching back-to-back episodes of Friends and eating Häagen-Dazs out of the tub. I’ve never worked, not really. Once I tried to work as a receptionist at a hotel in Manchester but I messed up a booking reservation. A well-known footballer arrived late one evening for a crafty bonk in the penthouse with some girl of the night and ended up getting more than he bargained for when a famous royal waltzed out of the en suite in just a smile. I was fired on the spot, which I think was pretty harsh, but I’m not sure they really liked me anyway. Another time I attempted to work at the meat counter in Morrisons but soon became convinced I’d developed mad cow disease. In the end James said it was probably best I stayed at home, that we’d start trying for a family instead so I wouldn’t get bored. Of course that didn’t go according to plan and I was left in limbo, wondering just how my fairy tale had been sabotaged by the Brothers Grimm.

‘Finally!’ James turns to face me, a grin spreading from ear to ear. ‘Don’t know what all the fuss was about!’

‘Hurry up now then, before he catches hypothermia.’ Rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, I watch as James carefully lifts Cory out of the car, seemingly less afraid of breaking him than he was a few days ago.

They look nothing like each other. James is all bulk and olive skin whereas Cory is dainty and fair like myself. I turn away from them, take a quick glance up and down the street, somewhat edgy despite having reassured myself over and over that the message inside the card the other day didn’t mean what I initially thought it did. And anyway, it’s now safely in a hospital bin several miles away, hopefully buried underneath sloppy veg and trashy celebrity magazines. I have to forget about the card. I have to forget about everything which has gone before just like I always promised myself I would. I made the right decision nine months ago, I absolutely did.

We live in a modest semi-detached house in Chester, with spectacular views over the River Dee and the meadows which lie beyond. Tonight is miserable though, with threatening clouds, the colour of a fresh bruise, hanging low overhead. Thanks to a diversion on a busy main road north of the river, cars are nose to nose on our normally idyllic country lane, their exhausts exhaling toxic breath as their engines slowly purr. ‘Hurry inside with him,’ I say to James, already making my way down the driveway. ‘He’s going to end up with radiation poisoning or something.’

‘Hypothermia, radiation… You’re losing it, love.’

‘Why do you say that?’ I shoot him a look over my shoulder.

‘Sorry, just a saying, you know.’

I catch hold of myself, knowing deep down that James didn’t mean any harm. ‘Yeah, of course, sorry.’

I fiddle around with the key, trying and failing to find the front-door lock. Eventually I have to resort to using the back light on my mobile phone, exhaling a sigh of relief when the key finally gives way. ‘Home sweet home,’ I declare, pushing the door wide open. I feel a little stupid saying it, the overused saying having never been part of my vocabulary before. But I always imagined I’d say such a thing when dreaming of this particular moment… and it feels good to breath life into it, really it does.

The first thing I notice as I switch on the hall light is a pile of cards on the mat; a splayed-out montage of pastel yellow and soft creams. A wave of fear washes over me.

‘Let’s get this little man settled into his Moses basket and then I’ll go and get the bags from the boot.’ James’s voice comes from behind me, making me jump. ‘Relax, Lou,’ he says, placing his hand on my forearm. ‘Why are you so uptight?’

‘I’m not, I’m fine.’ I step inside and push myself up against the hallway wall, allowing James to pass. Cory is glued to his chest, his white puffed-up romper suit making him look like an inflated snowman. ‘You put little Jack Frost here down for a nap and then maybe you can get the stuff from the boot while I put the kettle on.’

‘I’ve just said that, Lou.’

‘Said what?’

‘That I’d get the stuff from the boot. You sure you’re all right?’

I pause. ‘Of course, must be baby brain.’

‘That’s okay then.’ He turns round and eyes me up for a fraction longer than is comfortable, the flecked green in his hazel eyes dancing under the hallway light. ‘I’ll bring everything in,’ he says. ‘You put the kettle on, then perhaps we can open them cards?’

An hour later, I sing Cory to sleep as the white, wooden rocking chair gently rocks back and forth beneath us. On one side of the nursery, Peter Rabbit and Jemima Puddle-Duck fly kites into a pale-blue sky, their feet balancing on the top of minty-green hills. On the wall opposite, the words ‘Once Upon a Time…’ signify the beginning of our Happily Ever After. It really does feel like a fairy tale; the beautiful nursery, the doting husband, the scrumptious little newborn who snores softly in my arms.

Thankfully, the cards on the mat all turned out to be from familiar well-wishers, and for a moment that made everything all right. But then the doubt crept back in, and the message inside that card started to play on a loop over and over until suddenly the Big Bad Wolf was knocking on the door and it took all of my strength not to let him in.

The night is now as black as tar, transforming the bay window into a colourless mirror. My heart soars as I study mine and Cory’s reflections in the glass, a mother nursing her son, his tummy full and his bottle drained. I feel a stab of guilt that I haven’t been able to breastfeed him, especially given the nutritional benefits. I wanted to, really I did. But how could I ever be sure he was full? And what if I got ill and passed it on to him somehow? James accused me of panicking when I presented my typed-up list of pros and cons. He said breastfeeding was the most natural thing in the world. ‘That’s what they’re made for, Lou,’ he laughed, a grin creeping onto his face. ‘Among other things obviously.’ I did think about what he said. I flitted backwards and forwards for months, joining support groups on the Internet and painstakingly trawling through the self-help guides where the illustrations always depicted women with smiley faces and nipples which could cut glass. But in the end I decided bottle-feeding was the safer option. After all, you can never be too careful where infant starvation is concerned.

‘Hey, I thought you were coming downstairs after he’d fallen asleep?’ James appears at the open door, his hair shower-wet, causing it to curl up at the ends. He smells of hot soap, his naked chest revealing toned abs which I’d almost forgotten existed. I didn’t allow sex during pregnancy, was terrified he’d unintentionally puncture the baby’s head. They do say a baby’s skull is the last thing to form, don’t they?

‘Well, here’s the problem.’ I bite the inside of my cheek, hope he’ll figure out what I’m trying to say and save me from actually saying it.

‘What, Lou?’ He leans against the door frame. ‘Go on, out with it.’

‘I’ve been doing some research.’

He tries to suppress a grin but it’s too late; I catch it as it turns up the corner of his top lip. ‘And what research is that, may I ask?’

‘Well… we all know babies are meant to sleep in their parents’ room for the first six months. But, some experts actually advise you to have your sleeping baby by your side at all times.’

‘I see.’ James raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Even if said baby has a ridiculously expensive CCTV camera wired into his nursery which his mother absolutely had to have?’

‘Not even.’ I fold over my bottom lip. ‘And besides, he might miss us.’

James enters the room and walks around to the back of the rocking chair, positioning himself just behind me. His breath is hot and slippery in my ear as he leans over me. ‘I think we might miss him too.’

I glance back at him. ‘So you agree?’

‘Of course.’ He pecks me on the cheek. ‘And anyway, who in their right mind forks out three months’ wages on a nursery and then actually puts their baby in it?’

I laugh. ‘Not anybody sane, that’s for sure!’

‘Exactly. So, Mrs Carter…’ He drapes his arms over my shoulders, criss-crossing them like the sleeves of a sweater. ‘Would you like me to bring the Moses basket downstairs so we can finally sit down to eat dinner, or how about I get the picnic basket from the boot and we have jam sandwiches and squash with Peter Rabbit and Tweety Bird on this fine summer’s day?’

‘It’s Jemima Puddle-Duck.’

He laughs. ‘Obviously I knew that.’

‘Cooey. Anybody in?’ The distinct sound of my mother-in-law’s voice travels up the stairs, closely followed by the slamming of the front door.

‘Oh God.’ James rests his chin on the top of my head. ‘You absolutely have to be joking me.’

‘Well,’ I sigh. ‘Looks like Mr Tod’s just turned up and pissed all over the picnic.’

‘I cannot believe you didn’t call me the moment you got home!’ My mother-in-law, Tamzin, greets us at the bottom of the stairs, her white perm reminding me of a dandelion. ‘I wanted to come to the hospital the night he was born but your father was in no fit state to drive,’ she says to James. ‘Eight years I’ve waited for this grand-baby and he shows up pissed as a pickled fart! And then last night he had to play darts. Darts can you believe? Felt like throwing a bulls-eye right in his bastard eye!’

‘It was the final!’ A meek voice, belonging to my father-in-law, Doug, comes from somewhere behind Tamzin’s fluffy bouffant. ‘All right, James lad, all right, Lou.’

‘My God, he’s totally delicious. Give him here.’ Tamzin holds out her hands as if she’s about to catch a rugby ball.

‘Well, all right but…’ I tip my head over towards the lounge. ‘Let’s sit down first and then you can.’

‘Don’t be such a bloody fusspot,’ she titters, causing Cory to flinch in my arms. ‘I’ve had two of my own, don’t forget. They’re not made of bloody glass, you know? In fact, Doug rolled over on our David when he was a nipper. Probably pissed then an’ all, wasn’t you?’ She turns round and glares at him.

I manage to safely herd both Tamzin and Doug into the lounge, despite already wanting to show them the door. It’s not that I dislike my in-laws; it’s just, well, to put it mildly, they are an absolute pain in the arse. ‘Why don’t you sit down with Cory and I’ll put the kettle on?’ I begin to furiously plump up a fluffy cushion on the end of the sofa, hopeful that Tamzin will sit down and allow me to place Cory safely into her arms.

‘Very well,’ she says, for once doing as she’s told. ‘Ahh, isn’t he cute?’ She takes hold of him gently which is a relief, her eyes crinkling up behind her spectacles as she places him in the crook of her arm. ‘Although I must admit I’ve seen better.’

‘Mother!’ James throws her a look.

‘Oh, I’m only joking. Take a bloody chill pill. Isn’t that what you kids say nowadays?’

‘What would you like to drink, Tamzin – tea, coffee?’ I always find that where my mother-in-law is concerned, it’s best to change the subject as quickly as possible.

‘No, none of that rubbish for me. Do us a whiskey, will you, love? My son’s not firing blanks after all. That’s cause for celebration!’

With that said, I quickly retreat from the lounge – the wolf’s claws scraping against the drainpipe as he scurries up the chimney.

Half an hour later, James brings in a second pot of tea along with a third whiskey on the rocks for Tamzin. Cory is now safely in my arms, Tamzin’s ‘infatuation’ having lasted all of five minutes.

‘So then…’ Doug clasps his hands together and raises his eyes up into his head as if thinking of something to say. ‘He’s a little cracker all right.’ He takes a slurp of his tea and smacks his bulbous lips firmly together. ‘God, it’s nice to finally be able to have a cuppa, I tell you.’ He is still dressed in his paint-splattered overalls and I can almost picture him stepping through the door and instantly being frogmarched here.

‘You’re right, he is a cracker. Just like his daddy.’ I smile over at James but he doesn’t return the gesture. ‘You all right?’ I ask him, unsure what’s changed.

‘I’m fine, Lou, couldn’t be better.’ He drains the last of his drink.

I avert my gaze from him, looking down at Cory whose face is relaxed in sleep. I knead his little hand between my fingers like dough, listening to the sound of the wind as it blows against the windowpane, the drip-dripping of the kitchen tap. I’m home, we’re safe. James is just tired, that’s all. There’s nothing to worry about.

‘Shame about the carrot top though.’ Tamzin cleaves the silence in two. ‘You’d have thought with James’s dark skin and hair this poor sod might have stood a chance.’

‘Tamz, enough!’ Doug shoots her a warning from his position on the armchair.

‘Well… I’m just stating the bleedin’ obvious,’ she barks, before taking a large glug of her whiskey. The ice clinks against her teeth, her calling card for a top-up. When nobody jumps to her tune, she bangs the glass down on the coffee table, causing Cory to flinch.

‘Shh, baby, it’s okay, you’re all right.’ Glaring over at Tamzin, I grimace at the hot-pink lipstick that stains the rim of her glass. ‘We really need an early night,’ I try.

‘Ginger kids get bullied, that’s all I’m saying,’ she continues, like I haven’t spoken.

My face flushes with heat. I twist my hair around my fingers, discreetly pulling out a strand by its root; a coping mechanism, I suppose, something I always do when I’m anxious. Not that I am anxious, just tired… hormones probably.

‘Probably why madam here pulls all hers out!’ Tamzin tips her manicured thumb over in my direction, her top lip twitching with amusement. ‘That’s right, I can see you. You’ll be bald as a badger if you carry on.’

‘Jesus, son,’ says Doug through a cough. ‘Did you give your mother the whole bloody bottle? She’s hammered!’

Awkwardness clings to the air, which isn’t unusual when Tamzin and Doug visit.

‘Well, I happen to love redheads,’ says James, his eyes resting on mine. ‘They are my favourite kind of people.’

I smile, relief flooding through me that he appears to be acting normally again, or perhaps there never was anything wrong with him in the first place. Maybe I only imagined there was. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Paranoia is my thing after all. Well, it used to be my thing. Before Cory came along of course. ‘Thanks, sweetie. Love you too.’

Tamzin sucks her teeth. ‘So what have they said then?’ She lowers her spectacles down onto the bridge of her nose. ‘Are you likely to go a bit loopy given your history?’

‘Mum!’ James shoots her a look. ‘Stop being rude.’

I stiffen, humiliation giving way to anger. ‘Yes, they will keep an eye on me because of my history. But having a history of depression doesn’t mean I’m necessarily going to suffer with postnatal depression.’ My stomach turns over as I say the name of the illness out loud. Postnatal depression, an opportunistic demon. One I’ve feared since clutching the still-wet pregnancy test eight months ago. There is no way I have it though, definitely not. I love Cory, love the bones of him.

Tamzin smiles thinly. ‘Well, it’s all bloody nonsense if you ask me. Never had any of this depression or postnatal thingamajig in my day. A good stiff drink and night out at the Bingo, that solved everything.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s always existed.’ I reach up for a strand of hair but refrain from pulling, not wanting to give Tamzin the satisfaction. ‘It hasn’t appeared out of thin air.’

‘Hmm,’ she replies, her lips pursed, as if sucking on something unpleasant. ‘I blame feminism. A lot of hairy women dancing around a campfire chanting about their rights. That’s what’s caused it, you mark my words.’ She pushes her spectacles back up the bridge of her nose. ‘Anyway…’ She stands up a little too quickly, which causes her to wobble. ‘If you do decide to have a funny turn, I’m sure I can step in for little Rory.’

‘It’s Cory,’ I mutter under my breath, as she staggers out of the room. ‘And in your bloody dreams.’