Читать книгу On Your Doorstep: Perfect for those who loved Close to Home - Laura Elliot - Страница 12

GARDNER – Robert and Carla Gardner (née Kelly) are delighted to announce the birth of their daughter Isobel Gillian, born on the 3 November 1993. Sincere thanks to the staff at the Valley View Maternity Clinic for their excellent attention and kindness – and to the ambulance crew, Nikki Nortan and Des Brogan for their swift intervention.

Go raibh mile maith agaibh. Thank you very much.

From her bed, Carla watched a fragment of sky fade from indigo to pewter, the light relentlessly moving forward until finally it crashed, harsh and winter-white, against the window. The new day spilled over her and over Isobel, sleeping in a cot at the foot of the bed; two days old now and Carla was finding it increasingly difficult to remember a world where her daughter had not existed.

Until her arrival, Robert had been the most important person in her life. Now, Isobel occupied the same position. But there would be no jostling, no competition, because love was as expansive as the demands placed upon it. A stomach bump, Carla had discovered, no matter how cumbersome, no matter how active, no matter how cherished, had no reality until the moment of birth.

Yesterday, Nurse Clancy – or Amanda, as she preferred to be called – showed Carla how to hold her daughter and bring her gently to her breast.

‘Isobel is a natural feeder,’ she declared. ‘She knows exactly what she wants. I don’t see you having any difficulties when you leave us.’

Sudden, fat tears had coursed down Carla’s cheeks. Baby blues. Amanda knew what to do. A sensible explanation as to why new mothers often felt weepy and prone to mood swings.

‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ she said as she passed a box of tissues to Carla. ‘You’re more than capable of managing this lively young lady. Just don’t allow her to intimidate you.’

The imminent arrival of photographers had concentrated Carla’s mind. She took out her cosmetic case and set to work. By the time they entered the ward she was glowing, ready for action. She had gathered Isobel in her arms and smiled for the cameras. Isobel slept throughout the session, unperturbed by the clicks and flashes, the commands…This way, Carla…That way…Beautiful…Perfect…One more…Last one…Last one…

Amanda had arrived and shown them the door. ‘Have you men no consideration for a woman who has been labouring all night to bring her baby into the world?’ she demanded. ‘Get out of here before I take my broomstick to your hairy backsides.’

The first photographs of the Anticipation Baby had made the evening editions of the Evening Herald and the Evening Press, and was shown on the early edition of the televised news bulletin. Robert had been tight-lipped when he saw the media coverage. Carla had feared another row and suspected one would have occurred had the ward not been full of people. She had agreed with him that from now on their daughter must be kept out of the public eye. Carla’s Anticipation contract was over and Raine had already chosen a successor.

But most of yesterday remained a haze. Her family and friends had called throughout the day, bringing champagne and gifts. Gina Kelly, Carla’s sister-in-law, due her first baby in January, had asked for a blow-by-blow account. ‘Tell me everything,’ she demanded. ‘Just leave out the gory details…if possible.’

‘It was as easy as falling off a log.’ Carla dismissed six hours of intense labour with an airy shrug. All she wanted to remember was that instant of contact when, trailing blood and mucus, her daughter had been placed across her chest; a withered old woman’s face and scrawny fingers (all ten, the midwife assured her, same with the toes) and, in that instant, Carla had fallen feverishly in love. That, she reckoned, would be the abiding memory for the rest of her life.

Robert, pale and sober by then, was equally besotted. ‘She’s so perfect,’ he whispered. ‘So beautiful.’

Carla, nodding in agreement, had realised that beauty no longer had any meaning. It simply belonged in the eye of the beholder.

‘You have to come and stay with us when you leave the clinic,’ her mother said, disregarding the fact that Carla had already discussed this offer with her before Isobel was born and had refused.

‘Thanks for the thought, Mother, but Robert’s taking some time off work. We’ll be fine.’

‘Nonsense. You’ve no idea how difficult it’ll be when you go home. I still have nightmares about your first few months. Colic. You never stopped crying. No, no, I insist. Your old bedroom has been redecorated. It’s ready and waiting for the three of you.’

‘Once we’re settled into a routine, we’ll come and visit, maybe stay overnight.’ Carla’s energy had dipped, as it usually did when she was forced to argue with her mother.

‘You’ll thank me in the end.’ Janet’s voice climbed a notch. ‘It’s all very well lying here in a swanky clinic, being waited on hand and foot. But it’s a different kettle of fish when you’re up all night with a crying baby. And your father is really looking forward to having you stay, aren’t you, Gerard?’

‘Leave the girl alone.’ Gerard Kelly touched his wife’s wrist. ‘She knows we’re here if she needs us.’

Gillian and Raine had arrived with flowers and copies of the evening papers, and the focus of attention was back on Isobel again.

‘Welcome, Isobel Gillian.’ Gillian leaned over the cot and peeled back the sheet to admire her first grandchild. ‘Thank you so much for giving her my name,’ she whispered to Carla. ‘I’m so honoured.’

The veins on her hands were starkly ridged, her cheekbones accentuated. Despite her insistence that she was responding well to treatment, she was continuing to lose weight. Carla turned away, ready to cry again. She was like a tap, leaking everywhere. Her breasts ached a warning and Amanda, entering and catching her expression, had announced that visiting was over.

‘Good morning,’ said Amanda, arriving on the morning shift. ‘How was the night?’

‘Restless,’ said Carla, who had left her bed many times to stand beside Isobel’s cot, her own breath suspended as she watched her daughter’s chest rising and falling. She was unable to resist touching her gently to see her move. Even the flicker of her eyelashes was insufficient to reassure Carla she was safe.

‘How’s the feeding going?’ Amanda asked as Isobel stirred and whimpered.

‘I think my milk’s come down.’ Carla lifted her daughter and lowered the flap of her nursing bra. ‘It looks thicker.’

‘Excellent.’ Amanda nodded, satisfied. ‘Usually it takes longer. Like I said, that kid’s a natural. Keep it up, Mother.’

‘What’s the world doing outside?’ Carla asked.

‘The weather forecast is lousy. Rain and more rain. And this young lady, with her glamorous mother, is on the front page of the Irish Independent.’

Carla winced, imagining Robert’s annoyance. Nothing she could do about it. She returned her attention to Isobel, whose lips now had a vice-like grip on her nipple.

‘You look tired,’ Amanda said, as Carla eased Isobel from one breast to the other. ‘Why don’t you let us take her to the nursery for a few hours so you can catch up on some sleep?’

‘No. I’ll be fine.’ Carla shook her head. ‘Leave her with me.’

After Isobel finished feeding, Amanda demonstrated how to bathe her. Carla, seeing the little starfish body with her blobby belly button, lying on a towel, tried to control her tears. Such a bitsy baby to have made such an arduous journey.

‘Don’t be frightened.’ Amanda guided her hand to the bony curve of Isobel’s head. ‘Babies are tougher than they look but they do need to know you’re in control.’

Two more days, then she and Robert would be alone with this terrifyingly tiny individual. No wonder she was panicking. No wonder her pillow was wet with tears.

Robert arrived mid-morning for a quick visit and watched, fascinated, as Isobel’s lips searched and latched onto Carla’s nipple, her tiny cheeks moving like miniature bellows. When her head lolled to one side and a dribble leaked from the corner of her mouth, he winded her and placed her back in her cot. He settled the bedclothes around Carla, who was almost asleep, and quietly left the ward.

Carla drifted high above the sounds of the afternoon routine and slept.

She continued to weep in her dreams, knowing with the horrendous certainly that comes when the mind is relaxed that Isobel’s arrival had triggered off the memory of another journey. So long ago and, until now, safely boxed in the past; a stray wasp that could be swiped aside when it occasionally flew too close. But her barriers were down, her boundaries invaded. Nothing would ever be the same again.

She awoke to the sound of drums tapping out a light, persistent rhythm. The earlier metallic sunshine had been replaced by grey cloud and rain lashing against the window. Carla glanced at the clock on her locker. Three hours since Isobel’s last feed. Her breasts felt tender, heavy. Milk had seeped through her nursing bra and the front of her nightdress was wet. When she pulled down the flap and stared at the blue veins, she could see how engorged her breasts had become. Surprising, then, that Isobel had remained silent.

She pulled herself upright. The counterpane on Isobel’s cot was bunched awkwardly over the mattress. Impossible to see her from that angle. Carla swung her legs to the floor. Four stitches. She grimaced as they tightened and forced her to walk gingerly towards the cot. She grabbed the counterpane and stared at the empty space where her daughter, swaddled in a white sheet, had been lying. The undersheet had a slight stain, as if Isobel had marked her territory. A ‘wet burp’ Amanda had called it when she demonstrated how Carla should wind her after feeding.

She reached for the emergency bell beside her bed and pressed it. Unable to wait for a nurse to arrive, she ran into the corridor. A long empty corridor that silenced her footsteps when she turned to the right, then the left, and tried to locate the nurses’ station. She stopped, suddenly dizzy, and leaned against the wall. There had to be a rational explanation. Amanda had taken Isobel to the nursery so that Carla could sleep undisturbed. Her terror gave way to anger. How dare anyone make such a decision without asking her permission?

‘My goodness!’ Amanda’s smile became uncertain as Carla approached the nurses’ station. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

‘You took Isobel to the nursery without asking me?’

‘What?’ Amanda’s head drew back, her eyes widening as she stared back at Carla.

‘Didn’t you?’ Carla shouted. ‘You should have told me.’

The nurse’s expression changed, her face smoothing out into a professional mask, inscrutable.

‘Tell me she’s in the nursery.’ Air whistled from Carla’s throat. ‘Tell me.’ Her legs buckled. She was vaguely aware that Amanda had rushed from behind the station and was holding her upright, that she was moving, guided by the nurse, back to her ward. As they entered, she experienced an instant of hope. Her imagination had run riot. Crazy baby blues and hallucinations.

The cot was still empty. Carla held the edge of it and screamed Isobel’s name until Amanda forced her to sit down into the soft leather armchair.

‘Please remain calm, Carla. There’s been a misunderstanding!’ Her voice penetrated Carla’s hysteria. ‘If one of the nurses has done what you’ve suggested, we’ll deal with her immediately.’

‘What do you mean if? Of course they did. Where else can she be?’

‘We’ll find out, don’t worry.’ Amanda whipped the bedclothes from the bed. ‘But you must remain calm. Sometimes mothers fall asleep when they’re feeding…’

Now, a new terror had to be considered. The fist clenching Carla’s heart squeezed tighter but this thought barely had time to register before the bed was stripped. Nothing there, only the warm imprint of her body. Amanda checked the chart hanging from the bed rail then lifted the phone and asked for the matron. Despite her calm manner, Carla suspected a coded emergency message was being relayed. As the nurse spoke, her experienced glance constantly roved around the room, checking out places where a crazy mother, burdened with baby blues, could have hidden her child. The wardrobe, a drawer in the bedside locker, under the cushions on the armchair.

Carla leapt to her feet and pulled the cushions to the floor, rushed to the wardrobe and opened her suitcase, spilled her clothes across the bed. ‘She’s not here…can’t you see…she’s not here…’

Amanda tried to prevent her opening the drawer of her bedside locker but Carla pushed her aside. The matron entered as they struggled. Carla had met her shortly after Isobel was born. Small and sturdy with plump chins and authoritative eyes, she had been smiling then, as everybody had been, and Robert was holding Isobel in his arms, a dazed grin on his face.

‘Mrs Gardner, tell me exactly what has happened here.’ Her tone was formal, first-name terms abandoned.

‘One of your nurses took my child from her cot without asking my permission. How dare she…? I have to phone my husband.’

‘But first, you need to answer my questions.’ The matron’s voice was firm. Isobel’s disappearance was no longer a misunderstanding. It had, according to Matron, become a serious breach of procedure. ‘It’s in all our interests to find Baby Isobel as swiftly as possible so please co-operate with us, Mrs Gardner.’

The hospital was sealed off and the entire premises would be thoroughly searched. Amanda draped a bed jacket over Carla’s nightdress to cover the milk stains. The police were on their way. Carla had not believed her terror could reach a higher pitch but it clawed more sharply against her chest with every word the matron uttered. Amanda stayed with her until the police arrived. Their bulky shoulders filled the doorway. Uniforms, notebooks, too many people in the ward. They sucked up all the air. She could not breathe if she did not have air but no one was listening. A policewoman sat beside her and probed her with gentle but repetitive questions. How long had she been sleeping? Could she give the exact time she closed her eyes? Did she awaken at any point, disturbed by a sound, alerted by another presence in the room? The most important clues could be hidden in the most basic information. She was an older woman and her motherly tone never wavered when she told Carla to call her by her first name.

‘Orla…’ The name seemed to slide from the side of Carla’s mouth. She tried to speak again but everything was shifting, the floor and walls, her words meaningless as she pitched forward into blackness.

She was lying on the bed, Robert’s face above her when she recovered. Isobel was somewhere in the hospital, he assured her. She wanted to believe him. He was trained in the art of detection but she saw the truth in his eyes, their bleak fear mirroring her own. The search had now been extended beyond the clinic where all the other babies, tiny labels on their arms, were present and correct.

Carla returned to the armchair by the window and gazed down on the police as they combed the grounds of the clinic. The administration offices, kitchens, bathrooms, each small private ward and the half-finished buildings outside the clinic were being thoroughly checked. The entire staff were being questioned, along with the builders, and all those who visited the clinic during the day.

Her daughter, tiny and helpless, was lost in the rain. Carla moaned and covered her eyes. Amanda and Orla remained with her, each offering reassurances in their own way. There was, Orla insisted, an established pattern to such behaviour. The woman who took Isobel had always longed for children, had, probably, recently lost a child. She would protect Isobel, keep her warm and safe. Orla spoke as if she had a direct line to this unknown woman, whom Carla could only imagine as a monstrous, faceless creature. Amanda displayed the same impassive confidence as she helped Carla pump milk from her aching breasts. It would be kept fresh in the fridge until Isobel was returned to them.

Robert, ashen-faced, rain dripping from his hair and eyelashes, kept entering the ward and holding her, then leaving again, as if he could not cope with her fears. She sensed his desperation to be at the heart of the official search, but he was not allowed to participate. Official procedure, Orla told her. He was emotionally involved.

Raine and Gillian arrived, followed by Carla’s parents. Staring at the empty cot, they strove for words of comfort. Janet’s hands fluttered. Helpless tears rolled down her cheeks. Happiness, she believed, was contained in nothing more substantial than a fragile bubble, and now her greatest fear had been realised. Unable to endure her distress, Carla begged her father to bring her home. Gillian left with them, her pallor more pronounced than usual.

The day darkened. Spotlights illuminated the courtyard and the raindrops swirled like fireflies before splashing on the cobblestones. Raine sat on the arm of Carla’s armchair and held her hand tightly as the new fathers, arriving with flowers and fluffy toys, were directed to another entrance. The car park remained empty. Figures moved over the grounds still. Flashlights lit the shrubbery. Police cars entered and left between the black, wrought-iron gates.

A television van was driven up the avenue. The phone rang shortly afterwards.

‘No comment.’ Orla replaced the receiver with a clang. ‘I’m sorry, Carla. The media have got wind of the story. Don’t worry. We’ll deal with them.’

‘If I talk to them now, it’ll be on tonight’s news.’ For the first time since she awoke and saw the empty cot, Carla’s mind focused. She understood optics, publicity, the projection of an image. ‘I want to appeal directly to this woman.’

‘Leave the media to us,’ advised Orla. ‘We have procedures in place for dealing with such incidents.’

‘Incidents!’ Carla bent forward and clutched at her stomach. Her flesh felt flabby, empty. ‘How dare you call my baby’s kidnapping an incident!’

She brushed aside the policewoman’s attempts to apologise but Robert agreed with Orla. It was too early for interviews. The media already had Isobel’s photograph. If she was not found soon – he winced and closed his eyes – then a press conference would be organised. Suddenly, the strength left his legs. He collapsed on the bed and lay back, his hands over his eyes. Carla lay beside him. He gathered her close and she, hearing his laboured breathing, his desperate attempts at self-control, became the comforter. She repeated Orla’s assurances, soothing him with false words until he felt strong enough to rise again.

It seemed impossible to imagine time moving, yet the hands on the clock turned past midnight and another round of waiting began. Sleep, Amanda assured her, was necessary if she was to cope. When Carla did manage to close her eyes, it was a drug-induced slumber and she sank into a dreamless void until it was time to awaken again into the nightmare.