Forget Me Not

Jenny seemed so resolutely single that I wondered if, like me, she’d become pregnant after a short relationship and the man had gone off. But she didn’t radiate the air of disappointment and vulnerability that I knew I did – instead she projected a determined calm that bordered on defiance. This made me wonder if she’d got pregnant deliberately, by a friend, or on a one-night stand, or even by donor sperm, though at thirty-four she seemed young to have made such a choice.

Citronella, on the other hand, I soon knew all about, both from her boastful pronouncements at the birthing classes and from her columns, which a kind of horrified curiosity prompted me to look at on-line.

I was struck, most of all, by their vulgarity. No detail of Citronella’s life seemed too personal – too disgusting even – for her to share with her readers: that her breasts were already ‘leaky’, that ‘sex was uncomfortable’ and that her bowels ‘could do with some help’. The overall theme of Citronella’s weekly bulletins, however, seemed to be how ‘fortunate’ she was. That she was ‘fortunate enough’ to have a ten-year-old daughter, Sienna, for example, who, ‘fortunately’ was ‘extremely intelligent, popular, and beautiful’ and who ‘fortunately’ was ‘thrilled’ at the prospect of a new brother or sister. I learned that Citronella’s first marriage to a nappy manufacturer had sadly ended eight years before, but that she had then been ‘fortunate enough’ to meet her ‘banker husband, Ian’ shortly afterwards, with whom she was ‘much happier’, she’d added smugly.

Fertility treatment was another favourite theme. ‘Ian and I would never have had IVF,’ Citronella wrote in early May. ‘We both think it quite wrong that something as sacred as life should begin in a jam-jar of all places! And then of course there’s the cancer risk …’ I hoped that Katie and Jake hadn’t read it – they’d happily admitted to having had help in conceiving their twins. ‘And yes, I know there’s no actual proof of a link,’ Citronella had gone on. ‘But one instinctively feels that such hormonal interference must be doing irreparable harm. Fortunately I conceived naturally,’ she’d continued, ‘though I admit I never expected the enormous blessing of another child. But being pregnant now, at forty-four, does make me feel for my single women friends. They are all roughly my age and must increasingly be aware that they are unlikely now ever to marry, or have children and are therefore bravely facing up to the prospect of a lonely old age.’

With opinions like these it seemed incredible that Citronella had any friends, single or otherwise. In the following week’s column, headed is it really right to go it alone? her theme was single mums.

So far so clichéd, I thought as I scanned it; then I read the next sentence and felt as though I’d stepped into a sauna. There are no less than two single mothers in my antenatal group, she’d written. Let me say that no one admires them more than I do – Citronella liked to dress up her horrible pity as generosity of spirit. But one does wonder – quite apart from the social slur – how their children will fare in life without the firm, loving hand of a father to guide them …

‘Did you see what she wrote?’ I whispered to Jenny as we waited for our next birthing class. We were the first to arrive and the room was empty but for us.

Jenny rolled her eyes. ‘Yup! Doesn’t she know it’s “no fewer than”, rather than “no less than”? The woman’s an ignoramus.’

‘But her comments about single mothers …’ I swigged some Pepsodent. ‘As though you and I were the lowest of the low.’

‘Well …’ Jenny gave a philosophical shrug. ‘At least she didn’t name us.’

‘No – but what she said – about our children. What “social slur”? How dare she! She’s evil,’ I added darkly.

‘Evil?’ Jenny looked surprised, affronted almost. ‘Oh no, Citronella’s not evil,’ she said, with a strange kind of authority which puzzled me, until I remembered that she’d grown up in Belfast, where she’d said it was nothing out of the ordinary to hear gunfire and explosions. ‘But you could certainly rearrange the letters and say that she’s vile. Don’t let her get to you, Anna,’ Jenny went on calmly. ‘You’re going to have a baby. That’s all that matters. Your life is about to be filled with unimaginable love …’ Jenny said this with an almost Messianic fervour that intrigued me. ‘And at least we won’t have to see Citronella after tonight.’

At that I felt a frisson of liberation, but at the same time a sadness that the classes were now at an end.

‘You will keep in touch, won’t you?’ I said to Jenny, as everyone left. ‘I’d like to be … friends.’

Puzzlement clouded her features. ‘But we already are,’ she said and I felt suddenly, unaccountably happy. She picked up her bag. ‘I’m due first – so I’ll let you know.’

‘I’ll come and see you,’ I offered.

‘Yes – do come and see me – or rather us.’ She smiled and then to my delighted surprise, she hugged me. ‘Good luck with your exams.’

I grimaced. ‘Thanks.’

In the event my exams were fine – I even managed to enjoy them in part, though every time I felt a twinge I’d panic that my waters were about to break – the baby was due in less than ten days.

In the absence of an Other Half, I’d decided not to have a birthing partner. There was no one I’d want to see me in such a state. It was bad enough for your husband to see you down on your hands and knees, bellowing like a bull, without inflicting that on a friend. I was happy just to have a couple of midwives – I knew many of them from my pre-natal visits – and some Mozart. As I packed my hospital bag I resolved to stay relaxed and to put my faith in Nature. But in the event Nature got completely squeezed out.

On the Sunday morning after my last exam I woke with a terrible headache and a peculiar buzzing sensation in my upper body, as though there was a swarm of bees in my chest. I waited for the sensation to subside, but it didn’t. I staggered to the bathroom and was sick. Knowing that something was wrong, I called a minicab and went to the hospital. The midwives said that my blood pressure was high.

‘How high?’ I asked the nurse as I sat in a treatment room. ‘Are we talking Primrose Hill here, or Mount Everest?’ I felt dizzy and breathless and my head was aching.

‘It’s 140 over 100,’ she replied. ‘And your notes say that it’s been fairly steady at 110 over 70 throughout your pregnancy.’

‘So what does it mean?’

‘It suggests pre-eclampsia. Are your feet and hands normally this swollen?’

‘No.’ It was as though someone had blown them up with a bicycle pump. I winced as the nurse inserted a canula into the back of my right hand.

‘We should be able to get your blood pressure down with this hypertensive medication,’ she went on as she rigged up the drip. ‘So don’t worry.’

‘What if it doesn’t come down?’ I asked after a moment.

‘Then we’ll have to deliver the baby today.’

My stomach did a flick-flack. ‘By Caesarean?’ I hated the idea of being cut.

‘Yes,’ the nurse replied, ‘because they have to be quick. Now what about your partner?’ she went on as she passed the electronic belt round my vast middle to check the baby’s heartbeat.

‘I don’t have a partner.’ I felt my eyes fill. ‘He didn’t want me to have the baby. He lives in Indonesia now.’

‘Oh …’ A look of regret crossed her face. ‘Well, don’t fret,’ she said, stroking my arm. ‘Don’t fret now.’ Her name badge said ‘Amity’ – it seemed to suit her. ‘You’re going to be fine and so is baby. Listen …’ She turned up the monitor so that I could hear the watery iambics of the baby’s heart. ‘But you should call someone – in case things happen today. What about your family?’ she added.

‘Hopeless,’ I replied shaking my head. Cassie was away for the weekend at some fashionable spa in Austria and I wouldn’t want to worry Dad before it was all over.

‘And is your head still hurting?’

‘It’s hell.’

Then the obstetrician on duty came in, introduced herself, checked my reflexes and blood pressure and went away. Fifteen minutes later she returned, checked both again, this time her expression darkening slightly.

‘What is it now?’ I asked her as the armband deflated with a wheezy sigh.

‘Not so good,’ she replied. ‘It’s 150 over 120.’ She held up her hand. ‘Do you have any double vision, Anna?’

‘I’m not sure.’ I’d been crying and everything was blurred. ‘But my head,’ I whimpered. ‘It’s such … agony.’

‘Well, that’s going to get better very soon.’

‘How? Are you going to guillotine me?’

‘No.’ She gave me a lovely smile and pulled up a chair next to me. ‘We’re going to deliver the baby.’

I felt a wave of fear. ‘When?’

‘I’d say now’s as good a time as any.’

‘Oh,’ I said faintly. ‘I see.’

‘You have pre-eclampsia,’ she explained. I felt a flutter of panic. ‘And the cure for that is to give birth. But we need to get you gowned up in this fetching little green number ready for theatre, OK?’

I nodded bleakly. I had never felt more alone. Amity began to help me undress and as I was taking off my shirt I heard my phone ring. She passed me my bag and I fished out the mobile with my left hand.

‘Anna? Hi! I’m just ringing to ask how your exams went.’

‘Oh. Fine, thanks, Sue … I think. I can’t really remember to be honest … It’s all a blur you see, I …’ my voice trailed away.

‘Anna – are you feeling all right?’

‘Not really. In fact I’m at … birth’s door.’ I explained what was happening.

‘Have you got anyone with you?’

‘No.’ I felt my throat constrict. ‘I’m alone.’

‘Would you like me to come? I’ve had two kids after all – plus I feel partly responsible for your being pregnant in the first place – it’s the least I can do.’

I looked at the clock. It was a quarter past four. ‘Well … I’d love that,’ I replied. ‘Just to have a friend with me – but you’d never get here in time.’

I heard Sue’s footsteps tapping across a stone floor. ‘I’m not at home. I’m at Tate Britain …’ I heard her breathing speed up. ‘With my sister. But I’m going to leave … for the hospital right … now. Chelsea and Westminster, isn’t it? I’ll jump in … a cab. I’ll call you later, Lisa,’ I heard her add. ‘Anna’s having the baby.’ Then I heard her running down the steps. ‘Which ward … are you on?’ she asked, raising her voice above the roar of the traffic on the Embankment. ‘TAXI!!! Give me twenty minutes … tops. I’ll be there.’

The lights were so dazzling as I was wheeled into the theatre a short while later that I had to shield my eyes from the glare. As I sat on the operating table, the anaesthetist explained that he would give me an epidural, for which I had to sit stone still. As I watched him fill the syringe with the anaesthetic I suddenly heard Sue’s voice.

‘I’m here, Anna!’ I heard her call. ‘I’m just being gowned up but I’ll be with you in two seconds, OK?’ Then the door opened and there she was, in a green gown and hat and white overshoes. She stroked my shoulder. ‘You’re going to be fine. This is the happiest day of your life …’

I nodded, then a large tear plopped on to my lap, staining the pale green almost to black. In the background the doctor, in her surgical gown and mask, was conferring with the theatre nurses as they laid out the instruments.

Sue stroked my arm as the needle for the epidural was pushed into my lower spine.

‘Hold absolutely still,’ said the anaesthetist quietly. I focused on the large clock on the wall, watching the second hand click forward fifteen times. ‘Well done,’ I heard him say. ‘Now,’ he said after five minutes or so. ‘Let’s see if it’s working. Can you feel this cold spray?’ I saw him squirt something from a small aerosol on to my shins.

‘No,’ I replied ‘I can’t.’

‘What about this?’ He did the same to my thigh.

‘No.’

‘And this?’ He sprayed the top of my bump.

‘I might as well be a slab of sirloin.’

‘Then you’re ready to go. Let’s get you lying down.’

A nurse lifted my legs on to the bed, then a blue sheet was erected at mid level, shielding my lower half from view. Sue sat on a chair by my head while the scalpel went in. As she held my hand she told me all about the exhibition she’d just been to, as though she were having a nice cappuccino with me, rather than watching me being eviscerated.

‘Beautiful watercolours …’ I heard her say. ‘Still lifes and landscapes … and some gorgeous flower paintings …’ From time to time she’d glance nervously at the other side of the screen. ‘You’d have loved it, Anna.’

‘It’s going very well,’ the doctor said. ‘Now you’ll feel a little pressure …’

I felt an odd sensation as she rummaged around in my insides as though she were doing the washing up. ‘And a little more pressure …’ I was dimly aware of a pulling feeling. Then there was an odd, sucking sound, like a retreating wave. I looked up to see the screen being lowered, and now I saw the doctor’s gloved hands raise up this … alien creature, its body the colour of raw liver, its head coated in a bluish white, its arms outflung, its tiny fingers splayed, its filmy eyes squinting into the glaring lights.

‘There’s your baby,’ Sue said, her voice catching.

‘Yes,’ I heard the doctor say. ‘She’s here.’

‘A girl …?’ I felt a twinge of relief.

‘A gorgeous girl,’ Sue said. ‘She’s lovely, Anna.’ She squeezed my hand.

I felt tears trickle down the sides of my face. The baby opened her mouth and emitted a piercing cry; then she was whisked to one side, where I saw her being wiped, then weighed, then gently laid in a resuscitator.

I glanced at the clock. The time was five past six. But what was the date? Of course. It was the eighth of June.

I’ve got the peculiar feeling that I was meant to meet you.

It was the first anniversary of my mother’s death.

FOUR

I spent three nights in hospital, the first one in the High Dependency Unit, attached to a hydra of drips and trailing wires, while Milly lay beside me in her Perspex cot, in her white hat and vest, her tiny limbs waving like windswept flowers. Round her left wrist was a little band saying ‘Baby Temple’.

‘Amelia Lucy Mary Temple,’ I whispered to her as she lay in my arms. ‘Amelia and Lucy after my two grandmothers, Mary after my mum and Temple after my family. So you’re Miss Milly Temple.’ I kissed the top of her head. ‘Welcome to the world.’

The nights in hospital were hard, the crying of twenty or so newborns making sleep impossible. Some of the babies sounded like kittens; others – including Milly – squawked like peacocks; there was one baby who made a trumpeting sound, like a tiny elephant, while the baby in the next bay emitted a constant shivery bleat, like a chilled lamb.

During the day it was depressing watching the other mothers being visited by their husbands, having congratulatory kisses bestowed on them, then being taken home with the respect shown to triumphant Olympians. My dad collected me but it felt all wrong. Xan should be doing this, I thought, as we walked through the revolving door with Milly in her car seat.

I e-mailed Xan three photos of her. Her features were already so identifiably his, in feminine miniature, that I thought he’d melt, but he didn’t reply. But then, as if to compensate me for his coldness, a flood of gifts and flowers arrived from family and friends. Each day a beribboned parcel would turn up, containing a teddy or a toy, or a tiny pink dress.

But the best gift of all was from Dad. ‘I want you to have a maternity nurse,’ he’d said at the beginning of May. He’d been in London and had dropped in to see how I was.

‘What’s made you think of that?’ I asked as I glanced up from my drawing board.

‘Cassie suggested it – it seems that one of her knitting circle runs an agency that specialises in maternity nurses; I think it’s a good idea.’

‘It is. But at £700 a week I can’t afford it.’

‘I’ll pay.’

I put down my pen. ‘No, Dad, honestly, that’s too much – and I’m sure I’ll manage …’

‘But you’ll need someone to look after you. Please let me do this for you, Anna. It’s not a luxury in your case, it’s a necessity, because you have no partner to help you and no mother.’

‘No, but …’

‘And if she’d been here she’d have stayed with you and helped you and shown you what to do, wouldn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed sadly, ‘she would.’

‘So I’d like to give you the next best thing. A maternity nurse – for six weeks.’

‘But that would cost nearly four and a half grand.’

‘But think of how often I’ve helped Cassie. I’ve always indulged her,’ he added, looking out of the window. ‘It must have seemed unfair.’ He returned his gaze to me. ‘But now I’d like to do something for you. Let this be my baby present, Anna. It would make me very happy.’

‘Well … OK, then,’ I said quietly. ‘Thanks.’

And so the day after I came out of hospital, Elaine arrived.

I’d already met her, two weeks before, when she’d come for her interview. She was Australian, late fifties, slim and neat, with her ash-blonde hair swept into a bun, a pair of little tortoiseshell specs strung round her neck. She radiated the kind of calm that makes you instinctively lower your voice. Within ten minutes of meeting her I knew she’d be fine.

And she was. She was friendly without being familiar. She took charge without being abrupt, swiftly establishing a sleeping and feeding routine for Milly. She moved about the house as unobtrusively as a cat.

I stayed in bed for the first three days, recovering from the surgery. But as I became more mobile Elaine showed me how to use the steriliser, how to breastfeed more effectively, how to burp Milly and bathe her tiny body – a proposition which terrified me – how to swaddle her to make her feel secure. She revealed to me the Byzantine mysteries of the baby sling and showed me how to collapse the pram. She’d cook for us both and clear up; she’d make me rest; she’d go to the local food store while Milly slept.

‘How’s it going with the maternity nurse?’ Dad asked me over the phone a week after Elaine arrived.

‘Wonderful.’ I sighed. ‘She’s like the Angel Gabriel and Florence Nightingale rolled into one.’

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