Anyone Can Dream

CHAPTER TWO

THAT first week was fascinating for Charlotte. Despite the August heat that made everything close and muggy, the windows in the tall maternity block were open and it was light and airy, a pleasant place to be.

She found herself shadowing William constantly, always at his elbow being instructed in one technique or another, and when on Thursday night he finally allowed her to do the night on call he insisted on being around just in case.

‘Anything at all, you call me. You can clerk the patients on admission, and you can handle any of the slightly tricky deliveries, but I want to be there beside you. OK?’

She nodded, not feeling in the least that she was being mollycoddled unnecessarily, because she had discovered that in obstetrics things could happen very fast, and when they did the window for correcting the problems could be frighteningly small.

One woman was admitted in labour shortly after William disappeared off down the corridor leaving her in charge. She clerked her, then checked with the midwife that all was going well, and went for supper, then went back up to the gynae ward to check that there were no problems requiring her attention.

She was bleeped while she was in the gynae ward and went back to the maternity ward to find that a woman was asking for sleeping pills. She wrote her up for some, then checked on the patient in labour again.

‘I think it’s going to be quite slow, but that’s fine,’ the midwife told her. ‘When she’s a little further on she wants to use the water pool, so if you’d like to observe I’m sure she won’t mind.’

Charlotte was fascinated. Delivery-wise it had been a slow week, and she was itching to see the water pool and other equipment in the birthing centres in use. So far the only deliveries had been in the normal delivery-room, but she gathered from talking to the nursing staff that that was unusual.

Certainly the trend now was towards more natural labours, and the hospital was extremely well-equipped to supply the needs of the informed new mothers.

Now all she needed was a little practical experience!

She went into the ward office and wrote up some notes, and then later on was called up to gynae to write up some pain relief for a post-op case.

At four o’clock, when she was feeling distinctly drowsy, the midwife found her at the central work station sipping a black coffee.

‘Things are hotting up,’ she told Charlotte. ‘She’s had a rest, and woken to stronger contractions, so I’ve got the pool filling and I’m going to pop her in it in a few minutes. Want to come and see?’

‘Is that OK with her? I don’t want her to feel threatened by my presence—you know, as if it’s necessary to have a doctor there.’

The midwife, Sue Coulter, shook her head. ‘It’s OK. I’ve told her you’re doing your GP training and that you’re just interested, and she and her partner are quite happy with that.’

So Charlotte finished her coffee and went into the birthing centre, in time to see Sue slipping off the woman’s gown and helping her into the large, deep pool.

Like a high-sided paddling-pool, it was about six feet in diameter and two feet deep, so that the woman could float in the warm water. Moving was easier, and the lapping of the water around her distended abdomen was very soothing. Her partner was bare-chested, and as the woman lay with her head on the side of the pool and her legs drifting in the water he reached round her and stroked the swollen curve with gentle, circular movements.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Mick,’ she said softly.

‘What’s the smell?’ Charlotte asked Sue.

‘Aromatherapy oils—lavender and jasmine oil mainly, but possibly some others.’

Just then the woman started moaning rhythmically, her voice rising to a crescendo and then dying slowly away as the contraction eased.

Charlotte thought it sounded as though she was in a great deal of pain, but Sue explained that she was just releasing the power of her body.

‘It often sounds worse than it is. Many of the women who deliver conventionally in silence actually suffer far more because it’s all internalised and they don’t release the tension. You can see Jet is actually very relaxed.’

Charlotte could see that; she could also see the support and love her partner was giving her, the tender way he held her, the soft murmur of his voice in her ear, the tiny little kisses against her cheek.

Another contraction followed, then another.

‘They seem to be coming thick and fast,’ Charlotte commented to Sue.

‘They often do—the water seems to accelerate labour at the same time as it eases the pain—incredible, really, especially for women who want to avoid pain relief.’

Just then Jet had another contraction, and Sue listened to the baby’s heart with a waterproof Sonicaid.

‘Lovely—it’s doing really well,’ she announced.

‘I want to float face down but I’ll drown,’ Jet said after the waves had passed.

‘No problem,’ Sue told her. ‘Have you ever used a snorkel?’

She nodded. ‘Yes—I used to swim a lot.’

Sue handed her a bright yellow snorkel tube, and, fitting it in her mouth, Jet turned over on to her front and floated, arms and legs bent slightly, drifting in the warm water. When the next contraction came she pulled herself to the side, her legs spreading automatically, and, lifting her head out of the water, she began to moan again.

Three times she did that, and the fourth she turned over, her expression totally focused as she began to grunt.

Sue quickly reached down into the water and examined her by touch alone, and then smiled.

‘Nearly there, Jet. Keep going, my love, just one more gentle push—lovely, stop now and pant—that’s it—little pants—good girl—that’s it—and again—lovely!’

Jet cried out, her face a mixture of pain and relief, and, reaching down, she stroked her baby’s head in wonder.

‘Are you sure it can’t drown?’ she asked, showing the first sign of concern, but Sue shook her head.

‘Oh, no—the chest is still compressed. Once the body’s delivered that’s different, so we lift them up quickly then, but now no, it’s perfectly safe.’

Jet sighed gently and leant back against Mick’s arms. ‘Oh, here we go,’ she groaned, and with a long, deep grunt she pushed and Sue lifted the tiny baby clear of the water and placed it in the woman’s waiting arms.

‘Oh, Mick, look,’ she said, tears mingling with the water on her face, and her partner reached round and cradled his child, his own tears flowing just as freely.

‘What is it?’ Sue asked.

Jet bent her head and looked more closely, then lifted a face dazed with happiness. ‘She’s a girl.’

‘Congratulations,’ Sue said warmly, and Charlotte couldn’t help the little bubble of happiness that rose up inside her.

The pain, she knew, would come later, but for now the beauty of the moment carried her willingly along.

After a few minutes, when the cord had stopped pulsating, Sue severed it and handed the little girl to Charlotte. ‘Here, you have a cuddle while Mick and I help Jet out of the water and dry her off a bit.’

The child was tiny—minute, delicate little fingers that gripped Charlotte’s own and wouldn’t let go, her eyes clear and bright, fixed on Charlotte’s face.

The ache in her heart seemed to grow until she could almost feel the swelling in her chest. What would it be like, she wondered, to hold your baby in your arms? To have that serious gaze trained so intently on your face, and know that you were the most important person in that tiny child’s world?

All too soon Jet was warm and comfortable on the bed with the baby settled again at her breast, then with a minimum of fuss she delivered the placenta, exclaiming over it in fascination.

‘I never saw it with the first one,’ she told Sue. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’

Sue lifted up the membranes and showed how they had enclosed the baby, and Jet reached out a hand and touched the fine tissues.

‘It seems incredible that they can be so strong,’ she said in wonder. ‘They’re so thin. I thought they’d be thicker, tougher, somehow.’

Her gaze dropped back to the baby. ‘She’s lovely.’

Charlotte smiled. ‘She is—very beautiful. Well done.’ Her arms felt achingly empty. She turned to Sue. ‘Any needlework for me to do?’

Sue was busily tidying up at the business end, and paused thoughtfully.

‘Little graze on the back wall—it should be OK. The perineum’s intact and there’s no muscle damage.’

Charlotte, who hadn’t yet handled a repair alone, was only too relieved. She thanked the couple for allowing her to witness the birth of their baby, then went back out into the ward.

It seemed hectic after the tranquil scene she had just witnessed, a bustling, chaotic mass of busy people all going about their endless tasks.

Ants, she thought, bustling, busy little ants. And what for? Perhaps because everyone else’s arms feel empty, too.

As she walked towards the nursing station to find out if anyone was looking for her, she saw William striding towards her. His eyes met hers, and a quick smile touched his eyes.

‘Hi. How’s it been?’

‘Fairly quiet,’ she told him. ‘I’ve just witnessed my first water birth.’

‘Ah—peace and tranquillity?’

‘Oh, yes—it was beautiful. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about it when you’ve got time, because I’ve heard all sorts of things about it being dangerous, but it seemed incredibly un-dangerous, somehow.’

He nodded. ‘It all boils down to screening and vigilance. Have you had breakfast?’

She shook her head.

‘Let’s go down to the canteen, then, and we can talk while you eat. I could do with another cup of tea.’

When they were settled at the table, Charlotte tucking into her steaming pile of bacon and egg and tomato, William with a cup of coffee and a similar plateful with an additional stack of toast—‘Looks too good to walk past,’ he’d said—they turned back to the subject of water births.

‘So,’ he asked, lazily stretching himself out sideways and propping one elbow on the table, ‘what do you want to know? The history?’

She shook her head. ‘I know the history of water birth, from Moscow in the 1960s to Leboyer and Odent, and now thanks to them and people like Janet Balaskas and the Active Birth Centre it’s used extensively in this country, particularly for home births. Right?’

He nodded. ‘Right. You’ve done your research.’

‘I should hope so,’ she retorted. ‘Still, books can only tell you so much. It’s the other things.’

‘Like?’

‘How long have you used water pools here?’

‘Oh, about a year. The old boy thinks they’re akin to witchcraft, but Alex Carter and his team are firmly in favour.’

Charlotte assumed that ‘the old boy’ was Derek Blythe, the consultant in charge of their firm, who was known for being firmly rooted in the interventionist era. He had a higher rate of Caesarian sections, forceps deliveries and episiotomies than any of the other consultants, and she had already discovered that the midwives regarded him as a hazard to be avoided at all cost! It followed, therefore, that if he was against water births, then the midwives were very likely to be for them.

William confirmed her thoughts. ‘I have yet to speak to a midwife who disagrees with it provided it’s used only when appropriate,’ he told her.

‘Which is?’ Charlotte asked.

‘Oh—we tend to rule out multiple pregnancies, malpresentations, previous adverse history, anyone who needs monitoring electronically—and of course the midwife has the authority to get the mother out at any time if she feels things aren’t going well.’

‘How often does that happen?’

He shrugged. ‘Not often. When necessary. People tend to want to get out of the water themselves if they lose confidence for any reason, or want to feel more securely screwed to the floor—the loss of gravity is a bit unsettling for some, but nearly everyone finds the time they spend in the water helps them enormously.’

Charlotte nodded. ‘Jet seemed to cope very well.’

‘Jet? Oh, damn, I missed it!’ he said, clearly disappointed. ‘Oh, well, how did it go?’

‘Lovely.’ Charlotte told him all about the birth, and he nodded in satisfaction.

‘Good. Great. She had a fairly grim labour with the first, apparently, and we were hoping this would be better for her. We’ve noticed a huge decrease in the amount of pethidine we’ve used since we’ve had the pools—we put the second one in only a couple of months ago because the first had been so successful. Now there’s hardly a day goes by when they aren’t in use, and it seems to make an enormous difference to the level of pain women feel.’

He tore off a chunk of toast and eyed Charlotte speculatively. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow night?’

The change of subject fazed her.

‘Tomorrow?’ she said blankly, casting about for a more feasible excuse than washing her hair.

‘Mmm. Only I’ve got a Janet Balaskas video and a whole lot of articles on the subject—I thought you could come over and look at it and talk it through with me.’

Peversely, disappointment warred with her relief. Only business after all, she thought, and then gave a little sigh.

‘That would be fine. I haven’t got any other plans.’

‘Great. I’ll give you the address—have you got anything to write on?’

She fished in her handbag and came up with an old envelope.

‘Do fine,’ he said, and she watched as he scribbled the address in a broad, bold hand, then drew a little map on the bottom of the scrap of paper. ‘OK?’

She took it, noticing again his long, straight fingers and the way the dark hair sprang away from the skin all around his wrist, in sharp contrast to the blinding white of his coat. Strange how something so ordinary could be so absolutely fascinating, she thought absently as she tucked the envelope back in her bag.

‘About seven?’

She nodded. ‘That would be fine.’

‘Good.’ His smile warmed her, but his next words chilled her right back down again. ‘Don’t bother to eat,’ he said. ‘I’ll knock something up during the evening—make a change from eating alone.’

She nearly protested, but something in the quality of his voice stopped her. Instead she met his eyes, and beneath the gentle smile she saw a lonely man. So she didn’t refuse, because she too had spent too many Saturday nights alone with nothing but the telly for company. One less couldn’t be a bad thing.

It was a tall, red-brick Victorian semi in a quiet residential road close to the park. Quelling her misgivings, she parked outside under a glorious copper beech tree and walked briskly up the red and black diamonds of the front path to the door.

There was a bell-pull set in the wall, the brass gleaming, and as she tugged it she heard a bell jangling far inside the house.

She saw him through the leaded lights, walking swiftly up the hall, and the door swung inwards to reveal him dressed in impossibly sexy jeans and a loose, startlingly white silk shirt. The cuffs were rolled back to reveal a tantalising glimpse of those sexy forearms, and Charlotte’s breath caught.

‘Come in—you’re right on time; my directions can’t be that bad.’ He gestured for her to come in, and his lips curved in that ready smile she found she was beginning to look for more and more.

She returned the smile and handed him a box of after-dinner mints. ‘Here—my contribution to the meal. I’m afraid I know nothing about wine, so I thought it was safest!’

He took the box with a smile. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘I don’t drink anyway, but these will really hit the spot. Come on through—I thought we’d go in the conservatory and take advantage of the last of the evening sun.’

She followed him down the long hall, past several doors and through a bright, airy kitchen with white units and a tiled floor, out into a very traditional Victorian-type conservatory.

He gestured to a wicker chair with fat, squashy cushions on it, and she perched on the edge and looked down the garden.

‘Oh, how pretty!’

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? It was a mess when I moved in, but my mother’s a landscape gardener and she designed it for me.’

He handed her a tall glass, clinking with ice and beaded with condensation. ‘Here—you look hot.’

‘I am—it’s been a scorcher,’ she agreed.

He lowered himself on the other chair and stretched out luxuriously with a sigh. ‘Oh, it’s nice to sit down.’

‘Have you been working?’ she asked in surprise.

His grin was wry. ‘Only on the house—it was a tip. Still, it needed doing!’

Charlotte squirmed guiltily. ‘You shouldn’t have done that—not for me.’

He laughed. ‘You didn’t see it! Anyway, it had to be done before Monday. I have a Mrs Mop, but she’s gone off to Majorca for a holiday and left me to my own devices for a week. If she came back and saw it like it was, she’d give me the sack.’

She smiled, as she was meant to, and sipped the cool, refreshing drink. ‘Oh, this is lovely.’

‘Is it OK? It’s an alcohol-free spritzer, because I knew you’d be driving.’

‘It’s perfect.’ She rolled the ice-cold glass against her forehead. ‘Mmm.’

He stood up abruptly. ‘We’re having a salad,’ he told her, his back towards her. ‘All sorts of bits of this and that. OK?’

‘It sounds delicious,’ she told him, puzzled by his sudden exit from the conservatory. ‘Anything I can do?’

‘Talk to me while I make the vinaigrette.’

She had slipped off her shoes, and padded silently over the cool tiles into the kitchen.

‘What about?’

He jumped and turned. ‘Damn it, woman, don’t sneak around—you’ll give me heart failure!’

She giggled. ‘Sorry.’

A slow grin crept across his face, and he lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles across her cheek.

‘I’ll forgive you—as you’re so lovely.’

Charlotte swallowed, suddenly feeling trapped.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, but her voice sounded thready and slightly strangled.

‘I wasn’t.’ For once his voice was serious, and she felt his hand again, open this time, his palm dry and cool against her flushed cheek. His thumb stroked softly under her eye, then round, grazing her bottom lip. It caught, tugging gently, and she felt desire shoot through her.

‘William,’ she pleaded, but whether for him to stop or go on she didn’t know.

However he stopped, and she was shocked at the wave of disappointment she felt. He turned away, his jaw working, and started pouring ingredients into a little bottle. ‘Do you mind raw garlic in the dressing?’ he asked, and she heard a slight rasp in his voice.

So it wasn’t just her.

‘No—no, that’s fine,’ she told him a little blankly, her eyes mesmerised by the jumping muscle at the corner of his jaw, just in front of his ear.

He bent and took something out of the fridge, and her eyes followed his movements, savouring the taut pull of the jeans over his neat bottom, the glimpse of dark hair on his chest through the buttons of his shirt as he turned back, the flexing of muscle in his forearm as he pressed the fresh garlic and scraped it into the bottle.

He lifted his eyes, spearing her with a brilliant blue gaze. ‘If you watch me like that, you’re likely to land yourself in deep trouble,’ he advised gently, and she swallowed.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise—I was enjoying it.’

Her eyes fell, and she swallowed again. Was it her imagination, or did his jeans fit more snugly than before? She looked hastily away. This was ridiculous. She had never intended this to happen when she came here tonight! She must be out of her mind, ogling him and giving him ideas. Women like her——

‘Penny for them.’

She shook her head, and then started as his hands closed over her shoulders and turned her back towards him.

‘Let’s get this out of the way, shall we? Then perhaps we can both concentrate.’

Oh, God, he’s going to kiss me, she thought in desperation, and then it was too late to think, because those sensuous, beautiful lips were on hers, like the touch of a butterfly, light and delicate, searching.

She made a tiny moue of sound and his arms slid round behind her, coaxing her up against his long, rangy body as his mouth settled more firmly against hers. She felt the warm tip of his tongue caress her lips, and her mouth opened of its own accord to receive his kiss.

His tongue felt like velvet, warm, coaxing, seeking hers out and dallying with it, then retreating, encouraging hers to follow in a little dance.

She played along, fascinated by the texture of his mouth, the clean, sharp edge of his teeth, the firm fullness of his lips—and his taste, sweet and fresh, with a faint trace of mint.

He eased away, sucking her lower lip into his mouth and nipping it gently with his teeth. The sharp stab of desire shocked her and she jerked away, her eyes wide, her chest rising and falling with her ragged breathing. Their eyes were locked, and she was stunned at the raw animal need etched on his face.

He quickly blanked it and moved away.

There—that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ he said casually, but his voice was as ragged as her breathing and his body betrayed him.

She felt her shoulders droop. What happened next? Was she expected to sleep with him? Sing for her supper, so to speak?

Her silence must have registered, because he put down the bowl of salad he was carrying and came over to her, his hands cupping her shoulders and kneading gently.

‘Charlotte, it’s all right. We don’t have to take this anywhere if you don’t want to.’

But I do! she wanted to shout, but couldn’t. Anyway, if they did he would soon lose interest in her.

Funny how much the idea of that hurt.

She shook her head helplessly. ‘I thought we were looking at a video.’

‘We will—hell, Charlotte, I wasn’t trying to get you here under false pretences. I don’t work like that. If you want to watch the video, we’ll watch the video. If you want to talk, we’ll talk. If you change your mind about——’ His broad shoulders shifted in a little shrug, and his mouth tipped slightly. ‘Let’s take it hour by hour, shall we?’

‘Can we?’ she asked, doubtful.

‘Oh, yes. Let’s start with supper because I’m starving, then we’ll go and watch the video and look through the literature, and then—well, we’ll see.’

‘No,’ she said, her panic surfacing finally through the haze of desire. ‘No, we’ll have supper and watch the video, and then I’ll go home. I don’t care if you accuse me of running away——’

‘Charlotte.’ His voice was softly reproachful. ‘I’m not going to accuse you of anything, and you certainly don’t need to run anywhere. You can walk away from me at any time.’

She didn’t believe him. Experience, she had found, was the best teacher, and when it came to escape she was very experienced.

Except usually she had had the sense to do it long before this point.

Only once before had she failed to escape, and she had paid the price for years. In many ways she was still paying it, and probably always would.

She backed away.

‘I—I need a drink,’ she said feebly, and, turning swiftly, she almost ran back into the conservatory.

He didn’t follow her, but left her, curled up on the chair among the squashy cushions, facing firmly down the garden, her thoughts in turmoil. Her body was still throbbing, aching with a need she hadn’t known she could feel, and she clutched the cold glass like a lifeline.

After a few minutes she heard him come up behind her and touch her gently on the shoulder.

‘Charlotte?’

She stiffened. ‘Yes?’

‘Supper’s ready. I thought we could eat it out here, if you like.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Supper?’

‘Come on.’

He helped her up, holding her when the pins and needles stabbed her feet where she had sat on them, and with an understanding smile he led her to the table in the kitchen. The food was spread out—cold meats, dressed salads, a huge bowl of frilly lettuce, chunks of crusty brown bread, a big block of pale yellow butter—and she stared at it blankly.