The Little House Read online

  ‘In our day fathers were completely banned,’ Frederick said. He turned to Elizabeth. ‘You wouldn’t have wanted me there, would you?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ she said. ‘I gave birth to two children in two different countries, and never had a class in my life.’

  ‘I want to have a completely natural childbirth,’ Ruth said firmly. ‘I want to do it all by breathing. That’s what the classes are for. And I am counting on Patrick to help me.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ Elizabeth reassured her. ‘And, Patrick, you know all about it, do you?’

  ‘Not a thing!’ Patrick said with his charming smile. ‘But Ruth has given me a book. I’ll bone up on it before the day. I just can’t get on with the class, and a roomful of people watching me.’

  ‘I should think not!’ Frederick said. ‘It’s a private business, I should have thought.’

  ‘And it’s more difficult for me,’ Patrick said, warming to his theme. ‘Everyone knows me, they’ve all seen me on the telly. I could just see them watching me trying to massage Ruth and dying to rush home and telephone their friends and say, “We saw that Patrick Cleary give his wife a massage”.’

  ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t,’ Ruth said. ‘They’re all much too interested in their own wives and babies. That’s what they’re there for, not to see you.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Frederick. ‘Fame has its disadvantages too.’

  ‘But I’ll read the book,’ Patrick promised. ‘I’ll know all about it by the time it happens.’

  But Patrick had not read the book. It was in his briefcase on a journey to and from London. But he had bought a newspaper, to look for news stories for the documentary unit, and then there were notes to make, and things to think about, and anyway the journey was quite short. The book, still unread, was in his pocket as he helped Ruth into the maternity unit of the hospital.

  As soon as the nurse admitted Ruth it was apparent that something was wrong. She called the registrar and there was a rapid undertone consultation. Then he turned to them. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to do a section,’ he said. ‘Your baby is breeched and his pulse rate is too high. He’s rather stressed. I think we want him out of there.’ He glanced at Ruth. ‘It’ll have to be full anaesthesia. We don’t have time to wait for Pethidine to work.’

  The words were unfamiliar to Patrick, he did not know what was going on, but Ruth’s distress was unmistakable. ‘Now wait a minute …’ he said.

  ‘We can’t really,’ the doctor said. ‘We can’t wait at all. Do I have your permission?’

  Ruth’s eyes filled with tears and then she drew in a sharp breath of pain. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose so … Oh, Patrick!’

  ‘Permission for what?’ Patrick asked. ‘What’s going on?’

  The registrar took him by the arm and explained in a quick undertone that the baby was in distress and that they wanted to do a Caesarean section at once. Patrick, out of his depth, appealed to the doctor, ‘But they’ll both be OK, won’t they? They’ll both be all right?’

  The doctor patted him reassuringly on the back. ‘Right as rain,’ he said cheerily. ‘And no waiting about. I’ll zip her down to surgery and in quarter of an hour you’ll have your son in your arms. OK?’

  ‘Oh, fine,’ Patrick said, reassured. He looked back at Ruth lying on the high hospital bed. She had turned to face the wall; there were tears pouring down her cheeks. She would not look at him.

  Patrick patted her back. ‘It’ll all be over in a minute.’

  ‘I didn’t want it to be over in a minute,’ Ruth said, muffled. ‘I wanted a natural birth.’

  The nurse moved swiftly forward and put an injection in Ruth’s limp arm. ‘That’s the pre-med,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You’ll feel better now, and when you wake up you’ll have a lovely baby. Won’t that be wonderful? You go to sleep like a good girl now. You won’t feel a thing.’

  Patrick stood back and watched Ruth’s dark eyelashes flutter and finally close. ‘But I wanted to feel …’ she said sleepily.

  They took the bed and wheeled it past him. ‘What do I do?’ he asked.

  The nurse glanced at him briefly. ‘There’s nothing for you to do,’ she said. ‘You can watch the operation if you like … or I’ll bring the baby out to you when it’s delivered.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ Patrick said hastily. ‘You can bring it out.’

  They went through the double swing doors at the end of the brightly lit corridor. Patrick suddenly felt bereft and very much alone. He felt afraid for Ruth, so little and pale in the high-wheeled bed, with her eyelids red from crying.

  He had not kissed her, he suddenly remembered. He had not wished her well. If something went wrong … he shied away from the thought, but then it recurred: if something went wrong then she would die without him holding her hand. She would die all on her own, and he had not even said, ‘Good luck’, as they took her away from him. He had not kissed her last night, he had not kissed her this morning, in the sudden panic of waking. Come to think of it, he could not remember the last time he had taken her in his arms and held her.

  The book in his pocket nudged his hip. He hadn’t gone to her antenatal classes, he hadn’t even read her little book. Only two nights ago she had asked him to read a deep-breathing exercise to her when they were in bed, and he had fallen asleep by the third sentence. He had woken in the early hours of the morning with the corner of the book digging into his shoulder, and he had felt irritated with her for being so demanding, for making such absurd requests when everyone knew, when his mother assured him, that having a baby was as natural as shelling peas, that there was nothing to worry about.

  And there were other causes for guilt. He had moved her out of the flat she loved and taken her away from Bristol and her friends and her job. He hadn’t even got her little house ready for her on time. He hadn’t chosen wallpaper or carpets or curtains with her. He had left it to his mother, when he knew Ruth wanted him to plan it with her. He felt deeply, miserably, guilty.

  The uncomfortable feeling lasted for several minutes, and then he saw a pay phone and went over to telephone his mother.

  She answered on the first ring; she had been lying awake in bed, as he knew she would. ‘How are things?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Not well,’ he said.

  ‘Oh! My dear!’

  ‘She’s got to have a Caesarean section, she’s having it now.’

  ‘Shall I come down?’

  ‘I don’t know … I’m waiting in the corridor … I feel at a bit of a loose end … It’s all a bit bleak.’

  ‘I’ll come at once,’ Elizabeth said briskly. ‘And don’t worry, darling, she’ll be as right as rain.’

  Elizabeth leaped from her bed and pulled on her clothes. She shook Frederick’s shoulder. He opened one sleepy eye. ‘Ruth’s gone to have her baby. I’m going down there,’ she said. There was no need for him to know more. Elizabeth never lied but she was often sparing with information. ‘I’ll telephone you with any news.’

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Three in the morning. Go back to sleep, darling, there’s nothing you can do. I’ll call you when I know more.’

  He nodded and rolled over. Elizabeth sped downstairs and put the kettle on. While it came to the boil she made sandwiches with cold lamb from last night’s joint, and prepared a thermos of strong coffee. She put everything in a wicker basket and left the house, closing the front door quietly behind her.

  It was a wonderful warm midsummer night; the stars were very bright and close and a harvest moon broad and yellow leaning on the horizon. Elizabeth started her little car and drove down the lane to the hospital at Bath, and to her son.

  His face lit up when he saw her. He was sitting on a chair outside the operating theatre, very much alone, looking awkward with his jumper askew over his shirt collar. He looked very young.

  ‘No news yet?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re operating,’ he said. ‘It’