Freeing Grace
Freeing
Grace
Freeing
Grace
CHARITY NORMAN
First published in 2010
Copyright © Charity Norman 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian
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Contents
Grace Serenity had a mother, once. A real, flesh and blood mother, who gave birth to Grace in a great, grey hospital. Her name was Cherie King, and she was sixteen.
There was no proud father pacing in the delivery room. No anxious grandparents stood vigil, hankies and champagne at the ready, by their telephone. Not one cardigan or pair of bootees had been knitted. The only witness to Grace’s arrival, save for the midwives who delivered her, was a social worker called Imogen Christie; and she was only there by accident.
Dropping in on Cherie’s foster carer to discuss the unborn child, Imogen had found Cherie circling the kitchen table, dark eyes wide with fright, hands taut over her swollen middle.
‘Isn’t Ellen here?’ Imogen’s eyes flickered around the room, as though the foster mother might be hiding behind the door.
‘London,’ gasped Cherie, gripping the table with strong fingers. She was a graceful girl, with ebony skin and long legs. ‘Had to go and see her grandson. Should be back any—’ She stopped in her tracks, listening fearfully to something deep inside her body. ‘Oh, fucking hell, here we go again.’ And she convulsed, with a muffled shriek.
Imogen had no children; she was newly engaged, and believed in allowing these things to happen in the right order. Still, she knew where this was going. After all—she reached for her mobile phone—it wasn’t rocket science, even if the baby wasn’t due for a fortnight.
‘Just my luck
,
’ she grumbled, swiftly punching numbers. ‘Ambulance, please. Hold on, Cherie.’
It was a relief to hand over responsibility to the ambulance crew. They exuded unflappable confidence, joking calmly with the frightened girl as they stowed her safely.
‘You’re the same age as my granddaughter,’ said the older man. He was heavily built—could have been a useful bouncer at one time—with almost no hair. A gold stud glinted in one ear. He sat next to Cherie during the journey, timing contractions and providing a steady stream of reassurance. The girl did her best, even laughing weakly at his sallies.
‘Haven’t you got a lovely smile?’ he remarked, offering oxygen.
‘D’you know what you’re having?’
‘A baby,’ panted Cherie.
He smacked himself on the forehead. ‘Ask a stupid question.’
‘It’s a girl,’ said Cherie, relenting. ‘They told me at the scan.’
It
would
have to happen on a Friday. Imogen had plans for the evening: a hens’ night for an old friend. Ten of them were getting together for the first time in years, and it was going to be a riot. Swaying in the back of the ambulance, she tried every number possible to contact the foster mother or Cherie’s own social worker. But one—Ellen Bayley—was stuck on the motorway, waiting for the AA; the other had already swanned off for the weekend; and the duty team were busy with some more pressing crisis.
A midwife met them in the ambulance bay, introducing herself as Jude and taking a brief history from the bald, gold-studded paramedic. He fondly patted Cherie’s hand, told her he was looking forward to hearing she’d had a bonny baby, then closed the doors of his ambulance and set off to the next emergency.
Jude was pushing fifty, Imogen reckoned, and had an air of solid experience. A square woman: square body, square shoes, square face.
‘Glad you’ve come to support her,’ she said pointedly, as they hurried behind Cherie’s wheelchair.
‘Um, I can’t actually stay,’ ventured Imogen.
‘I think you can.’
‘I’m not her social worker. I’m—’ Imogen dropped her voice. ‘I’m key worker for the unborn child. We’ve arranged a foster placement for both mother and baby, but if things don’t work out we’ll have to remove the child. So it’s hardly appropriate for me to be the mother’s birth partner.’
Halting abruptly, Jude regarded the social worker. She had the kind of mouth that turned down even when she was smiling. Right now, she wasn’t smiling.
‘You’re not going to leave this kid to give birth
alone
, are you?’
Imogen hesitated, glancing into the delivery room. Someone was helping Cherie into a faded hospital gown. The girl stuck out her arms to be dressed, like a little child.
The midwife jerked her head at the lonely young figure. ‘She’s in care, right? So,
care
for her!’
Sighing, Imogen surrendered. ‘Bang goes my night out.’
‘Great. Welcome aboard. Sit here,’ ordered Jude, patting the chair generally reserved for white-knuckled fathers. ‘Just try to reassure her.’
What Imogen witnessed in that room, she would never forget. During eight years in her job she had seen much that was shocking and disturbing, and she often felt she had seen it all. But she had never come face to face with such raw pain, nor such stubborn courage. Through the agonising hours and into the night, Cherie barely screamed, although she made copious use of the gas. She seemed to accept the violent assault of it; seemed to withdraw into some private place in her own mind. But then, thought Imogen bleakly, Cherie King knew all about violence. Her mother and stepfather had taught her all too well.
Soon after midnight, Jude called in a student midwife. The two women worked smoothly together: preparing, checking. Imogen was fascinated.
‘Head’s there,’ called Jude. ‘You’re doing brilliantly, Cherie.’
‘Jesus, help me!’ Cherie’s voice rose high with panic. She was half sitting, her head thrown back. She dropped the gas mask. ‘She’s killing me!’
‘Brave girl.’ Jude was calm. ‘One last time, darling. Here it comes . . .’
‘I’m
dead
!’ shrieked Cherie. On impulse, Imogen reached for her hand. The girl clutched blindly at her, squeezing with powerful, frantic fingertips. Imogen’s eyes watered at the strength of her grip, but she held on.
Suddenly Cherie gave an inhuman cry, a wail of agony and triumph. And then the baby made its escape. Imogen saw a flash of glistening brown skin, and there was a new person in the world. A new, real person, who had been no more than a pale blue file in the cabinet in Imogen’s office. The air seemed to vibrate with a thin bleating, like a lost lamb on a hillside. Something tightened in the social worker’s throat.
‘There we are.’ Jude laid the baby—bloodied, slippery and still trailing its umbilical cord—on the young mother’s stomach. Cherie’s arms slid around the tiny body, and she held on as though she would never let go. She was sobbing convulsively.
‘You’ve got a daughter!’ Jude exulted, tucking a warm towel around the child. ‘A beautiful, healthy little girl.’
‘Well done,’ breathed Imogen.
Still sobbing, Cherie pressed her lips onto the soft head.
The midwives began to bustle about, doing mysterious post-birth things. They took the baby briefly, ‘to count the fingers and toes’, and then returned her. They delivered the placenta without fuss and bore it away. Finally, the student brought tea and biscuits for the new mother before hurrying off to another delivery. But Cherie was oblivious. She seemed to be bewitched by the miraculous thing in her arms.
As the minutes passed, Imogen leaned closer to this brand-new human being, and closer still. Professionally, she often had to consider newborn babies. She could quote their needs, discuss their routines, reel off the symptoms of poor parenting. She’d sometimes arranged for their swift—and frequently permanent—removal from their mothers. But she had never actually seen such a new one before.
Cherie’s baby, seeing for the first time, had shining eyes like pools of treacle. She had a mouth the size and shape of a polo mint, pouting at the strange air of the world. With awe, Imogen watched the rise and fall of a brave little chest that might breathe for the next hundred years.
‘Are you going to try feeding her yourself, Cherie?’ Jude smiled her encouragement. ‘We can have a go right now, if you like. Be good for both of you, I promise.’
Cherie gaped at her. ‘You mean . . . ? Gross!’ She shuddered. ‘She’s gonna have a bottle.’
‘Go on, give it a try,’ urged Jude, pulling up a tall stool and perching on it. ‘It’s much easier than a bottle, no sterilising, and the good news is you get your figure back quicker.’
Cherie’s heavy eyelids lowered defensively. ‘No way.’
‘It’s the best start in life you can give her,’ coaxed the midwife.
‘
Jesus.
You know nothing.’ Cherie sighed and stared up at the ceiling. ‘The best start I can give her is to dump her on Imogen’s doorstep in a cardboard box.’
‘Silly talk, Cherie,’ protested Imogen. ‘You’re going to bring her home to Ellen’s, remember?’
Cherie’s eyes overflowed. ‘How can I look after her?’ She wiped her face with the hospital gown.
‘You’re her mum, pet,’ said Jude, rubbing the teenager’s back in kind little circles. ‘A girl needs her mum.’
But Cherie’s face had grown blank, like an African princess carved in ebony. She gathered the baby closer, pressing the warm, downy head against her own cheek.
‘I don’t even
want
her to have me for a mother.’
Jude’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘I think you’re scared, Cherie.’
The princess turned her head away.
Jude sighed, pulled a biro out of her breast pocket, and ticked something on a clipboard. ‘Bottle feed, then, if you’re sure. And after a good night’s sleep, you’ll see everything differently. Have you decided what you’ll be calling her?’
Cherie seemed ready, as though she had just this one gift for her child. She lifted her chin.
‘Yeah. Grace Serenity.’
Jude’s pen hovered over the page. ‘Grace . . . what?’
‘Serenity. S . . . E . . . R . . .’
The midwife nodded. ‘I’ve got it. Okay. Lovely.’ She scribbled, and then clicked her biro a couple of times. ‘Now, your surname is King? D’you mind me asking, Cherie, what the father’s name might be?’
Imogen’s ears began to flap. Cherie had steadfastly refused to name the father. It was a problem, legally.
‘Dickhead,’ spat Cherie without hesitation. ‘D . . . I . . . C . . .’
Imogen smiled, despite herself.
Jude held up a hand. ‘All right, all right.’ Carefully, she wrote something on a miniature plastic bracelet and then reached out and snapped it around the baby’s tiny wrist.
‘There we go. She’s official now. Grace Serenity King.’
‘Oh my God,’ yelped Cherie suddenly. She was staring, horrified, at a spreading dark patch where her right breast touched the hospital gown. ‘I’m
leaking
!’
The midwife laughed. ‘It’s the milk, pet. That’s colostrum, with everything your baby needs. Your body’s got more sense than you have.’
