Once Upon A Time in the West . . . Country (36 page)

In this situation there was no pain. It was an odd feeling, though, and not one that felt comfortable. It was certainly not pleasurable, as some claim to find it, perhaps because I was not relaxed enough. As the doctor’s digit probed, I became more anxious. What would he find up there? The keys to the garden shed? They had been missing for over a month now and Fran had repeatedly said, ‘Well, they must be somewhere.’

Oddly, when the sixty seconds was up, there was no whistle. Just a feeling of immense relief as the finger was removed and my sphincter snapped back into its favourite position. Closed.

‘I’m pleased to say that there’s nothing to worry about,’ said the doctor. The doctor that I hardly knew.

This was an immense relief. I can’t pretend that in the few seconds the examination had taken, I hadn’t allowed my mind to run wild with dark thoughts concerning my own mortality.

‘Just keep a close eye on things and if the symptoms continue or get worse, we’ll take another look,’ he continued.

That would be fun.

‘Thank you, doctor.’

‘No problem. It was nice to meet you.’

‘It was nice to meet you, too.’

I would have to manage my social life such that I didn’t meet anyone in that manner again.

***

The month of March announced itself with a crisp, bright morning. A few weeks remained for us to cram ourselves full of as much information on childbirth as we possibly could. Our hypnobirthing classes doubled up on much of what we’d already learned in our active birth classes. We shared the sessions with another couple who, like us, seemed open to new ideas but weren’t your typical New Agey, hippy types that you might expect to find on this kind of ‘alternative’ course. Far from it, Jim was a plumber and his wife Sarah, a hairdresser.

The main difference between this and the previous course we’d attended was that Fran learned some self-hypnosis techniques, as well as a couple of variations on the breathing exercises. Our teacher, Trina, displayed the customary bubbly vivaciousness that I now considered must be compulsory for anyone working in anything connected with childbirth. She was keen to have us be careful what language we used. Instead of ‘contraction’ we were asked to use the word ‘surge’, as it has a more positive connotation. I was taught massages I could give to Fran, and we learned how to block out any negative-speak we might hear that could cause us to be fearful going into the birth. Over three sessions, we took in a lot of information and consumed a lot of biscuits. (These also seem to be compulsory at any birth-related gathering.)

We were brimming over with information and different techniques. What we really needed now was for labour to begin so we could put them into practice before we forgot them all, but instead life went on as usual. Sometimes it felt as if we were in a kind of suspended reality. Everything was still going on around us, but somehow it was of diminished importance. Even the village hall committee meetings lost their edge. The exhilaration of discussions about the introduction of a new cleaning rota, or finding dates for the next skittles evening, were tempered by the knowledge that a rather more sensational event was on the horizon. We were even able to handle the successful outcome of the debate about whether to replace the padlocks on the store cupboard without euphoria. No highs and lows for us right now. Just a clock ticking.

‘Enjoy your last days of freedom,’ was the common refrain we heard when we chatted to our fellow villagers. ‘Get some sleep in now, because soon you won’t get any.’

I was reminded of how it felt when I was a twenty-year-old and I was told that I should enjoy myself now, because life was going to get a lot harder. I couldn’t understand the logic of this because at twenty, a human being is a pretty confused entity. We’re struggling to come to terms with adulthood, the opposite sex, and the perceived need to find a career. Telling you that those days ought to be the happiest days of your life wasn’t terribly helpful. Neither was what we were hearing now, which seemed to be something of this order:

‘Congratulations. You are about to have the most wonderful thing happen to you. Well done. Small thing, though – this wonderful thing that is about to happen to you will have a small by-product. It will totally ruin your life.’

Anyway, the final days of ‘freedom’ didn’t feel very free at all. There was too much uncertainty. At any given moment, we were only hours away from having our lives changed forever. That’s the deal. Unless you book in for a Caesarean section, you don’t know when you’re going to have your baby. It can come early, like that unwanted big bill, or late, like a parcel you’ve waited in for. Babies come when they’re ready, I guess, and it is most unreasonable of them. In the meantime we wait, and we tread carefully.

This must be what it feels like when two countries have declared war on each other but no hostilities have yet begun. It’s confusing. Unsettling. Disconcerting. Looking at the distant horizon, knowing that at any moment enemy bombers might appear, can take the edge off the nice sunny day. Thankfully for us it would be labour and a newborn baby, rather than air strikes or invading armies. Not unless NATO had overreacted to our decision to appeal against Dartmoor National Park Authority’s refusal of our planning application.

Fran and I spent our evenings either reading – our heads buried in books about childbirth – or doing some rather odd things. Having kept healthily open minds about most of the ‘New Agey’ writings about childbirth, we had decided to encourage our baby to get itself into the right position for its birth. We talked to it, and I’d even written a little song
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that we would sing to it regularly of an evening. I can remember when it first hit the headlines that Prince Charles talked to his plants and he was considered a ‘loony’ by the mainstream press. No doubt there is now evidence proving that plants respond well to posh people addressing them in aristocratic accents, saying: ‘Very nice to meet you – and what exactly do you do?’ Soon a scientific paper would emerge detailing how singing instructions to a foetus assists birth.

Head down, chin to chest

You know that this is best

Back to belly, hands to heart

All on the left now

You’re ready to start

’Cos baby knows best

Baby knows best

(Repeat and fade)

Fran had even picked a date for the birth.

‘It’s going to come on Thursday the twentieth,’ she declared.

This was good, positive thinking, but it wasn’t exactly based on any scientific or biological evidence. Nevertheless, we kept the day clear.

17

Braking Bad

‘
It doesn’t matter about Reg and his Zetor,’ said Ken.

He’d popped over especially to deliver the news and he was standing in the porch smiling as I answered the door.

‘Andrew is going to lend you his Massey 35.’

‘Andrew?’

‘My son Andrew. He’s finished doing it up – but he’s going to take his Fordson Super Major to the tractor run so the Massey’s spare and you can drive it next Sunday.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Pop over tomorrow and I’ll give you a lesson.’

‘Great. Are you not worried that I’ll burn the bloody clutch out?’

‘You’ll manage.’

***

As expected, Ken’s teaching style was less radical than Reg’s. I was given a clear and detailed explanation of how everything worked and I felt reasonably confident as I climbed aboard. The tractor was beautiful – well, insofar as a tractor can be beautiful, I suppose. Its pristine red paintwork glistened in the spring sunshine and it looked brand new, so lovingly had it been restored. After twenty minutes of driving around a neighbouring field with Ken perched behind me providing instructions, I figured that I knew pretty much all I was required to know. I only needed to use three gears – second, third and reverse; the accelerator was where the indicator is on a car; and using the brake involved standing upright because the tractor would only stop if one’s entire body weight was applied to it.

‘It seems fairly straightforward,’ I said to Ken, as we pulled into his drive.

‘Yes. The main thing to remember is to keep over to the side so that cars can get past you.’

‘OK. What time is it all happening?’

‘Come round to mine at nine-thirty a.m. on Sunday.’

‘Will do. How long does it last?’

‘Allow all day.’

Ah. All day with a tractor. A little longer than I was expecting. I did my best to keep a neutral expression.

‘That OK?’ checked Ken.

‘Fine. Just fine.’

***

Sunday morning was dry and cloudy and thankfully no rain had been forecast. This was excellent news given that the tractor I would be driving had no cab, and sitting all day on a slow-moving vehicle whilst cold water tipped out of the sky would bring little pleasure. Actually it was difficult to assess quite what pleasure I was expecting to get from the day. As I walked round to Ken’s I began to wonder why I was going on this tractor run. Perhaps I was expecting a rural experience that would bond me with my environment? Or maybe I was just curious? Yes, that was it. I wanted to know what it was about men and tractors that had made them decide to hang out socially.

Ken and Andrew were tinkering with the three vintage tractors that were now parked on the drive. To an aficionado the sight would have brought great pleasure and a wealth of conversational possibilities. All I saw were three tractors. Two red ones and a blue one. One very big one (Ken’s), one slightly smaller one (Andrew’s) and a little one (mine). I suddenly realised that the paucity of my tractor vocabulary was going to be sorely exposed today. Sitting astride this tractor all day, I would be like a non-swimmer wading out to sea without armbands, but wearing a very nice vintage pair of trunks.

Everything began smoothly enough. The younger version of Ken, Andrew, started up my Massey, nodded to me to jump aboard, and the three of us headed off in convoy to the field that had been assigned for mass tractor rendezvous, which was about a mile away. We stopped only once to pick up a man who resembled Father Christmas, and who climbed into the back of the trailer that Ken was pulling behind his tractor. I called to Andrew, who was behind me.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Tom, Ken’s brother.’

Ah, so this was Brother Tom. The recluse. Well, he certainly looked the part. White hair and beard, blue dungarees, a hat that wouldn’t look amiss on a skier, and a shepherd’s wooden stick. He settled neatly into the metal container that he had seemingly elected to spend a large proportion of his day in, and off we all set.

There were a dozen or so tractors parked in the field when we arrived, flanked by the kind of men who you might expect to see flanking tractors. They had the look of men who toiled the land; rugged, hardy, dishevelled. Today was a big day out for them and their machines. After we’d all parked up Ken introduced me to his brother only to become surrounded by a cluster of welcoming mates. Finding myself isolated somewhat, I chatted with Brother Tom.

‘Do you know much about tractors?’ he asked.

‘No. This is the first time I’ve driven one any distance.’

‘You did well. I’m going to look at that McCormick Super over there. Want to come?’

‘Yes please.’

It was either that or stand around looking a bit lost. So I looked at a McCormick Super.

Brother Tom turned out to be a most engaging companion for tractor perusal. His enthusiasm, which occasionally bordered on excitement, was infectious. He spouted all sorts of information about each tractor he examined – and examine them he did – over the next half hour.

‘How do you know so much about tractors?’ I asked him, as he bent down to study the rear of a yellow one.
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***

‘Because I read
Tractor and Machinery
magazine. It’s full of stuff about vintage tractors. Mind if I smoke?’

‘Not at all.’

I’d expected him to light up a cigarette but instead he produced a vintage pipe and lit it. Perhaps he subscribed to
Pipe and Machinery
magazine too.