Turn Us Again (14 page)

Sam's birthday started with promise. When he awoke I kissed him on the lips and he said ‘It is the sweetest birthday present I have ever had.' We washed and dressed and had our coffee, languidly went for a little walk, met dear John Drake and had a glass of wine with him. Sam and I then returned to our room, where we lay and dozed and made love and passed the time. After went out for a short swim — it was cool and glorious after the heat of love making. Dressed for the evening and had two ciders, then made it three and got tipsy. Sam started telling me how his relationship towards me had changed and I felt furious (drunkenly) and we quarrelled over dinner, etc. It was all very painful, then we were going for coffee, and I said ‘You'd rather go alone, wouldn't you?' and he said ‘Much rather' so that was the end of his birthday
.

I glance up at my father when I reach the end of the diary entry. His eyes are closed and I can't tell whether he is asleep or not. Then a tear seeps from his eyelid. I take his hand in a comforting way, and he removes it from my grasp brusquely. I am not offended. It must be so difficult for him to discuss his relationship with Mum. He is not used to talking about emotions or feelings; maybe that's why he seems to strive towards a clinical candidness.

He reaches into his pocket for the ever-present handkerchief and wipes it vigorously back and forth along the end of his nose. “It seems so pointless and unnecessary. How easy it is to ruin something nice by silliness.”

I know he means her silliness, but I remember other reasons why nice things were ruined. “It was often your temper. You'd just flare up for no reason.”

“Aren't you beginning to understand the complexity of human interaction? As a child, you are not annoyed by silliness. All you notice is your father ranting, and you feel resentment that he has ruined the day. But aren't you gaining a wider perspective as you read, especially the bits from the diary? Your mother was a silly woman, always seeing herself in the centre of some stage play. Falling off the punt for example, imagining we'd all leap in after her and save her. Then weeping dramatically when we didn't.”

He sees the look on my face and moderates his words. “I don't mean that. I loved her. She was my life.”

He retires to bed early, and I continue to read.

NINE

“D
o you love me?” Sam asked.

Madelyn felt triumphant, the way she used to feel all the time. ‘Is that what love is all about,' she thought, ‘who has the upper hand? Who is asking for love?'

“You cannot marry me in any case.” Madelyn held her breath, wondering if this time he would submit. His submission did not mean that she would marry him, but at least she would have overcome the obstacles his family presented.

“If you truly loved me, it would not be affected by whether I can marry you or not.”

“If you truly loved me you would find a way to marry me.”

“You refuse to understand. It's almost as if you think it's a question of persuasion. My heart will break when you leave me and marry somebody else, but there is no happy ending to this relationship. My mother wouldn't just cut me off — that might be a relief. She might do something worse, that could ruin my life. Like harm herself.”

“Has she said so? Has she threatened you in this way?”

“I have always done everything my mother wants, striven to behave in ways she approves of. I was a very, very good child. A terrified, adoring little boy.”

“But you don't adore her anymore. You despise her.”

“She used to work all the time, and the maids looked after me. If I did anything naughty they locked me in the cupboard.”

Madelyn's sympathy was aroused. “Why didn't you tell your mother? She would have put the fear of death into them.”

“I didn't talk till I was four years old. The maids used to give me sweets before my mother was due home to stop me crying.”

“But didn't she vet the people looking after you? You were her pride and joy. And what about Daniel?”

“He was already away at school. She didn't like children much, or understand them. She wasn't maternal. She couldn't read the signs that I wasn't happy.”

The thought of the little boy locked in the cupboard upset Madelyn. She hugged him. “Poor Sam. Poor Sam.”

He shrugged her off. “Enough about that. I don't know why I brought it up. I would like to know if you have made love to Philip.”

Madelyn was offended that he had pushed her away. She turned away from him and lay facing the wall. “Whatever I tell you, you won't believe me anyway.”

“Philip has dropped veiled hints about experiences of a sexual nature. I ask you again, have you slept with him?”

“I have not slept with Philip.” She despised herself for wanting him to believe her so much.

Sam encircled Madelyn with his arms, curving his body around her back like a fetus. Her anger made her lie rigid against him, without responding. “If you are unable to marry me, let alone trust me, I don't think I should see you anymore.”

“Why?”

“I've just told you. You need more reasons? Maybe I
want
to sleep with Philip.”

There was silence, and Madelyn twisted around to look at Sam's face. He was staring at the ceiling. Then he got off the bed and walked out the door.

A beautiful clear fine day. Came off work at two and back to the house, then washed my hair and sat outside to dry it in the sun. Felt exhausted, my eyes so weary, my entire forehead puckered. I have quarrelled with Sam again. He came around and wanted to know if I had slept with Philip. I was so tired, I talked about not seeing him again, and this while he held me in his arms. Sam asked me ‘why' and I foolishly blurted out something about Philip. It is possible now that he will never return, that no tears will wash out the hurt, there will always be a misunderstanding. I am tired of quarrelling. Went to night duty, babies crying in the night and an Indian woman in labour. Helped baby to come into the world at fifteen minutes past midnight. It was blue and slippery and so was the cord. As soon as it breathed it screamed — a little female living infant of eight pounds!

This morning I went to see Sam, I had to see him. He was out so I sat on his floor and cracked nuts, then he came in with a bunch of daffodils and looked embarrassed when he saw me. There was a blank space between us. He arranged his flowers in a tall glass. I felt as though I should creep out. We had a talk, he said that at last the possibility of giving me up had occurred, and I was shaken. Of course I know it is the best thing for Sam to do. I have deceived him and mocked him for a long time, yet I cannot leave him in peace, only as it suits me. I am not rich enough without his love. I'm so confused.

Sometimes I feel as though Sam has betrayed me, I want to shake him off and run. O jealous heart … I know he loved me at the start. Now he hates the sight of all I stand for.

I have eight and a half hours of work ahead of me and seven cigarettes
.

The year of obstetrics training was drawing to a close. In the beginning, a fully trained midwife always arrived for the birth, but as time went on Madelyn often looked after the mothers during their pregnancies and managed the home deliveries by herself. The doctors checked the patients twice — once in the early stages of the pregnancy to make sure the heart was beating properly and the mother was in good shape, and again around thirty-two weeks to ensure that the fetus was growing well. Many of Madelyn's patients were poor and had a healthy distrust of doctors.

“Will I have to see that young gentleman again?”

“Just once more, towards the end of your pregnancy.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Doctor Frank is a very well-known and experienced obstetrician. Wasn't he gentle with you? He would appreciate knowing if you had any complaints.”

“I just don't like men messing about with ‘you-know-where.' I can't look him in the eye, I'm so embarrassed. I don't want any men anywhere near me during the birth.”

Having made an effort to commend the doctor, Madelyn succumbed to the pleasure of shredding him. “And he doesn't look you in the eye, I've noticed. Shuts his eyes to count the heartbeats.”

“Yes! And he talks to the wall over my head! He's too young, as well.”

“You do know I have to check your home to make sure it's appropriate for a home birth, Mrs. Treasure?”

“What do you mean? What could be more appropriate than my own bed?”

“You'd be surprised. Not everyone has a bed. And cleanliness, you know.”

“What happens if you don't think it's clean enough?”

“You might have to give birth in the hospital. I'll be there, but there might be doctors as well.”

“When shall you come? I'll make sure it's bloody clean enough!”

Madelyn laughed, and they made an appointment for the next day.

The apartment was awful. Despite the fact that it had been scrubbed from top to bottom, a smell of vomit and urine, mixed with mildew, hung in the air. Five children, ranging in age from a clingy toddler to a lanky girl of about ten, hovered in a group around their mother, gazing up at Madelyn with solemn, unsmiling faces.

“Hello,” she winked at them, and bent down to tickle the toddler's tummy. A copious amount of mucus hung from each nostril, and she took out her handkerchief and wiped it away, fighting down a sudden wave of nausea.

The children continued to stare at her unblinkingly, and Mrs. Treasure jumped into the silence. “Hello hello! This way,” and she took Madelyn's arm and steered her towards the kitchen. “Look, ample counter space for your things and a good kettle to boil the water. Here's a chair for you to sit on if you want to have a cup of tea.” Mrs. Treasure whipped Madelyn around, still holding her arm, and ushered her into the bedroom. “It's a nice clean bed.”

It was a mattress lying on the floor. It would be hard for Mrs. Treasure to lever herself up and down during the latter part of her pregnancy.

“Is there another bedroom?”

“This is where my husband and I sleep.”

“Where do the children sleep?”

“They have mattresses in the sitting room. We put the mattresses in the cupboard during the day.”

Madelyn lifted a corner of the freshly washed sheet so she could have a look at the mattress. It was stained. Several springs poked through the material. Stertorous breathing around her knee area pulled her eyes downwards, and there was Toddler, dripping mucus and gazing up at her with fascination. She smiled down at him, determined not to sully her handkerchief again on this endless faucet, when he wiped his own nose with a corner of the clean sheet.

Mrs. Treasure leaped forward and whacked him. He dissolved into tears, producing unbelievable amounts of fresh mucus. The unfairness of the discipline touched Madelyn, and she bent down to hug the toddler, trying to avoid his nose as much as possible.

“There, there, don't you cry. You thought the sheet was very like a hanky, didn't you? Mummy and Daddy sleep on the sheet, you see, so that's not the right place to wipe noses.” Privately Madelyn thought that Toddler's unhappiness was not due to his mother's failure to explain the differences between sheets and handkerchiefs, but to the fact that the sheet was indeed his handkerchief, and accepted as such by the whole family on any other day.

She got to her feet and moved towards the door, anxious to get out of this claustrophobic little apartment.

“Thank you for allowing me to see your home and meet your sweet children. I do think you'd be a bit more comfortable in a hospital. You could have a bath and get some pain medication if you needed it.” There didn't seem to be a toilet here, let alone a bath. They probably used an outhouse.

“I'm not going into hospital. Why are you making problems for me? I've had all my children right here, on this mattress.”

Madelyn thought the mattress showed ample evidence of that. “I'm sorry, I don't think this is quite suitable for a home birth.”

Mrs. Treasure adopted a wheedling tone. “I can't have a hospital birth. I'm terrified of hospitals. And that nasty doctor … please, I feel so comfortable with you.”

“You could have a few days rest in the hospital, away from all your other children.”

“Who would look after them?” Mrs. Treasure whispered.

“I will see what I can do.”

Six months later, Madelyn was whipping through the night on her bicycle. Her basket contained pain medication, scissors, a kidney bowl, twine to tie the cord. She had already left pads, cotton wool and a rubber sheet in Mrs. Treasure's home. Her husband had arrived to pick up a large container of nitrous oxide, otherwise known as ‘laughing gas.'

Some time in her eighth month, Mrs. Treasure had sampled the laughing gas to make sure that she wanted it during the birth. The smell had made her gag, but she obeyed Madelyn's instructions to hold it over her nose and inhale, as though to prove how compliant she would be during her birth. Soon she was in hysterics, laughing helplessly as the gas mask fell away from her face. Madelyn took a few whiffs to keep her company, and they were soon giggling, gaining control only to burst out again on sight of the other's red, streaming face and heaving shoulders.

Madelyn often developed a close relationship with her patients and always made Mrs. Treasure a nice pot of tea. They chatted about how hard life was for women, though Madelyn still felt in her heart that her life would be different. It was amazing what a hash so many people made out of their lives.

Madelyn didn't expect any problems with this birth. It was the patient's sixth baby, and she was in excellent health. But when she got to the little apartment Mrs. Treasure was rocking back and forth on the mattress. A thin sheen of sweat covered her face.

“I don't feel too well, Nurse. Something's wrong. There's too much pain.”

Madelyn felt her pulse, checked the baby's heartbeat, wiped her face.

“There's a nice, strong heartbeat. Your baby is fine. You're doing very well. It won't be long.”

But time rolled on relentlessly, and Mrs. Treasure moaned and bit her lips till they bled so she wouldn't cry out and worry the children in the next room. Madelyn examined her abdomen and was sure she felt the head up around the fundus. She sent the husband out with a message for the midwife to come, as this seemed to be a breech birth.

Helga swept into the room about an hour later, still buggy-eyed from sleep. She examined Mrs. Treasure, who was concentrating so hard on getting through each pain, she was unaware that anybody else was in the room.

“Everything's fine, it's not breech,” the midwife proclaimed, and left for the warmth of her bed.

Madelyn was relieved. But Mrs. Treasure's pain did not abate, and the baby's heartbeat started to slow down. She debated whether to do a vaginal examination, although vaginal examinations were discouraged due to the risk of introducing germs, and Mrs. Treasure had already been subjected to an internal exam by the midwife. Madelyn held off for another hour or so, but Mrs. Treasure was at the end of her energy, and the baby was in a bad way. When her countless abdominal probings continued to assure her that the baby was breech, she washed her hands in almost-boiling water straight from the kettle and put her finger up Mrs. Treasure's vagina, right into the baby's bottom.