Love Story 24

I’d kissed Ali’s cheek when we left the church. Felt the novelty and glad feeling of having done the right thing. Even though Mum didn’t say so, I think she thought much the same. But I was pretty sure that Ali had kissed more than other boys’ cheeks since we’d split up, perhaps even before that. She clung to my hand for too long. I think if I’d asked she’d have got into the car beside us and stood beside the open grave, and jumped in if I told her to.

‘Feel it,’ she said, taking my hand and placing it on her belly. ‘That’s our baby kicking.’

‘Just like you,’ I said. ‘A fighter.’

Watching her walk away made me realise being pregnant made her special but ordinary at the same time. Like baby Jesus, a new life would be shaken loose, and it’d all begin anew. I’d a brief snatch of something like a familiar tune that I was a poof, but it was so odd to have come at that time, I’d little difficulty dampening it down. A baby’s arrival would renew us. Despite our desperate circumstance bring happier times, where everything would happen whether we wanted it to or not.

Mum got used to me wittering on about ‘our baby’.

‘How dae yeh know it’s gonnae be a wee boy?’ she asked.

I couldn’t really explain it. Other than feelings welled up in me. ‘Cause it is,’ I replied smugly.

She’d the good grace to chuckle. ‘Well, you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of being right.’

I’d a fit of inspiration. ‘We’ll call the baby Desmond, after Da.’

She got on with her cleaning, but gave me a brief smile as if I’d been talking about buying the latest Ford Capri. But after hoovering under the table, she brought the conversation back round. ‘Don’t think that stupid wee lassie calling the baby Desmond will bring him back—cause it willnae.’

‘I know that,’ I said. ‘But you’re just being snobbish about the whole thing.’

Her face hardened. ‘Call the wee thing, Desmond, or whitever yeh like. As long as it’s fit and healthy. That’s aw that matters.’

‘I know Mum, I know.’

‘I’m superstitious that way. Yeh shouldnae be thinking of a baby’s name until it’s here tae fill it—Desmond, or no Desmond.’

She reached for her fags like she reached for breath.

‘I know Mum, I know.’

She blew fag smoke in my direction. ‘Yeh cannae call a baby girl, Desmond.’

I was a match for her. ‘It’s no going to be a wee girl. But if it is, we’ll call it Desdemona.’

‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Yeh’ll scar the poor wee thing for life.’ But just as suddenly segued into a morose state. ‘Be careful whit yeh wish for.’

‘I’ll get the baby baptised in our Church.’

‘But yer Da was a Catholic.’

‘Our church,’ I replied, swelling up with paternal responsibility. ‘Pastor Colin has already arranged it. And Ali will get baptised in Christ at the same time as the baby.’

‘Doesnae matter,’ she sighed. ‘It’s a lot of shite, anyway. A baby isnae a doll. Yeh cannae put it back on the shelf when yer finished playing at being a dad. Having a baby is like giving birth to the Third World War. If yer lucky, it begins wae the phony war. Then yeh never know whit’s gonnae happen next or when yeh’ll get a sleep and it’ll aw end.’       

‘I know Mum, I know. I’ll be there at the birth and there every day for Ali.’

‘Indeed yeh will not,’ she snorted. ‘Her mum’s goin tae hospital wae her. They don’t let children intae the maternity ward unless they’re coming oot the mother’s womb.’

‘I’m not a child, Mum.’

‘Well, don’t act like wan, for God sake. It’s aw blood and gore when the baby comes. And yeh know whit yer like. I’d huv tae catch yeh when yeh fainted. Yer no goin and that’s it.’

I hadn’t thought of that.

I hadn’t thought of how they’d tell us when the baby was born. Mrs Connolly came in the back door without chapping. All a fluster, in case she forgot the phone message that a baby boy had been born. We’d to head up to the Queen Mother’s Hospital right away.

I’d been feeling a strange sense of panic—Mum said that was normal, and she never said I was normal, which panicked me more. I’d even cuddled Mrs Connolly’s shoulder for delivering the message.

Mum made arrangements about keys and getting in later. She went next door with Mrs Connolly to phone a taxi. ‘Because if it was left to you,’ she told me. ‘We would never get there.’

I was already lost in a state of garrulous wonderment. ‘We’ll need to get flowers, Mum. Red roses.’

Mum rounded on me. ‘Where would we get flowers, roses indeed, at this time of night? Unless we stop off at Dalonttar Cemetary. Then you can take yer pick. But I’m no paying for a taxi tae take a big detour.’

‘I’ll pay,’ said Mrs Connolly, squeezing Mum’s hand. ‘For the taxi and the flowers.’

I left them arguing about the logistics. I went to get ready and shine my shoes.

I sat in the back of the black Hackney, with a bouquet of roses, willing it to go faster. Mum’s eyes were fixated on the spins of the meter, counting coins. The taxi driver dropped us off at the entrance to the Queen Mother’s. Mum paid him with a muttered snarl for a tip.

The hospital was all corridors doubling back on themselves. But my mouth was dry. I dawdled behind Mum, flowers at half-mast. She stopped a porter and asked him for direction. I expected the mother and baby unit to be full of crying and mewing babies, but it was quiet and well ordered.

Mum asked a pretty, red haired nurse what ward Ali was on. The nurses around the desk arched their necks and tittered after getting a good look at us. The pretty nurse answered with a pleasant Highland lilt: ‘I’ll need to get the Matron’.

Even before she finished speaking, the Matron was upon us. She’d a nun-like face and the height and girth more suited to the basketball profession.

‘Is there a problem here?’ said Mum.

The Matron looked down at us. ‘I wouldn’t say so. He’s a beautiful baby. Top oh, really.’

I beamed, flourishing the roses in front of me and breathing in their fragrant blooms. ‘We’re going to call him Desmond, after my Da.’

‘Where are you going with those flowers?’ Matron asked.

I looked at Mum for an answer and she shook her head. I waved a hand in the general direction of no direction. ‘No sure,’ I admitted.

Matron stuck her hand out. There would be no sneaking past her. ‘I’ll take good care of them,’ she said.

The bin beside the desk rung with freshly cut flowers when our backs were turned. We followed the Highland nurse. She’d long legs and I’d had to hurry to catch up.

‘How is Ali?’ I asked.

Slowing down and looking around the ward before she pulled back the curtains, she replied with her lovely accent, ‘We had to give Ali a strong sedative. She’d a long and difficult night and she might be sleeping.’

The Highland nurse put her finger to her lips to shush us. Ali’s hair made her look as if somebody had stamped upon her head. But she wouldn’t have noticed. She sprawled over the bed, with her legs open, snoring like a drunken man. The nurse tugged the blankets over to keep her dignity intact. Ali groaned, but her eyes stayed shut.

The crib was at the side of her overflowing bed. I peeked in and the baby was sleeping too, with a pokey, white, wool hat on its head, the kind Mrs Connolly was faithfully knitting.

‘Oh for fuck sake,’ said Mum, peeking over my shoulder.

‘The baby’s a wee bit red looking,’ I admitted.

The nurse said with her nice Highland lilt, ‘We get a lot of darkie babies in now. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Yeh must huv got the babies mixed up,’ said Mum. ‘He’s black as the ace of spades.’

‘No question of a mix-up, as you call it,’ said the nurse. ‘Not in that way. I was there at the birth.’

‘But it cannae be,’ cried Mum.

I lifted the baby’s little black hands and examined its little pink fingernails. ‘You’ll be fine, Desmond,’ I spoke in a breezy whisper.

The nurse’s smile made her face prettier. ‘You want to hold the baby?’ She leant in to lift the baby out of the crib. 

‘Indeed, we will not.’ Mum grabbed my arm and tugged. I stumbled outside the ring of swathed curtains.

Mothers in other beds watched us with a vague curiosity. Tending to their own minor miracles.

‘Yer no calling that baby, Desmond,’ Mum hissed.

‘What will I call him then?’

‘Yeh’ll no calling it nothing. Let’s go—’