liked almost every man I have ever slept with better than I liked Ruben. But no one since has ever made me feel that way again.
My contractions stop – just like that. I park myself on a bench midway along the Boulevard, a stone’s throw from my door, and I wait. Forty minutes go by; not even a cramp or a tingle or a tremor. Nothing. But this time, rather than succumb to the waves of fatigue and frustration rolling through me, I elect to see it as fate. Out of nowhere, I have this burning need to take my Bean to the lake, feel its magic, dip our toes in its icy fathoms. I can press on through the park and lap back home that way. A warning buzz sounds in my head but not quiteloud enough to break my stride. I take in the slowly stirring city, pausing to watch a couple of skinny foxes slink across the school playground. It’s a rare thrill to see them paired up like that, partners in crime. I once saw a vixen and her cubs foraging for mice in South Lodge’s garden, but never two foxes out on the skank together. They sense my presence, break into a trot and, with their snouts dropped low, disappear round the back of the school. I smile, suddenly aware of my solitude in this scene. Gazing out across the empty schoolyard, a lovely image takes hold: a little girl loping towards me across the playground, baring her tiny teeth in a radiant smile: ‘Mummy!’ Maybe the Bean is a girl, after all.
I don’t get a hundred yards down Ullet Road before the contractions start up again. A milk float is whirring up behind me as one strikes and I clench my fists, try to stave off the seizure till it passes. I focus on the moon, barely there now, a burnt out disc behind the black grasp of trees, and I breathe deep and hard. The float wheezes past, the milkman unaware of me. And then without warning I’m down on my knees seeing stars; I’ve fallen so hard, so suddenly the tarmac has stripped the skin off my hands, studded the balls of my thumbs with grit. I’m rocking and writhing, bucking against the shock of the pain, groping out for something to grip on to, to steel against the agony. The blur of the milk float fades away; it is the last thing I see as black, blind pain rips through me and sends me reeling.
I don’t know how long I lie in the road before I’m able to sit up again. No cars, no traffic passes. It is deadly still. I scoop water from a puddle, splash it into my face and drag myself up for the next round. The pain is shifting now, up through my back and my buttocks, each blow more fatal than the last. I turn and slowly, slowly scuffle back. My Bean doesn’t see the lake.
Back in the flat the contractions subside and my heart starts to sink. How much longer can I withstand this? How will I survive without sleep? I try to relax but then all my frustration is blasted to nothing by another contraction, the wildest yet. It punches me to the floor, lams me hard in the womb and nausea whips down from my head through my guts, sending me weak and spinning.
A noise snaps me back to the room, the dismal whine of a creature, trapped. It’s like a balloon deflating, but baleful, sickly. I fear for the foxes. Perhaps they’re trapped out there, or starving, or both. And it’s only when the wailing fades out, followed by the onrush of a gust of air bursting into my lungs that I realise the noise has emanated not from outside but from within me.
Music starts up in the flat next door; around me life bores on, oblivious. The contraction intensifies, but still I hold on. Flashing white pain rips down my spine, arching me, forcing my belly to the floor; my shoulder blades clench together. The briefest of moments where I’m able to draw breath – and then the cold-kill resumes.I crawl across the floor, growling and tearing at my hair. Dizziness edged with pin-dot lights punch from behind my forehead, sharp and tingling and I’m failing here, passing out from an onslaught of pain that goes on and on and on, dragging my heart down
My contractions stop – just like that. I park myself on a bench midway along the Boulevard, a stone’s throw from my door, and I wait. Forty minutes go by; not even a cramp or a tingle or a tremor. Nothing. But this time, rather than succumb to the waves of fatigue and frustration rolling through me, I elect to see it as fate. Out of nowhere, I have this burning need to take my Bean to the lake, feel its magic, dip our toes in its icy fathoms. I can press on through the park and lap back home that way. A warning buzz sounds in my head but not quiteloud enough to break my stride. I take in the slowly stirring city, pausing to watch a couple of skinny foxes slink across the school playground. It’s a rare thrill to see them paired up like that, partners in crime. I once saw a vixen and her cubs foraging for mice in South Lodge’s garden, but never two foxes out on the skank together. They sense my presence, break into a trot and, with their snouts dropped low, disappear round the back of the school. I smile, suddenly aware of my solitude in this scene. Gazing out across the empty schoolyard, a lovely image takes hold: a little girl loping towards me across the playground, baring her tiny teeth in a radiant smile: ‘Mummy!’ Maybe the Bean is a girl, after all.
I don’t get a hundred yards down Ullet Road before the contractions start up again. A milk float is whirring up behind me as one strikes and I clench my fists, try to stave off the seizure till it passes. I focus on the moon, barely there now, a burnt out disc behind the black grasp of trees, and I breathe deep and hard. The float wheezes past, the milkman unaware of me. And then without warning I’m down on my knees seeing stars; I’ve fallen so hard, so suddenly the tarmac has stripped the skin off my hands, studded the balls of my thumbs with grit. I’m rocking and writhing, bucking against the shock of the pain, groping out for something to grip on to, to steel against the agony. The blur of the milk float fades away; it is the last thing I see as black, blind pain rips through me and sends me reeling.
I don’t know how long I lie in the road before I’m able to sit up again. No cars, no traffic passes. It is deadly still. I scoop water from a puddle, splash it into my face and drag myself up for the next round. The pain is shifting now, up through my back and my buttocks, each blow more fatal than the last. I turn and slowly, slowly scuffle back. My Bean doesn’t see the lake.
Back in the flat the contractions subside and my heart starts to sink. How much longer can I withstand this? How will I survive without sleep? I try to relax but then all my frustration is blasted to nothing by another contraction, the wildest yet. It punches me to the floor, lams me hard in the womb and nausea whips down from my head through my guts, sending me weak and spinning.
A noise snaps me back to the room, the dismal whine of a creature, trapped. It’s like a balloon deflating, but baleful, sickly. I fear for the foxes. Perhaps they’re trapped out there, or starving, or both. And it’s only when the wailing fades out, followed by the onrush of a gust of air bursting into my lungs that I realise the noise has emanated not from outside but from within me.
Music starts up in the flat next door; around me life bores on, oblivious. The contraction intensifies, but still I hold on. Flashing white pain rips down my spine, arching me, forcing my belly to the floor; my shoulder blades clench together. The briefest of moments where I’m able to draw breath – and then the cold-kill resumes.I crawl across the floor, growling and tearing at my hair. Dizziness edged with pin-dot lights punch from behind my forehead, sharp and tingling and I’m failing here, passing out from an onslaught of pain that goes on and on and on, dragging my heart down
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