Read Online Shape-Shifter by Pauline Melville - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pauline Melville
Ads: Link
was opening the door with one of the keys from the chain round her waist. She was beckoning to Winsome and beaming at her:
‘It’s all right, love,’ she kept saying, ‘this way, love.’
Dazed, Winsome followed her up some stone stairs to some double doors, the paint round the locks scuffed as if they had been repeatedly kicked. The word ‘ RECEPTION ’ was written on a sign overhead. In the cubicle where she had been told to undress she stood, hugely pregnant, trying to hold the coarse blue dressing-gown they had given her across her belly.
Then her waters broke all over the grey lino.
She lay in the hospital bed. Everything around seemed so white; the starched, white sheets on the bed; the nurses in their crisp white uniforms; the walls with their shiny white gloss paint. Winsome felt uncomfortably aware of her black face against the white pillows.
‘You’re seven centimetres dilated now. It won’t be long,’ said the ginger-haired nurse. Winsome turned her head away. The whiteness hurt her eyes. The pain was like a bad period pain, a long low ache in the back. Then the other pains started, rolling over her like a steam-roller. She was wheeled into the delivery room.
Back in the ward, Winsome slept. At her side, in his hospital cot, slept Denzil. Twelve hours after the birth, the prison authorities would come to take her and the child back to the prison. Some six hours after she had given birth, Winsome was awoken by the auxiliary cleaner bumping her mop against the legs of the bed. She looked up into the smiling, black, bespectacled face of the cleaner:
‘Gal, you gat one beautiful pickney there. Is it a boy?’
Only half awake, Winsome nodded.
‘Is wha’ yuh gwaan call ‘im?’ The cleaner did not wait for Winsome to answer. She approached the head of the bed and said conspiratorially:
‘No more kids for me, no sah! I done wid dat. Me periods dem stop, you know. An’ lemme tell you, it is worse when dey stop dan when yuh gat dem. It was terrible. Terrible. Pain. Pain inna me belly all de time. An’ the blood – it black. An’ full of someting like cornmeal an’ terrible bits.’
Winsome focused her eyes on the clock at the end of the ward. Seven fifteen a.m. In six hours they would come to take her back to prison. The cleaning woman took her mop and continued to talk:
‘Black women strong, yuh know. Me mudda had me in de carner of a canefield and she was back at work a few hours later. I’m sixty-two. And another ting. Our blood is good and red. White women – dere blood is pale and weak and sarta watery. I seen it wid me own eyes in dis hospital.’ She moved off down the ward with her mop and bucket.
Winsome looked over the side of the cot at the pale, brown baby, his flat puffy face crowned with a light black frizz. He was light-skinned now. He’ll darken up later, she thought. More than anything she wanted to take him home, for the two of them to be reunited with Anita and Chantale. The sheet felt wet underneath her. Pulling back the bedclothes she saw a spreading scarlet stain. It was shaped like the poinciana tree in her grandmother’s yard. She sat up and put her legs over the edge of the bed. Her body still felt big and bulky and misshapen and the stitches pulled inside her. She reached into the wooden locker next to her bed and felt for the hospital issue dressing-gown. She put it on. Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of her. She picked up Denzil and wrapped him carefully in the cot blanket, keeping a watchful eye on the nurses. Denzil felt limp and tiny and utterly relaxed. Winsome walked gingerly with him to the swing doors at the end of the ward and let herself through. The large corridor was empty. Uncertain how to operate the lift, Winsome began to descend the stairs holding the rail with her left hand, Denzil tucked into the crook of her right arm. One flight round the lift. A second flight and then she was opposite the main exit. A few more steps and she was
‘It’s all right, love,’ she kept saying, ‘this way, love.’
Dazed, Winsome followed her up some stone stairs to some double doors, the paint round the locks scuffed as if they had been repeatedly kicked. The word ‘ RECEPTION ’ was written on a sign overhead. In the cubicle where she had been told to undress she stood, hugely pregnant, trying to hold the coarse blue dressing-gown they had given her across her belly.
Then her waters broke all over the grey lino.
She lay in the hospital bed. Everything around seemed so white; the starched, white sheets on the bed; the nurses in their crisp white uniforms; the walls with their shiny white gloss paint. Winsome felt uncomfortably aware of her black face against the white pillows.
‘You’re seven centimetres dilated now. It won’t be long,’ said the ginger-haired nurse. Winsome turned her head away. The whiteness hurt her eyes. The pain was like a bad period pain, a long low ache in the back. Then the other pains started, rolling over her like a steam-roller. She was wheeled into the delivery room.
Back in the ward, Winsome slept. At her side, in his hospital cot, slept Denzil. Twelve hours after the birth, the prison authorities would come to take her and the child back to the prison. Some six hours after she had given birth, Winsome was awoken by the auxiliary cleaner bumping her mop against the legs of the bed. She looked up into the smiling, black, bespectacled face of the cleaner:
‘Gal, you gat one beautiful pickney there. Is it a boy?’
Only half awake, Winsome nodded.
‘Is wha’ yuh gwaan call ‘im?’ The cleaner did not wait for Winsome to answer. She approached the head of the bed and said conspiratorially:
‘No more kids for me, no sah! I done wid dat. Me periods dem stop, you know. An’ lemme tell you, it is worse when dey stop dan when yuh gat dem. It was terrible. Terrible. Pain. Pain inna me belly all de time. An’ the blood – it black. An’ full of someting like cornmeal an’ terrible bits.’
Winsome focused her eyes on the clock at the end of the ward. Seven fifteen a.m. In six hours they would come to take her back to prison. The cleaning woman took her mop and continued to talk:
‘Black women strong, yuh know. Me mudda had me in de carner of a canefield and she was back at work a few hours later. I’m sixty-two. And another ting. Our blood is good and red. White women – dere blood is pale and weak and sarta watery. I seen it wid me own eyes in dis hospital.’ She moved off down the ward with her mop and bucket.
Winsome looked over the side of the cot at the pale, brown baby, his flat puffy face crowned with a light black frizz. He was light-skinned now. He’ll darken up later, she thought. More than anything she wanted to take him home, for the two of them to be reunited with Anita and Chantale. The sheet felt wet underneath her. Pulling back the bedclothes she saw a spreading scarlet stain. It was shaped like the poinciana tree in her grandmother’s yard. She sat up and put her legs over the edge of the bed. Her body still felt big and bulky and misshapen and the stitches pulled inside her. She reached into the wooden locker next to her bed and felt for the hospital issue dressing-gown. She put it on. Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of her. She picked up Denzil and wrapped him carefully in the cot blanket, keeping a watchful eye on the nurses. Denzil felt limp and tiny and utterly relaxed. Winsome walked gingerly with him to the swing doors at the end of the ward and let herself through. The large corridor was empty. Uncertain how to operate the lift, Winsome began to descend the stairs holding the rail with her left hand, Denzil tucked into the crook of her right arm. One flight round the lift. A second flight and then she was opposite the main exit. A few more steps and she was
Similar Books
