Cheryl sniffed. ‘Dora for a girl, after my nana. I think it’s a girl.’ Then she wailed again. ‘It’s coming,’ she screamed. ‘It hurts!’
Fiona stroked her shoulders; let her settle instinctively on all fours on the floor. It was a great position for delivery but awkward for the midwife who had to hunker down behind and monitor what was going on. The room was cramped with the three of them there but she’d just have to deal with it.
‘That’s it, push now, Cheryl, long and steady, keep going, keep going, that’s great, that’s lovely.’ Fiona could see the cap of dark hair, the ball of the baby’s skull, see it straining to emerge. She asked Cheryl to wait, telling her to pant. This would allow the perineum to stretch and she’d be less likely to tear. When the next contraction came she let her push again, urging her on, and saw, with pleasure and relief, the head crown.
‘The head’s out, Cheryl. Well done.’ Fiona watched the head rotate, the natural preparation for the birth of the shoulders.
The door bell rang, it would be the second midwife, and Vinia went to let her in. It was customary to have two of them at the birth. If there were any problems one could tend to the mother and the other to the child.
Cheryl began to groan again and Fiona instructed her, ‘Push nice and steady, that’s good. You’re doing really well. Keep going.’
Cheryl yelled and bore down. She felt the pressure between her legs, the shocking sensation of the baby, bone and muscle, forcing her way out. The tearing pain that made her scream and then Jeri was there, coming in with Vinia, his face wide with apprehension and fear flashing his eyes.
‘Aw, Cheryl baby.’ He knelt before her.
‘She’s coming,’ Cheryl panted. ‘Oh, Nana, help me.’
‘Aw, man,’ said Jeri.
Cheryl rocked back slightly, grunting, and put her arms around Jeri’s neck. ‘It hurts,’ she cried.
‘Okay, babe,’ he whispered to her, ‘it’s cool, all cool. You’re good.’
Cheryl yelped. Another rippling pain.
‘Push this time,’ Fiona said, ‘good and strong, hard as you can.’
Cheryl locked her arms tight round Jeri’s neck and burrowed her face into his shoulder, strained and keened, the solid weight of the baby splitting her open. She would tear apart, she would die from this.
‘Good girl, keep going, baby’s coming, keep pushing, good girl,’ Fiona said.
Then with a shocking rush the baby came, slithered out in a stream of fluid and blood and mucus.
‘Baby’s here, well done, good girl.’ Fiona helped Cheryl turn, undid the buttons on her nightdress and placed the baby on her chest. Covered the baby with a thick towel.
Cheryl looked down at the fine sweet face, the damp, black hair, looked into the dark eyes, pools of ink, shining bright. ‘Hello, my little one, hiya. Hiya.’ She kissed the baby’s head and each eye, its nose, breathed in the strange smelclass="underline" like toast and brine.
Cheryl lifted the towel and looked at the baby, tiny limbs, the knees still bent up, and between them a penis, a little spiralled shell. ‘A boy,’ she said to Jeri.
Jeri’s eyes were soft, tears on his lashes. ‘He’s perfect,’ he said. He grabbed Cheryl’s hand and kissed it. ‘Oh, baby. Oh, man. Blow me away.’
‘Would you like to cut the cord in a minute?’ Fiona asked him.
He nodded.
Vinia was sitting in the bed now, shaking her head. ‘Man, I am not ever going there. I’m going to tie my knees together. You tell me I so much as look at a man.’
Cheryl laughed.
Jeri used the special scissors to cut through the twisting rope then Fiona attached the clip.
‘I brought this.’ Jeri held up a silver fifty pence piece. ‘My mum said I have to give the baby silver, keep it safe.’
‘Go on then,’ Cheryl told him. He placed the coin in the little fist and the baby waved its hand.
‘He’s holding it, look at that,’ Jeri crowed.
‘There are lots of traditions with silver,’ Fiona told them. ‘And some of the Jamaican families used to bury the placenta or the cord and plant a tree.’
‘Nana told me that when I had Milo,’ Cheryl said. ‘I didn’t fancy nothing like that in the garden but we took some of his hair and put that in one of the tubs.’
Fiona asked Jeri to hold the baby while she helped Cheryl deliver the placenta.
‘There’s more!’ Vinia groaned. ‘Lord have mercy.’ Then the bell went and she escaped downstairs. This time it was the other midwife.
The contractions for the placenta hurt just as bad as the ones for the baby but Cheryl knew getting it out would be easier. When she was done and cleaned up, no stitches even, Jeri handed the baby back and Cheryl put him to her nipple. The baby latched on and sucked.
‘Been here before,’ Fiona smiled. ‘So, if it’s not Dora what will you call him?’
They’d not agreed any boy’s names; she’d been so sure she was having a girl. She looked at the baby, its eyes steady on her face as it suckled. ‘Daniel,’ she said. Jeri looked at her, head tilted, questioning. It was right, she knew. It just felt so right. ‘Daniel,’ she said again. Then to Jeri, ‘You can pick a middle name.’
Jeri nodded, moved closer, stroked the baby’s head with his fingers.
‘That’s a lovely name,’ Fiona said.
It was dark when Fiona finally left. She was shattered, her eyes gritty and sore, her back stiff. She’d shared sandwiches and tea with them and they’d christened Daniel with a tot of rum. Now she needed her bed.
There was a full fat moon silvering the roofs and the parked cars and the trees at the end of the street. Fiona put all her bags in the boot and started the car. She drove to the recreation ground and parked there. She got out and stood by the car. There was barely any traffic across on the main road. The night was cool but not cold. It was almost May. She looked across the grass and thought of the boy who had died there, of delivering the twins, Danny and Nadine, so many years ago, and of tonight’s birth. The tiny infant who shared his name. She closed her eyes and remembered: his large boy’s hands, the smell of spearmint on his breath, his gaze, the brown eyes, tawny, reflecting her silhouette and the blue sky beyond her. A rim of gold edged each iris. The bloom of love. The sky in his eyes.
She looked up at the moon, caught the flash of a silhouette. Thought for a moment they were bats. Then saw: the spinning, swooping dives, the scissoring of wings, arcing across the moon. Her heart soared, a pinwheel of joy. The swifts were back.
Cath Staincliffe
Cath Staincliffe's first crime novel, Looking for Trouble, was short-listed for the CWA's best first novel award and was serialized on Radio 4's Woman's Hour. Since then she has written several crime novels, all of which have been very well reviewed. Cath Staincliffe was adopted as a baby in England and has in recent years been reunited with her Irish birth-family. Although Trio is not autobiographical, it contains elements of Cath's own story, and is evidently written from the heart.
