The Fruit of the Tree Page 17

  ‘What’s this I hear, Mrs Luben?’ came the familiar tones of Sister. ‘You’ve had one contraction and you want to come in?’

  ‘I didn’t say that at all,’ I replied indignantly. ‘I haven’t had any contractions, but the waters have broken.’ I knew as well as she did that the baby had now lost its sterile protection, and that that was the reason for going into hospital, not necessarily because the birth (or even labour) was imminent.

  With the misunderstanding cleared up, she said I could come in, but I explained about Michael’s injured foot, and, managing to sound rather efficient, asked if I could first get the household organised before my departure.

  I didn’t actually do very much except make one or two telephone calls. I couldn’t resist telephoning the doctor, to make sure it was really all right for me to go into the maternity home and start the chain of events leading up to labour. He must have thought I was being rather foolish to ask; for who can stop Nature in her tracks at that stage? Luckily, he was able to make an appointment to see Michael’s foot at the time when I should myself have been visiting him for a normal check-up.

  Robert got up from bed, and received stern warning to stay away from both of us. At nearly five years old, he was one of those boys who almost always walk into or over things rather than around them; neither of us felt like being bumped into, and he would certainly have trodden on Michael’s injured foot if allowed within three yards of it.

  Now we had to decide which of the relations to dispatch him to—Michael was hardly in a fit state to drive very far, but luckily the Cortina only needed one foot to operate it.

  Our first approach was made to our good friends, the Goldsmiths, and our disappointment was great on hearing they were going to London. However, inspiration dawned, and we asked them to deposit Robert at Philippa’s house in London, thereafter to be transferred to any other available bit of family.

  Before long, I arrived at the maternity home, complete with suitcase and injured husband, with a feeling of relief that now matters would be taken out of my hands and things would soon be underway. I had seen cases where women had spent two days in hospital after the waters had broken, waiting unhappily for labour to commence, but I had already felt the first faint contractions and hoped that I would not fall into that category.

  Twice I had borne the pangs of labour in the lonely darkness of the night, and only after the first light of the morning had my children been born. Now outside the window, almost remote from me, the sun was shining in a clear blue sky; it was a fine August day, one of the few, it seemed to me, in that fairly dull summer; it boded well for my child.

  Labour carried out to the accompaniment of lunch, tea and the busy atmosphere of the day was a much more prosaic affair than those two solitary nights I had experienced.

  Michael hobbled back, not long after his visit to the doctor. Mercifully, his foot, now vastly swollen and clad only in a sock (his shoe was still under the car) was merely bruised and no bones appeared to be broken.

  Where’s Mrs. Luben?’ I heard Sister’s voice ring out. ‘She can take her husband for a walk around the garden—oh no! He can’t walk!’

  I was glad to be let off the hook as I had no wish to spend the day walking round the garden with or without Michael, particularly if it involved meeting up with women who had already given birth some days ago.

  The contractions were not too bad at that stage; I observed them with an almost clinical interest. It was as if a giant hand had caught hold of a part of me, located somewhere in the centre of my anatomy, and was gently squeezing it.

  It was sensible to begin breathing correctly now, before the contractions became more acute.

  Michael didn’t stay long after that; at the first signs of me breathing through a contraction, he said, ‘What are you making all those funny faces for?’

  He’d been through all the breathing exercises with me, during the first pregnancy, but he still behaved as if I was putting on an act! Spending the day with me in labour was definitely not his favourite occupation, and before long he had deserted me.

  I was in an intimate two-bed ward, the same room and bed, in fact, where I had spent ten days after Robert’s birth. My roommate was marginally ahead of me; we sat champing through our lunches watching each other’s faces for signs of contractions.

  Her husband, who wanted to be present at the birth, was located mid-afternoon, by which time her pains were getting stronger. Screened from my view, I nevertheless heard her discomfort increase, until Sister popped in with official visitors; she glanced just once at my neighbour, and immediately called: ‘Nurse! Get Mrs. Taylor to the delivery room.’

  I was impressed by the speed of her diagnosis, and heard later that she was a remarkably kind midwife too; it had not occurred to me before that she ever officiated at a delivery.

  My neighbour’s husband, en passant, asked me how I was feeling.

  ‘I think I’m a couple of hours behind your wife,’ I answered weakly. The giant hand was squeezing ruthlessly now, sadistically.

  I had spent much of the afternoon sitting in a chair, carefully timing the contractions; by this time I was lying in bed, no longer able to sit up comfortably.

  To break the monotony, I walked to the loo, at half past each hour, and on the hour, a pleasant Indian nurse visited me.

  ‘You must have your baby by seven o’clock,’ she told me, ‘and then you will have a girl; the last baby I delivered was a boy and so the next will be a girl. But I go off duty at seven.’

  ‘I’ll try and have it by seven o’clock,’ I promised, hoping sincerely that labour would not be extended beyond that time, in view of my increasing discomfort. But apart from that, I had no wish to lose the support of this nurse who had been observing me all day. In addition, even though I knew the baby’s sex had been determined nine months ago, we all get a little superstitious sometimes.

  At five-thirty, I dragged myself weakly to the toilet once again, but by six o’clock, I was praying for the arrival of my nurse; I should have rung for her; now I had left things so late that I could hardly walk, and had to be helped to the delivery room.

  Every part of my body was throbbing, and I had no control over it except the bit that was pushing the baby out. My hand gripped the wrist of the staff nurse in charge, and to my embarrassment I couldn’t release it.

  She’s having a spasm.’ said the staff nurse, prising my fingers away. ‘Do you want gas and air?’ she asked me.

  I wanted to answer her politely, ‘Yes please, if you think it will help,’ but no sound came out of my mouth. I knew I was doing something wrong—over-breathing, under-breathing or something; I had failed to re-read my ‘natural childbirth’ book—I had had no heart for it, and as a result, this would not be the perfect birth, as Amanda’s had been. I was completely overpowered by the contractions and the vibrations of every nerve end of my body. I felt like a musical instrument that was being harshly played; geometric patterns concertinaing open and closed in time with the vibrations flashed through my mind.

  Then suddenly, miraculously, we were there, with that unforgettable sensation of the baby sliding into the world.

  The vibrations stopped; my body returned into my possession.

  It was several seconds before I could appreciate the miracle that had happened. I had given birth to a daughter.

  ‘Thank goodness I don’t have to do that again,’ I murmured.

  The Indian nurse looked surprised. ‘But there were only three contractions,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Oh but what contractions!’ was all I could reply.

  I soon recovered enough to ask the baby’s weight. Relief flooded over me when I heard she weighed six pound five ounces. This was not an abnormally small weight; it was only seven ounces less than Robert at birth—and I was a small woman, not meant to produce large babies.

  When the little one was placed in my arms, I saw at once that her arms and legs were plump and shapely, and the tiny fingers and elbows dim
pled like those of a doll. And now that I was a better judge of the screwed up faces of newborn babies, I could see that she was quite a beauty.

  Before I had left the delivery room, Michael strolled in unhurriedly. I saw at once that he had no idea the baby had arrived. I tried to bluff it out for a few moments, but I couldn’t keep it up. I had no strength for games at the moment. I was nauseous and drained and faintly irritated with myself for allowing errors in judgement to spoil the last moments of birth. I felt regretful, too, that Michael had not arrived half an hour earlier; even he could not have become impatient during the seven minutes in which time our daughter entered the world.

  Sister breezed briskly into the ward the next morning.

  ‘So you have your little girl again,’ she said, placing her into my arms; I smiled contentedly; it was too early for ecstasy; contentment was all that I could manage.

  Despite trying to remain on an emotionally even keel, I nevertheless experienced several ‘downs’ during the next few days.

  The first was brought about simply by a nurse talking about Amanda. I had tried studiously to avoid bringing the matter up—the sudden death of a baby is not a subject to be discussed at length in a maternity home, and I thought it was tactless and unkind to introduce the subject in front of another mother. As far as I was concerned, it brought the death of Amanda inescapably into my mind, when I had tried to leave it behind for the moment. When my neighbour left—for she only stayed forty-eight hours—I was left alone in the room for a night, and fears for my new baby enveloped me. I was ill at ease, and had difficulty getting to sleep. But in the morning, all was well and my daughter joined me once again.

  A new mother then arrived, a plump Cockney girl, at twenty-one about to produce her second child. She had rather a noisy labour, but within minutes of the birth had recovered her equilibrium and was practically bouncing with joy at the birth of a son. I couldn’t help being amused at the sudden change in her, and rather wistfully compared my own exhausted state the previous day with her ebullience. This then, I thought, is the difference that ten years makes.

  I had toyed with the idea of giving the baby a name very similar to Amanda—Amy, Amabel, Annabel and so on; but in the end I gave her a completely different first name: Karen. It seemed right that a new personality should have its own name—its own separate identity. I had searched her round face for dimples like Amanda’s and found none at all, and I was strangely glad; this was a new child, my third child, not a reincarnation of my second. But there was no reason why she should not bear her sister’s name in addition to her own—Karen Amanda had a nice flowing sound, and the time would come when I would wish to explain the reason to her.

  Several of the relations accidentally called her Amanda in the next few weeks, but I was never hurt by that; two of the most hurtful remarks I experienced were actually made in the first week in the maternity home by a doctor and by a midwife.

  The doctor, temporarily in charge of me, but hardly knowing me, obviously felt that some pleasantry was called for at the end of his examination of the baby. Glancing down at my case notes, he said casually, ‘And will we see you back here next year?’

  I was so shaken and angered by his question, that I could hardly speak, succeeding only in replying through gritted teeth, ‘I sincerely hope not.’

  To me his question had implied one thing—that something might happen to this baby, although I am sure he meant no such thing. With the passing of months and years the offence seems trivial, but it overshadowed me then for hours. No doubt in glancing down, he had seen the years set out—1967; 1969; 1970; 1971 and now 1972. He had assumed I had borne a child in each of those years, and would probably go on to produce more in subsequent years. It was not a difficult mistake to make; but I couldn’t forgive him. He should have read the notes properly.

  I was even more outraged by the midwife—the very midwife who had delivered small Amanda. For her remarks were made with the full knowledge of my case history.

  By this time I was up and about and conversing with the midwife and one or two other girls. Turning to me she said, ‘Mrs Luben, you’ve had two miscarriages in 1969 and 1970 and a pregnancy last year; don’t you think it’s about time you thought about birth control?’

  I was so flabbergasted that, once again, I could barely stammer out my answer.

  ‘But you know I only became pregnant this time because of Amanda….’

  I didn’t know whether to be angry or insulted. Not one of my five pregnancies had been accidental. I had spent the last three years desperately trying to achieve a second child. I thought she must be quite stupid if she couldn’t see that.

  She went on to extol the virtues of the ‘coil’ which she herself had had fitted. It seemed her question had been nothing more than an introduction leading up to a sales chat about the coil and perhaps an opportunity to mention her continuing sex life in a group of much younger women. I lost a great deal of my previous respect for her. She was an excellent midwife, but as a human being she had gone down in my estimation, using such a sensitive area of my life as a stepping-stone to an expression of her views.

  There is no doubt, of course, that I was excessively—perhaps even obsessively—sensitive, and twice I was thrown into a panic by the most trivial of events.

  A few days after her birth, I was told by a nurse that Karen was to be put on three-hourly feeds, and immediately I became terrified that something was wrong with her—that she was showing signs of some frailty. I was told just before the morning rest period and I succeeded in calming myself and going off to sleep. When I awoke, I was refreshed and able to see things in perspective once again. Karen just happened to be a baby that wanted an extra feed. Indeed, the new schedule transformed her from a cross-patch to a contented baby. In retrospect, I was able to look at the flexibility shown at the maternity home with a great deal of approval. It contrasted markedly with stories of regimentation and lack of individual attention (and to their shame, discouragement of breast-feeding) I had heard about many larger hospitals.

  Despite her improved temper, Karen never became a placid, sleepy baby like Robert. I was surprised to find that even in the ten-day stint in the maternity home, she was amazingly wide awake, staring out from her cot with blue eyes.

  Matron came in one morning with the post and, glancing down at her, asked, ‘Was your baby premature?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘She was full term—why?’

  ‘Oh, she has “prem.” eyes,’ she commented.

  I stared at Karen’s eyes—slightly slanted at the corners—was there something I had missed—something wrong that was only just being noticed? For several feeds, I could hardly bear to hold her—I was so sure that something was wrong. Then sanity returned; she was a lovely and perfect child; bright and alert. There was nothing wrong with her. The fault was in me.

  Towards the end of my stay, I was allowed to start changing nappies.

  Isn’t this a day early?’ I asked my Indian nurse, remembering the routine from the earlier occasions.

  ‘Sister sees you are a good mother,’ she replied smiling. ‘She knows you can cope with the baby.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s got anything to do with it,’ I laughed, but I was pleased at the suggestion that it could be so.

  In fact many of the experienced mothers were allowed to take over the care of their babies earlier than usual. The home was particularly busy, with a regular flow of incoming women, and two or three babies were being born every day. Once again, I was impressed that the usual routine was able to be changed, rather than rigidly adhered to, so that nurses were freed from nappy changing and baby bathing to attend at deliveries and assist new mothers.

  Sister was a disciplinarian—she had to be—but she knew when to slacken the reins, and when to change the rules. Once I saw her speedily making up a bed during a rush and my admiration for her increased. She was ready to step into any gap to keep this place running smoothly.

  The day befo
re I was due to leave, she approached me.

  ‘I shan’t be here tomorrow, as it’s my day off, so I’ll say “goodbye” now.’

  We shook hands and I was aware of a feeling of a mutual unexpressed respect that had not been present before. Perhaps we had each learned to look beneath the surface.

  20. One Day at a Time

  My mother was disappointed when I said we wouldn’t go to Brighton on my departure from the maternity home. She thought perhaps that last summer’s pleasant days might be repeated—but I was not tempted. I wanted no carbon copy of the previous year. Life is like a moving staircase—life had, thank goodness, moved on for me. I had no wish to stop it and make some sentimental journey back to past days.

  In any case, whilst the circumstances looked the same on the surface—another daughter, another summer—things were changing drastically. In just over a week, Robert would start school—I felt a great need for stabilising, for getting into some sort of routine before school imposed its own much more demanding routine upon me.

  A nearish neighbour, whose daughter had befriended Robert during the past couple of years, had kindly volunteered to take him to the school bus stopping point each morning, at what was a hectic time for me; it was some weeks before I found that Karen was sleeping until around nine a.m., and I could slip out myself with Robert just before eight-thirty to deliver him to the bus stop. He needed this little support from me; he made no complaint about school, except to comment in a weary little voice: ‘It’s a very tiring day.’

  I was well aware that he had been flung in at the deep end, to sink or swim as best he could, in the school adventure, whilst the emotional impact on me of seeing my first born depart for school was greatly muted by having a new baby to care for. We were often irritable with each other, both exhausted by our different efforts; violent arguments were frequent and always bitterly regretted later. Poor Robert, he had borne the brunt of all the dips and peaks of my emotions, through four pregnancies and three disappointments. Somehow he had remained sufficiently well balanced to deal with the new trauma of school in a remarkably stoical fashion. He never wept on departing for school, yet he was a lonely and shy little boy and it must have been an ordeal for him to be confronted with so many noisy children in those first few months, having been a lone wolf for so many years.