Are You My Mother? (38 page)

The news of Ann’s absence hit me hard, and tears welled momentarily in my eyes. Sternly, I told myself not to be so ridiculous; I’d just have to make the most of it for now, and go and visit Ann’s flat again tomorrow. I’d psyched myself up this far.

The women stood up and headed for the wide submerged steps into the shallow pool, and I followed, embarrassment preventing me from simply turning around and leaving. Ruth waded into the pool in front of me, knelt down and threw her head back in the water, shaking out her long hair in slow seaweedy slithers underneath the surface. I approved – Stella and I, on the few occasions we’d been swimming together, always laughed privately about the women who kept their heads out of water at all costs, paddling around, long of neck and strained of throat. I followed her, leaning my own head back, feeling the kiss of the blue unthreatening water wash over my scalp.

Marty put a tape into the boombox and then, when the B-52’s
Love Shack
began ricochetting across the water’s surface, knelt down on the edge of the pool so he was closer to us, waving his arms and exhorting us to jog around in a clockwise direction. Nobody took any notice of him at first, so I stayed floating on my back for a moment more. Underwater, the music sounded different, more menacing, distorted and dominated by the thud of the drumbeats.

Ruth hauled herself upright again, and yanked her head towards Marty.

‘
Come on then,’ she mouthed to me, stroking her belly. I watched her begin to wade towards the raggedy circle of women, her familiarity endearing her to me hugely. Despite her complaints about her appearance, she looked sleek and elegant in her spotted maternity swimsuit, still fetchingly baggy around the middle. Even eight months into the pregnancy, she only had a medium-sized bump, halfway along the spectrum of roundness’ on display. I wondered what sort of bump I’d have. Then I wondered how I had carried myself in Ann Paramor’s womb – perkily, high and proud, like Ruth’s baby? Or low-slung and thrashing about?

By now we were all, in a manner of speaking, jogging around. When I jogged past Marty he smiled encouragingly at me, but I had to turn my head away because I was sure I got a faint whiff of something from the crotch area of his lycra casing – a nauseating yeasty, revolting smell which made me shudder. Once I was out of sight I gulped in a big lungful of chlorinated air, reassured by its antiseptic tang. It reminded me of something that happened once, when I’d been swimming as a kid, before Stella was born – not Marty’s crotch, thankfully, but the feeling of sensing a scent through water.

We’d been on holiday in Cornwall, and I’d been showing off to Dad in the local pool, demonstrating my new-found ability to do front-crawl with my face in the water, as he sat watching from the side with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. When I got down towards the deep end, away from him, I’d suddenly become aware of an inexplicably strong odour coming from the water, a not-unpleasant sort of Eau de Cologney smell. Intrigued, I’d thought that it was coming from the bottom of the pool. I had put my face back down into the water and without giving it a second thought, breathed deeply in. Underwater. Dad had to dive in, fully clad, and drag me out as I surfaced, heaving and choking and almost vomiting.

I’d have given anything, right at that moment, with the other women in the baby pool laughing and gossiping, to see Dad standing there, dripping wet and concerned for me.

Ruth caught up with me. ‘All right?’ she said. ‘Wait till we change direction – then it gets hard.’

I tried to talk back to her, but it was difficult to make myself heard over the tinny pop and all the other women’s voices, echoing in the chlorine-heavy air. A fluke of the pool’s acoustics occasionally permitted a comment from someone down the other end to be distinctly heard: ‘....my boobs have got so saggy I might as well just
roll
the buggers up,’ said a weary-looking post-natal mother.

‘
Well, I’ve got varicose veins like an ordnance survey map,’ replied her friend ruefully, one of the biggest bellies. I thought that if she got any bigger she’d need scaffolding to support her stomach. Ruth saw me looking at her and nudged me. ‘That’s Charlotte. She’s two weeks overdue. I really don’t think she ought to be here. She looks as if she’s going to spawn an entire litter of babies instead of just the one, doesn’t she?’

Under Marty’s orders we all began to jog backwards, the pull from the swirl of forward-flowing water making us work much harder, as Ruth had warned. My leg muscles were already beginning to ache, and I could feel an unpleasant rippling sensation around my bottom as the water tugged unforgivingly at my untoned thighs.

‘
I – must - do – more – exercise,’ I puffed at Ruth, over my shoulder. She grimaced back at me, as if we were old friends. It felt great. I toyed with the idea of quizzing her about Ann: what age was she? What did she look like? But then I decided against it - I wanted to find out for myself, even if it meant waiting until the next day.

Words and music mingled with the echoey shouts and slap of wet feet on tiles as children took running dives into the adjacent big pool, and I wondered if one day I would be carrying a new life inside my very own maternity swimsuit, as I jogged around a magic circle of sisterhood. I felt suddenly sad that I was only passing through, and would never see Ruth again. Unless of course my intuitions were sound, and this did turn out to be the right Ann Paramor…. No, I told myself firmly. I must not project.

More jogging and jiggling ensued, with some stretches and vaguely co-ordinated limb-waving thrown in for good measure. Marty distributed webbed gloves to us all, to create maximum resistance against the water. He looked slightly nervous, as if worried that he would suddenly be required to assist at an emergency water birth. The women seemed to sense his unease, and for the most part ignored him completely, continuing to splash sedately along and talk amongst themselves.

By this time I, as one of the more conscientious participants, was purple in the face and gasping. ‘These gloves are a killer,’ I managed to say to Ruth, surreptitiously peeling them off and leaving them in a wedged-up ball on the side of the pool. Ruth had been right behind me, but when she didn’t answer, I turned to look at her, noticing that her face suddenly seemed very tired and greyish.

‘
Are you feeling all right? I asked, concerned; but she just half-nodded, half-shook her head and carried on.

The two tiny babies at the side of the pool, strapped into their car seats, were looking bemused next to a giant basket full of orange armbands. They were spellbound by Marty prancing up and down in front of them and, indeed, appeared to comprise his most attentive audience. He eventually got so fed up with being ignored that he jumped into the pool himself, trainers and all, causing a mini-tidal wave which splashed one of the babies and made it cry.

Our attention attracted, the class reluctantly conceded to perform an underwater rendition of the Macarena, followed by a half-hearted Twist. The women, myself included, all made cringing faces at each other behind Marty’s back. I realised that I was beginning to enjoy myself, and vowed to find a similar class in Ealing on my return. I could ask Stella to pick me up a class timetable next time she went swimming.

Meanwhile, a small crowd of young boys, skinny and shiny-wet in their minuscule swimming trunks, had assembled, sniggering, at a safe distance, fascinated by these fat ladies with webbed hands.

‘
Now jump up and down!’ commanded Marty. I tried hard to do so with dignity, but failed. The rest of the women obliged, some giggling, some grumbling; the big ones all clasping their gloved hands underneath their bulges as though afraid the baby might just fall out. The post-natal ones jumped much higher than their pregnant friends. There was a thwacking sound of buttocks colliding with the water’s surface, and the water got quite choppy; waves slapping over the sides and rolling around us as we jumped. It was an incongruous sight in such a shallow pool.

Well, this is certainly a novel way to meet people, I thought. Suddenly all the stress and uncertainty and anxiety of the whole Ann Paramor undertaking faded away, to be replaced by a strong sense of the absurdity of the situation. For the first time in months I felt my depression being shaken out of me, with each jump dislodging a little more of the old miserable Emma until I felt so light and free I could have pogoed right out of the pool and into a new life. I thought of my adventure, of getting myself here, and doing this, and meeting Ruth. And then I thought of going home to Gavin the next day, of us starting again, and it made me so happy that I laughed out loud. Things were finally, finally, looking up; and at that moment I didn’t care whether I found Ann Paramor or not.

With a last burst of energy, I jumped up and down as vigorously as I could, and Ruth, next to me, jumped enthusiastically too. Suddenly she cried out in pain and doubled over.

‘
Ruth? Are you OK?’

Ruth gasped and scrunched up her face, her hair sticking in wet streaks to her cheeks. She grabbed my arm. ‘I need to get out. Please could you get my stuff from the locker?’

I took one look at Marty’s horrified face, and the way the rest of the group seemed to wade backwards away from Ruth and, feeling as if someone more assertive had suddenly inhabited my body, took charge. Grabbing the thick rubber band from Ruth’s wrist, and snapping mine from my ankle, I handed both keys to Marty, who was white with panic.

‘
Get a lifeguard or someone to bring our things from the lockers,’ I instructed.

Ruth moaned and wrapped her arms around her stomach. A yellowish cloud appeared in the water between her legs, eddying gently around her, and the other women moved even further away, sympathy and disgust flitting in tandem across their faces.

‘
Her waters have broken. Call an ambulance! Come on Ruth, you’ll be fine.’

Ruth clung on to my elbow. ‘It’s too early! It can’t happen yet! Help, someone do something, please.’ She was panting with pain.

Marty was clinging to the side of the pool, like a big shiny barnacle. I shoved my finger into the spongy black rubber flesh on his chest, and shouted at him. ‘An ambulance - now! Move it! You two, give me a hand getting her out the water.’

I beckoned to the non-pregnant woman, and the one with the saggy boobs. They waded hastily over, and between us, supported and propelled Ruth forward and up the steps to where the towels were. I wrapped one around Ruth’s shoulders and one around where her waist used to be, and someone else volunteered their bath robe, into which I manoeuvred Ruth with difficulty.

Marty had hauled himself out of the pool, where he lay for a second like a beached whale, before gathering the strength to straighten up and pad over to the nearest lifeguard. His waterlogged trainers squelched at every step.

‘
Don’t worry, you’ll be fine….can I call anyone for you?’

‘
Noooo,’ she wailed. ‘I’m on my own. Please don’t leave me.’

I grabbed her hand and held it, tightly. ‘I won’t, I promise.’

Two more lifeguards came rushing over and ushered us both in a little wet huddle towards reception. ‘Heigh Ho Silver Lining’ still blared incongruously from the boombox in the background, but the class had ground to a halt. Ruth refused to let go of my hand.

Just as the blue lights of an ambulance swirled up to the swimming pool’s main doors, bathing the surrounding cars and wet tarmac in ghoulish shadows, Marty came panting up to us trailing Ruth’s and my bags and clothes. He practically threw them at Ruth and shot off again, embarrassedly muttering ‘get well soon... ah, no, I mean, good luck; hope it all goes well...’

She looked at me through her pain, and shook her head. ‘Bloody useless,’ we said in tandem, Ruth through gritted teeth.

The lifeguards gathered up the strewn possessions as two burly ambulance men strapped Ruth into a stretcher on wheels, whose pillow-end was propped at a 45 degree angle.

‘
What’s your name, love?’ asked one of the ambulance men.

‘
Ruth Jackson. I’m not due for another month!’

‘
Righty-ho. Don’t you worry love, we’ll look after you. I’m Gerry, by the way, and this is Matt.’

Our odd-looking posse of uniformed men and undressed women swept outside and into the waiting ambulance. I winced as the cold night air hit my wet body - I hadn’t even had a chance to dry myself or put on any shoes. I shivered, and legions of gooseflesh presented arms from my face to my cold, bare feet. A small crowd of curious onlookers had assembled: an old couple with an equally geriatric greyhound straining at its leash, two fit young skinheads who’d finished their swim and were clutching wet towels in fat rolls secured by their goggles, and a little gang of local kids who’d been skateboarding in the car park. All of them stared at my back view as I climbed into the ambulance, still clad only in my Speedo, but I didn’t give it a second thought.

‘
For God’s sake, get dressed. Don’t want to be called out to see to your pneumonia tomorrow, do we?’ Matt, the younger ambulance man, threw me a small towel and a blanket while Gerry attended to Ruth, timing her contractions and offering her gas and air through a mask held to her mouth.

I had no idea where exactly my clothes were, and no intention of stripping off inside a moving ambulance, so I rubbed myself perfunctorily with the towel, and wrapped myself in the prickly hospital blanket.

‘
I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll sort out my clothes when we get there.’