Clover's Child (21 page)

‘You are most welcome, Dot.’

The two women exchanged a meaningful glance.

It was another half an hour before the mask was looped over her head with a length of elastic and she was told to breathe deeply. The mixture left a metallic taste in her mouth and as soon as it hit her blood, the room seemed to soften, voices took on an echoey quality and her limbs felt leaden. The Entonox did little to relieve her discomfort, but she certainly cared less about it. Pointing at the little green sling, she mumbled from behind the plastic, ‘That’sfermebaby.’

Sister Agnes held Dot’s hand as another contraction built. ‘Now, remember what I told you. Breathe, Dot, that’s the secret. Good, deep breaths!’

Dot concentrated on the nun’s encouraging words and tried to do as she was told, but it was difficult to get a full breath before the next contraction started. It was all going too quickly, too fast for her to have any control over the pain that sliced through her body. There was no time to mentally prepare, brace her muscles or focus. Instead, it was as if the pain was in control, it flooded and weakened her and when it subsided all she felt was blessed relief, thankful for the respite, before the whole ghastly cycle started all over again.

She was aware of a sharp jab in her thigh. She yelped as much with surprise as the sting of the needle. The doctor was standing to her side.

‘That’s a shot of pethidine. It will relax all your muscles and take the edge off that pain. You will soon start to feel a whole lot better, just you wait.’

Things seemed to slow a little; the calm before the storm.

Bathed in sweat, with her hair stuck to her forehead, Dot tried to control her shaking legs as another wave threatened to overtake her body. She breathed deeply and allowed it to flow over her. She saw Sol’s face behind her closed eyes; he was smiling.
‘That’s my girl.’
She smiled back. All too soon another stirring in the base of her spine warned of a new volcano building. This one felt different, she instinctively knew that this would be the last push. One, two, three seconds passed and her whole body heaved with relief. She fell back against the thin mattress, feeling like a boned chicken, all soft and supple, the knots and sharp edges removed. She was muted and quiet.

The doctor held up the baby, her baby. A beautiful baby boy, a boy! He had a head of thick, dark curls. Dot cried, he was perfect and he was theirs. She would have given anything in the world at that precise moment to be holding Sol’s hand and not that of the kindly Sister.

The baby was wrapped in a white sheet and handed to her.

‘Oh! Thank you. Look at him! He’s so beautiful.’

Dot peered into the sheet and loosened the fabric; there staring back at her was the face of her son. Her beautiful boy. His large unfocusing eyes blinked slowly as she drew his face up to her own. His skin was downy soft against her lips; his perfect rosebud mouth seemed to form a kiss on her cheek. She placed the tip of her finger inside his tiny grasping hand; his fingernails were minute. Dot nuzzled her face close to his, inhaling his scent – the scent of warmth, love and innocence, with the faintest hint of cinnamon and spice.

Sister Agnes smiled and had to agree, yes, he was truly beautiful.

Dot dozed for a couple of hours as her boy slumbered inside a plastic bassinet in the nursery, where all the babies slept. A couple of other tiny newborns in crocheted bonnets lay in cots, mewling and chewing at scrunched-up fists.

A young nurse wheeled him in and placed him by the side of her bed; the other girl in the room was also brought her baby. Dot lifted him and held him tightly against her chest. He opened his eyes for the briefest second – they were bright blue! His arms and legs were curled up towards his body, his little fists were bunched under his chin; he looked like a beautiful cherub. His lips were full and dark and his skin was darker now than it had been when he was born, more like his dad’s.

‘Hello, little fella! Hello, you beautiful boy.’ Dot beamed at the closed face of her son. She shook her head. How could someone like her have managed to make something as perfect as this.

He started to cry, not with tears – he didn’t know about tears yet – but with a little bleat, a small voice of need, and his mum instinctively knew what it was that he needed. Dot unbuttoned her night gown and held his little face against her breast. His greedy mouth latched on and Dot bit down on her lip, it bloody hurt! She smiled though. In spite of the discomfort, she was feeding her little boy! She felt like a grown-up; better than that, she felt like a mum.

‘I love you, little Solomon.’ It slipped out almost unconsciously, but once she had spoken it out loud, it seemed to make perfect sense: she would call him Solomon. It didn’t matter what her mum and dad thought, it didn’t matter what anyone thought. Anyway, they were going to Australia and there they could be anything and anyone they wanted to be. It was to be a glorious new beginning; maybe they
would
drink pineapple juice and swim at a beach after all. She smiled and placed her finger inside his tiny hand. He gripped it with his whole fist.

‘You are strong, my little man!’ She noticed his fingers – long and tapered, piano player’s fingers maybe, just like his beautiful daddy. His rosebud mouth continued to suckle, until milk trickled from the side of his mouth and over his curved cheek. His rounded tummy rose and fell as he slept deeply, still gripping his mum’s finger.

Later that day, Dot was moved to a little room adjacent to the nursery wing. It felt strange to have her own space, but wonderful to be able to see baby Solomon regularly throughout the day. Her body felt a bit more back to normal; her stomach still carried a post-pregnancy bulge and her bra struggled to contain her swollen chest, but the bone-deep ache from giving birth had almost disappeared.

It was almost simultaneous, when Solomon wanted to feed, she would leak milk, as though she was programmed for his every need. The times when she could hold and feed him were the highlight of her day. Watching him fall asleep against her skin was a joy that she could never have envisaged. To feel the weight of his tiny body against her shoulder was the best feeling in the world. She hated it when the time came to put him in his little bassinet so that he could be wheeled off to the nursery.

When Solomon was not quite three days old, Dot rummaged in her suitcase and removed the brown paper packet that contained her material.
‘I shall give it a lot of thought and try and make something worthy of it, something that will always remind me of today.’

She lay the length of sky-blue drill flat on the table and planned out the shape for a romper suit. Her skilful dressmaker’s fingers cut the fabric, using a little vest as a vague template. She pressed the material to her face and inhaled its strange scent; it reminded her of her old life, when she had been a happy shop girl, working in Selfridges and going home to her mum’s for her tea. It made her think of the wonderful day she and Sol had spent together when he bought the fabric, and it made her think of her mate Barb, from whom she now felt so remote. Dot folded the seams and used tiny stitches to secure the pieces together. She took extra care, making sure each stitch was equally spaced and precisely the same length; she wanted him to look lovely when they arrived in Australia. Dot smiled at the irony: this was the first ‘Clover Original’. She worked diligently until the early hours and on Solomon’s fourth day on the planet, his new outfit was ready.

Sister Kyna had sent word to the nursery, asking Dot to visit the office. She walked purposefully along the corridor, almost looking forward to the exchange; Dot was a woman with a plan.

‘Please sit, Dot.’ Sister Kyna indicated the chair as though there was a choice of where to perch.

‘You look well.’

‘I feel it, thank you.’

‘Good, good.’ The nun paused and removed her glasses. ‘There are a couple of formalities, Dot, that we need to take care of today. We need to give the child a name.’

Dot smiled at the thought of ‘the child’. His name was Solomon, her little Solomon, bringer of peace.

‘And the good news is that we have had a development with regard to his adoption. A Canadian couple, based in London – a university professor and his wife, no less – have agreed to take the baby.’

Dot coughed to clear her throat and took a deep breath. ‘I do have a name for him, actually, but as far as the adoption is concerned, I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan. He’s not up for adoption. Can you tell that couple thank you very much, but he’s staying with his mum.’

Sister Kyna fiddled with her spectacles and ran her tongue over her thin lips. ‘How so, Dot? What has so changed in your circumstance that you are able to keep the boy?’

‘It’s simple, really. I never wanted to give him up, never, and I hoped I’d find a way around it and I have!’ Dot grinned, feeling like she had cheated the system. ‘I’m going to take the ten-pound ticket. We are going to Australia!’ Dot lifted her chin, determined. Susan was right, women looked after babies on their own all the time, even women like Dot.

Sister Kyna was silent for a few seconds, then she smirked and gave a small giggle that quickly developed into a full-blown laugh. She fought for control and wheezed slightly, then coughed into her bunched-up fist and patted her chest. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, Lord give me strength. Is that it? Is that the big plan – to take the ten-pound ticket?’

Dot felt her cheeks flush and her stomach flip with nerves; this wasn’t how she had planned the exchange. It had happened very differently in her head.

‘Yes, we are going to go to Australia. No one’s going to take him away from me.’ This time her eyes were on the floor and her chin dipped against her chest.

‘I am afraid, Miss Simpson, that it is not quite that straightforward. Firstly, you willingly signed the papers – legal documents that placed the care and responsibility for the child with the Church. Secondly, it is our absolute belief that the boy will be better placed with a university professor and his lovely wife than in your care—’

‘What d’you mean? How can that be right? Who cares what the bloke does for a living, I’m his mum! What can be better for him than being with his mum?’ Dot fought to control her pitch and her breathing. She needed to remain calm to get this sorted out.

‘He will be given the best education and guidance that money can buy; he will travel and have a rich life. You cannot hope to compete with that—’

‘That’s just rubbish! I shouldn’t have to compete! I’m his mum. It doesn’t matter how much money they’ve got, that’s not what makes you happy. I grew up without any money!’

‘Yes, and look what has happened to your life. Hardly a glowing example, is it?’

Dot was aware that she was crying. She was angry and upset. She dashed the tears away and continued. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter what you say or what you think, my mind’s made up. I don’t care what anyone thinks, I’m taking my baby and we are going to Australia. I’m taking that ten-pound ticket!’

Sister Kyna replaced her glasses and paused before delivering the final blow.

‘I’m afraid there is no ten-pound ticket.’

‘Yes there is! Don’t you lie to me! I know there is. Susan’s taken it, I know she has!’

‘That is true, she did. Maybe I should be more specific; there is no ten-pound ticket for people like you or for babies like yours.’

There was a second of silence while the words permeated Dot’s brain. ‘What d’you mean, not for babies like mine? He’s perfect.’ Her mouth twisted from all the crying.

‘I think you know to what I am referring. Let’s not make things more awkward than they need to be; don’t make me spell it out. I will tell you this: you are lucky to find a couple willing to take a child like that, many babies of his sort are not as fortunate. This couple will be taking your child and there is nothing that you can do about it. My advice is to distance yourself from the boy over the next few days, which might make his leaving a little easier to bear.’

Dot’s heart hammered, she fought for breath. Feeling light-headed, she gripped the arms of the chair to fight off the faint that threatened.

‘You can’t have him! I won’t let you take him, I won’t! No one is taking my boy! Anyway, them forms don’t count, I had my fingers crossed the whole time! So it doesn’t bloody count!’ This Dot screamed.

Sister Kyna ran her hand over her face. ‘Oh, dear God, don’t be ridiculous! Fingers crossed indeed, I’ve heard it all now!’

Sister Mary had heard Dot’s shouts and now opened the office door.

‘Is everything all right, Sister Kyna?’ The young nun stared at Dot, who looked like a wild animal about to pounce.

‘Everything is fine, thank you, Sister. You may escort Miss Simpson back to her room.’

Sister Mary helped Dot to stand.

‘You ain’t having him! I swear to God, you ain’t taking Solomon from me!’ Her face crumpled as her legs folded under her.

Sister Kyna unscrewed the lid of her fountain pen and cocked her head to one side. ‘What was the name again?’ she enquired, as though she was asking the date, calm and unmoved by Dot’s distress.

Tears blocked Dot’s nostrils and throat and smeared her lips; her nose dripped. She spoke with the garbled slur of a drunk. ‘Slolomon… His name is Sollollomon.’

Sister Kyna wrote ‘Simon’ in the allocated space. It was close enough.

* * *

Dot unwrapped the yellow knitted blanket in which he was swaddled and removed the miniature terry nappy, held in place by an enormous safety pin with a blue cover on the tip; blue for boys, pink for girls. She laid him in her lap and ran her finger over his tiny feet, gently pinching each of his ten perfect toes and around his little knees, up over his tum and down along his arms. His tiny fingers snatched at the air and she lifted him to her face and kissed his little nose and closed eyes. She snuggled her face against the fold under his chin and kissed all over his face, working her way around to each ear. Whenever she considered the fact that her time with him was coming to an end, she could not breathe, quite literally could not take a breath and so she tried to put it out of her mind.