The Edge of the Fall (37 page)

Celia turned her head to the side, hoping that the floor might be cooler.
I feel so awful
. But the words wouldn't come out, just sat heavy in her head, burnt her eyes.
Am I dying?
she wanted to ask.
What's wrong with me? I must be dying. I must be
. She could hear Lily crying, somewhere far away.

Emmeline was pulling at Verena. ‘Mother, she needs air. Let
me explain,' Celia could feel Verena pulling at her hands, shouting something.

Rudolf's voice was coming from the bed. ‘What is it? What is happening? Is Celia ill?' The other nurse was trying to calm him.

Celia closed her eyes. Everything was red behind her eyelids, hot and burning. The voices were beginning to swim.

‘How far along is she?' the red-haired nurse was saying to Emmeline. ‘When's the date?'

‘I don't know.' Celia could hear Emmeline panicking. ‘I can't remember. Six weeks, maybe. Samuel, can you remember?'

‘Ma'am, you need to give her some air,' the nurse was saying. ‘Step back.' Albert and Lily were both crying now, wailing. Mr Janus was shouting something at Emmeline.

‘Who did this to you?' Verena was crying out. ‘Who? She was taken advantage of! We must get the police.'

‘No need for the police,' said Mr Janus.

‘So who was it?'

Celia turned her head. She felt a rush of nausea in her throat. ‘Oh God,' she said, for no one to hear. ‘God help me.'

Then the bed creaked. Rudolf's poor, weakened voice was crying out. ‘Celia!' he said. ‘My child.'

She tried to turn to him. ‘Papa,' she tried. ‘Forgive me.'

‘Not really a child,' she could hear Mr Janus say. She shook him away. She wanted to reach out to her father, touch his hand. He, alone, would understand. He'd see, forgive her, love her. ‘Papa,' she was saying, fighting with the red in her eyes and the sickness in her throat. ‘Let me tell you.'

She heard him cry out. She tried again. ‘I love you, Papa.' But there was Verena crying and the twins wailing and Mr Janus saying something she couldn't understand. She lifted her head. ‘Listen to me.' He'd speak back, tell all of them to be quiet, say to forgive her, to care for her, that she was his Celia, still his favourite.

But before she could say it, Mr Janus stopped talking and a silence billowed up. Then the nausea rose and everything swelled black.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Stoneythorpe, April 1922

Celia

She couldn't tell if it were pain or not. Something swelled, rode her, took her back and forth, took her so far from her mind, her body, that she thought she would never return. But she wouldn't call it pain, not really. Pain was something she'd had before: headaches, a sprained ankle, toothache, the bout of measles at Winterbourne. This wasn't like that, was something else that rose with her, wasn't even her, not human. She'd imagined herself talking to Michael, telling him to stay calm, to keep breathing. Instead she was screaming, over and over, inside her mind because the thing was riding her too hard to allow the sound out. She begged it to stop.

‘Keep going,' someone was saying, the red-haired nurse maybe. ‘Pain is good. It shows things are progressing.'

‘Good girl, not making a fuss,' said a man's voice. ‘Only wastes time.'

But I want to
, she tried to say. Then the pain came again, flung her hard against the wall.

They'd been there talking about her for hours, it seemed, talking
over
her. She'd woken up and found herself here, in this great bed she didn't recognise, a room she didn't recognise, must be somewhere at the top of the house. A new woman's voice was there, too, someone she hadn't heard before. They'd taken her clothes, put her in a nightgown, put covers around her. Jugs and bowls of hot water were constantly coming in and out –
what for?
When she'd woken in this room, this bed, her first thought had been:
how am I still here? How am I not dead?

She wanted to say:
I thought I was dead
. But they didn't want to talk to her. In fact, it was hardly as if she was in the room. They bustled around her, picking up water, towels, the doctor looking at things in his bag.
Who are you looking after? Who is the patient?
She felt like a spectator, soaring above them, looking down on herself from the ceiling, the twisted body bending from side to side, a weak tree in a storm.

In the moments between, when the thing set her down, let her think, all she could feel was thirst. But she couldn't ask for a drink, she tried but she couldn't make the words come out. It was too much, as if the huge effort that it would take to speak would give her completely over to the thing, the whole of her would fall into a hole, collapse into a hundred tiny pieces, tens of hundreds. She'd open her mouth and a fire would come out that would set her world aflame and burn the room, tear Stoneythorpe to the ground.

Perhaps they might see, she thought, perhaps they might say,
She'd like something to drink
, then hand her a glass, hold up her head so she could sip. But nothing came. She felt the pain come towards her, held on. Think of something else, she told herself. A boat on a lake, something that was still and calm. But the lake made her think only of the red-haired girl in Baden, scrambling to get into the boat, the others splashing her. She saw the girl laughing in her white gown, the men gazing at her.

‘How long?' a voice was saying over her. The doctor. ‘Nurse, time it.'

‘I have done. Still three minutes. It's been like that for two hours.'

‘Right.'

Celia felt him shake her shoulder. ‘Come on, girl. You're getting behind. You need to put some effort in. Don't be lazy.'

I'm not being
— she tried to say. Then the thing threw her against the wall again.

‘Your sister had to be hurried up, didn't she?' said the doctor.
‘She tells me you saw it all. You don't want the same happening to you. Time to get going, girl.'

‘I'm not sure anyone can make it happen,' the nurse was saying.

‘Not true. The way to do it is to get off the bed and start walking. It is my failsafe method. Nothing worse for getting a child going than lying around. Up you get, young lady.'

The thing let go of her and Celia lay back.

‘Are you sure?' said the woman.

‘Get her off the bed, please, Nurse.'

Celia felt the hands under her, grasping her and pulling her off the bed. She tried to fall back but they had their grip under her arms, were pulling her forwards.

‘Start walking!' he said. ‘Around the bedroom, standing straight as you can. Then let's see that child on its way.'

Celia felt the nurses pulling her around the room. She tried to speak, vomited on herself instead. She felt them sponging her nightdress. ‘That's a good sign,' said the doctor. ‘Excellent.'

Where's Emmeline?
she wanted to say. Or her mother. Or any of them. Even Mr Janus would do. They'd all left her alone. Ashamed. Tears wanted to fall but they wouldn't come, the whole of her was too dry.
Drink
, she tried again, but the words still wouldn't come. The nurses dragged her on, pulling her around the room. ‘Keep going,' the doctor said. ‘It's working.'

Celia circled around the room, the nurses timing her breaths. ‘Now,' said the doctor. ‘Now it is time.'

Celia felt the nurse's hand on her shoulder. ‘You need to do it, miss. Let's get the baby out.'

Celia felt sick. She knew her head was lolling. ‘I can't.'

‘You must. Your child is nearly born now.' She pushed hard on her shoulder. Celia bent over on to the bed, screamed. ‘Let's get back on there,' said the doctor. ‘I need to see.'

And then the thing was capturing her, throwing her around again. When it had taken her before, it had let her go, allowed her to rest for a moment. Now it didn't, it threw her against the wall again and again. Celia couldn't cry, she couldn't speak. ‘Push!' the nurse was shouting. The other one jammed hard on her
shoulder. ‘Cord,' she heard the doctor say, and there was a spot of understanding in her heart, a small one, that said: the cord is probably around the neck.

The nurse angled a hand under her damp back. ‘Again, miss.'

‘I—'

‘You must. Or we will have to cut the child out.'

‘No!'

‘Well, you know what you must do. Hold back now. Then you must push.' The nurse propped up Celia's head. ‘You must stay straight, madam.'

‘Water.' She heard herself beg.

‘You must send the baby out now. Then you can have all the water you desire. Anything. Tea and scones.'

Celia felt a flash of breaking pain. The doctor's hands were in her, pulling her apart. ‘I can't.'

‘Come, miss. Now push until I say stop.'

Celia groaned. The doctor's hands were in further. The walls quivered, curtains slumped. The nurse looked up. ‘Now!'

‘Now, madam!' And Celia felt the nurse pushing too, hard on her shoulder. She cried out. ‘Keep on!' said the nurse, holding her shoulder. ‘Don't stop!'

‘That's it!' cried the doctor. Celia fell back on the pillows as the child's head came into the doctor's pulling hands. ‘That's it,' he said. ‘Cord is free now.'

‘Again, miss, one last time.'

The whole room seemed to throw back Celia's cries as the baby came into the doctor's hands. He brought it up. ‘A boy!' Celia reached out. Her baby! He was grey, soundless.

‘Stay still, miss,' the nurse soothed. ‘Let the doctor take the child.'

The doctor dangled the baby upside down, slapped him on the back. No cry. He took up a blanket and rubbed hard on the child's stomach. Celia knew, the brief opening of sense in her mind let her know, that the doctor was about to start giving him air.

‘Give him to me,' she said. The doctor was squeezing his chest. ‘I want him.'

The doctor stared at her, then nodded. ‘You can have him for two seconds,' he said. ‘We'll ready the table. Give him warmth, it might help.'

Celia stared down at the baby, head bowed, sheened with blood. Legs, arms, head. Below her, the tangle of sheets, the blood, the evidence of the pain that had torn her body in two and yet had receded as soon as the child emerged. She touched the baby, its large grey head bent into her own skin. Behind her, she could hear the doctor bustling around, readying the table to pump his chest. She was aware, too, that there was sun breaking through the curtains, the white light of the early afternoon.

She put out her hand for the boy. ‘Come', she said, hardly able to comprehend the sound of her own voice. Only a minute ago, it had been so low and guttural, so much screaming she could not think where it had come from. ‘Come to me.' She touched the head, a little like stone. She picked up the child's hand, tiny and cold. Her son. ‘You're Michael,' she said. ‘Don't forget.'

‘Put your hands on him, miss,' said the nurse. ‘Bring him closer to you. You must try.' She lifted the child's great head so that the eyes, half shut, were near to her face.

‘We'll take him now,' said the doctor, standing next to her.

‘Look at me, little one,' Celia whispered. ‘Little son.' Tom's arms around her when they met, his hands on her legs, touching her, whispering words she barely understood. His dark eyes and his words about what he'd done. She reached down to Michael, lifted him by the chest. As she did so, she felt the small body flutter in her hands. She held him close to her breast.

‘Come on, now. Precious boy. Michael.' She patted his back. And with that, the boy made a cry. Only a weak one, like an infant foal, but a cry all the same. She held him tight, stared at him, amazed. ‘You're mine!' she said. ‘I made you.'

‘Now, dear,' said the red-haired nurse. ‘I'll take baby now. We need to wake him up.'

Celia held on to Michael. ‘He needs me.'

The nurse reached down. ‘He's still very weak. The doctor needs to look at him. You rest.'

‘I can wash him. I'll do it. I want to feed him.'

‘You can't!' said the nurse. ‘The doctor needs to take him now. You want him well, don't you?'

‘Come, Celia,' said Verena, who had appeared in the room – Celia hadn't noticed. ‘The doctor needs to take him now. Think of him, not yourself'

Her mother was right. She had to force herself. She held Michael up to the nurse. As she did so, the other nurse came to her side. ‘Just something to help you sleep, dear. Later.' She pricked Celia's arm.

‘You did very well,' a voice said. ‘Very well indeed.' Celia heard her mother then, speaking about the doctor, how brave Celia had been, how quick, that Rudolf was quite well. Verena touched her forehead. When Celia had been a child and she couldn't sleep, her mother would sometimes come into her room, stroke her forehead until she fell asleep. Now, Verena was doing it again, smoothing her fingers over Celia's skin. ‘Go to sleep,' she was saying. ‘Sleep.'