Our Daily Bread

Lifeless

Pattie folded the first -size sleeps suits. All white or lemon; they’d decided not to find out the gender of the child. She couldn’t bear to give them away, actually. Maybe she should keep them. There will be other opportunities, Mrs Morris, the doctor had said. You’re young yet. They’d said she should give her body time to recuperate, then try again. She didn’t know whether she dared, though. 

She picked up the pile of clothes and put them back into the chest of drawers. She couldn’t bear this room now either, yet she couldn’t bring herself to do anything else with it.

Should we change it back to a spare room? Tom had suggested. 

She’d not wanted that either. That would be admitting they didn’t think it was possible.

The light caught the mobile as it twirled in the slight draft coming through the door.  It was a fine summer day and the landing window was open. If things had turned out differently she would have probably been pushing him or her out in the park today. 

It was nine months now since the miscarriage. It had been quite a late one. The doctor had explained it in a really funny way. I’m so sorry, Mrs Morris. If it had been another couple of weeks the baby may have been viable.

It hadn’t had a funeral. They’d not given it a name. Nobody had offered this time to tell them its gender. They’d just scooped up all the stuff that had come away from her body and she guessed it had all been incinerated. 

She was still off work. Clinical depression they’d said. It’s not clinical, she thought. There’s a reason: my baby died.

Wouldn’t it help to go back to the office? Tom had said. But she’d not been able to face the looks of sympathy or worse still, the whispered conversations and the way they would, she was sure, avoid talking to her.

Her body didn’t seem to be recovering either. Her tummy muscles were still quite flabby. Her back ached. She was constantly tired.

It didn’t make sense. She’d seen some of the women whose babies had been due at the same time as hers. They had their bodies back and they seemed full of energy. Yet they were supposedly having sleepless nights and were breast-feeding. They ought to be tired, not her.

She slept every afternoon. She went to bed early. She got up late. It never did any good. 

She made her way from the nursery to the main bedroom. She wished they did have a spare room. She would sleep there. That way she could avoid the confrontation with Tom every time he tried to make love to her.  Only last night he’d said, Come on Pattie. There’ll never be another baby if we don’t, you know.

Didn’t he understand? She didn’t want another baby. She wanted the one they’d lost.

She lay on the bed. This was the only good time of the day. Because sometimes she would dream about the baby.  Sometimes it was a boy and sometimes a girl but it never had a name.  You mustn’t ever give the dream baby a name or you’d never dream about it again. 

She closed her eyes and was soon asleep.

The sun was streaming into the bedroom when she woke. So, without looking at the clock, she knew it was after three. Maybe she should start doing something about Tom’s dinner.

Had she dreamt? She thought for a few seconds.  And then she remembered.  This time it had been a beautiful little girl dressed in a pretty yellow frock.  She’d pushed her in a big old-fashioned pram. One where the baby faced its mother. It had been a beautiful dream. The problem, though, with these lovely dreams, was that when you woke up it hurt twice as much as before. 

The card, she noticed, when she got into the kitchen, was till pinned on the notice board. The print had faded to pale blue and the corners had curled up. She read the so familiar words again. We are so sorry about your loss. Your health visitor will contact you and arrange for counselling. No one had contacted her.

You should ask the doctor to arrange something, Tom had said.

She’d shrugged. Her monthly visits to her GP were tortuous. She had to get in and out as quickly as possible.  She was sure everybody in the waiting room stared at her and the way the receptionist look at her said Come on woman. Get a grip. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t get a grip. 

She had to get away. Everything about this house reminded her of Tom and every time she thought of Tom she thought about her baby that had died.  Perhaps she could walk out and never come back.  Just keep on walking until she herself died of exhaustion.

She pulled on her comfortable sandals and stepped outside.  She didn’t even bother locking the door. They could come and take everything. She didn’t care. They couldn’t hurt her any more than she was hurt already.

She walked briskly down the path, right into the street and on to where the road ran out and then towards the cliffs.

Perhaps she wouldn’t go back. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it, to just throw herself off the cliff?  What if she survived, though? And was crippled? She would be such a nuisance and maybe in a lot of pain. And it wouldn’t make her feel any better about the baby. 

Could she run out in front of a car on the expressway? But she might get that wrong as well.

She’d often thought of filling the bath and slitting her wrists but she’d worried that she wouldn’t be dead by the time Tom came home. Then she’d have to carry on living with the scars and the shame.  She’d even thought about running a hose from the car exhaust into the car and shutting herself in there. She knew, though, that  the neighbours would rescue her. 

She didn’t want to live but she was too scared to risk not dying properly.

Someone was coming towards her on the path.  A woman pushing a pram with a toddler sitting on a seat on top.  It would be. Why do they have to torture me? she thought. As the woman got closer she recognised her. Maria. They’d started attending antenatal classes together. Pattie had been to just two of them when she had the miscarriage.

Pattie, how are you..? I was so sorry...

I’m fine. Still off work, though. Can I look? She had to make all the right noises. It was only polite. 

Maria pulled back the pram cover a little so that Pattie could see the sleeping baby.

She’s gorgeous. What did you call her? I’ve forgotten.

Sylvie.

That’s a pretty name for a pretty baby. But why did you have to bring her this way? It’s just so bloody unfair. 

Thank you. 

Pattie suddenly felt sick. The world seemed to be spinning round.  Oh. She grabbed the side of the pram to steady herself.

You’ve gone really white. Are you all right?

I’ll be fine in a minute. I’ll just sit down.

Maria helped her to sit down on the grass.  She put her head between her knees. The nausea gradually went and her vision cleared.  She remembered she’d had neither breakfast nor lunch. 

Feeling better?

Pattie nodded.

Come on then.  I’m going to walk home with you and I’ll make you a cup of tea.

So much for walking until she dropped, then. 

The toddler waved his toy dog in front of Pattie’s face and mumbled something unintelligible. Silvie gurgled quietly in her carry cot. It was a clever contraption, Pattie thought, that pram. You just took the top off the wheels, and there, you had a carry cot.  They’d looked at something similar.  She was glad they hadn’t bought it. But they’d bought pretty well everything else and the nursery upstairs and now Maria and her entourage reminded her of the life she couldn’t have. 

There you go. Maria put down a large mug of tea and a plate of biscuits. You have to eat you know.

Do I? Could she do it that way, perhaps? Go on hunger-strike and just fade away?

The letter-box rattled.

Oh you’ve got post.

I don’t suppose it’s anything interesting.  Just another bill, I expect.

They just keep on coming, don’t they?

The toddler was now hitting his mother’s leg with the dog. Hey, Freddo. Go and get Pattie’s letter. Maria nodded towards the hallway.

Freddo dropped his dog and scuttled off. A few seconds later he reappeared  holding a postcard a little scrunched up in his hand.  He waved it in front of Pattie the same way he had waved the dog earlier and mumbled something else she couldn’t understand.

Give Pattie her letter nicely, Freddo.

The toddler slapped the card down on the coffee table, almost making the tea spill. Ta! he declared.

Pattie picked up the card.

Interesting? asked Maria.

Pattie scanned the words.

"Dear Mrs Morris,

We apologise for the delay in starting your counselling sessions. We are pleased to inform you that an appointment has now been made for you to see Dr Chandler on 10 August 2014 at 2.45 p. m. Please report to the Roxberg Clinic. Note than car-parking is limited. Please make your way there by public transport or arrange to be dropped off. There is map overleaf.

We look forward to seeing you soon,

The Postnatal care team."

Two weeks’ time then.  But why did they have to call themselves the postnatal team? She hadn’t given birth. Her baby had been wrenched away from her.

Mari rubbed her arm. Bad news?

Pattie shrugged and shook her head. It’s an appointment for my counselling. At last.

That’s got to be good, hasn’t it?

She shrugged again. I suppose so. It should help, shouldn’t it? But two weeks was still a long time.

Maria stood up. I’ll make you another cup of tea. You look as if you need it. 

Age Becomes Her

There’s not a thing you can do about it.  You will age.  So you may as well enjoy it. 

She approaches me as I make my way along the platform to take the 9.55 Virgin train to London Euston. She has an old-fashioned grey rinse and set. That, her tallness and her spectacles give her the look of an old-school librarian.

I wonder whether you would be prepared to take part in a survey about your journey today? she asks.

I hesitate. Will there be anything in it for me? I doubt it. Gone are the days of the free lip gloss or chocolate bar.

If you leave your contact details we’ll put you in a prize draw for a £1000, she says.

Oh, go on then.

This age group? she says pointing to the 45-55 column.

I shake my head and point to the next group up. She doesn’t believe me, I think.

Her eyebrows shoot up.  It’s terrible getting old, isn’t it? she says.

No, I say. At least I’ve got my Senior Rail Pass. 

Even so, she says. I’d rather be younger, wouldn’t you?

No, I think. I don’t know, I say.  I think I’d rather travel more cheaply.

She’s younger than me and she doesn’t believe I’m over 60, I think. Get over yourself, woman.

Becoming 60 doesn’t actually bother me. There’s nothing you can do about it and there are a few perks. Like the Senior Rail Pass. And like feeling justified about being as demanding, critical and grumpy as you like. Not that I abuse that of course. But for goodness’ sake, I’ve been around a while. Show me some respect. And I’m not an old dear. I still have all my marbles, thank you very much. 

I’ve stopped feeling guilty about taking the last seat on the tram. 

Later the ticket collector comes round. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask to see your Pass, he whispers. He’s trying to be discreet.

You’re making it worse by whispering, I think.  I’m proud of it, man.  Speak up.

I take out the pass and show it.

I’m afraid you’ll have to let me see the date, he says.

What, is he now accusing me being fraudulent? My, this is getting exciting. But yes, I have my thumb over the year. There’s no other way to hold it sensibly.  Is this a trick-your-granny device?

Oh, I think that’s a design fault, I say.

Thank you, Ma’am, he says. At least he’s polite.

I smile as I realise the three young gentleman sharing my table are all astounded that the energetic young woman sitting next to them , the one who only has a few grey hairs and they could pass for ash blond, is actually over 60.