Page 107 of The Last Train Home
‘Where’s my mum?’ Abbie yells through contractions.
‘I still can’t get hold of her.’
‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ she cries and genuine tears roll down her face.
If she’s about to spout bollocks about how she’s meant to be in Singapore with that twat Sean, I’m … going to have to listen. I realise this is my job for now, to listen as she screams and shouts, swears and rants. Samantha was exactly the same,although her shouts were, ‘It’s all your fucking fault. It’s all your fucking fault’, much to the shock of the midwifery staff.
‘I know you’re not supposed to be here,’ I say, rubbing her back. ‘I know.’
‘I’m not supposed to be at this hospital. I had it all planned. Did you tell my parents which hospital I’m in?’
‘I left a voicemail.’
‘Where are they? Don’t leave me,’ she screams as she bears down on another contraction.
‘I’m not leaving you,’ I tell her as her nails dig into my hand.
‘Promise me,’ she says when the pain passes. ‘Promise me you won’t leave me.’
There’s sweat dripping down her face and she’s red and panting. She’s beautiful. I use my shirtsleeve to wipe her face. She looks tired already. She has no idea what’s in store. Neither did I, until I stood here four years ago and went through this with Samantha.
‘You men …’ Abbie starts. ‘You have the easy job. You just get to put the baby up there. We have to dothis,’ she screams as another pain shoots through her.
‘I know,’ I placate. ‘We’re shits.’ This raises a laugh from the midwife, who then tries to look serious. ‘If I could take the pain and do this for you, I would,’ I say.
Abbie looks at me. ‘You woulddie,’ she cries. ‘It hurts. You would die. Having a baby would rip you in half. I’m going to be ripped in half.’
Christ!‘No, you’re not,’ I tell her. ‘You’re going to be fine. Women do this every day. You’re going to be fine.’
‘You don’t know that,’ she cries and tears roll down her face.
‘Are there any more drugs she can have?’ I ask the midwife desperately.
‘No!’ Abbie cries. ‘Gas and air. I only want gas and air.’
‘We need to check again how dilated you are,’ the midwife tells her.
‘No,’ Abbie cries. ‘Not again. Please not again.’
If she can’t cope with the midwives doing that, then she’s going to be in for a shock, pain-wise, when the baby comes out.
‘Maybe we should think about an epidural,’ I suggest. ‘I’m not sure gas and air is doing—’
‘No!’ Abbie shouts.
‘OK,’ I placate, helping her into position, ‘OK.’
She grips my hand tightly, her eyes wide, boring into mine, as the midwife checks how dilated she is.
‘You’re not quite far enough yet, Abbie. No pushing until we say, remember,’ she reminds her.
Abbie’s sweating again. ‘It’s been hours,’ she cries and grabs the mask to inhale on the drugs again. ‘Why has it been so long? What is itdoingin there? Why won’t it come out?’
She lies back and stares at me, then a wave of calm descends over her and she wafts the gas-and-air mask around. ‘It’s really good,’ she says. ‘Do you want a hit?’
The midwife gives me a look as I say, ‘Sure.’ And then, ‘No, no. I’m good.’
‘Tom, it’s so nice. Try it. Go on.’
