Compared to some of the dismal places she has worked in the past, Glasgow
airport is a reasonably pleasant environment to spend the day. The bungled terrorist
attack of fifteen years ago garnered international attention; but the only
lasting legacy she can see is an ugly cement barrier and an endless conveyer
belt of pissed off travellers who no longer can be deposited at the main
entrance.
Her work in the
Tie Shop (garish slices of silk at outrageous prices) is non-taxing and, given
her condition, bound to receive a grunt of approval from even the most
fastidious of doctors. The positioning of the shop, not far from the departure
lounges, is also significant given that the persona of the departing traveller is
radically different to that of his returning cousin. Her shop, with the odd
anxious exception, is populated with the bright enthusiastic smiles of holidaymakers
keen to shower their joyful anticipation on anyone remotely related to the
travel industry; two hundred yards away, at the arrivals, glummer expressions
prevail as bleary-eyed Glaswegians trudge towards the carousels contemplating a
return to work, sporting suntans that look vaguely ridiculous in the Scottish
drizzle.
Five minutes left
of her lunch break. She has just left the duty-free zone and is halfway along the
corridor when she feels the gurgle in her stomach. The same sensation of a year
ago: a clenching internal gulp, then deep down an unmistakeable dripping
sensation (surely her imagination) like a rusty old tap that just won’t be
told.
Oh, Jesus no
…then: don’t panic, it might be nothing.
For
to panic is to open the doors to fate and God. Panicking is the worst possible thing
you can do. It is like ripping open your shirt and yelling: you got me, give me
all you have!
Not to panic, to
pretend that everything is, just as it should be, is to give the Supreme
Being another chance. He or She can look down and say, you know what, I’m going
to take this one back. It hasn’t registered with her yet – because she’s not
panicking. I still have time to change what I’ve done. It’s not really fair for
this to happen to her again.
But
when the first cramp hits her, like an uppercut from a feisty middleweight, she
forgets all about not panicking. Drops to her knees, hears the tinkle of broken
glass from her bag and then, almost instantaneously, the stench of escaping
vodka.
“Are you okay,
dear?” an American tourist, middle-aged and wizened from some far away sun.
“Can I help you to the rest room?”
Her husband gives
a little shake of his head, his expression distasteful.
“I’m not drunk,”
she manages. “The bottle was for my husband…” there is no point in saying any
more. He has made his judgement. It is there in his eyebrows and the stern set
of his jaw. She thinks now of Gordon. At this very moment he will be tarmacking
potholes somewhere in Royston. Tonight, she has an early birthday treat
planned. Candles and a meal. Two cards. One from her; the other containing the twelve-week
ultrasound image. A tiny E.T grinning out at him. She knows he will forgive her
the secrecy because of what happened last time.
“Caroline, we’re
gonna miss it!” the big American says. “These guys don’t mess around.”
“A moment, Henry,”
the woman reaches down and takes her gently by the arm. “Should I get help dear?
Is there someone with you?”
Her expression is
etched with kindly concern and she almost buckles under the weight of it, but
with an effort she straightens. “Thank-you. I’m fine.”
Caroline gives her
an apologetic nod. She knows she is lying. Women know women. But she has a
plane to catch. Grandchildren will be waiting for her across the Atlantic.
Wanting to hug her and be spoilt. Grandma, did you see the Loch Ness
Monster? Did you play the bagpipes? And she will sweep them into her arms
and, if she hasn’t done so already, forget all about this sad scrap of a woman
bent double and clutching desperately at her stomach, as if trying to stop her
intestines from spilling out.
Somehow, she
manages to make it to the toilets, the projected future of her unborn child melting
off the canvas with each step. What joy it has given her to plot the progress
of Sarah or Maisie, Robbie or Scott. It is a delicate, complicated process
intertwined with the imagined future of the previous ill-fated incumbent
(similar, but distinct, so as to mark them as separate entities). As before,
nothing grandiose. No silly fantasies of Oscar nominations or Olympic medals. Those
are childish aspirations. She just wants to be a part of their life, for Gordon
and herself to see them grow and flourish. That baby smell. Rubbing
their backs to make them belch, feeling the tiny heart beating away in
solidarity with her own. Later, both of them squirming on hard wooden chairs at
some terrible school production, waiting for that magical moment when they make
their appearance and deliver their line.
Foolish woman.
This is where it is all going to end. Down a toilet in Glasgow airport. Flushed
away like a greedy goldfish.
Hands clammy. Up
with the skirt, down with the tights. Deep breath, and another, then look down.
Some spotting, but not nearly as bad as she expected. Perhaps there is still
hope. If she can get herself to the First Aid they can call an ambulance, kind
starchy nurses to elevate her legs and look after her. But then another
shuddering cramp and her insides gush from her with a velocity that makes her
gasp and clench her fists. Crazily, she thinks of an airplane myth that is
doing the rounds. A ninety-year-old woman on her first transatlantic flight,
flushing the toilet whilst still perched on the enamel and having her private
parts sucked out of her.
Nonsense of
course. A pilot’s lie to shock a pretty stewardess.
This is real
enough.
She feels a laugh
bubbling in her throat and bites into her lower lip causing an ugly snorting
sound from her nostrils. And then a theme tune from her youth – something about
a talking horse.
A horse is a
horse, of course, of course,
And no one can
talk to a horse of course,
That is, of course
unless the horse is
The famous Mister
Ed …
Mister Ed,
that was it. Oh God, please tell me I didn’t sing that out loud. It was just in
my head, wasn’t it? Please don’t tell me I’m going to go mad sitting on this toilet
with my knickers bunched around my sad, thick ankles. Then another cheery
thought: If I stand up and look down I might see a tiny hand waving up at me. Giving
me the old thumbs up! You tried your best, Mummy, better luck next time. If
there is a next time.
Now
the voice of her mother. Don’t be silly, pet. A tiny hand? You know better
than that. The wee thing would be no bigger than your thumb just now. Not like
the miscarriages me and your Aunt Joan had. Six and seven months. That’s almost
fully formed. This …bless your heart …this is just like a heavy period.
She
thinks of the spare room they stopped decorating fourteen months ago. A gender-neutral
woodland theme. Gordon had cautioned, as she knew he would, that it was deemed
bad luck to fully furnish before the birth, and although keen to see it
completed she had relented and told him they could leave the wall mural – an
adorable Bambi lookalike sheltering under an oak tree – unfinished until they
brought him or her home.
“If it’s a boy, I
don’t think he’ll be fussed sharing his room with Bambi,” Gordon says, but he’s
only joking, winks at her as he wipes at a fleck of paint on his cheek.
She watches him
with an element of awe as he selects a thinner brush to render the sun’s rays a
subtle and calming orange. His face is scrunched up in concentration, the tip
of his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth. His hands are huge catchers’
mitts, and though he has scrubbed them, she knows that the grime from his
labours will still be ingrained in the intersecting lines of his knuckles. How
strange that you can love a man for the dirt in his skin. But what she feels for
him in this moment goes beyond love. There is something achingly endearing
about him. This bear of a man, more used to mixing cement and laying
flagstones, meticulous in his care that the sun on his unborn baby’s wall
should be as accurate as possible.
She is in charge
of the tulips and roses, her hair pulled out of the way in pigtails, arching
her back every few minutes and massaging her spine. He wraps his arms around
her, nuzzles her neck, then withdraws, not wanting to distract her.
They tackle the
rocking chair together. It has turned out to be more complicated than the woman
in the shop suggested, an intricate spring system that has to be carefully
balanced beneath the chassis before the upholstery can be set in place.
“Looks great,” she
gives it a little nudge and it rocks back and forth soundlessly.
“It’s not like a
swing,” he says. “Your own momentum rocks it. Go on, try it.”
She lowers herself
into place, leans back, forward, the springs attuned to the slightest shift in
her position.
“Comfy?”
“God, yeah. Just
hope it’s as nice after I lose the bump.”
“Course it will
be. It’s not designed specifically for pregnant women. Here, hold on,’ he
reaches into the linen cupboard and retrieves a yellow blanket, fashioning it
to resemble a swaddled new born. “Try it with this.”
She sets it to
rock again, gazing down at the little bundle; holding it gently to her breast
and humming a melody through her nose. Gordon sways slightly on his own feet
and wishes with all his heart for this moment to last forever – his gorgeous pregnant
wife rocking an imaginary baby to sleep. Her commitment is breath-taking, inspirational.
As she strokes
the blanket an extraordinary thing happens. He sees the bundle shift; a
ripple of movement beneath the yellow weave that speaks of tiny limbs flexing
in contentment. A trick of the light, or his perspective. He repositions his
feet, tilts his head … and damn it if it doesn’t happen again.
“Jesus Christ …”
“What is it?” She ceases
rocking and the spell is broken.
He steps forward
and sets his hand on top of the blanket, feeling foolish now. “I could’ve sworn
it was moving. It was incredible.”
She hears the tremor
in his voice and knows not to make light of it. “My arms underneath.”
“No, no. Your
hands were cupping your elbows. It was …” he struggles for the words, shakes
his head ruefully, then gazes around at the enchanted forest they have created
together. “There’s a little bit of magic in this room. I’m sure of that. But
it’s the good type – a Wizard of Oz kind of magic.”
*
Her bottom is numb
but she doesn’t have the energy to stand just yet. Doesn’t want to look down. Bad
enough the feeling of warm slime. And the smell. She takes in small sips of
air. Utterly spent. Just concentrate on breathing.
The door swings
open and two sets of high heels stumble in. Loud and obnoxious. She knows their
type. The kind who spend the maximum amount of time in the bar before the final
call.
“Fuck sake, Linda
– if they see you acting the dick they won’t let you on!”
A little groan
escapes her before she can clamp a hand to her mouth. Several seconds of utter
silence – a pregnant pause (ha ha!) – then an explosion of callous giggles.
“Are you alright
in there, love?” the one who isn’t Linda cries. “Sounds like you’re shittin’ a
wardrobe!”
Linda thinks this
is the funniest thing in the history of the world. She pictures them clinging
to each other, pink faced and fighting for breath. This is a little story that
they will replay to each other over holiday cocktails. The groaning woman.
She listens to the clatter of them as they leave, roaring and tittering. Off to
the sand and the sea and the sun, to have sex with whoever they like and, if
they so choose, become pregnant without having to even think about it.
Life just seems to
be much easier for some people and that isn’t fair. Not at all.
She thinks again
of the rocking chair in the unfinished nursery. The fox and the hedgehog, both
awaiting colour, peering inquisitively from the undergrowth. She will take
Gordon there tonight after dinner. She will kiss him and push him gently back
and forth.
Together they will
sit.
And wait for the
magic to find them.
About the author
eith Mckibbin is an English teacher working in Glasgow. He is married with four daughters and two beautiful granddaughters. His favourite short story writers are O.Henry and Raymond Carver. He has been published in both the Bath and Edinburgh short story competitions.
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