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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Nice story, thanks. Love the development of Gordon's character
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