‘And why did you want to take this course?’
‘Well.’ Charlotte looks as if she has practised this answer. ‘I suppose one always wants to prepare for things: finals, law exams, marriage, children. Parenthood’s a major change, isn’t it? But no one learns how to do it in any detail. And I just want to get it right.’
I smile at her. Perhaps we aren’t dissimilar, after all. I’m specialising in paediatric medicine and had to deliver a baby to qualify as a doctor but I’m anxious about being a mother. I effectively brought up my younger brother but I have no positive role model: my relationship with my mother is problematic and I’ve no sister or older relative to ask for help.
I’ve always sought answers in books but the medical textbooks and child-rearing books feel inadequate. Yes, I understand the theory of routine versus attachment-based parenting, I know about developmental milestones and the whole host of childhood illnesses, but there has been nothing to prepare me for how I might feel when I first hold this child. I don’t know if I will love it unconditionally, or be able to interpret, or understand, its emotions. I need to learn how to mother if my maternal instinct – a nebulous concept that’s supposed to be natural but what if it isn’t? What if I lack it as clearly as my mother? – fails to kick in when I hold my child.
‘What about you, Liz?’ asks Cathy.
‘Well,’ I stall, because I can’t admit to any of my fears out loud, ‘I’m a junior doctor, so I’m not too anxious about the birth itself: I’ll take any pain relief including an epidural I’m offered. I’m here to meet other mothers with babies the same age.’
‘You’ve certainly found some potential friends here. All your babies should be born within a month or two, so you can provide vital support during those first few weeks.’ Cathy turns to the only woman who hasn’t spoken. ‘And what about you, Jess?’
Jess smiles. Mine is far from a ‘glowing’ pregnancy – I’ve had severe morning sickness and have still managed to balloon out of all proportion – but there’s no better word to describe Jess’s state. Her hair shines under the unforgiving light, and she has managed the ideal: a perfect pregnancy silhouette of full breasts, neat bump, sharp cheekbones and slight frame. In any group of women, there is always one who is the most effortlessly cool. That’s Jess, but the fact she is so obviously the Queen Bee doesn’t alienate. Her enthusiasm is so infectious I want to share it. This is how I should be feeling, isn’t it? As if motherhood is the most fantastic adventure – not something about which I am apprehensive at best, fearful at worst.
‘I just want to be the best mother I can,’ Jess says, and her voice is low with the hint of a rasp to it as if she’s entrusting us with a delicious secret. She strokes her bump, and looks down at it as if talking to her unborn child. ‘We know we’re having a boy and I want him to know he’ll be so cherished, and so very important.’ She hesitates, picking her words carefully. ‘I don’t think we need to parent as our parents did . . .’ and her voice suddenly turns bright so that any unease is fleeting, like a cloud passing over the sun. ‘I want my boy to know that he is the centre of my world.’
Perhaps it’s the hormones, but what should sound unbearably trite and painfully obvious is exquisite, and moving. We sit in silence for a moment, in this room with its crates of plastic cars and Duplo blocks and its smell of Milton disinfecting liquid, and sweat.
‘That’s lovely,’ Nick says.
‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘Being that sort of mother, or feeling confident that I’ll be able to be that sort of mother, that’s what I’d like to take away from here.’
Jess smiles back at me then, with the clear-eyed anticipation of a woman who has no reason to expect anything but the best for her child. And, as the rain pelts against the windows, Jess’s optimism transforms that nursery. I feel a tentative hope that I will be an adequate mother. I won’t be perfect but I will be good enough.
The door bursts open, a skittering of leaves blasting into the room on a vicious draught.
‘Ed!’ Jess’s smile grows broader.
‘Hello, darling. Hello, everyone. I’m so, so sorry.’ Ed Curtis moves fluidly, briefcase in hand, as he bends to kiss his wife and settle into the empty chair.
‘Huge apologies. I couldn’t get away and then the District Line was delayed. What have I missed?’ He leans forwards, palms on his thighs, legs apart, a broad smile on his face. It is impossible not to be charmed by this other half of a golden couple. Not to forgive his delay, because of course his job is high-pressured. He glances around the group and, when he spots Charlotte, his brow furrows in sudden recognition and his smile grows even wider.
‘Charlotte? ‘
‘Ed.’ She has flushed a deep red, the blood rushing up her throat from her fussy, pussy-bow collar.
‘Charlotte Fitzgerald?’ ‘Charlotte Mason, now.’
‘How are you?’ He looks delighted, Charlotte noticeably less so. ‘Sorry, sorry, everyone. Jess: Charlotte and I were at uni together. What a small world!’ He shakes his head, unable to get over the coincidence. ‘We must catch up properly.’
‘Yes, yes we must.’ She is still flushed but looks surprised, even flattered. Her husband glances at her enquiringly and she squeezes his hand.
‘Well, how lovely – but perhaps you could chat later?’ says Cathy, irritation catching her voice. ‘I’m conscious that time is ticking on and we’ve lots to get through today.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’ve interrupted. Where were we again?’ Ed smiles at her and Cathy visibly softens as if she’s been caught in a sudden shaft of soft, warm light.
‘Jess was just telling us all about her hopes for motherhood – and how very excited she is.’
LIZ
Friday 19 January, 2018, 11.35 p.m.
Three
Jess looks afraid. Hospitals put her on edge, I understand that: it’s hardly surprising given her traumatic experience giving birth to Betsey. But she looks more than wary: she seems acutely scared.
‘How long has she been like this?’ I ask, my tone soft and conversational, as if my examining a friend’s child is a perfectly normal scenario.
‘On and off all evening. She usually settles easily, but she didn’t tonight.’
‘Has she slept at all?’
‘A little. She woke at nine, crying . . . and she was still unsettled when Ed checked on her, a little later . . .’
‘And that’s when she was sick?’ ‘Yes.’
‘Just the once?’
There is the slightest hesitation. Half a second but it’s enough for me to notice. ‘Yes. Just the once,’ she says.
I look at her closely. Her smile is forced: not an expression I’ve ever seen her make but then this is an unprecedented situation. ‘Is that something that’s happened before? Is she a sickly baby in general?’
‘No.’ Jess shakes her head. ‘I know you haven’t seen that much of her but she’s not a baby who throws up a lot. She can be grizzly and bad-tempered, particularly when she’s teething, but I can’t understand why she would be like this.’