The Couple at No. 9(62)

I feel a tightening across my abdomen, then a sensation like I’ve wet myself a little bit. I get up and dash to the bathroom, my heart pounding, heat rising to my face in panic as I pull down my pyjama bottoms and sit on the loo. Oh, God, oh, God … I can’t breathe. A smear of red in my pyjamas. Blood. There shouldn’t be blood. ‘Tom!’ I cry.

I hear him thud up the stairs. He races into the bathroom. ‘What is it? What …’ he must see the shock and devastation on my face because he helps me gently off the loo. ‘Go and get dressed. We need to get to the hospital.’

I pull on an old pair of navy jogging bottoms I haven’t worn in years and a jumper that doesn’t match. Mum appears in my doorway, her face ashen. ‘Is it the baby?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ I cry, scraping my hair back into a scrunchie, my throat dry. ‘It’s still so early, Mum. I’m only eighteen weeks.’

She folds me into her arms as I cry, more like a whimper of fear, and I’m thankful, so thankful, that she’s here.

The journey to the hospital is a blur. Tom drives too fast, and Mum comforts me in the back. ‘Do you think I’m having a miscarriage?’ I say over and over.

‘I don’t know, honey, I don’t know.’ She smoothes my hair back from my face and I’m reminded of all the times she did that when I was a kid, when I woke from a nightmare, or when I was ill. And I remember Gran doing it too, when I stayed with her in the summer, how she’d let me climb into bed with her if I woke up scared in the night.

‘It’s not a lot of blood, more when I wipe, you know …’ I say, trying to remain hopeful.

‘Let’s wait and see what the doctors say.’

We’re unsure where to go so head straight to A and E but they send us to the maternity wing. They must have phoned ahead to say to expect us because a kind-faced nurse greets us and ushers me onto a ward where two women, both in different stages of pregnancy, recline on beds, strapped to machines. The smell of disinfectant is cloying. I’m too terrified even to cry as the nurse instructs me to lie on the bed. My palms are clammy as I hold Tom’s hand. After I explain about the blood, the nurse scuttles off and returns moments later with an ultrasound device. She pulls the thin blue curtains around us, her demeanour calm. My face is burning but my body is cold with dread. Tom looks ashen. Mum hovers on the other side of the bed, for once not knowing what to say. The nurse, Gail, pulls up my jumper and I fold the waistband of my jogging bottoms down so that she can get to my abdomen, my hands trembling. She flashes me a cheery smile but I can tell by her face that she’s concerned, her expression set in concentration as she stares at the screen while moving the probe slowly across my stomach. My chest feels tight and I glance at Tom and I shake my head sadly. We’ve lost it.

Then Gail looks up at us all with a wide smile and I want to cry with relief. ‘Baby’s heartbeat sounds fine,’ she says. ‘You could have a UTI, which might be causing the spotting. I’ll take a urine test, but still be careful and keep an eye on things, and if there’s any more spotting, call us straight away.’ Gail strides off to get a vial for me to pee in and then Mum and Tom are hugging me, both at the same time.

By the time we get home, armed with a course of antibiotics, the infection having been confirmed, and a number to phone if there are any more issues, it’s gone midnight.

We let ourselves in, Tom and I still giddy with relief. ‘I’ve never been so frightened,’ I say, as we step into the hallway. It’s put everything into perspective and from now on I’ll be doing everything in my power to protect this pregnancy. I cup my stomach defensively, silently vowing to keep the baby safe whatever the cost.

I expect Snowy to come bounding over to us, but there’s no sign of him.

‘It feels cold in here,’ observes Mum. She’s only wearing her little tweed jacket over a fairly skimpy blouse, but she’s right: there’s a draught coming from the back of the house. Tom switches the light on, walking down the hall towards the kitchen. When he pushes the door open I hear him gasp. ‘What the fuck?’

Mum glances at me in concern and the elation I’d been feeling just moments before melts away, replaced by unease. Snowy. I pick up my pace. Tom is standing in the middle of the kitchen with alarm on his face. The back door is wide open. Snowy is nowhere to be seen.

Everything has been turned out of the drawers in what looks like a hurry so that pens, old receipts, council tax bills and everything else we’d just stuffed into whatever spare drawer was available are scattered over the floor.

‘Where’s Snowy?’ I cry, looking around frantically.

Mum runs into the living room, then back to us again. ‘You’d better call the police,’ she says, her voice tight. ‘It looks like you’ve been burgled.’

‘Wait,’ says Tom, picking up a knife from the wooden rack by the microwave. ‘Call 999 and stay here. They could still be in the house.’





34


Rose



February/March 1980


Daphne was skittish and on edge as I guided her home. The strange wig looked unnatural on her, as if a wild animal had landed on her head. Her eyes kept darting to the hedges as though she was half expecting someone to jump out.

‘Joel told me a man came into the pub asking about me,’ she said breathlessly, as we walked as fast as we could. I wrapped an arm around her, trying to comfort her but I could feel her body trembling. She seemed so vulnerable, like when I first saw her on Christmas Eve. ‘He’s finally found me. Maybe I should leave, Rose. Maybe I should move on.’