The Wife Before Me(21)

Nine





Spring arrives. Leaves are unfurling, a quivering pale-green lint on the trees and hedgerows, when Grace is born. Her thin cry reminds Elena of a kitten. Her droopy, fledgling neck and puckered mouth, the eyes that have yet to focus and reveal their colour, fill her with a trembling emotion that is part elation, part exhaustion.

‘It’s obvious her eyes are grey.’ Yvonne cradles her first grandchild in her arms. ‘She’s the spitting image of Nicholas when he was born.’

Henry stands self-consciously beside her, clearly besotted but unable to coo and chirp at his granddaughter as Yvonne is doing. Elena wills them to leave but Yvonne is insisting on relating her own birthing experience. Hours of screaming for relief. Unsympathetic doctors and nurses who left her writhing in agony until they decided it was time for Nicholas to be delivered by Caesarean. She reports all this with relish. It’s obvious from the numbed expression on Henry’s face that he has heard it all before, and often.

Yvonne looks away when Elena, unable any longer to ignore her baby’s hunger, begins to breastfeed Grace. Her daughter is a natural feeder who sleeps peacefully for short stretches before she begins her kittenish demands to be fed again. Elena is amazed that her tiny lungs can emit such a strident noise. That such a tiny mouth has such a vigorous suck.

Grace is a hungry baby, never satisfied for long, and Yvonne’s disapproval is obvious when she discovers Elena is continuing to breastfeed. Is Grace getting enough nourishment, she asks each time she visits Woodbine. Is she putting on weight? She frets over the colour of her granddaughter’s bowel movements, her frequent demands to be fed, her pale complexion and high-pitched cry, which, she believes, sounds distressed. The weaning process should start now, she states when Grace is two months old. Grace will then be able to spend more time with her grandmother and Elena will have a chance to recover her energy. ‘Breastfeeding on demand does nothing for romance,’ Yvonne warns. ‘You look so washed out and you’re tired all the time. Grace will sleep all night if you give her a bottle. A man needs―’

‘I’m well aware of what a man needs,’ Elena snaps. She bites hard on her bottom lip. In Nicholas’s case, it’s a wife who endures his violence. Oh, yes, your precious son is fond of smacking me around. Why don’t you talk to him about that? She searches for a glimmer of understanding in Yvonne’s eyes but, finding none, knows that she can never confide in this self-absorbed woman.

Yvonne’s face stiffens. ‘I’ve upset you,’ she says. ‘That’s the last thing I want to do. But you have to understand that it’s not easy for Nicholas to cope with a demanding day’s work when his sleep is being disturbed by this constant feeding.’

Nicholas has that same obdurate expression when he wants his own way and Elena, tired of holding her temper in check, says, ‘How I feed my baby is my own business, Yvonne. Grace is healthy and strong. I intend to continue breastfeeding until I decide when the time is right to wean her. If you want to continue coming here, you’ll have to stop interfering and accept that I know what’s best for my baby.’



* * *



‘What on earth did you say to my mother?’ Nicholas asks when he comes home from work that evening. ‘She rang my office in tears when I was in the middle of talking to an important client. She claims you’ve barred her from seeing her granddaughter.’

‘I’m sick of listening to her trying to undermine me.’ Elena braces herself against his anger. ‘She keeps insisting that I stop breastfeeding Grace and―’

‘But she’s right.’ He makes no effort to hide his irritation. ‘Grace needs to start feeding properly. I’ll organise the formula and you can begin weaning her tomorrow. That will reduce your stress levels.’

‘Grace is not the reason I’m stressed.’ Elena takes her daughter from the carrycot and presses her against her shoulder. ‘She’s feeding well and I’ve no intention of taking her off the breast. If I am stressed, it’s because your mother is annoying the hell out of me.’

‘She’s only trying to help. Those night feeds are exhausting you.’ He dips a spoon into the curry Elena has prepared and tastes the sauce. ‘Not enough cumin,’ he says. ‘Amelia made a note of the exact amount you need. Use her book of Indian recipes the next time.’

‘I know how to cook a Madras curry, Nicholas.’

‘Don’t be offended. This is nice. It just needs something…’

‘It needs Amelia’s touch, you mean. Why not say it? Nothing I do matches up to how she did it. Nothing.’ Her mind reels at his audacity. ‘The other reason I’m stressed out is because I live in a house that’s like a shrine to your dead wife.’

A vein pulses in his forehead. The colour drains from his face. She hurriedly puts Grace back in her carrycot as he walks towards her. This time he will do it, she thinks. She’s been waiting for it to happen since their last row but when his fist makes contact with her, it’s not her face he strikes but her stomach. She bends double and wheezes, tries to catch her breath. Grace, as if electrified by the dangerous currents, begins to cry. The sound forces Elena to her feet. Still dazed, she has to lean on Nicholas, who holds her upright and leads her to a chair. She collapses into it and struggles to breathe.