15
Floss
The hospital was quiet, apart from the usual noises. The beep and hum of lifesaving machinery. The squeak of rubber shoes. I could practically taste the disinfectant that hovered in the air. Lil was in the corner, repositioning herself every few minutes to get comfortable on the hospital chair.
Drugged up to the gills, I hovered on the brink of sleep. The edges of my mind rippled like the shallows of a pebbly stream, but in the middle, it was still and crystal clear. When I looked into it, it was Elizabeth’s reflection I was seeing. But not the smiling, rosy-cheeked Elizabeth. It was the other Elizabeth. Bill’s Elizabeth.
A month after my dinner at Bill and Elizabeth’s house, we got the call. Elizabeth was in labor.
Evie checked the delivery bag while I got the bikes from the shed. I was accustomed to getting bikes out in the dark—women tended to go into labor at night—but navigating two bikes on the cobbled lane was a little challenging, and I dropped one out the front. It fell to the ground with an almighty clatter.
“Shhh!” Evie said, appearing on the steps with the delivery bag. “Are you trying to wake up the neighborhood?”
“Sorry.” I was anxious to get there, and it showed in my shaking hands. I picked up Evie’s bike and leaned it against the fence, then straddled my own. “So tell me, what did Bill say? Was she very far along?”
“It wasn’t Bill.” Evie’s lips formed a thin, straight line as she loaded the delivery bag into the basket. “It was Elizabeth.”
“On the phone? But the nearest telephone is two miles away. She couldn’t have—”
“She biked it.” Evie mounted her own bike. “Bill’s at the pub, wetting the baby’s head.”
Evie sounded as though she had her own set of reservations about Bill—it was unexpected. In that split second, I considered telling Evie everything—my concerns about Elizabeth, about Bill, about what I’d seen on Elizabeth’s stomach. But I didn’t. If Elizabeth was in trouble, Evie would see for herself soon enough. And if she wasn’t, I wouldn’t have to betray Elizabeth’s confidence.
We cycled, fast, into the night. It was a three quarters of an hour’s ride to Elizabeth’s place, and although we weren’t in danger of missing the birth, I just wanted to get there.
The last stretch of the ride was paddocks. In the dark, it was downright creepy. The only lights were from the little headlights on our bikes and, when we got close enough, the flickering light shining from Elizabeth’s bedroom window. When we reached her front fence, I leapt off my bicycle and raced down the path, leaving Evie to follow with the delivery bag.
“Elizabeth?” I called, stepping through the front door.
“In here.”
I dashed through the kitchen, past the tiny living room into the even tinier bedroom. It took me a minute to locate Elizabeth in the dark, but I eventually did. She was bent over at the end of the bed. “There you are!”
Elizabeth unfurled into a standing position, allowing me to see her properly by the light of the fire. Large circles shadowed her eyes, her face was gaunt, and her entire body—with the exception of her stomach—was bony.
Behind me, Evie gasped. “Elizabeth, my God. What has happened to you? You look like a skeleton.”
A contraction took hold. Elizabeth breathed deeply, grasping the knobs on the chest of drawers. I stared at her, bewildered. It had only been—what?—a month since I’d last seen her? She couldn’t have eaten a thing since.
When her contraction subsided, she sank to her knees, panting slightly. “Contractions are about five minutes apart”—she didn’t look at either of us—“and my bag of water has broken.”
Elizabeth was calm and official, more like the midwife than the woman in labor. She spoke as though she’d never heard Evie’s questions—which was impossible, as we were in a room the size of a cupboard, surrounded by silence. At a loss, I looked to Evie.
“Elizabeth,” Evie said. “If something’s wrong, we need to know. It could affect your baby.”
We waited but Elizabeth just pursed her lips. Her face, I noticed, had a bluish tinge, as though she were a walking, pregnant corpse. Why had I let her avoid me? If something happened to this baby, it was my fault.
“Elizabeth, please—” Evie started again, but Elizabeth held up a hand.
“I’m not talking about this, Evie, okay? Either deliver my baby or leave, and I’ll manage somehow on my own.”
Evie and I exchanged a glance. Thank God she was here. Normally, only one midwife attended a birth; the only reason I was here at all was because Elizabeth had asked me months ago. Even if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have missed it. Perhaps it was because it was Elizabeth’s, but I already felt an attachment to this child. Or, perhaps, a responsibility to the child.
Evie exhaled. “Have it your way. For now, we’ll focus on getting this baby born. But once it’s out, you are going to tell me what is going on. Do you hear me, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth wasn’t listening. She was already half-bent with another contraction.
Evie took me to one side. “We’re going to have to assume Elizabeth is malnourished, which means breast-feeding may be difficult due to low supply. I have some evaporated milk in my delivery bag, which we can feed the baby with a syringe if necessary.”
“And the baby?” I asked. “Will it be okay?”
“I’m more worried about Elizabeth, at this point. As you know, babies are very good at taking what they need while they’re in utero. At the mother’s expense, usually.” Seeing my face, she patted my hand. “Why don’t you head into the kitchen and boil some water, Floss? And while you’re there, fix Elizabeth a snack. She’s going to need all the energy she can get.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes. Good idea.”
It was just a few paces to the kitchen, but I barely made it there. My legs felt like noodles. Elizabeth was so frail, so tiny. It made no sense. Was she ill? Had they run out of money for food? I thought of the night I came for dinner, the way Elizabeth wolfed down her meal. They’d certainly had food then.
In the next room the bed rattled, sending a shudder through the entire house. It was followed by an almighty “Owwwwarggghhh.” It snapped me into action.
Once I’d got the water boiling, I began opening cupboard doors. Crockery, cutlery, pots. In the freestanding larder, the shelves were clean and lined in shiny floral paper, but they were bare apart from tea and an empty sugar bowl. In less than a minute, I’d checked every cupboard except for the bottom two, which were bolted shut with a large padlock—probably where Bill kept his rifles. Nowhere was there even a morsel of food.
I poked my head back into the bedroom. “Elizabeth, where is the pantry, love?”
“It’s … uh … Oh, God.” Her face collapsed into itself as another contraction came on. I looked at my watch. Three and a half minutes since the last one. This labor was progressing rapidly.
“Have you done an internal?” I asked Evie.
She nodded. “Eight centimeters dialated.”
Elizabeth rolled from side to side, knotted up with the pains. It wasn’t going to be long now. Shiny instruments were lined up on a tray, and a clean towel warmed by the fire. The bassinet had been set up in the corner, and a wool blanket that Elizabeth had knitted hung over its edge. Evie stared off into the distance, her face a sheet of lines. I could tell she was wondering what kind of home this baby would be born into. It was hard to think about anything else.