Then suddenly, as if it couldn’t get any worse, the complacency of the staff turned to urgency. Julius felt cold panic as the nurses compared notes and a consultant was ushered in. It was almost as if he and Rebecca didn’t exist as the three of them conferred, and a decision was made.
‘The baby’s distressed. We’re taking her into theatre,’ the midwife told him, with a look that said ‘don’t ask any more’.
The system swooped in. Within minutes, Rebecca was wheeled out of the delivery room and off down the corridor. Julius ran to keep up with the orderlies as they reached the double doors of the theatre.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
‘There’s no time to gown you up,’ someone replied, and suddenly there he was, alone in the corridor.
‘Please don’t let the baby die; please don’t let the baby die,’ Julius repeated, over and over, unable to imagine what was going on inside. He imagined carnage: blood and knives. At least, he thought, Rebecca’s screams had stopped.
And then a nurse emerged, with something tiny in her arms, and handed it to him.
‘A little girl,’ she said.
He looked down at the baby’s head, her shrimp of a mouth. She fitted into the crook of his arm perfectly: a warm bundle.
He knew her. He knew her already. And he laughed with relief. For a while there he had really thought she was in danger.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Hello, little one.’
And then he looked up and the surgeon was standing in the doorway with a solemn expression and he realised that he had been praying for the wrong person all along.
They kept the baby in the special care baby unit, because she was early and because of what happened.
They left the hospital two weeks later, the smallest family in the world. The baby was in a white velour Babygro, warm and soft and pliant. Julius picked up a pale yellow cellular blanket and wrapped her in it. The nurses looked on and clucked over them, as they always did when sending a new little family out into the world.
There was still a plastic bracelet on her wrist. Baby Nightingale, it said.
He really hoped that this was as complicated as his life was ever going to get as he stepped out of the hospital doors and into the world outside.
The baby snuffled and burrowed into his chest. She’d been fed before they left the ward, but maybe she was hungry again. Should he try another bottle before getting in the taxi? Or would that overfeed her? All this and so many questions was his future now.
He put the tip of his finger to her mouth. Her tiny lips puckered round it experimentally. It seemed to placate her.
She still hadn’t got a name. She needed a name more than she needed milk. He had two favourites: Emily and Amelia. He couldn’t decide between the two. And so he decided to amalgamate them.
Emilia.
Emilia Rebecca.
Emilia Rebecca Nightingale.
‘Hello, Emilia,’ he said, and at the sound of his voice her little head turned and her eyes widened in surprise as she looked for whoever had spoken.
‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Dad. Daddy. I’m up here, little one. Come on, let’s take you home.’
‘Where’s the missis, then?’ the taxi driver asked him. ‘Still a bit poorly? Aren’t they letting her out?’
‘It’s just me, actually,’ said Julius. He couldn’t face telling him the whole story. He didn’t want to upset the driver. He didn’t want his sympathy.
‘What – she’s left you holding the baby?’
The driver looked over at him in surprise. Julius would have preferred him to keep his eyes on the road.
‘Yes.’ In a way, she had.
‘Bloody hell. I’ve never heard of that. Picked up plenty of new mums whose blokes have done a runner. But never the other way round.’
‘Oh,’ said Julius. ‘Well, I suppose it is unusual. But I’m sure I’ll manage.’
‘You’re not very old yourself, are you?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Bloody hell,’ repeated the driver.
Julius sat in the back as the taxi made its way through the outskirts of Oxford and wondered why on earth he didn’t feel more scared. But he didn’t. He just didn’t.
He had met Thomas Quinn very briefly a few days’ after Rebecca’s death. The Quinns were flying her body home, and Julius didn’t argue with their wishes. She had been their daughter and he felt it was right for her to be buried in her homeland.
Their meeting was bleak and stiff, both men shocked by the situation. Julius was surprised that Thomas didn’t blame him for his daughter’s death. There was some humanity in him that made him realise anger and resentment and blame would be pointless.
Instead, he gave Julius a cheque.
‘You might want to throw this back in my face, but it’s for the baby. I handled everything wrongly. I should have given you both my support. Please put it to good use.’
Julius put it in his pocket. Protest and refusal would be as pointless as blame.
‘Should I keep you informed of her progress …? A photo on her birthday?’
Thomas Quinn shook his head. ‘There’s no need. Rebecca’s mother would find it too distressing. We really just need to move on.’