Читаем Us полностью

Certainly, I felt guilty about Jane. Irrationally so, of course, but then guilt is rarely rational. We were assured, over and over again, that there was nothing we could have done, that the sepsis that killed our daughter was not a result of behaviour or lifestyle, was not present in the womb. Although she was a little premature, there was every reason to believe that she was healthy and well at birth. Because anger was preferable to guilt, I had searched for blame; the prenatal care, the postnatal care, the staff. The word ‘sepsis’ suggested infection — was that someone’s fault? But it soon became clear that the staff were blameless — better than blameless, immaculate really — in their handling of the situation. It was one of those things that happens, they told us; very rarely, but it happens. Which was fine, but what were we meant to do with all that anger, all that guilt? Connie directed hers inwards. Was it the fault of some past behaviour, smoking or drinking, was it complacency on her part? She must have done something. Surely there couldn’t be a punishment as harsh as this without some crime? No, we had done nothing wrong and there was nothing we could have done. It was one of those things that happens. That was all.

There had been no sense of danger at the birth. That had all gone well, the experience traumatic but thrilling, too, both familiar and entirely new. Connie’s waters had broken in the night. At first neither of us could believe this — it was only the thirty-fourth week — but the sodden mattress was undeniable and we put our plan into action, driving to the hospital where we paced and waited, boredom alternating with elation and anxiety. The contractions began mid-morning and then things happened very quickly. Connie was as strong and ferocious as I knew she’d be, and by 11.58 a.m., Jane was with us, mewling and shouting, punching at the air with tiny fists, pedalling away, a shade over 4lbs but fierce; oh, she was a beauty, all the worry, anxiety and pain swept away by her perfection and the joy of it all. She was healthy and we could hold her as we’d hoped. There were photographs and private vows; I would do all I could to care for her and protect her from harm. Connie took her to her breast and though she didn’t feed at first, all seemed well. There’d be no need for an incubator, just a careful eye. We returned to the ward.

Through the afternoon I sat by the bed and watched them sleep, Connie pale, exhausted and quite beautiful. Goodness knows why it should have come as a surprise, but I’d been shocked and stunned by the violence of the delivery room, the blood and sweat, the complete absence of delicacy. Had I found myself in that situation I’d have opted not just for gas and air, but full general anaesthetic and six months’ convalescence. But nothing had ever come so naturally to Connie as giving birth, and I felt very proud. ‘You were incredible,’ I’d told her when she opened her eyes.

‘Did I swear?’ she said.

‘A lot. I mean, a lot.’

‘Good,’ she smiled.

‘But it all seemed so natural, too. You were like some … Viking washerwoman or something.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Are you pleased with her? She’s very small.’

‘She’s perfect. I’m delighted.’

‘Me too.’

They wanted to keep both Jane and Connie in overnight — nothing to worry about, so we didn’t worry. With some reluctance on Connie’s part, it was suggested that I should go home and prepare for mother and baby’s return and so I took that journey, surely one of the strangest journeys a man ever makes, back to the home that was exactly how we’d left it. There was something rather ritualistic about those few hours, preparation for something monumental, as if this would be the last time I’d ever be alone in my life. Moving in a daze, I washed up and tidied things away, stocked the fridge, organised the equipment just so. I fielded texts, made reassuring phone calls, mother and baby doing well. I made the bed with fresh sheets and when everything was in place, I spoke to Connie and went to sleep …