Beginnings.
A/N. Hi guys, here's another two parter for you! Bit of a new angle I think so I'd love to hear your opinions. Got to say I hit struggletown trying to induce empathy for one particular character so I'd love to know if it worked?! Part 2 in the next few days, it's almost finished. XX
Part 1.
Rain. Relentless, drenching, punctuated by cracks of bright white light and rumbles of threatening thunder. Buffets of wind that take your breath away and leave you strangled. Screams. Weighty moaning cries of agony, then the squeal of newborn life. Phones ringing, rubber shoes on linoleum, volatile tempers and tears of joy and tragedy. Raised voices, dusting the atmosphere and bringing all these sounds and senses together for one almighty entrance; One almighty beginning.
It's a simple birth. A stout midwife catches the newborn with strong arms and pursed lips as she slithers from her mother, who gives one last groan of horror. The baby has a healthy pink hue, a slick of red hair, and a welcoming squeal. Her mother slumps back against the pillows, shrinking away from what's just happened and numbed to the fact that it could possibly be over; That it would ever be over. The midwife's gaze flicks up to the solitary figure in the bed, her eyes stern, as she wraps the bundle in a blanket and takes it away to be cleaned up.
"Less of the histrionics dear, it'll do you no good at all. You have a healthy little girl." The woman in the bed only whimpers, which makes the midwife feel uneasy. She's had a hell of a night shift and her feet ache, her hair's pulled back a little too tightly and the rampant storm that rumbles on outside adds a tense volatility to the ward. Babies don't like thunder and lightning, and in April! Of all things. She puts her hands on her hips and looks her patient up and down; It's rather unusual after all. It's a girl in the bed, she's no more than seventeen, and the labour has been long. She's been writhing in agony with wild bambi eyes, a child in an adult's world, too timid to ask for painkillers and confused, mortified by the doctor's probing hands. Now she lies prone on her back, sobbing as if she's lost the world, trembling from the aftershocks of the ordeal she hadn't been prepared for and the pain nobody bothered to explain was coming. The midwife leaves it at that, a healthy baby plopped into a cot by its Mother's side, and heads out of the room towards the area where the relatives wait.
The girl's Father sits on a wooden bench with a flat gaze, his posture as stiff as his brown suit. His jaw is fixed, firm, mortified by yet accustomed to the shame of his position.
"Mr Burrows?"
"Yes Nurse."
"Your daughter has delivered a healthy girl."
"I see. Will she be in a fit state for visitors tonight, or shall I return in the morning?" The midwife considers this for a minute, before deciding with certainty that no good can come from the girl's father seeing her in such a shameful state of distress.
"Visiting hours start at 9am sharp."
"Thankyou Nurse. Goodnight."
The year is 1975. Paula Burrows is tripping over the edge of the unknown. Her own infancy, and childhood, had been encased by the stench of old fashioned repression. The sallow secret of her own Mother's mental illness hangs around her neck like a lead weight, one that she's sure her father never separated from his daughter's birth, which marked the beginning of his wife's spiralling psychosis. Now she's seventeen, and prising herself out of his clutches one controversial action at a time. She's desperate to be brainwashed by the world's idea of freedom; Feminism, free love, choices. She doesn't see her own immaturity, she can't tell that she's binding herself back into a new set of duties and responsibilities. For Paula, everything is perfect until the first cramp over dinner on the 19th April. It strikes her so sharply that she gasps aloud, letting cutlery tumble to the floor at her feet. It rips into her insides and makes her scream aloud, terrified, wondering why her Father's so serene in the face of her debilitating agony.
The hate strikes her with the most surprise. It's that, and perhaps the shock, that doesn't dissipate calmly in the wake of the birth. The hate resonates in waves over her trembling frame, a feeling so strong that it burns her to the core. It's so tightly associated with this child they've left her with, the thing that caused all the awful pain and fear. The child is the reason she's alone in this cold hospital room that smells of carbolic, far away from her Father's comforting beige existence. Paula starts to cry.
1989.
Hate is, in so many ways, an easy emotion. It's simple and to the point. It requires no apology or introduction. With hate there is no responsibility, nothing to tug at your insides and cause that deep wracking pain that makes you shudder and tremble and brim with regret.
Hate is how Jac Naylor faces down the beginning of every unknown. She has a denim holdall with a rip in the corner that she's fixed with a bit of twine that she lifted from a guardian's shed. She walks through whichever door they tell her to and she doesn't bother with the pleasantries. She wants to keep the boundaries clear; These shitty arrangements are all a transaction. This is the state's duty to provide a guardian for a minor, and nothing to do with goodwill or real affection. For that reason she won't smile, she won't pander to the repugnant illusion which the adults seem to find so important.
2013.
Snow. It blankets the ground and fills the atmosphere, dampening the harsh city noises and lifting the tungsten hue of the streetlights so that every dark corner opens up a little. It's serene, determined, calming the landscape and adding a soft jingle of magic for streets of celebrations. It's New Years Eve. Jac stares out at the city through a venetian blind in her living room, always awed by this sort of weather and feeling an incredible sense of peace that goes sharply against her instinct; It's the polar opposite of how she should be feeling in this moment, but she can't shake it. She has trust and faith in her position and the support network around her even though she knows it's completely misguided. In this moment the universe has transpired against her and this evening has little hope of playing out smoothly.
Jac has one hand on her bump, one hand clutching her wristwatch, and she calmly times the gaps between the moments her abdomen contracts and twists internally, preparing itself ever more vigorously for what she knows will happen tonight. The next cramp, the second one in 10 minutes, causes her to emit an involuntary squeal. She drops the watch and lets the pain send her to the ground with a thump whilst her chest heaves, her breath catching up with her body. She shouldn't have insisted so furiously on being left alone this evening. She shouldn't have dropped her now defunct iphone on the stone floor of the apartment's lobby. She should have known that her child would pick a momentous date like this to make its first appearance. She should be in a far more acute stage of panic when she knows she'll never be able to find a taxi, especially not with six inches of fresh snow dusting the pavements. She probably shouldn't be smiling, rubbing fond circles over her bump and feeling ready; Mentally prepared and excited for whatever tonight will bring.
At around 11pm she is saved, sealing her faith in the support network that pulls through for her even when she didn't ask it to. It feels surreal, as if they've made a mistake and are meant to be caring about somebody else. There's a knock at the door, the distinctive rap of her increasingly full time lodger. She doesn't answer because she never does anymore. She's aware she may be conditioning him to knock only as a courtesy and the time that elapses between his tap and the use of his own key is decreasing by the day. However the first time she didn't answer, because she was in the shower, he'd taken it upon himself to force the lock and all but barrel straight into the bathroom with her, wild eyed and blaming panic for his misjudgement. On balance, she's decided it's safer if she teaches him to use his own key.
"Jac?" He calls from the hallway as he shrugs his coat off. She remains silent on the sofa, envisaging the puddle he's creating on the doormat as he discards his snowy attire. "I bought some Bollinger for midnight!" He puts his head around the door to the living room with a grin, dispensing with an explanation for his unexpected presence. Apparently he's decided that he's seeing the New Year in with his new family, however dysfunctional. This is why he doesn't notice her unusual flush, and the way her left hand grips her bump whilst her right has a white knuckled fist full of sofa cushion. "I figure one glass, you know one of those wee bubbly glasses, will be alright won't it?"
"How much have you had to drink?" She questions as he disappears into the kitchen to hunt for glassware.
"Not a drop." He admits sheepishly. She smirks, never more grateful to his over caution. The last time she saw him she'd ordered that he go out and get drunk before she strangles him. She can't remember her exact words, but she'd muttered something along the lines of, 'rowdy thuggish Hogmanay that you so enjoy,' and shouted, 'Go!' so viciously that he had to oblige.
"Well that's good." She continues calmly as he reappears with two glasses and starts to fiddle with the cork. "Because my waters broke ten minutes ago."
There's a crack, the instantaneous melody of smashing glass, a pop and a fizz as the heavy bottle takes out her glass coffee table with gusto. She marvels at how Champagne even sounds celebratory when dropped, and creating an incredible mess of her living room. Jonny looks like he's lost the power to comprehend anything at all.
1975.
The stout midwife yawns and catches a moment of peace in the corridor. She slips her feet from her stiff leather shoes and lifts each in turn, giving them a quick rub with her right hand. She steals this moment for herself before heading back into the room to conduct the hourly obs on the young girl and her newborn. She doesn't like dealing with this patient. The room is quiet, sallow, so full of gloom in the midst of a place that's full of life. Since the birth, the baby has been squirming good naturedly in the cot, patiently waiting for its mother's touch. It's screams, however, have only been abated by the staff when they feel the noise is too much, coaxing the child in their clinical grasps and chiding the young Mother for not doing what she's supposed to.
"It's no good crying Paula. You've got a responsibility now." The midwife steels herself for another stern exchange and pushes the door open quietly. She hopes the girl will be asleep, at least then she won't have to endure the strange way that she lies in the bed, staring at the ceiling with a hollow gaze. She isn't asleep. She isn't staring at the ceiling either. The midwife lets the door slap shut again as she remains rooted to the spot. The bundle is wriggling in the cot, gurgling to itself. The bundle's Mother is nowhere to be seen.