In the Name of the Father
Chapter 3 – Parenthood
"What do you mean, he doesn't have a name yet? That doesn't sound like you, Louisa. Always so conventional and so . . . so oraganised."
I gritted my teeth. It was bad enough that Mum had shown up like a bad penny, at the worst possible moment. That was her way and I shouldn't be surprised although of course I was. But having her criticise my parenting was enough to put me right over the edge.
"He'll have a name. There has been a lot to deal with the last few days and Martin and I are still discussing it."
"Well, I'm going to call him Carlos."
"CARLOS?"
"After your second stepfather. He was my one true love, you know."
"I hate to break this to you Mum, but I haven't had any stepfathers. You never did manage to divorce Dad."
"Well the details don't matter. Carlos was my one true love and now this little one will be Carlos too. Life is too short to wait around for you two to stop dithering."
Martin gave her a black look.
I looked at him, willing him to rescue me. I hadn't seen Mum in seven years; not since she showed up, uninvited and unannounced as usual, at my thirtieth birthday do. And I really did not need to deal with her, not now, not with everything else swirling around me. The baby was bound to wake up any second, wet and hungry, Martin was still grieving and needed some tending, and I was exhausted and ready to burst if the baby didn't eat soon. Never mind the added burdens of adjusting to motherhood, sorting out my relationship with Martin, and deciding on a name for my son.
Martin looked at me and then at Mum and then abruptly left the room without a word. Great. Leave it to him to misread my plea for help and abandon ship altogether.
"May I hold him?" Mum asked.
"Well, I suppose. He may be wet."
"That's no problem, is it Carlos? Not with Grannie. No, it's not!"
It was like fingernails on a chalkboard hearing my mother fuss over my baby and call him that. Having her declare that Spanish playboy her one true love wasn't helping her cause much.
Her ministrations woke the baby and he started to squall. I took him from her arms and rummaged around for a clean nappy, all the while wondering what Martin was doing and envying him the quiet he was enjoying whilst doing it. Mum was flapping about, her gypsy bangles clinking while she gave imbecilic instructions about not sticking him with a pin.
"Mum, give it a rest. We don't use pins anymore." I got the baby sorted and myself situated so I could feed him. He had just settled in to nurse when Martin came back. He averted his eyes when he saw what I was doing, and I was afraid he was going to leave.
"Martin, for heaven's sake. I am not going to be embarrassed about feeding my child in my own home."
"No, no of course not." He seemed chastened. I waited for him to disappear again. I was surprised instead when he turned to Mum.
"Mrs. Glasson."
"Call me Eleanor, dear. We're family. Or practically, anyhow."
Martin was not deterred. "Mrs. Glasson have you got your case?"
"Yes, it's right there by the door. Are you taking it somewhere? "she asked, hopefully.
"Yes. I've just been on the phone with Mark down at the pub. I've booked you in for a week. It is all arranged. If you have your bag, I will carry it over for you." And with that he quite unceremoniously opened the door and walked out carrying the case.
My heart swelled with gratitude as I watched my mother scramble to keep up with my knight in shining armour.
X X X X X
The surgery waiting area was chaotic when I arrived with the baby around half-ten. We had been for a lovely walk along the Platt. I had the idea to stop in and see how Martin was getting along, and maybe catch up with a cup of tea. I had no idea what I would be getting myself into.
The waiting patients all wanted a glimpse of the baby, who was sleeping quietly in the pram, and of course to pepper me with questions. Was Martin staying in Portwenn? What happened to Dr. Dibbs? Were Martin and I getting married? And, of course, what was the baby called? Thinking this may have been a bad idea, I was considering slipping out the back door when Martin emerged from his consulting room.
"Louisa! What are you doing here?" He looked harried but his voice was warm and I hoped he was glad to see us.
"Oh we were out for a walk and I thought we could stop by and see how you were getting on."
He was rummaging in the file cabinet, putting away one patient's notes and scrabbling for the next one.
"I'm, er, managing. " He looked down at the baby, sleeping in the pram, and his face grew soft with the hint of a smile. He picked up the baby and managed to do it without waking him. He motioned to me with his elbow.
"Come through."
When I followed him in and closed the door, he sat in his chair and focused intently on his son. The telephone was ringing, there were loads of patients waiting, and there was a pile of papers on the desk he was borrowing from Doctor Dibbs, but he took this moment just for the two of them.
The telephone started to ring again.
"Pauli . . ." he started, automatically. "Oh. " He looked over at the telephone with some dismay. "I am never going to see any patients if I have to keep answering the phone and doing my own filing. And I've been looking for a cup of tea since 10." He sighed then picked up the phone. "Portwenn Surgery. Yes. No, this is Doctor Ellingham. Gone. Yes. 4 o'clock." He slammed down the receiver.
"Martin, why don't I make you a cup of tea. I can park the pram in the sitting room and let him sleep in there and you can see your patients. As long as he's sleeping, I can see what I can do about answering the telephone too."
He looked stunned. "Are you sure you're not too tired?"
"No, I can manage. And the quicker you get done here, the quicker we can all get home."
So off I went to the kitchen, to see if I could find any tea things, and thus I embarked on a new temporary career as the practice receptionist.
X X X X X
At half past four, Martin's Auntie Ruth sailed in. I had just sent Mrs. Ash through to the consulting room and she was the last appointment of the day. I had a small pile of messages for Martin, three sets of notes to file, and two blood samples for the medical courier to take to the lab.
"Hello, Miss Ellingham."
"Miss Glasson! Why I must say I didn't expect to see you here."
"Er, just helping out today."
"Tsk, tsk. Shouldn't you be looking after my grandnephew?"
"He's just through there, sleeping. I can hear when he wakes up." I bristled at her accusation.
She sighed. "Am I to be permitted to see my nephew? I have important business to discuss with him."
"He is with his last patient. If you'll just have a seat, I'm sure he won't be too long."
She sniffed again. She wasn't particularly friendly. Not like her sister in that way.
"I was thinking of putting the kettle on. Could I interest you in some tea?"
She nodded curtly, settling her enormous black handbag on her lap.
Just then, Mrs. Ash came out, coughing a little dry cough and rubbing her red nose, followed by Martin with her notes.
"Rest and fluids should do it, Mrs. Ash. No need for an antibiotic for a viral illness."
Mrs. Ash nodded grimly. "Louisa." She gave Auntie Ruth a curious glance and was on her way.
"Martin, your Aunt was hoping to speak with you," I started as Ruth Ellingham glided through to the consulting room without greeting her nephew or waiting for an invitation."
"Right." He looked after her.
"Shall I bring you a cup of tea? She's already asked for one."
He looked back at me. "Erm, yes, thank you. That would be good." He gave me a thoughtful look before turning to join his aunt.
While they chatted I managed to get the kettle going for some tea. Just as I was about to pour, I heard the unmistakable call of an unhappy baby. Setting down the kettle, I went to the sitting room and retrieved my son.
"Mummy's here, little man. Everything is just fine." I cooed to him, marveling as always at his tiny perfect hands and his sweet face and the soft baby smell of his head. I changed him and then went back into the kitchen where I sat at the table with my cup of tea while I fed him. Martin and Ruth seemed to be taking a long time.
The baby must have swallowed a big air bubble because he soon became fractious and no amount of bouncing on my shoulder would bring up the wind. He squirmed at first, and then began to fuss. It didn't take long for the mewling to build into full-fledged howls.
Martin came out immediately and saw what was going on. He took the baby from me and made his own efforts to calm him while I poured tea for Martin and Ruth. Martin succeeded in extracting a big belch along with a stream of spit-up out of the poor tummy and the sobs became whimpers and then tapered off to quiet sighs. With a look of relief, I took the baby from Martin's arms and gave him a good cuddle.
"Well, really, Martin. Just look at that mess on your suit."
"It's fine, Auntie Ruth." Martin looked at his soiled jacket with resignation before taking it off and laying it aside for the cleaners.
"Mark my words, you're coddling that baby. Really, Martin. Children should be seen and not heard. That's what we said in my day."
"I hardly think . . ." I protested.
"Not a way to run a practice. Not with a squalling infant drowning out what the patients have to say."
"Just a minute . . ." Martin looked agitated too.
"If you cuddle him when he cries, it will just teach him to cry more. Better to ignore him."
By now I was livid – in full mother-bear mode. "He is less than a week old. Time enough for lessons in deportment when he gets older. Right now, my priority, and Martin's, is to assure him that he is safe and that he is loved." I looked at Martin when I said this, hoping he would back me up. We hadn't actually discussed parenting styles as yet.
"Auntie Ruth, I think you'd better be going. Louisa and I need to clear up here and get the baby home. I'll ring you tomorrow after I've had a chance to read the papers from the solicitor."
He wordlessly took the teacup out of her hand and ushered her to the kitchen door, ignoring her rising indignation.
"You'll regret raising the child this way. Only unhappiness follows when the child rules the home."
Martin firmly closed the door behind her. "Horrid old bat," he muttered.
I could only laugh at that. "I'm relieved you don't agree with her, her, her METHODS, Martin."
He took the baby from me and gave him a good cuddle. "No. Her methods are far too close to those of my parents." There was a look of determination in his eye I hadn't seen before.
X X X X X
Martin was just coming back from an emergency home visit to Mrs. Ash, when the baby woke for his two a.m. feed. I had just retrieved him from his bassinet and unbuttoned my nightdress when Martin entered the bedroom.
"Oh, you're up. Shall I . . . that is, do you need anything – either of you?"
I looked up at him. "Martin, there is no reason for you to act like this when I am feeding the baby. Can you please just relax?"
Abruptly he sat down on the bed beside me. While not over his embarrassment or shyness entirely, he was also clearly interested in what was going on. Whether it was a personal interest or merely a clinical one I couldn't tell. When I switched sides, the baby was now facing towards Martin, who put one arm around my shoulder and dropped his head to watch the baby intently. When he looked back at me, there was wonder and amazement in his eyes and I felt oddly proud and tender.
"How did the home visit go?"
He sighed. "It's extremely inconvenient not to have the patient notes and my supplies at hand when I am called out like that. I had to go to the surgery to get my notes, go to the patient's home and make a diagnosis, go back to the surgery for the nebulizer once I'd determined it was an asthma attack, and then go back out to her home again – I was lucky she was right here in the village. I'd still be chasing back and forth if the patient were one of the more remote residents. I'm really wondering if this is going to be feasible, living here I mean."
"I see." I was shattered. Just as we were getting along so well, he wanted to move out.
"I mean there are inconveniences about living at the surgery too. A loss of privacy when patients are there, of course, and having the phone ring at all hours. It's farther for you from the school. But it has a much bigger kitchen than here, and the bedroom is bigger – we wouldn't be tripping over the bassinet."
It was beginning to dawn on me that I hadn't understood him completely.
"Do you mean you'd want us ALL to move over there? You're not just thinking of leaving yourself?"
He took my hands. "I know it is a lot to ask of you to move house. And if you say no, I'll find a way to manage living here. But I don't want to leave you. Either of you." There was an earnest look on his face. He cleared his throat, and then busied himself with the baby so he could look away.
"Well I've never particularly loved this place. It IS nice to be together. Easier with the baby, I mean," I stammered, not quite sure how to take this. Somehow it wasn't how I had imagined Martin asking me to move in with him.
"Please say yes."
"Yes, Martin. Yes, I will."
X X X X
We'd had a long night. In addition to Martin's medical emergency call out, he'd had two other calls from patients and the baby had been up hourly. No one was in a particularly cheery mood in the morning, and I suspected that packing up to move house wasn't going to improve my outlook one bit.
Over porridge and toast, we started in on the name discussion again. This was probably not a great idea in our present state of mind but it was something that just had to be done. A baby name book Mrs. Sparrow at the post office had oh so helpfully handed me when I went in to mail some letters had suggested trying to imagine the adult your child would become with the names you were considering. Martin seemed skeptical but was too tired to argue about it much.
"What about Gerald? How do you envision our son growing up if his name is Gerald?"
"Gerald. Gerald sounds like a policeman," Martin said dismissively.
"Well you make a suggestion, then," I countered.
"Charles."
"Charles? He'd be a Tory MP with that name. Not exactly what I had in mind. Timothy?"
"No! Every Timothy I ever knew became a clergyman."
I buried my head in my hands and Martin took this as a sign to go to work. As he left, he stroked my shoulder for a moment and scrutinized the baby's face. "Henry? Does he look like a Henry to you?"
X X X X X
We had a long evening, packing and hauling a few suitcases as a start on moving over to the surgery. Martin had cooked a simple supper of mackerel and aubergine while I made up the bed and dug out the baby's essentials. As we sat down at the table in the surgery kitchen, I had a sudden memory of our first dinner there; he'd cooked dinner that night too. I smiled and hoped he remembered that night as well.
We'd eaten only a few mouthfuls when we were interrupted by the baby's cries. I hoped that a dry nappy and his own supper might settle him down but tonight he seemed inconsolable. When I gave up trying to feed him, Martin came over to take him. He paced in a circle – from the kitchen to the sitting room, through to the surgery waiting area, then back around to the kitchen. He spoke to the baby in low tones and bounced him on his shoulder.
Eventually Martin gave me a helpless look, and I settled in to see if the baby would nurse now but he just arched away from me. "Martin, is he alright? It seems odd that he isn't eating."
"He isn't feverish. Let me examine his belly."
Martin quickly concluded there was no obvious medical reason for the baby's distress. "I think it may be colic, Louisa. Not much we can do for that but wait it out."
I cuddled our son in my arms and tried to quiet him. Martin went out of the room and came back with a book and started reading aloud. I was pleased at the effort but not too sure that the British Cardiology Society's book of the year was going to have the desired effect.
Martin's deep voice did seem to soothe him somewhat. The baby didn't stop crying altogether but he did seem less frantic. Gradually he seemed to calm down. The effect was immediately lost, however, the moment we tried to set him down in his bassinet.
With a sigh we traded places – I read from the Year 3 science curriculum while Martin cuddled him. We tried putting him in the Moses basket and the pram and the car seat. We even put the car seat on top of the clothes dryer and turned it on, a trick Maureen had assured us worked with both of the twins. Martin drew the line only once – at my suggestion that he strip off his shirt and cuddle the baby next to his skin as one of my books advised for enhancing the parent child bonding experience.
The baby was still crying at midnight. His tiny, tear-stained face was hot and red and his little limbs flailed. We knew he must be exhausted – we certainly were. We went upstairs and got ready for bed. Once again I tried to nurse him but he was too agitated to eat. I felt utterly defeated as a parent and I was less than a week into it.
Martin was looking around the room for inspiration. "Music?" he asked me, pointing to the clock radio on the bedside table.
"It's worth a try. Something soothing, I guess."
Martin slowly turned the dial and scrolled through a Wagnerian opera, the weather report, something that sounded like Arabic and Procul Harem's Whiter Shade of Pale, none of which seemed to placate the baby. I was about to give up hope when he came across a quiet, deep voice singing with a guitar. A song I hadn't heard in years. As the man sang about the cowboy and his horse, the baby's howls quieted to soft mewls and then to mere hiccups. As he reached the chorus, my son was nestling his little head against my shoulder and I could feel him relax.
Goodnight you moonlight ladies
Rockabye sweet baby James
Deep greens and blues are the colours I choose
Won't you let me go down in my dreams
And rockabye sweet baby James
Martin and I looked at each other in stunned silence. We each put a hand on his back, as if to assure ourselves that he was still breathing and that he really was, at last, asleep. Our eyes met and I was sure Martin was thinking the same thing I was.
As the song finished, we carefully tucked him into his bassinet. Each of us touched him gently. "James," we said together, "your name is James."
The End