PICKERING-SANDS BABY (For George)
It had started just after breakfast.
She had been sitting in a well-worn armchair in front of the fire, warm in a cotton maternity gown and under a knitted blanket, when the pain had hit. The moment it started, she knew this wasn't Braxton Hicks. She knew, from a logical, professional standpoint that this was the beginning of the long process of labor, but in a fit of madness, she ignored it. That worked for over an hour, and for a time, she was almost convinced it had been a false alarm, but as lunch approached, the pain came more and more regularly, and by the time she'd made it to the toilet, her undergarments were soaked through with amniotic fluid.
"Shit," he hissed, pushing both hands through her hair and making her way on unsteady legs to change her clothes. By the time she was dressed, she was winded, nearly crippled with pain, and she sat on the end of her bed to catch her breath for a moment or two.
This wasn't early. Not really. But she hadn't been prepared. Not here, not anywhere. She thought she'd have more time.
Heaving herself to her feet, she threw on a coat, her bonnet and gloves, threw ashes on the fire to put it out and then made her way out into the hall of the cramped, dimly lit Victorian flats she'd occupied for a little over a week.
Taking a calming breath, she walked across the hall to George's flat, swallowing past a lump in her throat before lifting her shaking hand to knock.
She had been sitting in a well-worn armchair in front of the fire, warm in a cotton maternity gown and under a knitted blanket, when the pain had hit. The moment it started, she knew this wasn't Braxton Hicks. She knew, from a logical, professional standpoint that this was the beginning of the long process of labor, but in a fit of madness, she ignored it. That worked for over an hour, and for a time, she was almost convinced it had been a false alarm, but as lunch approached, the pain came more and more regularly, and by the time she'd made it to the toilet, her undergarments were soaked through with amniotic fluid.
"Shit," he hissed, pushing both hands through her hair and making her way on unsteady legs to change her clothes. By the time she was dressed, she was winded, nearly crippled with pain, and she sat on the end of her bed to catch her breath for a moment or two.
This wasn't early. Not really. But she hadn't been prepared. Not here, not anywhere. She thought she'd have more time.
Heaving herself to her feet, she threw on a coat, her bonnet and gloves, threw ashes on the fire to put it out and then made her way out into the hall of the cramped, dimly lit Victorian flats she'd occupied for a little over a week.
Taking a calming breath, she walked across the hall to George's flat, swallowing past a lump in her throat before lifting her shaking hand to knock.