Greenwich Park(7)

‘Oh, shit!’

I look up sharply. For a second, I’m sure Rachel has spotted me looking into her bags: she’s looking straight at me.

‘He’s given me a coffee instead of orange juice. What an idiot, Helen. Will you be OK drinking it or shall I go back?’

‘Of course,’ I tell her, trying to disguise my relief. ‘One won’t hurt.’



Maybe I can get away with abandoning it, I think, as she sits back down. Like I did the glass of wine.

Then without warning, Rachel has reached over, and her hands are on my belly.

‘So weird, isn’t it?’ she muses. ‘Being pregnant. Where do you reckon the baby’s head is?’

The contact is made before I can voice any objection. I can’t help but flinch. The suddenness of pale hands, cool against my stomach, the tips of her chewed purple nails brushing over my thin cotton top.

‘I … I don’t know,’ I stutter. Rachel doesn’t seem to notice my stunned reaction to her touch. She continues to stroke, back and forth, setting off nerve endings in my stretched skin.

‘It’s easy to tell,’ she continues, staring at my belly. ‘You just feel for the neck. I’ll show you.’

Rachel spreads her knees to face me head-on, and starts to probe with a finger and thumb, down at the bottom of my pelvis, as if trying to pinch the sides of the baby’s head.

‘Rachel, you’re pressing quite hard,’ I gasp. ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’

‘Of course!’ She presses harder still. ‘There it is,’ she says triumphantly. ‘There’s his head.’

I gasp again and recoil, my spine pushing against the back of the chair. In my mind’s eye I see my baby floating in utero, Rachel’s alien hand pressing through the red, glowing walls of his universe.





26 WEEKS





HELEN





Daniel and I are at the antenatal clinic, the lights down low. I have stripped from the waist down, cold jelly smeared on my belly over the red scratches of my stretch marks. I wince at the temperature. The sonographer tells me the probe is coming, that it is going to be cold. Daniel looks at me. I love you, he mouths. He squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back.

I try to be soothed by the feel of Daniel’s slim fingers in mine, try not to clench as it slides into me, this hard, alien object. We sit in silence, the low hum of the machines filling the room. There is a smell of bleach. My heart feels full of blood.

Even though I am big enough, now, to feel the baby move – a daily confirmation that he is still there, still alive – I can’t help but remember how so many of these scans have ended for us. The ripped blue squares of NHS tissue pressed into my hands to wipe my sobbing face, a sonographer wiping ultrasound gel from between my legs as I beg them in vain to check, just one more time.

But soon the room is filled with the watery thump of a heartbeat noise and a wiggly blue line darts across the screen. Daniel doesn’t say anything, but I see his chest deflate in a way that tells me he had been holding his breath. When the sonographer turns to us, I can see from the wrinkles around her eyes that she is smiling, even though a mask covers her nose and mouth.

‘Heartbeat sounds good. Baby is strong.’



It feels as if someone has opened a window. All the muscles in my body relax.

She starts to move the probe around, telling us what the pictures mean. She tells me not to lift my hips and I try not to. When she is happy, she pulls out the probe and starts to move the external ultrasound over my bump.

‘As you know, in the past we have had some … complications,’ she says. Her words are devoid of emotion, consonants sharp as scalpels. I close my eyes, but the pictures flash up anyway, of the babies that came before. The flat pods of their eyelids. The shapes of their heads. My chest heaves; the thump of my heart feels too fast, my face too hot. I feel Daniel’s grip on my hand tighten. I know how hard this is for him, too.

‘We are just being extra careful this time, OK? I’m checking for everything.’

I nod, and we both wait while she alternates between moving the probe across my belly and typing up notes.

‘Oh-kay, baby is in good position. Here, look.’

We are both entranced by the flickering screen – there he is, a real baby, with arms and legs and a tiny nose.

‘Oh my God, Helen,’ Daniel says. I can hear the smile in his voice, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the image of our son, his large, outsize head, his wriggling body that is yet to catch up. Fourteen weeks to go.

‘This is the umbilical cord, see here? And this is the placenta.’ Patches of blue and red pulsate on the screen to show the blood flow.

‘OK. Heart is good, lungs are good. Spinal cord OK. Now I’m just measuring the fluid at the back of the neck, but it’s looking very normal.’



Sometimes we catch a nose, or a hand – something human – and Daniel and I look from the screen to each other and back to the screen again, both making the same noises at once, noises somewhere between nervous laugh and an expression of wonder. Then the probe will move, and it will flicker, darkly, into something else. Something that could be human or reptile.

‘All fine. Baby is perfect,’ the sonographer says. Her voice is still muffled by the mask. I close my eyes, saving her words for later, like coins in a purse. There is nothing wrong with him. Nothing. He is perfect.