Lifesaving for Beginners

have. You’re giving people the benefit of the doubt.’
    That’s true. I never thought I’d turn out to be someone like that.
    ‘I didn’t realise I was pregnant until I was about seven months.’
    Celia does a proper snort this time. She says, ‘I knew after three days. Hamish came in reeking of that terrible aftershave he used to wear and I just threw up everywhere, didn’t I, Hamish?’
    Hamish nods briefly and says, ‘Go on.’ Celia gives me a look that could curdle milk.
    Faith perches on the edge of the chair. She looks at me for the first time. Really looks at me, I mean. She says, ‘Did you ever think about keeping me?’
    I say, ‘No.’ I say it as quickly as I can. To get it over with. ‘Things were different then. It was 1987. I went into labour on my friend’s couch. It was the first my mother knew of it. I was in shock. We all were. We did what we thought was the best thing at the time. For everyone. I’ve never really thought about it until now. I haven’t allowed myself to.’
    Faith says, ‘What’s different now?’
    ‘I don’t know. I think . . . maybe . . . I am.’ And it’s only when I say it out loud that I realise it’s true.
    That’s when Celia doubles over and emits a screech. It is animalistic in its intensity.
    Faith rolls her eyes. ‘Here we go again.’
    Celia throws herself off the chair, onto all fours, and screams, ‘The baby, Hamish. The baby’s coming.’
    Hamish kneels on the floor beside her and gathers as much of her as he can into his arms. ‘Hush now, hush now, ma wee darlin’.’
    Milo approaches the table carrying a tray with a teapot and mugs and spoons and a plate piled high with Christmas cake. He says, ‘Is Celia having the baby again?’
    Faith says, ‘Yes.’ Then she turns to me and whispers, ‘This isn’t the first time she’s gone into labour.’ She puts the word ‘labour’ in inverted commas. Faith is nearly smiling and, again, I feel an enormous rush of gratitude towards Celia.
    I take the tray from Milo. ‘Should we phone for an ambulance?’
    Hamish looks up. ‘No, they said we’re not to call for an ambulance again.’
    Celia lifts her head. ‘But I really AM in labour this time.’
    Faith says, ‘That’s what you said the last time.’
    Milo says, ‘Yeah, but remember The Boy Who Cried Wolf ? There really was a wolf that last time.’
    Hamish says, ‘Shut up the lot of you. Just . . . help me get her into the car.’
    I’m closest and, even though I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean me, I bend down and arrange Celia’s arm round my neck. Hamish hooks her other arm round his neck and, together, we half drag, half carry the howling Celia to Hamish’s jeep, already blanketed with snow. Just as we are hoisting her across the back seat, water gushes from between her legs. At first, she is delighted. She says, ‘LOOK! My waters have broken. I TOLD you I was in labour!’ to no one in particular, before she realises the import of the leakage and begins to wail and thrash. She locks her arms round Hamish’s neck and refuses to let go.
    ‘You have to let go now, pet. I need to drive to the hospital.’ His voice is muffled because his mouth is crushed against Celia’s cardigan, which is a mohair one. Incredibly itchy against his face, I’d say.
    In response, Celia emits a long wail, like a foghorn.
    Hamish manages to push his mouth away from the cardigan long enough to shout, ‘Kat!’ There’s a long hair hanging from his lip.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Can you drive one of these things?’
    ‘Well, I . . .’
    ‘Could you drive us to the hospital?’
    For a moment, I’m too surprised by the request to reply.
    ‘She has a death grip on me and there’s so much snow. Faith is nervous about driving the jeep at the best of times.’ His look suggests that this is not the best of times and I can’t say I blame him.
    ‘Well, I . . .’
    ‘It’s not far.’
    ‘I don’t know the way.’
    ‘I’ll direct you. Please, Kat. I need to stay in the back with Celia. She’s petrified, the poor wee mite.’
    ‘OK.’ There’s nothing else I can do.

 
    In the end, the baby comes at a minute past midnight so, technically, his birthday is Boxing Day, but because I hadn’t gone to bed yet when he was born, it was still Christmas Day so me and the baby are sort of half-brother twins.
    The baby is called Christian but Celia says we’re not allowed to call him Chris or Christy.
    In the hospital on Boxing Day, Dad lets me have a go of