There, there, she was stroking her heart.
Now here she was years later, doing the same again, but this time, however much she yearned for the comfort, the doubt chipped away at her. What kind of father-God let this woeful cruelty happen to her? To anyone? Surely only a vicious and vengeful God? Did He hate her or something? Did she do something so wrong? Had she offended Him? It was unfair on her, on Isaac, and especially on little Minnie. Little dead Minnie. Who deserved a life, who was innocent and perfect and who had tried so hard to live. Why didn’t He help her have that? Why did He forsake her at that very last moment?
Hope felt the anger boiling up inside her; she heard the distant roar of it. She didn’t want it any closer, so she shut it down quickly. She just wanted her baby.
She wanted it so much.
She kept her eyes tightly shut and forced her mind to sink deeper, below the agony, to some rest. The heavy painkillers helped her, they were sedative and eventually sleep claimed her as she fell deeper and deeper, pulled further into the arms of Morpheus by a thousand chubby babies’ arms, tugging tugging her drowsy drowsy down.
In Anna and Julius’s room, further up the corridor, there was a low-grade hushed argument kicking off, threatening to gear up into a full-blown row. Julius was beginning to raise his voice: ‘All I am saying is that if I call Kirsty now, she can action the release of the press statement about the birth. I did bother to prepare it, so why wouldn’t we push the button?’
‘Because, Jules, and please keep your voice down, it is three o’clock in the ruddy morning – what is the point of waking Kirsty up now? She’s exhausted enough as it is. Surely it can wait? Come on now. And shush, please.’
‘The whole point is to catch the early editions. We need to get amongst it. Pronto. Or sooner.’
‘Jules, surely it is more of a priority to tell the family? My parents will be waiting by the phone. Call them first? You did promise. And leave the papers ’til tomorrow. Please?’
Julius harrumphed like a spoilt six-year-old. This meant he would be forced to talk to Anna’s parents, who would no doubt want all the minute details about the birth. He genuinely had zero interest in talking about all that guff; besides which, he hadn’t really witnessed it, since he was spark out for most of the time.
‘Jules, seriously, it’s not just my ma and pa – oh and my bro please, and Jo: I promised her – it’s your bloody mum too, and your sisters, for God’s sake. Surely they’re your first bloody call?’ Anna whispered loudly.
‘OK, OK. Yes, OK,’ he replied, annoyed, and immediately called his best friend Piers instead. ‘Piers, wake up, mate. Yeah. A girl. Filly and foal doing fine, yeah …’
Julius was no stranger to arguments. In fact, he enjoyed them. As Julius wandered out into the corridor to continue his conversation, it annoyed Anna that he was so loud despite the fact it was very early and the hospital was cocooned in the unmistakeable early-morning shush that happens just before a building properly wakes up. Other people must surely be giving birth, this was the maternity ward after all, she thought, but nevertheless it was quiet. And Julius wasn’t. He was laughing as he strutted up and down, boasting loudly for all the world, sleeping or awake, to hear. These phone calls weren’t just to inform or celebrate as far as Julius was concerned. No, they were his calling card to anyone he told, a calling card which, were it to be printed out, would read:
Julius Albert Lindon-Clarke MP
Tory. Husband. FATHER.
Seed-giver. Success.
Very. Important. Indeed.
At last, he had achieved fatherhood, which was very important … for his job. It authenticated him. It helped him to be regarded as stable and faithful. The British public needed to trust him, and the new little wriggly bundle was a key part of that package.
He had been extremely worried when no baby came along earlier in the marriage and he was nervous when Anna suggested getting help in the form of IVF. He’d turned his feelings of failure and frustration into an offended childish stomp-off. It was some time before Anna tentatively suggested it again. Five years and a pressurized but sparse love life later, Julius had agreed to go and see an IVF specialist with her. By the time Anna had booked the appointment, she was pregnant. It was truly miraculous – they so rarely shared any intimacy – but he had come home one night in early April after a ‘late session’ in the House, smelling of cannabis and very interested in her. She knew deep in her honest heart that he’d been unfaithful many times, but she couldn’t accept it in her day-to-day trying-to-stick-to-the-marriage-vows-and-just-get-on-with-life state of mind. She didn’t want to confront him with it – he had a quick, ferocious temper and the poisonous tongue of a thousand snakes. He hadn’t displayed this side of his nature for some years when she first met him.
But.
Then again.
There were many hidden parts of Julius Albert Lindon-Clarke. Anna couldn’t have known when she first met him, but he wasn’t a whole real person. He was a construct, a convincing, attractive façade. Julius had scars. He had been the butt of many jokes when he was young. It wasn’t obviously to do with his race, there were plenty of other black kids at his school and they were respected and powerful. It was to do with his snobbish attitude.
Snobbery, whatever colour it’s wrapped up in, is pretty galling. As he saw it, he was truly entitled to any level of importance he desired. He saw no limit to any of his many aspirations and he genuinely believed that those who did were fools,
