Mother: A gripping emotional story of love and obsession

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Hannah Begbie 2018

Cover design: Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © Trevor Payne / Trevillion Images

Hannah Begbie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008283230

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008283247

Version: 2018-06-26

Dedication

For Tom, my North Star

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

We were a normal family for exactly twenty-five days.

On the second day we brought her home from the hospital in a car seat. We put it down on the black-and-white weave of the living room rug and Dave said, ‘I feel like I can breathe again.’ Because for most of the pregnancy it was like we had held our breaths.

‘Dave, come on. She’s almost asleep.’ My smile was fading but his was wide and bright like a row of circus bulbs and part of me thought, let him just enjoy it.

‘BABY!’

His volume made me flinch. ‘Dave, please stop.’

‘What? Come on! Mia is here!’

Mia. Found on page 89 of The Great Big Book of Baby Names and circled like a bingo number. He kissed me on the forehead and I smiled for him. I kissed Mia and there we were, connected in a Russian doll of kisses. What a lovely family, someone looking on might have said.

‘It’s all right,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing’s going to get us now.’

And I believed him. I really think I did.

It was the kind of summer where everyone knew it was going to be a good one, right from the first days of the end of spring. The week she was born, the doorbell rang twice a day with deliveries of fresh-baked muffins, wrapped packages of soft toys, and cards printed with storks, peppered with sequins.

Mum, my sister Caroline, Dave’s mum. Our house seemed constantly full of people making the tea, padding in and out of the living room in their socks holding plates of cake, burbling their news. I would look up occasionally, to make a show of listening, but she was always there, cradled in my arms – a tiny person wrapped warm and safe in blankets, peacefully living out her first days in soft, new skin that shone like crushed diamonds.

I am lucky, I thought, in the mornings, as Mum emptied the dishwasher and waxed lyrical about the church pews being cleaned with an alternative furniture polish that had given Sarah-from-six-doors-down a terrible thigh rash.

I am so fortunate, I thought in the afternoons, as Dave and I walked – no, strolled – in the local park, gripping pram handle and coffee cup, like all the other parents.

A hood and a hat for the blinding sunlight.

Balled socks and folded babygros in neat stacks.

Floral fabric conditioner and frying onions lacing the air and warm, sweet milk everywhere. Bubbling away in me. Poured over the porridge that would feed me, so that I could make yet more milk to feed her. I never felt like an animal, not in the way of feeling hunted or preyed upon, but I also didn’t feel any more complicated than an animal. It was hard to explain exactly. Grazing and feeding her. Sun up, sun down.

There were plenty of times when, despite how happy I was, how honestly happy I was, I would start to think about the past. But I could always stop myself, because the important thing was that she was here.

Dave and I had spent ten years together already, looking at each other – across kitchen and restaurant table. Staring and blinking and watching and glancing in bed, meeting rooms, waiting rooms and at parties. De-coding the hidden messages in each other’s eyes. We knew every wrinkle, line and tic in each other: the single eyelash that ran counter to the rest. How the face contorted with laughter and tears.

The right time, then, to greet something new, a new version of ourselves with her barely there hair and tense red fists wrapped in a cellular blanket – cellular, like the mathematics paper marked with its complicated workings and rubbings out.

And there were other times, more than I care to remember, when Mia writhed and bobbed and made her warning siren sounds with a rounded mouth. And I worried. Like any mother would. I would pull her away from a feed, the sweat that had once sealed us now escaping, tickling and itching, all the while thinking: She is in pain. Something is hurting her.

‘She needs a new nappy, that’s all,’ Dave would say. ‘You’re just worried about things going wrong.’ That smile again.

Didn’t he know that after ten years together you can tell a genuine smile from a fake smile?

Why didn’t he say what he meant? Don’t spoil this for us, Cath.

On the early evening of the twenty-fifth day I drew the curtains against the setting sun and answered a phone call.

‘Is this the mother of Baby Freeland?’

Her mother. Hers.

Yes, I belonged to her.

‘Mia Freeland is her name now.’

I wanted her tone to change, to lilt into a floral exclamation of how lovely a name, but she was hesitant. She told me that her name was Kirsty and she was a health visitor, based at our local GP practice in Terrence Avenue.

‘There were some results from the blood test, the heel-prick test,’ she said.

I got hold of a flap of skin on the edge of my thumbnail and sucked through my teeth as it tore. Test. My four-letter word. Dave and I had failed so many tests already, each time more stinging than the last. But Mia was here now. Our final pass.

‘Are you still there?’ said Kirsty.

The heel-prick test, yes. They had taken a spot of blood from Mia’s heel when she was only a few days old, like they did with every newborn in the country. I had flinched when the thing like a staple gun had punctured her snow-white skin, so much worse than if it were piercing my own. A card was pressed to this tiny new wound and then lifted away to reveal a roundel of red. Now there were results. They hadn’t told me to expect results.

‘Yes, I’m here. Do you phone everyone with their results?’

‘Not unless there’s something, you know, definite to say. In Mia’s case they are inconclusive, which means we need to do more tests. Can you come to Atherton General tomorrow morning at eleven?’

‘The hospital?’

‘Yes, Atherton General, a bit past Clyde Hill … Fourth floor, paediatric outpatients’ reception. They’ll know to expect you.’

‘But what are the tests for?’ My stomach twisted and complained.

‘Her levels look a bit abnormal.’ There was a pause and paper shuffle. ‘For cystic fibrosis. I’m putting you on hold for a moment.’

The soft thump of blood drummed its quick new tune in my ears as I googled:

Cystic fibrosis – A genetic disease in which the lungs and digestive system become clogged with thick and sticky mucus …

Stomach pain …

Trouble breathing …

Must be managed with a time-consuming, daily regimen of medication and physiotherapy …

Over the years, the lungs become increasingly damaged and eventually stop working properly …

Debbie Carfax, twenty-three, was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis at the age of two and has been told she has less than …

Catching the common cold could kill this young man with cystic fibrosis as he waits for a life-saving lung transplant …

End-stage cystic fibrosis and how to manage the final days …

One in every 2,500 babies born in the UK has cystic fibrosis …

Average age of death …

Like drowning …

Just breathe.

A piece of hold music droned on, vanilla and classical, chosen to calm interminable situations.

I could feel the adrenalin rise inside me. Everything sharpening, narrowing, ready for flight as I stared at that single question.

Her levels looked abnormal.

I understood that there was a level to everything.

Under the right level, you drowned.

Above the right level, you overflowed.

Finally, a new crackle as the hold music was killed.

‘Yvonne says it’ll be something called a sweat test. You’ll need to bring lots of blankets for the baby to make her sweat. Do remember that. Blankets. And maybe some snacks and mags to pass the time?’ I had no time to reply before she said, ‘And make sure that your husband is with you. Have you got the address? Paediatric outpatients …’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Best of luck.’ And with that, Kirsty was gone.

I hung up, the appointment details scribbled on the back of a tea-bag box with a free T-shirt promotion.

Make sure your husband is with you is the same thing as saying: Are you sitting down? It’s what a person says before they give you the news that will knock you to the floor and turn out the lights.

The consultant with a blunt fringe took a deep breath before she said, ‘I am sorry to have to tell you …’

The hospital, God, just the smell of the place – the mashed potatoes and disinfectant and newly opened bandages – the only way to have kept that air from crawling into my cells would have been to stop breathing altogether.

I threw up when she told us, but I made it to the sink. Still holding Mia, there was no time to pass her to anyone.

Everything emptied.

Chapter 1

Late one afternoon, on a day that was hot and thick and had been promising a storm for too long, I boarded a red London bus. Three passengers on the top deck, dotted far from each other, heads bowed to their phones. Windows closed, greenhouse conditions. I pushed hard at my nearest window pane and was the only one to flinch when it opened with a bang, like something being fired.

I sat, felt the scratching nylon pile beneath my fingertips and resented the electric blue and fluorescent orange chosen to cheer the commuter. Don’t tell me how to feel with your upbeat seat fabric! I will make my own decisions about how I feel.

And I felt fine, actually. Probably better than in the three weeks and six days since diagnosis because now I was on my way to do something. I was on my way to meet people who shared my new language, to ask them: What is this island we have been exiled to? How long have you been waiting for the boats and how do we bring them here quicker?

Mum would be pleased because the kind of thing she might have said if it hadn’t sounded so harsh in the circumstances was, You’re a mother now! Take responsibility! Then I could say to her, But that’s exactly what I’m doing! Taking responsibility for my family. And my feelings.

Because the truth was that no one else – no husband, doctor, sister or friend – was actually doing anything to change the fundamental facts of it and so it was up to me. That was how I felt.

The bus sped through the paint-splatted, urine-stained, poster-torn mess of a city with its crammed stacks and storeys, its ripped holes and soldered joints. If it were up to me, I’d wipe the whole lot away with a bulldozer and start again.

Learn to clean up your own mess, Mum used to say when I was growing up.

I’m doing it, I’m doing it. Once I’ve finished, can I go out?

I was dealing with the mess. I was taking action.

The consultant with the blunt fringe had said: Delta F508 is the name of the mutated gene that you both carry. Mia has taken a copy from each of you.

Then I had said, She didn’t take them. We gave them to her.

She’d said something nice like we mustn’t blame ourselves. But who else was there?

I had plugged Mia into my own life source and helped her build her heart and lungs and organs using my blood and my oxygen and my energy.

I was her mother. I had given her life.

I was her mother. I had given her a death sentence.

Those were the fundamental facts of it.

I rested my head against the bus window, trying to stop my stomach from swimming and heaving, studying the tiny greased honeycomb prints of other people’s skin on the glass. I watched the sunlight thin under gathering clouds and reached for my belly, longing for the solid, reassuring curve of pregnancy and life – instead feeling fabric and loose, scooped-out flesh. Evidence of that life released into the world, my genie out of her bottle. And now I wished and wished and wished.

The panicky stuff had started small – the hours lost to finding my phone (in the fridge) and my keys (in the door). Those things might have been fine, the kind of thing a person does when they aren’t sleeping enough, but in the back of my mind I recognized the pattern in it all – the way my thoughts splintered and the tears came and any light in me felt dimmed by a choking smoke. But I couldn’t dwell too much on patterns and pasts because there was too much going on, what with the nappies and the feeds and trying to quell Mia’s tears and my tears and the anxieties of other people when they said to me How can we help? as I forced a smile and struggled to find an answer for them.

I got more frustrated and panicked as the words people spoke (mother, mother-in-law, sister, friends and other in-laws) rang hollow, fell flat, downright collapsed on the road to meet me.

Pavlova and lasagne? How lovely! It was kind of them, honestly it was, to think that they could change things with a meringue and a béchamel. They weren’t to know that, along with so much else, taste had been blunted in me.

The letters people wrote were sending me into a tailspin. The last time I’d even got a letter, in proper ink on paper, had been after Dad’s funeral. After someone had died, for God’s sake.

One of them started, ‘Of all the people for this to happen to …’ It made me think of a film I once saw, ‘Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world …’ People were amazed by the news. Privately relieved, some of them, I think … because statistics had to happen to someone. That’s the nature of the beast. My misfortune kept them safer. At least some good was coming of this.

But none of them did anything. None of them changed anything.

I wanted to throw up on the deck of that bus, like it was the only way I would rid myself of that grinding, persistent angst.

Fat drops of rain had started to fall and I was glad of it. I would be able to wash my face in them. Feel their chill on my skin.

As my stop approached I made my way to the top-deck stairs. The driver braked suddenly, before the lights and before the stop, and if I hadn’t been holding on so tight I would have fallen headfirst. A double tragedy, people would have said of our family. And then, when Mia was old enough, they would have said stupid things about chance and randomness and accidents – things they thought would reassure her. Leaving her equipped to deal with her mother’s death-by-bus-stairs.

A ridiculous balancing of deaths, one stupid but fast, the other lifelong, grinding and airless.

I had thought about running away, every single day since diagnosis. I had a credit card and phone – all that I needed to set up life elsewhere.

She loved you, they would tell her. She just couldn’t … some people simply don’t know how …

It must happen all the time: leaving it for someone else to deal with, telling yourself that someone else will be better equipped to meet the needs of the child. Believing it too, maybe.

Would you teach yourself to forget their face? Would that be the key to it?

My feet made hollow, violent hammering sounds as I ran down the stairs, unable to disembark quick enough into the rain, people on the lower deck looking alarmed and suspicious as I banged at the closed sliding doors with flat palms; Get me off this fucking bus! I couldn’t breathe. I was going to be sick.

Chapter 2

All the windows were opened wide in the main meeting room of Cystic Fibrosis Now’s HQ. It smelt of cleaning product and the kind of damp and mossy earthiness that emerges from old walls with the onset of rain. The lighting was stripped and white, headache-bright. Chairs were arranged in a circle, ten or twelve in total perhaps, and the carpet was office-block blue-grey. The few people who had arrived before me stood in pairs. Were they officials who knew what was what, or were they new parents like me? I twisted a button round on my raincoat, as far as it would go, wondering when the threads that anchored it might snap, considering what would happen if I didn’t have the strength and the words for the strangers in that room, if I left that room a few hours later with nothing changed.

I searched the room. A tea urn on a trestle table. Everyone congregated around tea. It gave you something to do while you found the words. Make the tea, drink the tea or beat the walls and chew your fingers. I went to the table and began to make tea I didn’t want.

Teaspoons knocked on the sides of mugs and biscuit wrappers crackled. Conversation was at a constant low murmur, as if a church service was about to begin.

‘Can you pass the sugar, please?’ A woman leaned across the trestle table and touched me on the sleeve. She was petite and she carried a plastic mac dripping rainwater in the crook of her arm. ‘I know I shouldn’t, I’m trying to lose a bit,’ she said. I felt my shoulders drop as she smiled and the thin skin beneath her eyes crinkled to reveal pale, unblended smears of make-up – the kind applied to cover dark shadows. ‘But I can’t do tea without it now.’

Sugary tea is what they brought me after I was sick in that hospital clinic. They let me finish the tea, and then the lessons began. Administer this, administer that, was about the shape of it. Administer medicine to help her absorb nutrients because her digestive organs are clogged with mucus. Administer physiotherapy to get rid of the mucus on her lungs. Administer antibiotics to protect her from the ravages of environmental bacteria that might stick in the lungs and cause damage. By the end Dave had taken copious notes, even drawing a bar chart at one stage. He was strong when it came to administrative tasks so I suppose it made a kind of sense for him to pretend his daughter was a problem that might be solved methodically.

I passed the sugar bowl and smiled. ‘Are you a …?’ I tried, faltered because even memories of numbness lodged in my throat like tickling kapok.

‘Parent, yes. I’ve got a one-year-old boy.’ She smiled. ‘With CF, obviously. You?’

‘Two-month-old girl. Just diagnosed.’

She put down her cup after dropping in two lumps. ‘Amazing you’re here. I was still weeping in my pyjamas at your stage. My little bugger didn’t sleep at all, which made things ten times worse.’

‘How is your little boy? If you don’t mind me asking?’ I asked her the question before I realized I didn’t want to hear the answer, at least not if it was about hospitals, or worse.

‘Doing very well. Started walking the other week and it’s adorable: he looks like a penguin. Kind of tips side to side.’ She put her arms on her side and moved her neck, and we both smiled.

‘What about his medicines?’ I said, emboldened.

‘Oh, spits them out, hates them, but you find a way to get them in. My husband covers that kind of stuff. Amazing how creative you can be. It’s a shame he’s not here tonight, but he’s got a rotten cough and nobody needs that from us. He hates missing things like this. What’s your partner like? Is he doing OK?’

‘Endlessly practical, my Dave.’ I smiled weakly. ‘He’s got a list for medicines, a list for before breakfast, one for after breakfast. A list to keep track of his socks. He loves making lists.’

‘Sounds useful to have around the house.’

‘Yes, he is. Tonight he’s at home training his mum to look after Mia …’

‘Wow.’

‘It’s so he can go to football. He didn’t want to come here. Says he’d rather talk to his friends than a bunch of strangers.’ She raised her eyebrows and I worried then, about being disloyal. ‘Don’t get me wrong … I don’t want to be unfair. Being so practical is the way he’s always been and it definitely has its uses. His ability to categorize and look at, you know, what really matters, took the stress out of organizing our wedding. I don’t always agree with … anyway, the real thing here is that he wants to take Mia swimming at some point. It’s on one of his lists.’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ she said, dunking her biscuit. Her face was soft and kind and calm and being like that seemed such an impossible achievement in the circumstances that she was god-like to me. ‘It took me and my husband ages to work out what we were doing.’

My fingers traced a seam inside my pocket, feeling its ridge, searching for another thread to unpick as I fought the urge to grasp her arm and say, I’m so glad you said it takes a long time because I’m still waiting, I am. But I held back because I wasn’t sure whether by ‘doing’ she meant the practical stuff or the emotional stuff you ‘work out’ together as a couple.

To talk about being a couple with someone I had only known for a minute might be too much, too intense, but I wanted her to say more so I said, ‘Sometimes I’m not sure how much my husband gets it … I mean, at the moment, you know. As we work out … what we’re doing.’