I nodded, pressed my chin to my chest, held on to the edge of the sheet with my fist. The pain was sharp as a knife, unbearable. I cried out, the sound of my voice echoing down the hospital corridor. My nails dug into Daniel’s palm; I felt him flinch, sit up, stare at the midwife in horror. When it stopped, I was panting, staring at her, hot tears clouding my eyes.
‘I didn’t know it was going to be like that.’
The midwife pulled her gloves off and laughed at us both. ‘You wait till the main event.’ Then she saw my face, and her smile fell away. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Sometimes a cervical sweep can be a bit more painful for some people. Don’t worry. You’ll be all right.’ She turned to her computer, started tapping up notes.
The sweep hasn’t helped. Nothing happens. By four, the light is failing, the sun dipping below the hill, the spidery shadows of the bushes in the garden lengthen and darken. I take the blanket and pull it around myself. Most labours start at night, I tell myself. It could still happen tonight. I move to the sofa, face up, my gaze fixed on the ceiling roses, the swirls and cracks in the plaster as familiar to me as my own hands.
When nothing has happened for another hour, I throw the blanket to the side, stand up, set about rearranging another one of our drawers. But I soon get bored, put it back, make another cup of tea, sit at the kitchen table. I retrieve my book, but I can’t get into it, my concentration drifting away at the end of each paragraph. I walk back into the sitting room, try to settle on the sofa. I close my eyes. I keep seeing her face.
The embers in the fire die to a weak red glow, then to a grey ash, light and delicate as the snowflakes outside. Finally, I give up and go to bed early but cannot fall asleep.
My phone rings at half past eight. It is Katie. I ask her about Rachel, whether she has heard anything at work. She won’t answer my questions.
‘Can you meet me, Helen?’
‘I’m already in bed, Katie. I’m exhausted.’
‘I know – you must be, I’m really sorry.’ I can hear the noise of chatter in the background. It sounds like she is in a pub. ‘Look, I’m at the end of your road,’ she says, lowering her voice. ‘In the Plume of Feathers. Please?’ She pauses. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘Why can’t you come here?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘Please, Helen. Ten minutes.’
I dress slowly and make my way there, the wintery wind stinging my fingers. Frost snaps in the air. I wish I’d thought to bring gloves. I walk slowly, unsteadily, fretting about the ice. The pavement isn’t gritted, and the light from the street lamps glints off the surface of the frozen puddles.
When I reach the pub, I throw the door open and feel the warmth on my face. I see Katie at a table on the far side, and she shoots me a relieved smile, rushes to help me sit down.
‘I’m fine,’ I mutter. I wipe the melting snow off my trousers and sink into the green leather of a booth seat. I feel enormous, eclipsed by my baby. A man reaches to help me move the table back so I can fit into the seat.
‘I’ll just grab the drinks.’
As I wait, I look around the pub, wondering how long it will be, after this, until I’m in a pub again. It is a nice pub, cosier than I remember. There is a fire crackling in the hearth, the chimney breast is covered in horseshoes, the wonky shelves squashed full of silver tankards and dusty old bottles with models of boats inside. There is a low hum of chatter, a smell of mulled wine and cider. There are decorations over the bar, in gaudy green, red and gold. I guess it is nearly December. I haven’t even thought about Christmas. It is as if the time has gone ahead without me. I’m stuck on the night she disappeared.
Katie returns with a soft drink for me and a large glass of red wine for herself. She places them down and hugs me, her arms barely reaching around me over the bump. ‘So close now, Helen,’ she says.
Katie looks worried, her shoulders are tense, her brow low over her eyes. She has already drunk one glass of wine; the empty glass sits between us next to the pieces of a cardboard beer mat that she has torn to shreds. Her hand keeps flitting to her right ear to tuck a strand of hair behind it.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she says vaguely. ‘I’ve been here for ages – I hadn’t noticed it had started snowing.’ She grimaces. ‘I hope you were OK getting here.’
She glances at the door, takes a sip of her wine. She has shadows under her eyes.
I shift in my seat. ‘What is it? You said it was important.’