Agaat - Marlene van Niekerk [84]
Sharp scissors, you said, sharpen a meat knife, singe the blades in a candle-flame, wrap them in clean cloths, the big enamel basin, the one with the three roses in the base, Dettol, take the half-full bottle and the new one. And cloths and sheets and packs of newspaper and blankets and matches and rolls of cotton wool and gauze.
She knew where everything was. She kept the whole list in her head as you dictated it. Her lips moved as she repeated it after you. She took hold, sure-handed as you’d taught her. Saar got a trunk off the shelf, put it down at your feet.
Must I come along, Mies? Saar asked. You just gave her a look, made her pack the things as Agaat brought them.
Don’t worry, you said to calm them as well as yourself, it’s just in case, we have enough time, we’ll be there in time.
You remembered the smelling salts, flasks of hot water, a roll of dental floss and string for the tying-off, a box of paper towels. One bottle of sweet tea.
You wrote your mother’s address and telephone number on a slip of paper. You put it in your purse. You see, Agaat, here I’m putting it, in case, remember it. You explained how it would work. You had to get to the pass in twenty minutes and then you would stop for a while for the next contractions and then in another twenty minutes you would be on the other side. Jak always used to do it in quarter of an hour. Further than that you couldn’t think.
You would take the Mercedes, you decided, that would be safest. You had to slide the seat back to fit behind the steering wheel. You put newspapers and a blanket on the seat under you.
Agaat was trembling. You had to reassure her, now she had to feel sure of herself, as sure as she could. Never mind, you said, we’ve caught lots of calves, you and I, haven’t we? Everything works in exactly the same way, you know it by heart. But it won’t be necessary, it’s like with the first calf, it comes slowly.
The drift was still flooded after the rains. Two of Dawid’s brother’s children stood on either side on the edges of the bridge, with the water washing around their ankles. They started laughing, high, long, merry yells when they saw how fast you were approaching. You put the car in a low gear and charged through at full revolutions. You could feel the silt under the wheels, you skidded slightly when you got out on the other side and took the curve. To and fro you corrected in the slippery road. The wipers left long muddy streaks on the windscreen. In the rear-view mirror you saw the children sopping with brown muddy water looking after you open-mouthed.
On the Suurbraak road the next set of contractions arrived. You pulled off the road. Looked at your watch. Twenty, twenty-five after the first? Suddenly you weren’t sure. When you could drive again, you started explaining to Agaat what she had to do if it came to the push. You had to concentrate hard on the road because it was wet, again and again you skidded.
Don’t be so pale, you said to Agaat, and don’t even think of puking. Your car-sickness you can keep for another day. You just pray that there isn’t something slow in front of us in the road. Now listen carefully. It’s for in case, it’s not to say . . .
Her face was tight. She looked straight in front of her in the road. You talked fast, emphasised the main points. Water. Breath. Push. Head. Out. Blood. Slippery. Careful. Slap. Yowl. Bind. Cut. Wrap. Bring to. Wash. Hitch-hike.
That was the easy scenario.
If the little head can’t get out, she has to take the scissors and cut, you said, to the back, do you understand? towards the shitter, she had to cut through the meat of your arse, so that he can get out. Saw if necessary, she mustn’t spare you. If he’s blue, she has to clean his nose and wipe out his drool, out from the back of his throat and from his tongue and blow breath into him over his nose and mouth until he makes a sound. As we do with the calves when they’re struggling. She can leave you, you said, even if you’re bleeding something terrible,