Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [48]
Clare takes my hand and rests it on her belly, and I feel a sudden movement, like ripples underwater, beneath the floral print of her dress. ‘He’s kicking,’ she whispers. ‘Or she. The baby’s fine, just mad at me for giving him such a jolt.’
‘Thank goodness for that. You scared me, Clare,’ I tell her. ‘I thought you were really hurt!’
She looks at me, a smile twitching her lips. ‘I think I’ll be black and blue in the morning, and I do feel kind of hazy about what happened, but I guess I’ll live.’
‘Are you OK to stand up?’ I ask, and with an effort and some help from me, Clare gets to her feet slowly.
‘No bones broken,’ she says a little shakily.
‘It was a nasty fall,’ I say. ‘You gave me a fright. You’ll be fine now, though. And Dad’ll know what to do, when he gets back.’
Clare leans heavily on the landing banister, looking kind of vague. ‘That’s right. Chris will be back soon,’ she says. ‘Where did you say he’s gone?’
‘He’s in Galway,’ I tell her. ‘With Holly, remember? They’ll be back by teatime. Dad can run you to the doctor’s, get you checked out.’
‘Ah, sure,’ Clare says. ‘I’ll be fine, just fine. They’ll be back any minute.’
But it’s barely lunchtime, and Dad and Holly won’t be back for hours. I make a decision to ring him on the mobile he keeps in the car for emergencies. This is one, loud and clear, and I’m way out of my depth.
We take the stairs one at a time, side by side, arms round each other for support. Halfway down, Clare stops, her face creased with pain. Her breathing seems shallow, and her eyes flutter closed.
‘Clare?’ I panic. ‘Clare, what’s wrong?’
‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ she says, her face relaxed again. ‘Just a little twinge, so.’
We go on, step by step, until we reach the bottom, and I lead Clare across to the kitchen table, still littered with scraps of fabric and threads. She falls into a chair, and I grab a clean tea towel and dip it in warm water to clean up her cut. When I turn, though, she’s doubled up in pain, her face grey.
‘What is it?’ I demand. ‘Clare, what’s hurting? Shall I ring a doctor?’
Clare straightens up, taking a deep breath in. ‘I think you should.’ She frowns. ‘Call Chris, or the doctor. I’m not sure I’m feeling too great.’
I try not to panic, but my fingers tremble as I grab the phone off the wall and punch out Dad’s mobile number from the list of useful numbers taped to the wall. I hold the receiver to my ear, but there’s no dialling tone, nothing at all. I must have dialled it wrong, or perhaps Dad has his mobile switched off.
I try the doctor’s number, more carefully this time, but again the line is dead. I put the receiver down and pick it up again, rattle the cradle, shake the receiver. The whole phone is dead, totally.
‘Clare, it’s not working,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘The line is dead. The storm must have knocked the phone out too. What shall I do?’
Clare is hunched over again, her whole body rigid with a new wave of pain. I reach out, grab her hand and squeeze it tight, and she squeezes back, so hard it hurts.
Then the moment has passed and she looks up, her face relaxed again, eyes soft and heavy. ‘I think I’d like to lie down,’ she says. ‘I’m so tired. I’ll just close my eyes, and everything will be better…’
A memory surfaces, something from a long-ago school playtime when a boy called Roddy Mitchell fell over and banged his head, hard. The teachers called an ambulance and sat talking to him, keeping him awake, refusing to let him drift off into sleep. ‘He’s concussed,’ our teacher had explained. ‘Sleep is the very last thing he needs right now.’
‘No, sleeping’s not a good idea,’ I say to Clare. ‘Not after that fall. You lost consciousness for a bit back there, and you could be concussed or something. I’m sure you’re supposed to stay awake, keep talking, until we can get you to a doctor.’
‘Oh yes, a doctor,’ Clare says, her voice dreamy, distant. ‘You’d better get a doctor. I think I’m in labour, Scarlett – the baby’s coming.’
The electricity’s gone, the phone line is dead and Clare is bruised, concussed and in labour at