Chapter One
"Take me to the fuckin' hospital...I want this baby out now." I growl through gritted teeth to anyone that would listen but especially to the dark skinned young man holding my hand and rubbing my lower back as I leaned against his shoulder in the birthing pool.
"We are almost there, Lizzie. You're doing perfect...he'll be here soon." His voice was infuriatingly clam.
Looking into his dark black eyes as I clutch his hand tighter, "WE aren't doing anything...you arrogant little arse. I am. You did your part months ago." I accuse with venom in my voice.
Leaning gently forward he pushes the damp hair back from my pale skin. "I thought you had forgiven me for that, luvy." His question laced with meaning.
I didn't have time to reassure him of the truth as another contraction hit; even harder if that's possible. I closed my mind and sought another place free of this excruciating pain as my pale fingers intertwined with his stronger much darker coffee coloured ones. Coffee needs its cream, he would joke.
So how does a forty-five year old mum, widow and midwife end up with an ungodly swollen belly in a birthing pool with a twenty-one year old black university student? Not by accident; on his part anyway. Not that the black part had been any real issue. I was married for five years to a black man before he was killed in an accident at work, which is where Daryl's story began.
Since moving to London to be with my husband James, I had watched Daryl grow up. His mum lived a couple of doors down in the quiet and neatly kept council flats in which we and my in-laws resided. My husband's family had lived there since he was a little boy so it seemed idyllic to rent the flat next to theirs from an old family friend. Back then we had been a large family; my husband and I had a baby girl as well as my two almost adult sons from my first marriage in a three-bedroom flat. But by the time that my husband was killed both of my son's were well established in their own lives at university. It was just the three of us in this now seemingly large flat. Then suddenly it was just two.
Unless you have been through it you can never understand what it feels like to say good-bye one morning and never see someone again. Not that things were perfect mind you. Over the years, the sex that had once been great became routine and much less frequent. We fought like all couples; over money, over my kids, over how to raise our daughter. But overall ours was a comfortable life. I worked evening shift at the local hospital so that our daughter always had one parent at home with her. My husband worked in construction. James had been saying for years that it was a young man's game and that he should find another career, but he never seemed to do anything beyond talk as if he did not know how to make such a huge change.
Oh I forget the particulars of looks I suppose (they are important in stories such as this I guess). Average. That single word describes me. My height, my weight (although these days of course average is a size twelve not an eight). My 38C bust in proportion to my waist and hips. My hair was a non-descript mousy colour which was neither blond nor brunette but somewhere in-between. The only truly remarkable thing about me was my eyes. They were green...actual green...not hazel.
As for Daryl, he was raised by a single mother who received housing benefits. He lived in the flat on the other side of my in-laws. I first met him the summer that we arrived in the UK. It was the in thing then for kids to spit: a nasty little habit. Our first meeting was a long lecture from me, the nurse, on the hygienic reasons not to spit on the common sidewalk. He was of course a defiant sixteen year old and his response was a dirty look.
That evening his mother, who had sought asylum a decade before from a vicious war in Africa, stood outside our door; apologetic. She had made Daryl come as well. And I saw that despite the anger boiling in this young man he deeply loved and respected his mother, who had sacrificed so much for him. Esther stayed long after he had made his apologies and run off to some mischief with his friends. Her eyes were those of one much older than her thirty-some odd years. It was odd as she spoke of trying to raise a young black man in a foreign land without strong tribal traditions or customs to realise that this woman was actually younger than me. My heart ached for her because I too was a foreigner in this adopted country, but I had a husband and a good job to ease the way. Esther worked long hours in a factory packing and shipping expensive goods to rich customers; yet in her country she had once been the wife of a minister of health. From that evening Esther would often wave or stop by to chat if I took my daughter to the park.
I heard through her of the struggles to keep this bright young man focused upon his studies while his friends fell away to drugs, gangs and mischief. I actually encouraged my youngest son to fill the void a bit; befriending the young man, who was only eighteen months older than he was. But in the end, Esther's worries were unfounded. Daryl exceeded anyone's expectations; getting high marks in all his subjects. He secured a place in one of the better sixth forms as well. Actually my older son had gone there and encouraged him to apply as well. So during those couple of years before James' death, Daryl was at our home almost daily.
But then my world fell apart; in a single moment of carelessness. Even eighteen months later and at times in a seemingly different place, I cannot bring myself to describe the details. The days right after are nothing more than a blur. I held tightly to my three-year old daughter, but seemed to push away everyone else. My sons became angry at me, but I was lost somewhere in my own world of self-pity and unable to see that they too shared the pain of loss for a man that had been their friend and surrogate father. My in-laws, who had always been the close family that I had wanted, were also pushed away. Ironic, given that I always told James that I could never divorce him because I might lose his mother.
But then in the weeks after, Ellie and I fell into a routine of sorts. We woke up early each morning and ate breakfast together. Then I walked her to school before returning to my empty flat. It was in these few hours each day that I was able to express my tightly controlled emotions often crawling into bed to toss and turn restlessly until nightmares of being torn from James' strong arms would wake me. Then it was time to once again make the short walk to her school. Of course I was all smiles at the gate when I picked her up. At home, we did average things: reading, homework, watching telly and making tea. Then I would bath her; seeing so much of James in his daughter. We read and then she fell asleep and I got ready for work. Her Nan or uncle would stay with her during the night while I worked.
