The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,101

hard enough to make her teeth rattle. ‘Three weeks.’

‘That’s okay,’ I tell her, because the ambulance dispatcher assured me it should be when I asked a few minutes ago. ‘Babies are born safely this early all the time.’

Elle doesn’t answer; she can’t because her body is gripped by what must be another contraction, twisting her up with pain, making her moan like a wounded animal. It subsides slowly and I move to sit beside her, my arm around her shoulders as she slumps against me.

‘How long between contractions?’ I ask, even though I don’t really know what the answer should be. ‘Roughly?’

‘Not enough,’ she breathes when she can. ‘Nowhere near enough.’

‘Okay,’ I say, rubbing her back. There’s blood on her legs, but I don’t say anything. ‘Shall we do some breathing exercises?’

Jesus, I hope she knows what to do because it’s a sure-fire fact I don’t. I wish I had taken more interest when she told me about the NCT classes she’d been to. That I hadn’t been so bloody self-absorbed. Thankfully, Elle nods and breathes in more deeply than she has since I arrived, exhaling on a long hiss.

‘You sound like a balloon going down,’ I say, and she half laughs, half cries.

‘I feel like a fucking balloon,’ she gulps, and we both laugh a bit, shaky, verging on hysterical. ‘What if the baby comes before the ambulance gets here?’ she says, more crying than laughing again.

‘Then we’ll cope,’ I say, with far more conviction than I feel. If that ambulance doesn’t get here before this baby does, I’m going to have a breakdown. I can’t even watch Casualty.

‘We won’t,’ she says, fearful. ‘What if something happens to my baby and no one’s here to help?’ I notice her breath starting to shallow and within seconds her face contorts with agony again. By my reckoning, that’s two minutes. Definitely not three. Two is a frighteningly small number.

‘I’m here. I’ll help you. They’ll get here, Elle, but if they don’t, we can do this together, okay?’

She stares into my eyes and I look right back, unflinching, cast iron. ‘Okay?’

She swallows. ‘It’s too late to get to the hospital.’

‘So we won’t go,’ I say.

‘David isn’t here,’ she says, and her face crumples.

‘No,’ I say. ‘He isn’t. I am though and I won’t leave your side until he is, okay? I called him, he’s on his way.’

She squeezes my hand and I look down at her pale, tight grip. Elle and I used to hold hands when we were scared as kids: camping in the back garden at five years old; when Dad appeared out of the blue on my ninth birthday; at our grandfather’s funeral when I’d just turned twenty-one. It’s as instinctive as it is comforting. I hope she draws the same strength from it as I do.

‘Thank you,’ she says. Her lip wobbles and she sounds about ten years old, and I realize that, right now, I need to step up and be the big sister.

‘I think you should probably lie down,’ I say.

‘I don’t know if I can.’

‘Yes, you can,’ I say, firm. ‘Come on, let’s do it right now before the next contraction comes.’

Together we manage to shuffle her up against the pillows just in time, and she draws her knees in and starts to puff. Christ, where’s that ambulance? There’s fresh blood streaked on the sheets where she’s moved. I try not to think about it; I don’t know if it’s normal or not.

‘I’m sorry to do this to you today of all days,’ she sobs out, breathless with pain.

A fleeting image of my wedding scrolls in front of my eyes: my seafoam dress, Freddie’s broad smile, Elle and Mum walking me down the aisle. ‘Don’t be daft,’ I say. ‘I was at a loose end.’

Elle and I share an age-old look that doesn’t need any words, and then she screws her eyes closed and her hands clench into fists as a new contraction rolls over her. I’ve never felt so helpless. I reach for her hand when she opens her eyes again.

‘I wouldn’t,’ she warns. ‘I can’t guarantee I won’t break your fingers.’

I laugh because we’ve heard Mum’s labour story so many times. ‘I wouldn’t want you to ruin my chances of being a champion surfer,’ I say, not letting go.

‘Jesus, Lydia, it’s happening now, I think I can feel the baby coming,’ Elle gasps. ‘I need to push,’ she says, urgent, one protective arm around her bump, the other behind her head gripping the