The Two Lives of Lydia Bird - Josie Silver Page 0,102

headboard. Her knuckles stand out stark white against her skin.

‘Can you hold on?’ I ask, baring my teeth, bracing for the impact of the answer I know is coming.

‘No!’ she half screams, her face the colour of boiled beetroot with effort. I don’t think about it; I move around to the other end of the bed.

‘I’m going to have to see if I can see anything, Elle,’ I say, sounding far braver than I feel.

‘Okay.’ She’s crying. ‘Please don’t let my baby die, Lyds. Don’t let the cord choke her or anything.’

I can barely see through the film of tears, but, dear God, I can see enough to know that the ambulance crew aren’t going to be here in time.

‘I think I can see the top of the baby’s head,’ I tell her, moving closer, trying to remember any birth I’ve ever seen or read about. Ariel isn’t cutting it.

‘Listen to me, Elle,’ I say, looking up at her between her knees. ‘When you’re ready, you need to push until I say stop, and then for God’s sake stop so I can check the cord isn’t around her neck, okay?’

She’s terrified, but she nods, and in seconds the pain is on her again.

‘Good,’ I say. ‘Good girl. Now push.’

I watch, breathless, as the baby’s small face slowly, miraculously appears, scrunched up and puce. ‘Now stop,’ I say loudly, Elle’s knee braced against my shoulder. I gently feel around the baby’s neck and thank every God there is that the cord isn’t there. ‘It’s okay, she’s okay,’ I say, nodding vigorously. ‘You can push again when you’re ready.’

She nods vigorously too, and then she’s screaming, and in the distance I can hear sirens.

‘Come on, Elle, we’ve got this,’ I half shout, my hands on the baby’s head as her shoulders start to emerge. I help as much as I can, cupping the tiny body, manoeuvring, encouraging Elle for one last push to press the slippery, gunky, wondrous child from her body into my hands.

‘Don’t drop her, will you?’ she pants.

‘I won’t let go, Elle. I promise.’ It isn’t lost on me that it’s the second time I’ve made solemn promises in recent hours. I can’t process it, it’s too much. Then all thoughts but here and now are pushed aside as a brand-new life takes her first lungful of air in my hands. ‘She’s here, she’s here! We bloody did it, I told you we could!’ I’m laughing and crying with sheer relief, we both are, and I drag a sheet from the bed and wrap it around the mewling, wriggling baby. I pass her over and Elle cradles her precious child in her arms.

‘The ambulance is coming, I can hear it,’ I say quietly.

‘Thank you,’ she says, her mouth trembling.

I lean in and hug her, careful not to squash my new niece. The sirens get louder and then stop, here at last.

‘You were brilliant,’ I say.

‘You too,’ she whispers, still sobbing, sagging with relief.

‘I’ve never delivered a baby before,’ I say, as if this is news to either of us.

‘You’re forgetting Ariel,’ she says.

‘True. She didn’t make half as much of a song and dance about it, either.’

‘Hello?’ A male voice calls and we can hear boots on the stairs.

‘In here,’ I shout back.

Two medics dressed in dark green appear in the room, a balding man and a tall woman with a blonde ponytail, both standing at the foot of the bed assessing the situation as they introduce themselves as Andy and Louise.

‘Looks like you’ve had a busy morning, love,’ Andy says, grinning at Elle.

‘She’s a girl,’ Elle smiles.

‘Okay if I check her over?’ Louise perches next to Elle and carefully examines the baby. I step away to let them do their thing, watching as the cord is clamped and then cut.

‘Could I ask you to hold the baby while we check Elle?’ Louise asks.

I’m relieved someone else is in charge as she places the swaddled child in my arms. I take her over to the window as the medics tend to Elle, their words washing over me, background noise as I study this new human. I stroke my fingertip down the brow of her tiny nose, featherlight, across the down of her cheeks. My niece. She isn’t purple any more, more of a beautiful peach, downy and still a little blood-smeared. Her mouth puckers when I touch her bottom lip, instinctive, full-on Maggie Simpson suction. How clever you are already, I think, knowing how to survive. I hope you