April 22
The streets outside were as noisy as they always are in spring, when the town finally feels the warm sunshine after a long, dreary winter. The grey, clumpy snow that had once coated the high street was now being washed away by the occasional rain, and little streams slipped down the cobbles, glinting like silver ribbons as they made their way toward the back lane and then along Brampton Road to St.Marys church. Even the churchyard seemed unusually busy today.
A minibus pulled up and a small crowd spilled out: women in pastel dresses and matching scarvessoft blue, mint green, ivoryeach scarf tucked neatly against their cheeks. Men in crisp suits, ties straight, shoes polished to a shine, followed closely behind.
From a smaller car stepped out a woman, her face set and cautious.
Blythe! Youre doing this alone? called a voice as her husband rushed around the car, his breath puffing in the chilly air. Wait, Ill lend a hand.
Dont shout, love. Billys asleep. Please, dont raise your voice, Blythe whispered, her eyes wide with worry. She had never baptized a child before; this was her first time as a mother, and the thought of Billy screaming, as he had when they tried to bathe him a week ago, made her tremble. The nurse, Dr. Mary Thompson, a composed paediatrician with a nononsense air, entered the flat with a measured step, her coat trailing behind her.
Lay him down, Mary instructed.
What? I cant hear you, Blythe muttered, disoriented.
Put the baby down, stop shaking him like a rattle! Youre jostling his little bones! Mary snapped, her voice sharp as a kitchen knife.
Oh my God, Blythe gasped, her eyebrows knitting together as she stared at her husband.
He gave a wry smile.
Blythe, still feeling halfchild herself, had already given birth to Sams first son, an heir of sorts, yet neither of them seemed to know how to raise a child.
Just put him down, dear. Look at those chubby cheeksso plump! Look at those tiny hands! the nurse cooed, trying to lighten the mood.
Sam straightened, puffed out his chest, and replied with a mockgrandiose flourish, Our little gentleman looks just like his father!
Blythe caught herself thinking about Sams family nameGordonproudly mentioning the lineage.
Dr. Mary continued, Hes a bit of a headstrong one, isnt he? Maybe hell be a thinker one day. Why are you both standing there? Close the window, its getting drafty.
Sam hurried to shut the sash.
Whats happening to him? Blythe whispered, tears threatening to spill. Hes never acted like this before
What would an ordinary man do? Hed have a daughter, then it would be simple. But a boyespecially a headstrong one! she muttered, halfjoking, halffrustrated, while gently turning Billy, flexing his tiny legs and coaxing his cramped little arms into a more comfortable position.
Colic, Mary finally declared. Ill note a regimen. Stop shaking him, motherhell settle. Hes a healthy lad, just a bit fussy. Give him a pacifier, will you? Hes straining himself.
Were absolutely against pacifiers! Sam protested, stepping forward. Theyre pointless.
Against? Mary raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference. Mrs ah, Gordon, hand the infant to his father and head to the kitchen. Swaddle him properlythatll help.
Blythe shook her head, then, exhausted, handed Billy to Sam.
Fine then. Lets have a cup of tea, Mary said with a chuckle, and maybe a biscuit. Its a proper British day, after all!
She took Blythes arm and led her away.
Sam, cradling his son, lingered by the window, coaxing Billy to calm down.
The kitchen was cool, the scent of freshly brewed tea filling the room.
Tea kettle, sugarlets make a brew, perhaps a scone as well, Mary mused, eyeing the pantry.
Blythe set out two teacups, unaware of how informal the medical staff could be.
What do you mean informal? Mary asked.
Blythe shivered, feeling the first tremors of a panic attack.
Its just we havent been scolded, we havent been taught anything else, weve just been human, she shrugged. Working as a paediatrician must be wonderfulknowing the cures for everything, never fearing.
Mary smiled, remembering her own early days as a mother, despite her medical training.
Books are fine, thank God, everyone can read now. If the internet cant help, then we look to the doctor. Problems are universal. Youre a responsible motheryour thermometer is in the bath, your coat is spotless, the baby looks wellcared for. Have a cup of tea while theres time. Drink it, Mary said, handing over a steaming cup she seemed to have conjured from nowhere. Youre just frightened, thats all. If you need to shout, go ahead. Shout? Only if you want everything to be exactly as you imagined, she added with a wry smile.
No, please, Blythe whimpered, then began to sob.
Whats wrong? Mary asked, alarmed.
Im tired. I want to sleep. Billy eats a lot, hates wet nappies, and Im running out of strength Blythe hiccuped, her lips trembling. Days, weeks, months, even my own name feels distant. Everything is a fog. I cant go on, you understand? I have exams, three more to pass, and I cant I dont want anything anymore
Mary paused, thoughtful, tapping on her tablet.
Any help at home? Relatives? she inquired.
There are inlaws, but theyre far away, cant come. My parents opposed our marriage, opposed Billy they eventually liked the grandchild, but my mother said it was too soon, that we should sort our university life first. We fell out, she refused to help. I feel its all my fault, Blythe said, sipping tea, eyes closed.
Your fault? You became a mother. What did the heavens send you but a cheeky little lad? Yes, youre a bit heavier nowfourpointsomething kilograms, Mary joked, wiggling her nose. Billy weighs four kilos, six hundred grams.
Exactly! Thats why Im embarrassed, isnt it? Mary winked. You need to eat. Listenyour husbands shouting can wait. Maybe you dont need the pacifier Eat, then rest. Your son will be tired from all that crying, and you too. Ill leave you a notekeep the chair in sight, do some massagedont stress. Everything will settle, child. All will be well!
Mary patted Blythes slender shoulder and left.
Blythe, as if the world might collapse, wolfed down a meatball, washed it with a teainfused apple puréeSam had bought a homemade jam from the marketand flopped onto the small settee in the kitchen. She tried to pull a blanket over herself, but her strength had fled. She drifted off almost immediately.
It feels as if it were only yesterday.
Now, weeks later, Blythe stood in a creamcoloured dress and lowheeled shoes, holding Billy in her arms outside a modest cottage next to St.Marys. Today he would be christened, and her nerves were a bundle of knotted strings.
Come on, love! Lets get him inside. Oh, my sweet boy! Sam cooed, marching confidently toward the gathering guests.
Soon they would enter the little house, the ceremony would begin, Billy would hiccup a few times, then his blue eyes would widen at the painted saints on the ceiling, his gaze meeting the holy images as if seeing a wonder for the first time. The godmotherBlythes close friend, still a youngsterwould give a shy nod.
Billys a sturdy little nut! she whispered to Blythe. Well done, both of you.
Dr. Mary Thompson entered the churchyard through the wroughtiron gate, crossed herself.
Unlike the man nearby in a battered cap and hoodie, though also in a suit, she knew that sometimes only a higher poweror whatever you call itcould lend a hand.
Sir, could you please remove your cap? Its a place of reverence, Mary suggested politely.
The man grudgingly lifted his cap, revealing a bald scalp and a few wispy hairs. Mary shook her head disapprovinglyno more traditions, she thought.
Thank you, the man muttered, joining Mary in watching the couples infant being blessed.
The baptism is lovely, the couple looks beautiful, the child is wonderful! Mary praised, not approaching Blythe, perhaps because Blythe would not remember her anyway.
The baptism is just a ceremony. The child is being tormented! the man sneered.
You dont understand, sir nothing Mary replied, shaking her head.
Misha, we have to baptise him. I feel everything will settle, and Sam will recover! she shouted, desperation in her voice.
MishaMichael, a structural engineer who loved microgreens and weekend fishinghad once celebrated the birth of his own son, Harry, with great joy. He often joked about becoming a dad, dreaming of teaching Harry horseriding, chopping firewood, and the like.
Then, in the midst of a cheerful gathering, a call came from the maternity ward.
Critical condition. Low chance of survival. That happens sometimes the nurse said.
What? Michael whispered into the phone, looking at his smiling friends, collapsing onto a stool. I didnt catch that
He couldnt fathom how his wife, a paediatrician, could have a newborn develop a severe infection so early in life. The thought that his son might die before his first birthday felt monstrous.
There were hospitals, medicines, a needle in little Harrys head, tears from Mary, Michaels stubbornness, a heated argument with their friend Ian, a senior surgeon.
Tell me the truth, Ian! Whos to blame? Whos responsible? Michael slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing through the wards brass cabinets.
Ian, ever the pragmatist, sighed. Michael, it doesnt matter now. Theyll recover, well discharge Mary and Harry, youll need to buy groceries, feed them both. Lets focus on the basics.
Youre always at work. Im surprised youre sober! Michael snapped. Even pigs get fed, you know. And my my! He jabbed toward the door where the incubator held his son. If even a single hair is wrong
He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled.
Since that day Ian never visited Michaels house for celebrations, never joined trips to the county lake, his friendship with Michael waned.
Michael and Mary were discharged home. Michael whisked them in a taxi, lifted them into their flat, which was immaculatesterile enough for surgery.
Misha my love, I love you. I love Harry too, Mary sobbed, kissing Michael.
Harry began to cry, was fed, bathed, rocked, and it seemed the nightmare had passed.
But a week later his temperature spiked again, a rash appeared.
Its a weak immune system. He needs a hospital, the visiting doctor declared. Mary, you know this, anything can happen. Why are you crying, dear? Weve handled worse.
Mary, trembling, heard the word rag as if it struck her cheek, her nerves raw, her tears spilling. She felt helpless, her mind foggy, as if covered in mildew.
Okay, well be ready in ten minutes, the doctor said calmly. Michael, help me with Harry.
She asked for help because she could do nothing alone. She was a doctor, yet her own child was ill.
From the gloom of the ward emerged Vera, a cleaning staff member who had grown up in a farming village, where her mother birthed child after child. She had learned to nurture, to rock, to sing.
The buildingbrick, dark, oppressiveloomed over the childrens cries. Veras voice cut through the silence.
Ah, what a lovely little one! He cries like an opera singer! she giggled, passing the hallway.
Veras presence was different from Marys: she didnt soothe with platitudes, she simply existed, calm, confident that Harry would be fine.
She told Mary, I think hell become a football fan. Imagine the roar when he cheers!
That odd comment made Mary freeze, but also made her realise that her sons future stretched far beyond the sterile ward.
She imagined Harry, grown, shoulders broad from gymnastics, sitting in the stands, shouting at the match, his voice echoing to the goalkeeper.
Mary finally felt a sliver of peace.
Im just tired of being scared, she told Michael later, his brow furrowing. He squeezed her hand, then kissed her forehead.
Mary, youre a doctor, you can handle this, the senior nurse shouted, but the couple ignored her.
Vera later convinced Mary that a christening would be simple and that an angel would watch over the child. Its not hardjust a splash of water, and an angelll be on his shoulder forever, she said cheerfully.
At first Mary hesitated, then agreed.
The baptism was intimateonly the closest friends, the godmother (Blythes friend), the godfather (Michaels mate). Michael, who had always been an atheist, watched anxiously as the priesta man with a shaggy bearddipped Harrys head into the holy water. Harry winced, then burst into tears, his tiny body shaking.
Michaels heart broke; he snatched Harry from the priests hands, cradling him, whispering, Its alright, love, Im here. He lifted his son and fled the church, clutching him tight.
The priest, bewildered, tried to intervene, but Michaels desperation was clear.
The Lord sees all, and an angel will watch over you, the priest murmured, patting Michaels shoulder.
The ceremony ended quietly; the guests ate, chatted, and eventually left.
Years later, when Harry was seven, he was walking home from school with a sandwich when a stray dog lunged. The animal, gaunt and angry from being chased by market men, snarled. Harry froze, sandwich in hand.
A firm hand landed on his shoulder.
Stay calm. Shell understand and go away, a mans voice said.
The dog, meeting the mans steady eyes, hesitated and trotted off, taking the sandwich with it.
Harry later recounted the story to his parents. It was an angel, Mum, Mary whispered. Michael, though skeptical, felt a flicker of belief.
Now, standing in the churchyard where Blythe and Sam will carry their child to the font, Mary smiled, thinking of the future that lay ahead for both families. Everything would be alright.
She adjusted her scarf, stepped onto the cobbled lane, the sunlight sparkling on the nearby stream, the world washed clean for the ceremony of spring.
A man in a cap, now without it, walked the same path toward the registry office, where couples queued for marriage. Both stopped, watching the joyous couples and the old stone building with its modern plastic windows and plaster columns.
I may never see his wedding, Mary murmured.
Whats that? the man replied gruffly.
Honestly, I have a sonfine, hardworking, but he refuses to settle down. Its terrible to live alone, she explained.
Ah, these days, work comes first, family later, the man scoffed. My son thinks career is priority. Theyre all stuck in juvenile mindsets.
Building! Mary snapped, offended by the word, then softened as she saw a brighteyed bride in freckles, beaming. Theyre building houses, not families. My son builds houses, but love is a different sort of construction. Hes lost his compass.
She stared defiantly at the capwearer.
Its all rush for women to marry; men can take their time. Im lucky I found my own dragonflywe live, we try, love endures, he said, his hair glinting under the winter sun.
We dont trust love any more, do we? Mary asked wistfully. Perhaps the young have forgotten how to love.
Nonsense! Theyll come around, the man replied, his voice booming, If youll call the policeI’ll call them all!
Young onlookers turned, Marys cheeks flushed.
Mum, Dadwhat are you doing? The ceremonys about to start! Get married! shouted Harry from behind, holding a ring hed found.
Its all a bit absurd, he added, laughing.
The day rolled on, celebrating an ordinaryAnd as the church bell rang, I slipped my hand into Sams, feeling the future settle like warm tea in my palm.
