TURBINE | KAPOHAU

Midway through her life, there was still one adventure she hadn’t tried. Yes, she’d done her OE, spending 14 bewildered months in Barcelona with a silent German grandmother. She’d had two careers, both absorbingly artsy, but when their edge of terror wore off, she’d had to leave. A third career ended when she had to renew her contract. The process went through a recruiting office with cheesy motivational posters, uncomfortably modern chairs, and an obligatory water glass. 

The interrogator, a woman half her age and twice her fashion sense, asked, ‘Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’ 

Outrageous question. She gave a fish’s answer. ‘Glub.’ Her second attempt was worse. ‘Why would I plan to leave? I love this job.’ 

Presumably her dream job went to some hand-biter already plotting to ditch their employer for some cushy Ministry career. Yay for them.  

A troubling question, though. Where do you see yourself in five years’ time? She should have seen that one coming. Normal people were strategic. They planned their careers, they studied how job interviews work.  

She had advanced on hope, will, and a vague magnetic drift towards her goals. She’d succeeded mainly because sooner or later, arts organisations and the people in them tended to implode. Then somebody would say, ‘Oh, there’s always her, she’s been around a while. Give her a call.’ 

But now she was back to casual work. Not a catastrophe; her husband’s latest venture had begun to turn a profit. Their forties stretched ahead of them. They might travel more. Do some home renovation. Acquire matching furniture. 

‘Let’s have a baby,’ she said. 

*

She’d always known that her husband saw children differently to her. It wasn’t just that he’d guided two hellion stepdaughters towards kindness and adulthood. Whereas she barely noticed random children, he always saw them. His voice would kindle with enthusiasm: ‘Weren’t that little girl’s pigtails so cute?’ Or, ‘Check out the smile on that kid with the ice-cream!’ 

Well, so? Few children could hold interesting conversations, she found. And babies were weird; distressingly squirmy and lacking in fur. Her friends wouldn’t ask her to babysit unless they were desperate. She was the kind of woman that probably wouldn’t drop a baby, but she might well trip over one. 

But her husband was a natural parent. He was amazingly patient with even his tiniest and most cack-handed piano students. His kindness would supply anything she lacked. He’d never had his own children; she could remedy this with the most generous, full-hearted gift she had in her power to give. 

Though really? She was 43. The odds of fulfilling anyone’s dreams were miniscule. 

A month after removing her IUD, she found herself strangely breathless while playing in a band street-march. Funny, too, how unpleasant both wine and coffee tasted all of a sudden.  

She bought a pregnancy test. 

Uh-oh! 

*

Two months before her due date, they threw a party. One last hurrah before buckling down to serious nesting and the altered state of birth, after which they’d probably never see their friends or utter a complete sentence for 18 years. 

Corks were popping for a beautiful summer’s evening of talk and laughter. Their table was loaded with love and celebration. 

‘Hey, I didn’t realise Braxton-Hicks contractions were so intense,’ she commented, laying out more Thai-grilled chicken wings and Mexican salsa. ‘Or so early!’ 

‘You think!? Have you timed them?’ said a friend, mother of two. ‘Sit down. I’m going to start counting.’ 

When they called the midwife to report that her contractions were five minutes apart, she was told to get in a warm bath to see if they’d stop. Her girlfriends sat around the bathtub drinking wine; a female flocking of nervous joy. What a party! 

‘Actually, I haven’t felt him move,’ she said, half an hour later. 

‘Pack an overnight bag, I’ll meet you at the hospital,’ said the midwife. 

So much for home birth. 

Seven months of waiting to meet their son, then he was born and… who was this stranger in the crib? A shrivelled doll with a premie’s plastic-shiny red skin, that only a mother could love. But could she? Conscientiously she cleaned, cuddled, pumped milk. Then one day as she was laying him back in his incubator, somebody hurrying past jolted her so she nearly lost her grip.  

Ah, there it was: maternal instinct. Its fierce tide raised her to the height of an all-smiting goddess. Nothing threatens our son and lives! 

A year passed. There was so much to talk about! Glub! he said, meaning that he’d grow up to be like his big brother, the cat. Yight! Yes, Buzzy Bee turns off the streetlights at dawn. Muh! Indeed, the mushroom-print cushion is more wondrous than the floral one. Good call, chuck. 

She walked with him tucked against her chest and he taught her that trucks and fire engines weren’t as interesting as other parents claimed. Exhaust pipes, though. Manhole covers! Check them out. Dat! (Pointing at a Waterworks toby). Yes, that too. 

Imperfect mirror, his tantrums reminded her of her own long-buried fears. Noise, uncertainty, change, crowds. Her own childhood made sense, at last. Other people made sense. Glub! 

Who was he? A magician. Wordlessly, he slowed her fleeing-arrow life to curve round this new thing: odd, precious, helpless, unknowable, loved.