Saturday Nights Have Changed MP3
Read by Aren Devlin
Outside, the weather’s turning. The air is fecund with possibility. The sky has rinsed itself clean, and the certainty of new life hangs around in gardens and parks where the soil is busy nurturing millions of tiny seeds and bulbs. They’ll burst open soon, in an orgy of very slow and satisfying activity.
Inside, he sits. And waits. And watches. There’s not much more he can do. Ironic, really, that their own slow and satisfying activity has led them to this room. It hums with the buzz of unidentifiable machines, tubes attached to walls and the swish of the curtain rails which flick back and forth as midwives pop in periodically to stick two fingers in and assess dilation.
It’s all quite fascinating, he thinks, although he wisely doesn’t tell his wife that.
Next to him, as if sensing his self-regard and self-centeredness, his wife grabs his hand and squeezes it – hard. It’d be quite romantic, if it wasn’t clear she urgently wants to punish him for putting her in this situation. It stops him from being a dick, for a moment, whilst he feels the blood drain from his hand.
*
Next to him, she can feel the blood draining too – just not from her hand.
Those sodding books really didn’t help at all, she thinks furiously. Neither did my sodding soothing music playlist all the tomes had solemnly said would calm me and ‘help the baby enter into a peaceful environment, thus making baby placid and zen.” Bollocks. No child is going to be chilled out whilst I’m yelling, she thinks – yelling – loudly. I should’ve just put Courtney Love and Hole on Spotify and be done with it.
*
Mainly in, but nearing the outside, the baby isn’t really thinking of much, apart from concentrating on making his way through a very, very small entrance with a very, very bright light at the end of it. He’s just had a nice nap cushioned inside that comfy, dimly-lit chamber, only to be rudely awakened by all this noise. And it’s cold, and those strip lights are really harsh to boot. It’s all very discombobulating. He’s been hearing both voices dimly now for quite a while, as he’s been transported around in his own personal soft play centre slash swimming pool with food on tap. Being outside with all ties cut loose, suddenly seems very much like a very bad idea.
*
The doctor ties an apron around herself. All the adults in the room, apart from the main act and special guest waiting just inside the wings, are now crowded round the foot of the bed. It’s like the front row of a particularly sweaty gig, just without the pints of weak lager. To be honest, she’d kill for a Heineken right now. The floor is definitely just as sticky, though. There’s a clink of metal, an instruction to push which is met with some more expletives and necessary straining, some animal roars and then a whoosh, as baby wriggles out head first into the waiting arms of the aproned medic. A bit like a mosh pit run by the NHS. Baby is safely out, and mother is safe. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not a given, and the medical staff know it.
*
A midwife hands him a massive pair of scissors, and he extricates himself from holding hands (with love this time, not loathing on her part) to perform the ceremonial cutting of the cord. It’s tough. And sinewy. And he feels anything but, having just witnessed the most elemental thing so far in his life. First cut doesn’t really cut it, a bit like Anne Boleyn’s head, but the second snip lops it off and there it is. There are now, distinctly, three of them. One of them new and a bit flaky on the top of his head, and the other two indubitably reborn, and definitely a bit flaky inside their heads.
Bloody, exhausted, triumphant. And hungry. A swift round of applause from the team, and several rounds of toast and tea later, and suddenly, the three of them are left on their own. The machines continue to hum in the background, but the trio only have eyes and ears for each other.
Sated, the baby falls asleep at the bar.
He thinks: Things really are never going to be the same. I have changed.
She thinks: Screw the books which say a breastfeeding mother shouldn’t drink. I’m definitely having a beer when I get home.
(c) Soraya Berry, 2022
Soraya Berry is a Scripturient, mother of four, former journalist, editor, writer, high school librarian. British-born Cambodian. UCL and KCL alumna and Associate of King's College London. Blue Peter Book Awards judge. Likes to laugh and make others laugh. Trying to find a room of one's own to write to my heart's content.
As an actor, Aren Devlin has appeared in a variety of productions which include Ponies (LAByrinth Theater Company), The Vagina Monologues & This is the Night Mail. Aren's literary work has featured on stage and screen. Her play Gleam debuted at London's Soho Theatre and her short films, most notably Repercussions and Typical, have been screened at international film festivals around the world. Currently, Aren is developing her first TV pilot.
Made me smile, ponder and reminisce all at once. Saturday nights have definitely changed! Thank you.
Posted by: Niamh Brooks | May 09, 2022 at 08:24 PM