Are You My Mother? by Louise Voss Read Free Book Online Page A

were V-shaped too, fitting neatly and strikingly together in a pattern that reminded me of the parquet floor in our living room.
    Dad loved getting this kind of job. He was quite new to fashion photography, as most of his work up to that point had been for a local solicitors' firm, by whom he was employed to photograph skid marks on roads after car crashes, scars left by industrial accidents or slipshod surgeons, or - his least favourite - uneven bits of pavement over which old ladies stumbled and injured themselves. This was all supplemental income for his other business, of selling ‘make your own camera’ kits. He had designed two models, the Victortec and the Victortilt, and a factory in Birmingham manufactured the parts, which he then sold in kit form to camera enthusiasts via small ads in the back of The Amateur Photographer . Unfortunately there were not an awful lot of people with the time or the inclination to make their own cameras, so Dad was beginning to concentrate more on the freelance photography work. His regular appointments with cracked pavements helped pay the bills, but to be in a real studio with a real model was his idea of heaven.
    ‘ It’s just so much more creative,' he said to Mum on many occasions.
    That particular shoot had ended at six o'clock. I was weary from sitting still for so long, and my eyes were scratchy from the bright lights and the flash gun; but I felt so proud of my father and his important, glamorous job.
    I was bursting full of stories to tell Mum about the day, but we had returned to a cold, empty house and a note shoved through the letterbox from Mrs. Polkinghorne, the arthritis-ridden elderly lady next door:
    'Barbara in Labour, ambulance has took her. I'd of gone too only me knees is playing up again. She says please hurry up when you get back. Florence .'
    The next thing I remember was rushing down long hospital corridors, the thwack of the thick plastic doors echoing behind us, and my hand sweatily clutching Dad's. Dad was in such a state that he had forgotten the original plan, which was to leave me next door at Mrs. P’s, eating Battenburg and listening to descriptions of her operations for the duration of the labour; and just to present me with my new brother or sister once he/she was a neatly-swaddled fait accompli . There was no way that I was going to remind him. This was a momentous day, and I didn't want to miss a second of it. Dad had, however, remembered to bring his camera, and its heavy black case bumped against my side as we ran.
    We were lost in the hospital labyrinth within minutes, Dad too phased to read the signposts, and me too young and flustered to follow them. We began frantically asking everyone who passed by: 'Maternity?' 'Maternity?' 'Maternity?' until a porter who looked exactly like my headmaster frowningly directed us, and we set off again at a trot, too fast for my short legs. I remember the swish swish of my marigold-yellow elephant cords rubbing together at the thighs, and the mingled tones of exasperation and excitement in Dad’s voice: 'Keep up, Emma! The baby could be here at any moment!'
    But by the time we reached the Maternity wing, Stella had already arrived, and was lying pinkly and complacently alone in a huge bassinet next to an empty bed. Dad actually grabbed hold of a nurse, leaving a small crumpled damp mark on the sleeve of her immaculate uniform.
    'Where is she? Where's my wife - Barbara Victor? My wife. Is everything all right?'
    The nurse fixed a smile to her face, although far less enthusiastically than the leotard model had earlier, and gave Dad a look that even I could easily interpret as 'oh no, another panicking daddy. That's all I need.'
    'Everything's fine, Mr. Victor. Mother and baby are both doing well. We just had to pop your wife up to theatre for a few stitches, that's all. Nothing to worry about, she'll be back in a tick. Would you like to see your daughter?'
    I had already identified Baby Victor, as confirmed