Last Tango in Toulouse by Mary Moody Read Free Book Online Page A

with the mammoth task of keeping ahead of the washing. I wondered how it would be when there was also a newbaby to wash clothes for, and cloth nappies rather than disposable. It was a totally daunting prospect.

    In the wee small hours of Monday morning Miriam wakes me with the brisk words ‘It’s on’. Obviously, this baby isn’t going to wait for the midwife to pick up her delivery gear. We gather the small boys from their beds and, because it’s late June and freezing cold, layer them with jumpers and socks, dressing gowns and slippers. Initially, they seem bright and cooperative, joining in with the spirit and excitement of the occasion. We have to throw buckets of tepid water over the ice-covered car wind-screens before we can reverse up the driveway. In spite of our planning it’s all rather chaotic, strapping cold and irritable children into car seats. Even the dog wants to come, so we have to stop the car and dash back to lock him inside the house. Miriam can barely sit on the passenger seat for the strength of the contractions and she is leaking fluid everywhere.
    The hospital is dark and locked up. We have to find a buzzer to alert the nurses in the casualty department. En masse we troop along dark lonely corridors to the delivery rooms. There is a woman in the last stages of labour in the first room we pass, groaning and panting and reminding us how intense childbirth is. The delivery rooms are plain but adequate, even though the building is very old. There’s a large comfortable room with a bed and several lounge chairs, and a bathroom with a deep, welcoming bath. Miriam wastes no time in jumping into the hot water with Rick massaging her back. With her last two births she spent most of the labour in a large portable watertub providedby the midwife – it was big enough for Rick to get in and support her – although she always hopped out at the last moment when it was time to push. This bath is a conventional size, but Miriam finds the hot water comforting. We have phoned Miriam’s close friend, Sandra, who is coming to help, and also my son Aaron’s wife, Lorna. Miriam helped when Lorna was giving birth to their daughter Ella six months previously, and the two women have developed a close bond.
    I also phone David in Leura so he can come quickly to Bathurst and take the small boys home. Unlike homebirth, where siblings wander in and out of the birthing room, having them in the hospital delivery room doesn’t feel right. They quickly become bored and restless, and I am torn between trying to keep them amused and supporting Miriam in her labour. After the boys have been whisked away by their grandfather the atmosphere in the room becomes more relaxed and convivial. We share jokes between contractions and apply hot towels to Miriam’s belly and back when the pains restart. We’re a well-organised little team of five, so the hospital midwives leave us to get on with the job, doing just routine checking of foetal heartbeats as required.
    Not long after daybreak Miriam starts to make the guttural sound in her throat that tells me she is ready to start pushing. I have been with her every step of the way through all of her births, a role that I treasure as a mother and grandmother. When her first son was born at their little house in Canberra, the midwife encouraged me to ‘catch the baby’ as it emerged, so that I could hand this precious new life to his mother. It was one of the most important moments of my life and my joy at each impending birth hasn’t diminished.
    Now I gaze from the hospital window at the new day. The rooms are on the second floor and the view to the surrounding countryside and hills is breathtaking. Even more so because of the sparkling white frost that has blanketed the entire landscape. I motion to Miriam, between contractions, suggesting that she have a quick look at this magical day that is about to herald the arrival of a new