The Christmas Surprise
Page 20
As they went on through the night, still with no sign of the back-up team – their jeep had broken down on the way and there was no prospect of replacement parts, it seemed – everyone dozed in broken jerks here and there whilst Stephen brewed tea and more villagers arrived, their faces grave, with offerings of food.
By three o’clock, Rosie felt incredibly filthy and delirious with tiredness; she couldn’t imagine what Célestine was going through. Célestine’s eyes flickered occasionally; she was in a strange world of her own, a world of animal noises and deep disconnection. She could not answer a basic question. And she was not dilating, not properly.
The group doctor was asking Rosie with some urgency if she could possibly perform a section, and she was telling him with absolute clarity that she could not, practically, morally, ethically or without some risk of killing both mother and child. The group doctor pointed out that she was likely to do that by doing nothing, and Rosie squeezed her eyes tight shut and wiped her grimy forehead and looked at Stephen, who looked back, neither of them knowing what was right and what they should do.
Eventually, twenty-four hours after Célestine had gone into labour, they heard the most welcome noise ever: the sound of a heavy four-wheel-drive car turning into the village. Rosie jumped up as the team thundered towards the hut, her heart pounding with relief, but as the three sober-looking people came in – two men, one local, one French, and a woman – one look at their faces told her everything she needed to know.
She offered to leave, let them perform their duties, but as she did so, Célestine roused briefly, made a little noise, and grasped Rosie’s sleeve with weak fingers. The doctor nodded and Rosie sat back down.
‘Hush,’ she said to the girl, mopping her brow gently, trying to bring her temperature down. The truck had ice, which she tried to feed Célestine, stroking her, cooing to her, using words that weren’t of any language but the international sound of one human being attempting to comfort another.
The team prepped as quickly as they were able, and one of the men approached with a gas mask, ready to administer a general anaesthetic. Célestine turned her face away, and Rosie, with gentle coaxing, attempted to get the mask on her. There was a bit of a muddle – a strangulated yell, an arm flailing out briefly, the French doctor swearing – then, suddenly, Célestine turned towards Rosie, looked at her once – a sharp, entirely clear, direct look that Rosie would never forget – and said huskily, very slowly, ‘Bébé … vive.’
Then slowly, almost happily, her eyes drooped and then closed, so that she looked for all the world like a baby going to sleep. She exhaled once, a long, ragged sound, and then, as they all froze watching, her grip on Rosie’s hand unfurled and she lay still.
Her mother, in the corner of the hut, sank to the floor with a howl. Faustine immediately went to take her out. As Rosie stood there, numb, the doctors continued as if nothing had happened.
‘You’re going to …’
They looked at her.
‘You can clear out now if you like; this will have to be quick,’ said one of them in broken English.
Rosie stumbled out of the hut, into the arms of an anxious, waiting Stephen.
‘What?’ he said, but she could only shake her head, too shocked to speak.
One of the children led them down a long path towards a waterfall, where the water tipped and spilled over boulders, frothing at the bottom. Neither of them said a word as they stripped down to their underwear and got into the water.
The swift current blasted off the sweat and the muck and woke Rosie out of her stupor. She let herself be completely consumed by the flow and the cleanliness. Finally, feeling cool for the first time since she’d arrived, she stood upright on two stones. Then she burst into tears.
Stephen came towards her.
‘Ssssh,’ he said, taking her in his arms, his chest glistening with spray. ‘You were magnificent! You did brilliantly!’
‘I couldn’t help her,’ said Rosie. ‘I couldn’t help her.’
‘Of course you did,’ he said in surprise. ‘You did everything right, Rosie. Everything. You kept her going until the medics got here.’
‘I shouldn’t have started labour,’ said Rosie. ‘I should have just waited.’
Stephen shook his head.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, she was already very sick,’ he said. ‘There’s no way she’d have lasted that long. No way. They would have been too late, Rosie.’
Rosie choked back tears.
‘She was only a child.’
‘It’s different here,’ said Stephen. ‘And I don’t mean different because it’s Africa. I mean because it’s deep bush. Deep in the country. You help where you can, you comfort where you can, and you don’t panic. And you didn’t panic. When the time came, you did everything right.’
Rosie was still coming to terms with what had happened. She had seen people die before, of course, in A&E. From horrible, pointless things. But not from something so preventable.
Stephen held her tightly close to him.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and get some sleep. You did your best darling. That’s all you can do. I was very proud of you.’
She looked up at him and swallowed.
‘I just want …’
‘I know,’ said Stephen. ‘I know. You want everything to be fixed, you want everything to be fine. But that’s the first lesson you learn out here: you do what you can.’
He swallowed.
‘I learned the hard way too.’
They picked their way back up the path to the little cluster of huts in the sandy clearing. As they grew closer, they heard it. At first Rosie thought it wasn’t possible. Or that it was somebody else’s; the village was full of children. But as they approached the dingy little hut, it became clear from the huge crowd of people outside it that the mewling noise was coming from within.
Faustine beckoned them over. Her face, with its clear skin and fine dark brows, was an exhausted mask. Rosie noticed the smell of blood immediately and looked up, full of foreboding.
Faustine shrugged.
‘Without you they would both have died.’
Rosie gasped. Already Célestine’s body had been removed. Sand was being swept across the floor. Sitting in the corner was a woman Rosie had not seen before; a heavy-set older woman who nonetheless was breastfeeding a tiny infant. And there too, with the same numb look of shock they had worn for the last two days, were Célestine’s parents: stoic, resigned, as if a life in which your children died before you was absolutely normal. Rosie felt her heart begin to break.
By three o’clock, Rosie felt incredibly filthy and delirious with tiredness; she couldn’t imagine what Célestine was going through. Célestine’s eyes flickered occasionally; she was in a strange world of her own, a world of animal noises and deep disconnection. She could not answer a basic question. And she was not dilating, not properly.
The group doctor was asking Rosie with some urgency if she could possibly perform a section, and she was telling him with absolute clarity that she could not, practically, morally, ethically or without some risk of killing both mother and child. The group doctor pointed out that she was likely to do that by doing nothing, and Rosie squeezed her eyes tight shut and wiped her grimy forehead and looked at Stephen, who looked back, neither of them knowing what was right and what they should do.
Eventually, twenty-four hours after Célestine had gone into labour, they heard the most welcome noise ever: the sound of a heavy four-wheel-drive car turning into the village. Rosie jumped up as the team thundered towards the hut, her heart pounding with relief, but as the three sober-looking people came in – two men, one local, one French, and a woman – one look at their faces told her everything she needed to know.
She offered to leave, let them perform their duties, but as she did so, Célestine roused briefly, made a little noise, and grasped Rosie’s sleeve with weak fingers. The doctor nodded and Rosie sat back down.
‘Hush,’ she said to the girl, mopping her brow gently, trying to bring her temperature down. The truck had ice, which she tried to feed Célestine, stroking her, cooing to her, using words that weren’t of any language but the international sound of one human being attempting to comfort another.
The team prepped as quickly as they were able, and one of the men approached with a gas mask, ready to administer a general anaesthetic. Célestine turned her face away, and Rosie, with gentle coaxing, attempted to get the mask on her. There was a bit of a muddle – a strangulated yell, an arm flailing out briefly, the French doctor swearing – then, suddenly, Célestine turned towards Rosie, looked at her once – a sharp, entirely clear, direct look that Rosie would never forget – and said huskily, very slowly, ‘Bébé … vive.’
Then slowly, almost happily, her eyes drooped and then closed, so that she looked for all the world like a baby going to sleep. She exhaled once, a long, ragged sound, and then, as they all froze watching, her grip on Rosie’s hand unfurled and she lay still.
Her mother, in the corner of the hut, sank to the floor with a howl. Faustine immediately went to take her out. As Rosie stood there, numb, the doctors continued as if nothing had happened.
‘You’re going to …’
They looked at her.
‘You can clear out now if you like; this will have to be quick,’ said one of them in broken English.
Rosie stumbled out of the hut, into the arms of an anxious, waiting Stephen.
‘What?’ he said, but she could only shake her head, too shocked to speak.
One of the children led them down a long path towards a waterfall, where the water tipped and spilled over boulders, frothing at the bottom. Neither of them said a word as they stripped down to their underwear and got into the water.
The swift current blasted off the sweat and the muck and woke Rosie out of her stupor. She let herself be completely consumed by the flow and the cleanliness. Finally, feeling cool for the first time since she’d arrived, she stood upright on two stones. Then she burst into tears.
Stephen came towards her.
‘Ssssh,’ he said, taking her in his arms, his chest glistening with spray. ‘You were magnificent! You did brilliantly!’
‘I couldn’t help her,’ said Rosie. ‘I couldn’t help her.’
‘Of course you did,’ he said in surprise. ‘You did everything right, Rosie. Everything. You kept her going until the medics got here.’
‘I shouldn’t have started labour,’ said Rosie. ‘I should have just waited.’
Stephen shook his head.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, she was already very sick,’ he said. ‘There’s no way she’d have lasted that long. No way. They would have been too late, Rosie.’
Rosie choked back tears.
‘She was only a child.’
‘It’s different here,’ said Stephen. ‘And I don’t mean different because it’s Africa. I mean because it’s deep bush. Deep in the country. You help where you can, you comfort where you can, and you don’t panic. And you didn’t panic. When the time came, you did everything right.’
Rosie was still coming to terms with what had happened. She had seen people die before, of course, in A&E. From horrible, pointless things. But not from something so preventable.
Stephen held her tightly close to him.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and get some sleep. You did your best darling. That’s all you can do. I was very proud of you.’
She looked up at him and swallowed.
‘I just want …’
‘I know,’ said Stephen. ‘I know. You want everything to be fixed, you want everything to be fine. But that’s the first lesson you learn out here: you do what you can.’
He swallowed.
‘I learned the hard way too.’
They picked their way back up the path to the little cluster of huts in the sandy clearing. As they grew closer, they heard it. At first Rosie thought it wasn’t possible. Or that it was somebody else’s; the village was full of children. But as they approached the dingy little hut, it became clear from the huge crowd of people outside it that the mewling noise was coming from within.
Faustine beckoned them over. Her face, with its clear skin and fine dark brows, was an exhausted mask. Rosie noticed the smell of blood immediately and looked up, full of foreboding.
Faustine shrugged.
‘Without you they would both have died.’
Rosie gasped. Already Célestine’s body had been removed. Sand was being swept across the floor. Sitting in the corner was a woman Rosie had not seen before; a heavy-set older woman who nonetheless was breastfeeding a tiny infant. And there too, with the same numb look of shock they had worn for the last two days, were Célestine’s parents: stoic, resigned, as if a life in which your children died before you was absolutely normal. Rosie felt her heart begin to break.
