A Distant View of Everything

  “Are you sure he’s a boy?” asked Isabel.

  The obstetrician peeled off his gloves. “I’ve never been wrong on that one,” he said.

  The trainee nurse giggled.

  “You need to get some sleep,” said the senior nurse. She looked at Jamie. “Father too.”

  “We thought it was going to be a girl,” said Jamie.

  “Well, there you are,” said the nurse. “You were going to get one or the other, weren’t you?”

  Isabel held the baby, her cheek pressed lightly against his tiny forehead. She saw that the baby’s blanket had letters printed on it, and they suddenly registered. RIP: what a tactless thing to put on a swaddling blanket, but then she noticed that the letters actually said RIE. The Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh. That was considerably better. The eye could so easily deceive—as when, a few months ago, she had misread a newspaper headline Pope hopes as Pope elopes, and had, for a moment, been both shocked and surprised. Of course now that a pope had broken with long historical practice and retired, it was always possible that a radical successor might feel that the time was ripe to elope.

  Through the euphoria of the morphine they had given her right at the end, she felt a small niggle of disappointment. She had so wanted a girl, but she knew that she must not allow herself to think about it. She had a healthy, breathing baby, and that was all that mattered. Perhaps it had been a mistake to remain ignorant of the baby’s sex; the sonographers had found out when they performed the ultrasound scans but at her request had deliberately not shown her the screen. Perhaps she and Jamie should have asked, because that would have prevented their building up hopes. She had wanted a girl because there were things a mother could do with a girl. They would be friends, as mothers and daughters so often are, and would share their world with each other. This was a boy, and it would be like Charlie all over again; not that she regretted anything about him, but the demands of a boy were different.

  Jamie held her hand. “Well done,” he whispered.

  She squeezed his hand. “Twice as many things for you to do now that he’s a boy,” she said drowsily, not knowing exactly what she meant, or why she said it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IN AND OUT AGAIN as quickly as possible was the philosophy of the maternity unit at the Royal Infirmary—a policy approved of by accountants as much as by medical opinion. The accountants would have preferred it if nobody were in hospital at all, empty beds being less of a drain on the state’s resources than those occupied by patients, while doctors for their part understood that recovery was always quicker on one’s own two feet. Isabel, as a second-time mother in good health, was judged to require only one night in hospital before being allowed home. That suited her—at least in some respects, as she found the atmosphere of the post-natal ward less than peaceful. Babies were no respecters of normal hours when it came to choosing their time of arrival, and the delivery suite, just down the corridor, was a noisy place. Deprived of sleep, she felt utterly exhausted; even more so than she had felt after the birth of Charlie, when she had endured a much longer and more difficult labour. She was a bit weepy too, and Jamie, alerted at childbirth classes to the possibility of post-natal depression, exchanged an anxious word with one of the doctors.

  The response was reassuring. “It’s utterly normal to feel a little low after a birth,” said the doctor. “But we’ll watch her—I’m sure she’ll be all right.”

  Jamie brought Charlie to the hospital to meet his new brother. Charlie, who was now almost four and every bit as articulate and aware as a child a year or two older, had been encouraged to talk about the arrival of a sibling, but had said very little about it. During the pregnancy, even while eyeing Isabel’s increasing girth, he had been tight-lipped.

  “You’re going to have a brand-new sister or brother,” Jamie had said cheerfully. “Lucky boy!”

  Charlie, showing no sign of emotion, had changed the subject. “I want to play football,” he said.

  This provided Jamie with an opportunity. “Just think,” he said brightly. “When the new baby comes, you’ll be able to play football together. Think of how much fun you’ll have.”

  There was no response.

  “And other games too,” enthused Jamie. “Hide and seek. Pirates!”

  Pirates were a current interest at the time, but even the prospect of games of pirates evinced little response.

  Now, making their way into the maternity unit, Jamie clutching a bunch of flowers in one hand and leading Charlie with the other, the crucial first meeting was about to take place.

  “I don’t like hospitals,” said Charlie, looking about him. “I want to go home.”

  “But we must see Mummy,” insisted Jamie. “She’s looking forward to seeing you.”

  “I want to go home.”

  Jamie’s tone became firmer. “After we’ve seen Mummy. And your new brother.”

  Charlie shook his head. “I haven’t got a brother,” he said. “No brother.”

  “Yes, you have,” said Jamie. “You’re very lucky. You’ve got a brother now and he’s called Magnus. Isn’t that a nice name? Magnus.”

  “A smelly name,” said Charlie.

  Jamie gave an inward groan. He had been warned that this might not be easy. And when they reached the maternity ward, the extent of the problem became apparent. Isabel opened her arms to Charlie and embraced him warmly, but the small boy remained stiff and rigid, his arms firmly down by his sides.

  “Kiss for Mummy,” said Jamie, catching Isabel’s eye.

  “Want to go,” said Charlie.

  “But you’re going to say hello to Magnus,” said Jamie, with forced breeziness. “There he is. Look. That’s Magnus right there.” He pointed to the small crib beside the bed in which the wrapped bundle of Magnus lay.

  Charlie averted his eyes.

  “Say hello to Magnus,” said Isabel gently. “I think he would love that. I’ve told him that you were coming to see him. He was very pleased.”

  Charlie saw through this. He closed his eyes. “Don’t need a baby,” he muttered.

  Isabel glanced anxiously at Jamie before turning to Charlie. She stroked the small boy’s cheek gently, only to have her hand brushed away. “But, darling, we’re very lucky to have a baby. Especially such a nice baby as Magnus. Your brother, you see. Your own very special brother.”

  “Don’t want this baby,” said Charlie. “He can stay here.”

  “But we can’t leave poor little Magnus in the hospital,” appealed Isabel. “He’s so looking forward to coming home.”

  “It’s not his home,” said Charlie resolutely. “He lives in the hospital.”

  Jamie whispered to Isabel. “I think we should perhaps move on. He’ll come round.”

  Isabel sighed. “I don’t feel I can face this right now.”

  Jamie sought to reassure her. “I’ll work at it,” he said. “I don’t think it’s at all abnormal. After all, whose nose wouldn’t be out of joint in such circumstances?”

  Charlie was now investigating the lifting mechanism underneath Isabel’s bed, and they were able to speak more freely.

  “I couldn’t bear it if he became hostile,” said Isabel.

  “He won’t be. He’s just warning us not to forget that he’s the kingpin. When he realises that Magnus is no threat to him, he’ll be fine.”

  The problem, thought Isabel, was that Magnus really did constitute a threat from Charlie’s perspective. “Well, let’s hope…” She sighed again. “I’ve heard some awful stories of children who’ve gone into a huff for years when a new sibling arrives.”

  “That won’t happen,” said Jamie. “We’ll make him feel special.”

  “Bribery,” said Isabel.

  “If you must call it that,” said Jamie. “I call it the judicious use of collateral benefits.”

  “Ask them to take the baby away,” came a little voice from under the bed. The tone was plaintive; the request heartfelt.

  Jamie took a deep breath. This
had become an issue of appeasement. For a moment he hesitated, but then decided. “Certainly not,” he said.

  Charlie was silent.

  “You see,” whispered Jamie. “Psychology up to a point—and then a firm hand.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Isabel. She looked at the flowers that Jamie had brought and then, quite inexplicably—at least she could see no reason for it—she began to cry.

  Jamie bent forward to put his arms about her. He felt the tears on her cheek. “My darling…”

  “I feel so helpless. Tired and helpless.”

  He stayed where he was, awkwardly embracing her. “It’ll be different when you’re back home. We’ll have Grace there to help. And me too, of course. Everything will be fine.”

  But Isabel was thinking of other things; the world, viewed from a hospital bed, can seem a daunting place. “There’s the Review,” she said, between sobs. “I’m all over the place with the next issue.”

  The Review was the Review of Applied Ethics, the journal that Isabel not only owned but edited from the study of her house in Edinburgh. It was not a full-time job, as the Review only appeared quarterly, but like anything that involved a deadline, it was a taskmaster that was always there in the background. No sooner had an issue been consigned to the printer than the next one would have to be planned, put together and copy-edited. And then there were the articles for the following issue and the issue after that—these had to be solicited or selected from the uninvited submissions, the latter category being a rag-bag that included a good measure of rants and obsessions, often amounting to defamatory diatribes directed at other philosophers. An argumentative tribe, Jamie had labelled philosophers, and the unsolicited papers tended to confirm this judgement.

  “Get somebody to help,” said Jamie. “What about the editorial board? What’s the point of having an editorial board if you can’t ask them to take some of the burden off your shoulders?”

  Isabel shook her head. “They’re useless,” she said.

  Jamie pursed his lips. He had never heard Isabel describe her board in this way; indeed, she had often said how helpful its members were. He thought about them: there was that professor in Aberdeen whom he had met and who had struck him as being so level-headed; and that woman in Dublin, in Trinity College, who had gone out of her way to help Isabel when there had been that row with the professor from Cork who had accused her of insensitive editing because she had proposed a cut on the length of his piece on…what was it again? Self-delusion and moral reasoning, or something of that nature. These people were not useless by any stretch of the imagination, even if some of the board members were far-flung. Modern electronics made Singapore and New York neighbours to Edinburgh, and surely a bit of virtual help could be invoked for the next issue—at least until Isabel was back on her feet. He looked at her. Could she not see that?

  She reached for a tissue from her bedside table. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I just feel that things are on top of me.”

  “Quite natural,” Jamie said soothingly.

  From beneath the bed there came a winding sound. Charlie had found the handle that altered the angle of the bed, and was turning it energetically.

  “Don’t do that, Charlie,” said Jamie. “You don’t want Mummy to fall out of bed, do you?”

  “I do,” came a voice from below.

  Jamie sighed. “Patience,” he muttered.

  But the effect on Isabel was quite different. For the first time on this visit, Jamie saw her smile.

  “There’s a professor in Bloomington,” Isabel suddenly said. “His address is written on a pad on my desk—you’ll find it easily. Could you send him an email telling him that I’ve almost finished editing his paper and that we’ll use it in the next issue? Could you do that?”

  Jamie felt that a corner was being turned. “Of course.” And then he added, “What’s it about? His paper?”

  “Friendship,” said Isabel. “A well-written essay on friendship.”

  “I hope I’ll get the chance to read it.”

  “Of course you will.” She had pulled herself up in her bed, partly to counteract the alterations that Charlie had achieved. And Charlie himself had appeared from down below and was peering over the edge of the crib.

  “His eyes are closed,” said Charlie.

  Jamie and Isabel exchanged glances. “That’s because he’s sleeping,” said Isabel. “Babies sleep a lot.”

  “Can I make him some popcorn?” asked Charlie.

  Isabel smiled. “Yes, of course. We’ll make him popcorn together. Would you like that? It may be a little while before he can eat it, but we can certainly make it.”

  “And a hamburger?” asked Charlie.

  “Yes,” said Isabel. “We could make a hamburger for Magnus…but will you be able to eat it for him?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “Psychology,” whispered Jamie.

  “Psicologia omnia vincit,” said Isabel. “If Latin has such a word as psicologia.”

  “I’m sure it does,” said Jamie. “Or something like that. And if it doesn’t, it should.” He paused, looking at her fondly. My wife, he thought. My coiner of words. My wonderful Isabel. “I think you’re beginning to feel better.”

  “Possibly,” said Isabel.

  “Let’s take Magnus home,” said Charlie. “Now.”

  —

  GRACE WAS BUSY in the kitchen when Jamie and Charlie returned from the hospital. Although Jamie was a keen cook, Grace had insisted on preparing meals for them while Isabel was in hospital. Jamie had tried to dissuade her, as he found Grace’s cooking too heavy, but she had brushed aside his objections. “You have so much else to do,” she said. “This is no time for you to be attempting to cook.”

  Jamie might have taken offence at her unfortunate choice of words—deliberate as it was, rather than accidental. But he always handled Grace carefully, as she was quick to take offence and see any criticism, even the gentlest, as a direct slight.

  “I enjoy being in the kitchen,” he said. “I know some men don’t, but I do.”

  “Yes, it’s a nice place to sit,” said Grace.

  “No,” said Jamie. “That’s not exactly what I meant. I like cooking.”

  Grace continued with what she was doing, but smiled wryly. “You’re right about a lot of men not liking to be anywhere near the kitchen.”

  “Some men,” said Jamie mildly. “Men can be excellent cooks, you know. Look at all those chefs on television.”

  Grace sniffed. “Television doesn’t show what really goes on,” she said. “You see the pots and pans on the cooker and you see people stirring things, but everybody knows that most of the dishes are already cooked.” She paused, and looked at Jamie defiantly. “By women. Did you know that? By women who are employed by the television studios to cook in the background.”

  Jamie stared at her incredulously. “Where on earth did you hear that?”

  Grace tapped the side of her nose. “Everybody knows it,” she said. “I’m surprised you didn’t.”

  He was finding it difficult to contain his irritation. Sometimes he felt there was an open season on men, many of whom seemed passive in the face of even the unfairest attack. Well, he would not let this sort of thing pass; tact was all very well, but there came a point where one had to defend oneself. “I don’t like to disagree with you,” he said in measured tones, “but I think you might be a little bit out of date on this. Just a little bit. The days when men couldn’t cook are over. Boys are taught how to cook at school. And girls learn woodwork. It’s all changed.”

  “Hah!” said Grace. “Some things never change.”

  “I disagree,” said Jamie. “The world is not the same place it was twenty years ago. Sexism is a thing of the past.”

  He knew, even as he spoke, that this was not true. There was less sexism, perhaps, but it had not disappeared entirely. And there were plenty of societies where the lot of women was still appalling; half the world, it seemed, was p
repared to countenance their subjugation. And the other half was frightened to talk about it.

  Grace just looked at him and shook her head, but by unspoken consent neither pursued the issue any further. From Jamie’s point of view, he realised that nothing he could say would shift Grace from her position; she was convinced that men were inferior cooks and that he, Jamie, may be able to make potatoes Dauphinoise but could not do much else. He would have to leave the discussion there; when Isabel returned the next day, rationality would once again prevail. So now, as he brought Charlie into the kitchen on his return from the Infirmary, he accepted that the lumpy Irish stew that Grace was cooking was going to be their dinner and he could do nothing about it. He knew that Charlie referred to Grace’s Irish stew as “Irish mud,” although he hoped that he would not use the term in her presence.

  Grace quizzed Charlie on his new brother. “You must be very excited about Magnus,” she said. “A brand-new brother! What a fortunate boy you are!”

  Charlie busied himself with one of his toy cars that he had found under the table. The toy, a model of an old Citroën police car, with miniature metal doors that could be opened and shut, had come to rest against the table leg after some forgotten car chase. A few inches away, lying abandoned on its side, was a battered red Mercedes that had been the getaway car of some tiny desperadoes. The small-scale drama of flight and pursuit had ended in victory for the law, and indeed on the faces of the diminutive metal figures in the front of the police car broad smiles had been painted, reflecting this fact. In the world of these models, theirs was a permanent triumph.

  Grace waited for an answer, but none came.

  “Answer Grace,” said Jamie. “She’s talking to you, Charlie. Answer her, please.”

  “I was wondering what you thought of your new baby brother,” said Grace gaily.

  Charlie made a strange throat-clearing sound.