It is 1957.
Once upon a long time ago a tall man with a broad Irish accent is stood at the head of his wife’s bed. On the window-sill sits a small grey dove and small gusts of air are attempting to cool the room with their little outbursts of movement. Three men, all doctors, are attending the man’s wife. She is distressed. She is twenty-six weeks pregnant and there is a small face trying to emerge from her body far too earlier than expected. On the bedside cabinet, there is a card and flowers. The flowers are red gladioli and they are beautiful. The verse in the card reads, ‘With Love, get Better Soon’. It is signed by a man named James. The picture on the card is a bird, white and large and in full flight. There is a dragon-fly resting on the curtains that surround this scene.
Somebody, with a very small voice, is telling a fireside tale:
It is warm where I am and I am surrounded by red and silver balloons. Where I am feels still and quiet but I can feel a storm approaching. Something is pushing me towards dry land. I am inside a cave and there is water everywhere, and I am thirsty but there is not a drop to drink. I can hear thunder and noises that I am too weak to distinguish. I do not want to drown. I can see bright lights and my eyes are hurting. Colours of green and white are flooding my eyes and I can feel myself drifting outwards towards a tight black edifice. My face is entering an unknown place and my skin feels mutable. I can’t breathe! I can see my birth and I am struggling. Men with pit-helmits on are looking at me from the peripheries of my cave. Their faces are out of shape and large. I can see lots of movement. White sheets are being thrown across my mother’s body as they are asking her to push. Mother does not own her body. It has been taken away from her. It belongs to the men in white coats. Her skin is stretching and moving creating a storm. There is an assault taking place on the elastic and malleable edges of her skin. Caves of ice are surrounding me and I am cold and wet. She has become a rite of passage for me, but I can’t find my way out. The storm is upon her and she is trying to keep me safe. She is too weak to fight it and she is frightened. Why will the men in white coats not leave her alone? They are shining lights from their head upon her skin and the room is green and black. Her waters have broken and she can hear me crying as she lets go of herself. James is holding her hand and comforting her. She can feel my skin touching hers and knows that she is no longer one, but two. The men take me and place her on her breast. I can’t find anything to drink!
Everything is black.
James, the man who is crying, is asked to leave the room. When he re-enters it he is not alone. A nurse and a doctor are with him. His baby has been taken away from his wife, and is lying in a cold crib in the corner of the room. As he approaches his wife’s bed, he is immobile with fear. She is quiet and still and a faint mist of what looks like marine spray is covering her face and hair. She is a statue made of stone.
In the corner of the room, Catherine lies still and quiet waiting for her mother. Paddles are attached to her small and frail body and the red light monster that usually bleep, bleep, bleeps has been switched off. They have both entered the caves of ice. In Catherine’s hand, there is a small pearl button from her mother’s night-gown. James takes a picture of them both. Mother and child are dead.
