Article 7

You have the right to a name, and this should be officially recognized by the government. You have the right to a nationality and to belong to a country. – United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child

Homerton Hospital, Hackney, London

September 12, 2012 

“It’s like having you all over again,” Mum smiles

“You were the same age when you had me,” Violet tells her “What was I like?”

“Oh you were the loveliest, little thing. Smiley, curious. White blonde hair. Easy to spot in the mission hospital. They called you a ghost,”

Violet starts awake and reaches for her daughter Eliza in a hospital crib next to her.

“It’s okay. I am here,”

Eliza nuzzles at her chest and her head bobs. Violet is enchanted with her in the fairy tale sense of the word. The let down of milk starts and Eliza traces a map to it with no guidance. When she is finished, she does not want to go back to her crib, shaking in agitation at the separation. Her daughter clings to her as to life. Violet lets her be and tries herself to sleep but only reaches an uneasy slumber for she cannot turn on her side as she prefers.

We were all in the dark, in the beginning. The tiniest of hearts beating. Our early time spent with eyes closed inside the womb. Our childhoods a hibernation. 13 month old Violet left the land of her birth where a Dutch midwife delivered her in Botswana. She was nearly called after her, Anneke. She was once a turbo crawler, chasing the brown beetles that come after the rains. Holding off the black kittens who charged her with backs arched, swatting her face. Violet often redirected as she makes a beeline for the garden with a swimming pool, where snakes swim. She is so busy one day that she falls asleep in the shade of a tree and is nuzzled awake by a whining dog. Later killed, its stomach ripped open defending the borders of the property. At a house party baby Violet sees on the patio bench a young man smoking. They freeze as they encounter one another. He is charmed by her silver Mohawk. She eyes him, wary. He is a stranger here. But he comes straight to her and picks her up, bandies her on his knee but she resists and uses his thighs to stand straight. Violet purses her lips and her eyes grow wide, twitching as he assaults her five senses, especially his booming laugh.

“Oh, I’m sorry” he soothes

He was once a high school student from Soweto. He wanted to learn in English and not Afrikaans.

“It’s true,” he tells her in a low voice

Violet reaches out and touches a scar above his eyebrow.

“What’s your name?” he asks her. “You can’t tell me? I think I know what it is. Is it Violet?”

It’s as if an aerial picks up a signal and she beams at me, making him laugh.

“My name is Nehemiah. Tomorrow, I’m leaving,”

Someone calls him from inside and he puts her down. She uses the bench to sidle along. He turns back to wave at her. He misses what he doesn’t know is her first step as she tries to follow him. He is gone.

Morning is coming and Violet and Eliza will soon be discharged. The nurse comes in the early hours to inform her that they need the bed. She is alarmed at first not to see any newborn but then sees her tiny head pushing from under the blanket, on Violet’s tummy. She checks her watch and decides to give them another 30 minutes.

Dear Eliza

Your name is Elizabeth Ava North. Elizabeth means God’s promise and Ava means little bird. Your last name is from your father and is descended from people in the north of England, a place once under Dane Law We will call you Eliza. Your name has altered already but our names are never gone. I’m keeping mine because there are some things I don’t want to change. Your grandmother’s maiden name was McCallin. A long time ago her people settled in Northern Ireland, crossing the water from Scotland. There is time to tell you of your ancestors who are from these British Isles. Do you know where you are? You’re in London, the world’s capital but it is also the capital of England. The writer Peter Ackroyd describes it as the inevitable and infinite city. You will grow up here in the eastern part called Hackney. I want you to know your its streets like the back of your hand. Before you came to me, I tossed from one side to the other, so that we were both comfortable. You were still and tight inside me, your head right above my pelvic bone. Your father touched my bump, his hand hot and you tried to move towards it but there was so little space. My hips burned all through the night. The cats, Ruby and Rosie, both black calicos jumped into my bedroom window. They can do that from an oak tree in the next door neighbour’s garden. They lay stretched out close to my body, purring loudly. I got up, taking careful steps, late in the morning. I soon saw that I’d lost my mucous plug and that there was a bloody show. Very mild contractions soon followed every half hour or so. This continued until late afternoon when my waters broke as I walked in the garden to collect the laundry. I washed in the shower as some more water came and your father prepared for us to depart for hospital.

Once there, I was admitted to a pre-labour room where a male midwife examined me telling me my cervix was 2 centimetres dilated and in a ‘posterior’ position. More waters came spilling over the sides of the hospital bed. The midwife told me we’d be moved to a room where we’d wait it out and allow labour to advance naturally. So away we went. The room had a comfortable bed, a slightly sloping cot on wheels and some chairs and a desk. There was a big shower room and toilet too with some ‘freebies’. My labour continued. It was like a tight belt or vice being tightened around my lower tummy. Walking or standing brought the only relief. So, that’s what I did, I walked the corridors where I saw no one and the woman who I assumed was the night nurse ignored me whenever she passed. After 4 hours I called for help.

            “Are you in pain?”

I explained that nobody had come to examine me. A midwife did come about an hour later, professing that I hadn’t been forgotten and that she was very busy that night. I was told that I was still only 2 centimetres dilated. I was left for 6 hours when I was told again that I was only 2 centimetres. She gave me some relief with an injection. I don’t know what it was but it stopped the pain and I was able to sleep. Your father was told to go home and rest which he did. I was awoken by a woman dressed in pink. I ate breakfast which was brought to me as I was still trembling from the injection. It was baguette with butter and jam, tea with sugar.  I rested until your father returned at around midday. The contractions started again soon after and by 4pm I was in a lot more pain. A new midwife came. It was her that told me you would be arriving either tonight or early in the morning. I felt excited and it renewed some energy. Your grandparents arrived, after having driven from France just as I was being shown to the birthing pool. The pool was not as hot as I’d wanted but I began to feel calmer. I was left for about 2 hours and I kept breathing out deeply whenever a contraction came. Forgive me, I got tired. I lost track of time and I began to panic because I couldn’t control my breathing anymore. I was shaking all over as I was helped out of the pool. I asked for an epidural and that was delivered very quickly. The doctor asked your father to leave and he was reluctant, pacing in the corridor. I sat on the edge of the bed and he administered it to me. I instantly began to feel better and lay down, I think I even slept! The midwife had me lie on side with my legs bent slightly. I felt your legs kicking my rib cage. It reminded me of the first quickening when I was 4 months pregnant. Nobody could feel you at that time but me. At 25 months, the doctor told me you were a girl. I didn’t care what gender you were but I did want to start calling you by your name. I could feel you descending toward the birth canal. I can’t ever forget it and I prayed you down and out.  The midwife joked that you were to be born on September 11 and did I remember where I was at the time? I did remember, I was living in a house share in Homerton, still at university. Little did I know what I’d be doing 11 years later. Each time a contraction came I breathed in and then held my breath and pushed. Your father was always in the moment with me and seemed to will you out as well. The midwife encouraged me to reach down and I felt the top of your head. There was a glass covering the ceiling light above me and in the reflective glare I saw you come into this world. I could see the cord around your neck which was cut quickly. Your father was distraught as this was a moment he’d waited or. He tried to hide it but I knew. Your first cry was when they disconnected us. It had taken 3 days and I was finally able to meet you after 9 long months together but the truth is, I’ve carried you always. You were taken away to be checked and cleaned. Your father was with you all the time and he brought you back, dressed in the outfit I’d packed. He spoke to you for a longest time but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. But I do know that he wanted you so much.  I am your mother and this letter is just one of many things you will inherit from me. I will always tell you the truth because the world is big and not small like they will tell you. Go out and see it and when you want to come home, I am here.  The first book I ever read was called Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret. I guess it holds sway with me as I often felt that my voice was nothing. When you speak, Eliza, I will listen to every word you say.  

This is a chapter excerpt from my novel Traveller in the Dark.

 

 

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