Grey-haired, dressing-gown clad Lynnie moves forward, and pushes her way past us. She crouches straight down onto the floor, and without hesitation gets a full eyeful of what’s going on. The rest of us have been cringing, reluctant to get too close. I for one had visions of a slippery space alien shooting out like a bullet, and me failing to catch it. I’d forever be the Woman Who Dropped The Baby.
“Okay, dear,” Lynnie says, when she emerges again. “Not too long to go now. You’ve clearly been labouring well all day, so you’re a natural at this. I can see the crown of the baby’s head, and I’m going to need you to stay calm. I need you to focus on your breathing, for me – can you do that? Take a nice, long, deep breath in through your nose – count for four – and a nice long deep breath out of your mouth.”
Becca clutches onto her, and nods. She starts breathing in, while Lynnie does a slow count, and I notice that we are all doing it along with them. All of us – Frank, Edie, Laura, Willow – are joining in. It probably does us all some good. The calm is offset slightly by the fact that as we finish our count, another ominous roll of thunder crashes the room. Childbirth during the Apocalypse.
“When the waves of pain come, dear,” says Lynnie, encouraging Becca up into a more comfortable position, “I want you to welcome them. Welcome them, because with each contraction, the miracle of your new baby is getting closer … breathe, now. That’s it. One, two, three, four …”
As we all inhale, I see the door to the cafe slung open, and Sam comes running towards us, Frank on his heels. He’s dressed in his usual ranger gear of khaki fleece and multi-pocketed trousers, and his blonde hair is dripping from the rain. He pauses, takes in the scene, and allows himself a moment of pure panic before he dashes into the fray.
They’re followed straight into the cafe by another man – tall, blonde, wearing jeans and bizarrely some kind of cowboy hat. If he’s a random passing customer looking for some carrot cake and tea, he’s in for quite a surprise. His face is largely in shadow, but I look on as he assesses the situation, listens to Becca’s groans, and calmly takes off his sodden hat. He lays it on a table, and strides towards us.
“Get some boiling water and some towels,” he says, firmly. I’m so relieved to hear someone finally say it, I barely register the fact that he has a foreign accent. Instead, I join Willow in a mad dash to the kitchen.
He is crouching down between Becca’s legs, without a shadow of embarrassment. Lynnie stays by her side, holding her hand and counting her breath in and out, keeping not just Becca but everyone else steady. Sam is on the other side, stroking her forehead and whispering encouraging words. I can’t help but smile as I hear Becca unleash a striking tirade of foul language on him just after he says he loves her.
“This is all your penis’ fault! I’m going to chop it off when this is all over!” she shrieks. Frank creases up at that one, and comes over to help us bring over the supplies. I’ve also found a packet of ibuprofen in the knife drawer, and wave them vaguely in front of Becca’s face, asking if she wants any. It’s not gas and air – or a lovely epidural – but maybe it’s better than nothing.
She scrunches up her eyes, as though pretending the tablets aren’t there, and shakes her head to say no. Crikey. She really is hardcore.
The blonde man dips his hands in the hot water, flinching as he realises that it really is boiling, but manfully resisting the urge to cry. He leans down to take another look, and then gives Becca a big, crooked grin. There’s a scar down one side of his face that makes him look a bit like a pirate, especially when the lightning strikes.
“All right, beautiful – here he comes. Or she, who knows? Either way, this baby wants out … and we’re going to get the job done, okay? Next contraction, I want you to push, yeah? Hard as you can. Real hard … and keep pushing, with each contraction, ’til I tell you to stop!”
Becca nods, and does as she’s told. I’ve no idea who this man is, maybe the local doctor who I’ve not had a chance to meet, but he’s definitely a godsend. The rest of us would probably still have been googling ‘how to deliver a baby in a cafe’ by now.
“Come on now …” he says, patting her leg reassuringly, “You can do better than that – give it a bit of welly!”
Becca screws up her face, her cheeks puffing out and going bright red, making her head look like a giant balloon that could pop at any minute. She pushes, and I think we all push a little with her. I know Laura does, I can practically see her doing it, sitting off to the side, her nostrils white and her Supercook apron all askew.
“Head’s out. That’s the hardest bit, love. One more time, my beauty, and we’ll have ourselves a baby …” says the man, lying flat on the floor, and getting stuck in.
Becca gives a huge yell, and we all hear a weird squelching noise as the baby plops out. The bloke on the floor takes it into big hands, announces that it’s a girl, then quickly wraps her up in a towel, rubbing her a little until she cries.
It’s a loud cry, making itself heard over the thunder. Something about it – that angry, desperate yowl – breaks the tension, and the relief in the room is something you can almost touch. There’s a baby. And it’s alive. And it’s crying.
So am I, I realise, as I watch Becca take her baby into her arms. There’s still stuff going on down there – I remember this part from Kate and Martha, just when you think it’s time for cigars all round, it’s actually time for after-birth and stitches – but for the next few moments, we’re all just thrilled.
I’m not the only one feeling tearful, I notice, as I look around the room. Laura is in pieces, openly sobbing as she scoots across the floor to get a closer look, and Frank is wiping his eyes and trying to look masculine while he does it. Sam is repeatedly kissing the baby and Becca and even Lynnie, who is looking at it all so calmly you can’t imagine that just minutes ago she didn’t even know her own daughter.
Edie does a little trot over to us, holding the phone in her hand, and triumphantly shouting: “They’ll be here in ten minutes! I told them she was having triplets and they started getting a bit more concerned!”
We all laugh at that, and I edge forward to get my first proper look at the baby. Still wrapped in a towel and attached to the cord, I can see dark brown tufts of moist hair sticking up from her scalp. Her eyes are open, and are a dazzling shade of blue, just like her dad’s. Her skin is soft and looks as though it would be furry to the touch, and one tiny hand is out in the air, clutching at nothing, perfect little fingernails on the end of perfect little fingers.
Becca is in floods of tears, with joy or the relief of the pain being over or maybe both. She’s never struck me as a crier before – she’s a tough old city girl like myself, except her and Laura grew up in Manchester – and it’s strangely moving to see her give in to it all.
I feel privileged to be here, with these people, in this one miraculous moment. The happiness I feel all around me completely eclipses my own worries, my anxiety about Martha, the pain of missing Kate – instead, I feel wrapped up in the communal celebration, like I’m coated in a fleecy blanket made entirely of hope. The storm can just bugger off. Nothing can ruin this.
Lynnie leans over to stroke the baby’s delicate face with a gentle hand, and smiles.
“She’s so soft and furry. You should call her Peach,” she announces to Becca and Sam.
“That’s a lovely name,” replies Becca, gazing into her daughter’s face. “But Sam and I have already decided what she’ll be called, haven’t we?”
Sam nods, unable to take his eyes away from his new daughter’s face.
“Yes,” he replies, looking up briefly, seeking out the person he wants to tell most. “Everyone – meet our daughter. Edie Theresa.”