In Her Mothers' Shoes (40 page)

Knitting needles were another suggestion, but after stealing her mother’s number eights, she’d chickened out and returned them unused.

Driving fast over bumpy railway lines didn’t work either, not even on her Vespa.

As a last resort, she’d tried swallowing a month’s supply of the Pill. She had it on good authority that always worked, so one night in desperation she popped the lot out of their blister pack and forced them down, finishing it off with a slosh of gin for good measure. She’d felt very ill and dizzy, but a week later, still no period and her breasts felt even tenderer when she put on her bra.

She didn’t expect much from the doctor, she knew the law. He was sympathetic but said that his hands were tied: ‘If you can’t afford to go to Australia, I’m afraid there are no other options.’

A few days after seeing the doctor, her period arrived: thick and glutinous, darkest red, clinging to the pad in sticky blobs. She cried with relief at first and then with grief: surprising unbidden tears of crazy grief, mourning for a baby she hadn’t wanted. Was it an early miscarriage? It was gone, that was all that mattered then.

Now it was different.

Why did she keep losing her babies? Was it in her genes? Clearly her birth mother didn’t have that problem, keeping her through to term. Was there something in the chemical cocktail of her DNA that meant she wasn’t supposed to be a mother more than once? Would Amelia bear the same fate as her own – to be an only child?

‘Mummy, I want to go to the toilet’ Amelia interrupted her thoughts, performing a confined tap dance on the peach carpet.

‘Right.’ Kate looked around and saw the sign. ‘Come with me.’

When they came out again, she went up to the desk. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m going to be late for work if I can’t get in soon.’

The receptionist studied her list, looked at her watch and smiled insincerely. ‘Sorry Mrs Price but Mr Sissons still has one other patient to see before you. If you’d been here on time…’

‘I know. It’s okay.’

It wasn’t okay, being late for work. The boss was lenient, but she had an interview booked for half an hour after she started and she had to pick up the recording equipment and read the research notes as well as walk to the theatre where the interview was taking place.

She’d been late for the obstetrician because Amelia had held her up trying to decide which dress she wanted to wear. By the time she’d changed twice then discarded the smocked dress her grandmother had given her in favour of a pink frilly tunic and even pinker leggings, there were only five minutes before their appointment and no time to drop her off at day care. She hadn’t raised her voice at Amelia to get a move on, no matter how late they were. There was something about her firstborn that prevented her from getting mad, even when Amelia was really naughty.

From the moment she’d been born, emerging at six pounds thirteen ounces and letting out an astonished wail in response to the paediatrician’s robust tap on her bottom, Amelia had unleashed in Kate an unfamiliar wave of emotion that engulfed her completely. The sight, the touch, the closeness of her baby – the first flesh and blood she had ever known – sent a shockwave all the way down to the bowels of her being, making it almost impossible to breathe. Her throat had been dry, so dry she felt she would choke; her arms had ached with the sudden weight her daughter had become.

‘Mrs Price?’

‘That’s you Mummy.’

‘Ah. Our turn.’ Kate wasn’t used to being called by her husband’s name. Keeping her own name had put her in the same category as ‘Women’s Libbers’ and leftie dissidents but she didn’t care and remained Kate Stewart – except with the plumber, the electrician and the gynaecologist.

She gathered up her bag and
The Hungry Caterpillar
, took her daughter’s hand and pushed the door into Mr Sissons’ consulting room.

‘Now, let’s see,’ he said when they were seated, Amelia bright-eyed and expectant on a buttoned leather chair. ‘Your test results came through on Monday, Mrs Price. Everything is as it should be. There don’t appear to be any after-effects.’

‘That’s good.’

‘And you are pregnant. Is that what you were expecting?’

‘No.’ She took a deep breath. ‘No, I wasn’t. I didn’t think it would be so soon.’

‘You obviously don’t have any problem conceiving now you are on the medication.’

‘It’s keeping the baby that seems to cause the problem.’

‘All I can advise is for you to take it easy. Not too much rushing around.’

‘No. I’ll try.’ She would have to make some changes this time. Cut back on work maybe and keep Amelia in day care a couple of days so she could rest. But would she? Kate hated sitting still for long.

‘Mummy, will you keep the baby?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Then why did you say it was a problem?’

‘I’ll tell you later. We’ll be finished here in a moment.’

‘So, Mrs Price, do you have any history of pregnancy loss in your family.’ He looked down to study his notes.

‘No, I . . .’

‘Oh, I see you were adopted. I don’t expect you will know.’ He peered at her over the top of his reading glasses, as if studying an unusual specimen.

‘No I don’t, I’m sorry. I know nothing of my family background. My birth family, that is.’ How much longer would she have to go on apologising to the medical profession like this? She hated it when this happened. She hated not knowing.

‘Mummy, what’s adopted mean?’ Amelia said when they got outside the rooms.

Kate explained.

‘Am I adopted?’ Amelia looked worried.

‘No you came out of Mummy’s tummy, like our next baby will.’ She hoped.

~   ~  ~

As soon as Kate hit the newsroom, she phoned David and told him the good news: they would be having a baby in November. He didn’t sound as elated as she’d expected, but excused him for being surrounded by nosey colleagues who would undoubtedly tease him mercilessly. Or, more than likely, he’d be so engrossed in the story he was writing that nothing – not even a baby announcement – would distract him. Sometimes Kate wondered if David – with his single-minded focus, his ability to block out all distractions and research something to the nth degree – was more than a little like her father.

Next, she phoned the theatre manager and apologised that she’d be a few minutes late, then gathered the tape and her notebook, flicked through her research notes and took off down the stairs and out into the street for a fast walk to the Court Theatre.

Her mind should have been on the writer of the next play the theatre was producing; usually she was much better prepared, would have studied the bio in detail and looked him up in the station’s archive. But all she could think about was the baby she was carrying and why David hadn’t been more enthusiastic. Was it because he didn’t want his colleagues to know? Or was it because he was scared she’d lose it again? She couldn’t blame him for that; she was worried too. But she had to block it from her mind. The doctor had told her to try to relax, not to get stressed or anxious, to think positive thoughts.

Kate made herself think about the job she was about to do. Rick Davidson was acting in his own play
A Trap for Young Players
and was apparently an engaging and lively interviewee, full of quotable quotes and one-liners. He’d be sure to come up with an ideal sound-bite, the news boss had said.

The fast walk to the Arts Centre made her breathless but she continued into the foyer where Jeff Farnsworth, the play’s director, was waiting at one of the café tables. She waved; she’d met Jeff many times. He stood up as she approached.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, trying to breathe normally without much success.

‘Don’t worry about it. Rick’s running late too. He must’ve known.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Would you like to do the interview here?’

‘It’s a bit noisy, with people at the ticket office.’

‘Right. We can go backstage. It’s quiet there. Would you like me to show you through? The box office will tell me when he’s here.’

‘Okay, I’ll . . .’

‘Sorry I’m late Jeff,’ said a deep theatrical voice right behind her.

Kate turned around. The voice belonged to a man a few years younger than her and not much taller. His beard was as neatly trimmed as his manner, clipped and impeccably polite, but there was a warmth to his smile, as if he were teasing her ever so gently.

‘You must be Kate Stewart. Please excuse me for keeping you waiting. I didn’t realise the theatre was so far from my digs.’

‘That’s no excuse at all, you slack bastard.’ Jeff clapped him on the back. ‘You’ll be late for your own funeral.’

Kate laughed. ‘It’s okay. I was late myself.’

‘Don’t let him get away with it. Make him suffer.’

‘Just don’t ask me any tough questions. I don’t know any tough answers.’

‘I hear you’re an old hand at radio interviews?’

‘It’s those rounded vowels. He picked them up at Radio New Zealand.’ Jeff imitated Rick’s speech.

‘No?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Rick said, putting on an upper-crust accent. ‘All that training in received pronunciation – that’s what people used to expect on public radio. Of course, anything goes now.’ Here he imitated a broad Kiwi twang.

Kate adjusted the heavy tape recorder strapped to her shoulder, turned it on and held out the microphone while her subject was on a roll. ‘How did you make the move to the theatre?’

Rick adjusted his features into a suitably serious expression. ‘How did I move to theatre? Very gradually. I don’t like being poor. But after I got a lucky break on
Gloss
I had to give up radio. I miss it terribly of course.’ He pulled a face.

Smiling at his wry humour, she put the heavy tape recorder down on the theatre café’s table and sat down beside it, inviting Rick to join her.

‘You sure you’re okay to do it out here?’ Jeff looked around the foyer. The box office queue had died down; it was comparatively quiet.

Kate nodded. ‘I’d hate to stop him now he’s warmed up.’

‘Warmed up? You make me sound like a corpse coming to life.’ He imitated a ghost spooking her, holding his arms high in front of him. 

She laughed then continued on, asking him about his career, his family, his play. The interview lasted for nearly twenty minutes and revealed he had a partner but no children and was involved in writing for and acting at a new experimental theatre in Wellington. At weekends he earned the rent by doing DJ filler-stints on Radio Windy. His play,
A Trap for Young Players
, was semi-autobiographical, he said, in that it followed a group of young actors rehearsing
Macbeth
who were plagued with bad luck. ‘The curse of Macbeth comes to play in every sense,’ Rick laughed. ‘It’s more of a comedy than a tragedy.’