Page 47 of The Pieces of Us

Sweat pools between my breasts or what used to be my breasts.

Like the rest of my body, I don’t recognize them any more.

They’re gigantic alien objects, covered in blue veins like an old man’s bald head and barely contained in the Triumph maternity bra Mam got me from House of Fraser last month.

She handed it to me covertly under the cover of darkness, as if the Devil himself would appear and send me to hell for not being able to fasten my bra.

‘It was the biggest they had in stock,’ she told me spikily, like I’d prayed to God every night for my boobs to monopolize my body. This isn’t what I meant when I wished for a bigger bra size than Sandra , I tell Him now.

‘At least it’s not last year,’ Mam tells me now. ‘Remember that heatwave? Unbearable.’

Yes , I think. How lucky I am that I wasn’t pregnant last year.

‘It was the hottest summer for more than three hundred years,’ my tiny nana says.

She’s come from Ireland for a few months, helping Mam get organized for the move over there.

Mam won’t tell me exactly when they’re going; nobody tells me anything.

I miss my sisters and brothers more than I thought I would – I even miss Sandra pestering me to help her create curls, not that I’d ever admit it.

I wonder if she’ll decide to embrace her poker-straight hair, letting it fall in two glossy planes on either side of her face.

More than anything, I miss music that’s not hymns.

The radio Jessie from Ardrossan smuggled in was confiscated after only a few days and I don’t know what her punishment was, but she’s not been her usual self since.

Mam and Nana visit me together once a week, and Mam comes alone when she can. Today the visiting room is quiet – there’s only one other girl sitting morosely with her parents. She’s called Kathy and she’s fourteen.

I squirm on the hard chair, a minuscule movement from one uncomfortable position to another. My swollen ankles, shackles I can’t get rid of, cement my feet to the floor.

‘You must be thirsty,’ Mam says. I don’t know whether she’s talking to me or Nana. ‘I’ll go and make tea.’

If the nicest nun, Sister Loretta, is here, she brings us tea and plain biscuits on a tray without asking. I haven’t seen her today, and Sister Anne-Marie is a different story altogether.

As soon as Mam leaves the room, I fix my eyes on Nana. The smallest woman I’ve ever met, who gave birth to six babies – Mam, her four older sisters and a baby brother who only lived for a few hours.

‘You need to tell me the truth,’ I demand. ‘What’s having a baby like?’

She rests her elbows on the table. ‘It’s hard work, gariníon . But you don’t need to worry about that. Your job will be over soon.’

‘No … I mean having it. Pushing it out. Mam won’t talk to me about it.’

‘It’s best you don’t think too much about it,’ Nana says. ‘The nuns will look after you and make sure you’re as comfortable as possible.’

My chest tightens. ‘I’m not going into a hospital?’

‘No, love. It’s not appropriate.’

I bite my lip. ‘I’ve been having pains.’

‘Pains?’

‘Well … not pains. Weird things. Everything goes tight.’ I rest my hands on my belly.

‘In here. Like it’s being squeezed, but not in a nice way.

’ It takes my breath away sometimes, waking me up in the early hours of the morning.

It’s like a vice is slowly tightening round my insides – the part of me that my baby is living in.

The memory of a cast-iron nutcracker in strong thick fingers flickers from somewhere, and I shake my head to reject it.

‘That’s just false labour. Very common.’

‘Huh?’

She chuckles softly. ‘False contractions. It’s your body getting ready for birth. Practising.’

‘Practising?’

‘Don’t worry, love. It will be over before you know it.’

‘How much does it hurt, Nana? Tell me the truth. I’m not a daft wee girl.’

‘It’s a different type of pain, Bethie. It’s a relief when it’s over. And you’ll soon forget. You’ll bounce back quick. You’re young.’

‘But how much does it hurt? On a scale of one to ten?’

Her green eyes are cloudy with age, but I imagine they were just like mine when she was younger. ‘On a scale of one to ten?’

‘Yes. Just tell me.’

She sighs. ‘Sometimes it’s better not to know, Beth.’

‘Nana. Don’t treat me like a baby.’

She leans back in her chair. ‘Twenty-five,’ she says matter-of-factly.

I stare at the old woman who gave birth to the woman who gave birth to me. Twenty-five out of ten is too much to get my head around. I rub my belly gently with my hands, and my baby starts to move. It’s as if we’re in sync.

‘What about afterwards? Will someone show me how to breastfeed? It’s the best thing for the baby, some of the girls here were saying.’

‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ Nana says firmly, reminding me that I’m not keeping my baby. The arrangements have been made and I don’t know any of the details.

‘I’d like to know who’s going to raise my baby.’

‘Not your baby, Beth,’ Nana reminds me.

Her voice is a little softer, but the words hit just as hard.