Country life
The caring touch
Leanda de Lisle
Women are supposed to be natural car- ers, aren't they? Is it because we have a deeper well of pity to draw on than men? I don't know, but I didn't so much pity Christian as feel protective of him and the well I drew from was aggression. Clutching my trembling nine-year-old to my bosom, I recalled, with sympathy, the story of the peer who was asked how his wife was, `She's very ill,' he replied. 'It's awful for me.'
One of the most difficult things about the ones you love being ill is that it changes them. Even someone who has a bit of a cold is described as `not being themselves', and Christian certainly wasn't himself. The architect of the family lay in the shade rather than building sand castles, the gour- mand fell asleep before his fillet of red snapper reached the restaurant table, the comedian moaned incessantly. `Just who is this bore?' I felt like asking. Every couple of hours throughout the night for three nights this strange new Christian woke us. Once, he came in at two in the morning to tell us that he was 'feel- ing a little better'. I didn't kill him, but when he came at four with his ear troubling him again, I told him to 'go away, there's nothing more I can do'. The poor little thing didn't want to be alone, so he lay down on the sofa outside our door and screamed periodically. I've read stories about soldiers listening to the agonised cries of their wounded comrades lying in no man's land and wishing they would `die, for God's sake, die!' I wonder what women soldiers would do under such circum- stances?
`This screaming isn't going to help,' Peter told me, clearly hoping I would get up and repeat this to Christian. 'Yes, it does help,' I told him. I couldn't have painkillers when I gave birth to my youngest son and found screaming quite an effective substitute. I remember Peter whispering in my ear, `Shh ... Please don't, it's so embarrassing.' But I ignored him. My friends have not all been very impressed by this. 'What about the other women on the ward?' I've been asked. Yes, well, what about them?
It's a damn good thing if the pod people who chanted `What's the best form of pain relief? — No pain relief?' in National Child- birth Trust classes get a reality check in the early stages of labour. Ah, yes, I know what women soldiers would do if they had friends screaming in no man's land — they'd exchange gynaecological horror stories.
But as there were no women in our villa and nothing, apart from tiredness, to pre- vent me staggering out into the sitting- room, I got up and said to Christian, 'Look, you've got to tough it out;' and then, with voice rising steeply, 'now, just go to bed.' Not exactly Mother Theresa. Silence reigned for the rest of the early morning and everyone, including Christian, fell into a snoring slumber. Well, everyone except me. There's another story about wounded soldiers. The one about how they all call for their mothers. I had to listen in case Christian called for me. Some women may be naturally caring, but I suspect in most cases caringness is thrust upon us.
Yes, I seem to have an embarassment of witches'
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