CHAPTER SIXTY NINE


    Somehow the little Vauxhall managed to get to the hospital without running into an annoying Jaguar filled with men meant to harm Jane.


    The Vauxhall had driven south on narrow lanes, passing one tiny town after another, and farms filled with cattle and snow. The moon shone down, full and frosty and blue.


    Although tired beyond comprehension, Jane stayed awake, and she kept sneaking peeks at the nun. This nun who usually walked around school with her head bent in humility, was now sitting upright with her shoulders back and a look of command in her eyes. Sister Agnes, the  least important nun in the school, now looked heroic.


    Warm air filled the car. Tyres hummed and bumped. Finally Jane shut her eyes. Yet, as tired as she had ever been, exhausted to the point of shutdown, her body burning with fatigue, her brain thick with treacle, she didn’t sleep.


    From the front seat came the murmur of Tom and the driver conversing. After a while Jane lost track of the conversation. Occasionally a cow moaned in some dark field.


    Finally Jane slept, only to be woken suddenly, her brain filled with crashing marbles. She had no idea how long she had been asleep.


    Tom was sitting sideways on the front seat, as awake as someone who had just enjoyed a week of really great sleep. The driver in his tweed coat was telling him something and Tom was listening with absolute rapture, taking mental notes. You could almost see the pen in his brain scribbling down the key points. The driver was explaining gravity, it seemed.  Or more specifically: anti-gravity.


    The bump that woke Jane was a large hump at the entrance to the hospital. The Vauxhall had pulled into a dirt parking lot that had been recently rolled flat. There was a thin layer of fresh snow on the dirt. On the other side of the parking lot was a hospital.


    Tom said, ‘So the only reason, you say, that the miniature world of Paris doesn’t sink to the centre of the Earth, (since miniaturized matter retains the same mass as it did when it was full sized), is that gravity has an anti-spin that gives matter an anti-gravity force.’


    ‘That is how it is,’ said the driver.


    ‘Enough chitter-chat,’ said the nun. ‘We are here.’


    ‘Three in the morning at a Liverpool hospital,’ said Tom. ‘This better be good.’


    Jane took a breath and blinked the sleepiness out of her eyes.


    The nun squeezed Jane’s knee, and said, ‘Are you ready?’


    Jane nodded.


    ‘I’ll keep the car running,’ said the driver, and there was an edge to his voice as though he was nervous. ‘And I’ll make that call now.’


    He reached under his seat and came out with a radio phone, which he switched on. Jane could hear static. The driver pressed a button and recited a list of numbers and letters.


    The nun and the two teenagers stepped from the car into the frigid air.


    The hospital was tall and made of large stone blocks. It had long frosted windows, reinforced with iron lattice. Above the entrance was a sign with a picture of a stork holding a sling in its beak, and a baby in the sling.


    Inside the entrance a nurse was seated behind a desk. She looked up with lidded eyes. She was an older nurse with hair ski jumping from the bottom of her ears, and an expression of contemptible weariness.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ‘Only family can be in the room,’ she said, when the nun explained who she wanted to visit. ‘And only in visiting hours. 3:00 AM is not visiting hours.’


    Sister Agnes leaned over the desk and spoke gently, ‘Your phone is about to ring.’


    Almost immediately the phone on the reception desk rang, the receiver rattling in its cradle.


    The nurse’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes rolled up to Sister Agnus, and she sniffed as though to say that Sister Agnus had just got lucky. She picked up the receiver, held it to her ear, then she averted her eyes from the nun while she tried to speak quietly. Everyone heard what she said.


    ‘I will hold for the matron.’


    After a moment the nurse answered someone:


    ‘They are here now.’


    The nurse put her hand over the mouthpiece, but before she could speak the nun said, ‘Winston.’


    The nurse looked at sister Agnus like she was a witch.


    She spoke into the receiver.  ‘She said his name without me asking.’


    …


    ‘Of course.’


    …


    ‘Yes I will. I hope that I don’t realise any retaliation for this decision.’


    …


    ‘Thankyou ma''am.’


    She hung up and stared at the phone, as though there was an answer in the reflection of light off its shiny copper.


    The moment stretched. Finally the nurse straightened and gestured with her hand to the left.


    ‘Just go down the hall to room 23.’


    ‘Thankyou.’


    The old nurse put her head down and wrinkled her forehead and looked to read a patient''s chart that sat on the desk in front of her.


    Sister Agnus led the way, with Tom hard on her heels and Jane padding behind. Jane felt her head dropping forward. Her neck was sore from being on a weird angle in the car, and her legs ached, and her hip was sodden with pain, and her left ankle felt as though it was creaking. She yawned so wide it made her feel ill.


    A nurse walked toward the group. The nurse raised her eyebrows in concern at the presence of a group of people at this strange hour. She didn’t say anything though.


    The nun murmured numbers out loud as they walked down the corridor.


    At room number 23 they stopped. There were gentle sounds coming from all around. Up the corridor a way came the squeaky burble of a brand new baby.


    From inside room 23 there came a gentle suckling sound, and a quiet voice, crooning.


    The nun pushed the door open.


    A woman lay in a hospital bed, cradling a newborn.  On one side of the bed stood an older woman with her hand resting on the pillow, her fingers stroking the hair of the woman in bed. The woman in the bed had her left breast exposed, and the baby was laying against the breast.


    The baby was tiny, and messy from just being born. It was wrapped in a baby blanket, and its mouth was opening and closing. Its eyes were screwed shut.


    A banana yellow light fell against the baby’s neck.


    The mothers face was tired and gentle with happiness. Her eyelids lay heavy across dark brown eyes, gazing dreamily at the arriving party, with no hint of concern.


    ‘By Joseph, this is an early hour for a christian visit,’ said the older woman, addressing the nun. The older woman wore a necklace with a cross attached, and on the cross: the tiny figure of Jesus Christ. A catholic family in London.


    ‘My name is sister Agnes.’


    ‘And I am Jane.’


    ‘And Tom,’ said Tom, although he was averting his eyes from the breastfeeding mother.


    The older woman said, ‘This is my first grandchild. Isn’t he beautiful?’


    Sister Agnus said, ‘I am here to bless the child.’


    ‘Please,’ said the new mother, and she adjusted in her hospital bed, and her night gown stretched across her swollen bosom. The mother was so dreamy, so drugged by the aftermath of labour, she probably wouldn’t have said no to anything at the moment.


    Sister Agnes placed her hand on the baby’s hair, which was crispy with the detritus of birthing fluid. The room silenced, and the nun began to murmur a blessing.


    The baby turned its face, and its little mouth opened, and it let out a whining cry.


    Jane looked at the face, and something prickled on the back of her neck. She took a step closer, and words came up, uncalled for.


    ‘Oh my … it can’t be!’