Angie whistled softly. She crossed one leg behind the other, leaned her elbow on the crib and put her other hand on her hip. ‘It’s hard to say. Some drugs are linked to clefts – diazepam for instance – but as far as we know Mum wasn’t on that.’ The midwife was speaking so quietly that I had to lean forward to make out her words. ‘Christina swore she wasn’t on anything. Sister realised little one was clucking the day after she was born. We couldn’t leave her to muddle through, poor little love, not without a bit of help. She was in a lot of pain.’ And then, with sudden vehemence, she added in a fierce whisper: ‘In the States they recognise unborns as victims, so I’m told, but over here we don’t seem to see them as people in their own right. Personally I’d prosecute these mothers. We’re told not to stigmatise them; that they’re the victims and they need help, but most of the time they don’t even want to stop. They must know how awful it feels to go cold turkey, but that doesn’t stop them putting their own baby through it.’ Angie lowered her voice still further. ‘And we’re supposed to feel sympathy for them?’ She blew out her lips. ‘Look at the harm they do.’
Quietly enraged, spots of pink appeared on Angie’s cheeks. I pressed my lips together, shaking my head. Her words had reminded me of something I learned recently when I attended a local-authority-run course on drug and alcohol addiction. According to the tutor, roughly 1,500 babies a year were born addicted to drugs in the UK, and the figure was rising year on year. What really surprised me, though, was that some remained in the care of their mothers, despite their ongoing addiction.
While I had seen some birth parents battle against the grip that illegal substances held over them, plenty of others seemed to indulge themselves without troubling their consciences too much. Working at the sharp end in one of the largest cities in the UK, I imagined that Angie’s view had been coloured by the number of babies she had seen suffering as a result of their mothers’ addiction.
Angie ran a hand across her forehead and blew out some air. ‘Anyway, what can you do except deal with the fall-out as best as you can? The good news is that baby’s coping well on the minimum dose and we’re stretching it out to six-hourly now. She’ll be on eight-hourly by tomorrow and hopefully off a few days after that.’
‘How long before I can take her home?’
Angie smiled then, the vestiges of anger leaving her face. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful to hear. Lovely to know she’ll be going home to a family.’ She tilted her head. ‘Do you have your own children?’
‘Yes, Emily’s 16, Jamie’s just 13 and we’ve got another girl staying with us at the moment who’s almost 14. They can’t wait to meet this little one,’ I said, which was mostly true. Emily and Jamie were really excited to have another baby in the house but Zadie had seemed nonplussed when I broke the news about Megan.
Last night Emily and Jamie had delighted in helping me to order a cot, pram and all the accessories online, but Zadie had hidden herself away in her room. I suspected that she was worried about being sidelined with the arrival of another child but I was sure she would warm to the idea when she realised her fears were unfounded.
‘That’s great, really great,’ Angie said, and I was surprised to see her eyes filling up. ‘Oh heck, look at me. We grow close to them here, you know. It’s surprising how quickly it happens when Mum only has limited contact.’
I threw my eyes up to the ceiling and then gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Yes, tell me about it.’
‘God, I’d make a terrible foster carer.’ Angie leaned closer and laughed conspiratorially. ‘They’d find me halfway across Europe with the baby stuffed inside my coat or something. Angie Wickens, wanted by Interpol! I can see it now.’
I laughed along with her, trying not to jog around too much because Megan’s eyelids were beginning to droop. ‘I don’t let myself think about the end until I have to.’
‘Oh,’ Angie said, fanning her eyes with her hand. ‘It gets me, just thinking about it.’ She bit down on her lower lip, looking at Megan thoughtfully. ‘We won’t discharge her until she’s off the medication. Methadone can suppress breathing so she’ll need close monitoring all the while she’s on that – but as soon as she’s off it you can take her home. She’ll be at the hospital for her surgery, but she’ll come back here for outpatient check-ups. She’s only 5lb so they’ll want to monitor that, but she’s doing well, considering. Feeding can be a bit tricky but don’t worry, I’ll show you what to do.’ She stilled for a moment and then tapped my arm. ‘Tell you what, she’s due a bottle soon. We try to time her feeds between doses, when she’s not too sleepy but not too fretful either. Give me two ticks.’
A few minutes later the midwife returned armed with a bottle of milk and a plastic pipette with a rubber bulb on the end, similar in appearance to the ones I had seen gardeners use to feed plants. Noticing my puzzled stare, she tucked the bottle under one arm and held the pipette out to me with her free hand. ‘It’s a bulb suction,’ she explained. ‘You use it if milk pools in her nose when she’s feeding.’ She must have noticed the look on my face because she quickly added: ‘Don’t worry – it sounds worse than it is. We won’t send her home until you’re confident about what you’re doing. There’s lots of support if you find it tough. I’ll give you all the contacts before you leave.’
Angie handed the bottle to me and then gently pinched Megan’s toes to rouse her. The baby’s eyelids fluttered and then she snorted a half-yawn, half-cough. Her dummy fell out, rolling over the blanket and out of sight. ‘Keep her fairly upright,’ Angie said, coming around the back of the chair and leaning over the top so that her arms were free to guide me. ‘That’s it. Now, reach round with what I call your embracing hand, the one you’re cuddling her with, and hold her lips together with your fingers. There,’ Angie said encouragingly as I touched the teat to Megan’s lips. ‘You want a tight seal to create some suction.’
Megan’s mouth fell open and she shook her head, rooting. ‘Make sure you position the teat over her tongue,’ Angie said, pressing down gently on Megan’s chin. ‘The bottle has soft sides so you can squeeze them if she doesn’t seem to be getting much, but we’ve found she can suck effectively if you get the seal right. The cross-cut teats help.’ Latching onto the teat, Megan began sucking sleepily. At first there was a random slurping noise, a bit like the sound of a dog lapping at a puddle, and I could tell that it was a bit unproductive. ‘Don’t be afraid to be a bit more forceful. Unless you fix a seal she won’t get much milk,’ Angie said, placing her hand on my forearm.
‘I’m worried I’ll hurt her.’
‘You won’t. She’s a lot tougher than she looks, honestly.’
It was a tricky manoeuvre, and at the back of my mind I was wary of letting her suck too hard in case she choked, but after a couple of attempts I relaxed and got the hang of it. I couldn’t help smiling at the loud clicking noises she made as her tongue worked at the teat and then the cute little goya-goya of her swallows. She sucked with a sort of desperation, as if she knew she was going to have to fight harder than the other babies on the ward, the ones with parents close by.
Rivulets of milk ran from her nose down to her chin. Angie tucked a folded muslin square in the fold of her neck, reassuring me that leakage was normal with cleft babies. ‘Perfect,’ she said,