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‘Quinn Hamilton, born at Hampstead Hospital in 1990?’
‘Yes,’ said Quinn, his brow furrowing in confusion.
‘You,’ Minnie said, clenching her teeth. ‘You stole my name.’
New Year’s Eve 1989
Connie Cooper lay in the hospital bed looking over at the woman in the bed next to her. Specifically she was looking at the woman’s legs, which were long, glossy and as smooth as a Barbie doll’s. How was that even possible at this stage? Connie looked down at her own short, stumpy legs, covered in half an inch of black hair. She probably should have shaved her legs before coming in – well, at least the bits she could still reach.
Connie watched as the other woman dabbed her forehead with a lacy cream handkerchief. Connie’s hair and hospital gown were soaked with sweat; using a handkerchief would be like trying to dry off the decks of the Titanic with a kitchen roll. The other woman’s shiny blonde hair was tied back with a delicate yellow ribbon – a ribbon! Who even owned ribbon? Connie’s own dark wiry nest was pulled back with one of the elastic bands Bill used to keep his tools together. There was one feature that Connie did have in common with the woman in the bed next to her – they both had enormous round bellies protruding beneath their hospital gowns.
‘It’s like the overflow car park or something in here; the whole of north London must be giving birth tonight,’ said Connie. The other woman didn’t respond. She looked painedand exhausted. ‘Are you crossing your legs till midnight then?’
‘No,’ said the woman wearily. ‘I want this baby out, I’ve been in labour for two days but the contractions keep stopping and starting.’
‘I thought you might be holding out for the prize money,’ said Connie. ‘I’m Connie, by the way.’
‘Tara,’ said the blonde woman, but it came out ‘Ta … raaa … ’ as another contraction took hold. She started puffing out short little bleats of breath.
Connie was about to say something else but then had to pause to focus on a contraction of her own. She stood up and walked across the ward in her hospital gown, bending over one of the empty beds opposite until the pain had receded. Then she turned back to Tara and said, ‘You’re doing it all wrong. Your breathing’s too shallow, you sound like a little sheep.’
‘A sheep?’ said Tara. She looked mortified.
‘Yeah, you want to breathe from your gut, sound like a cow, or better yet a hippo. Try and make a hippo noise.’
‘I’m not going to make a hippo noise.’ Tara gave a sharp headshake. ‘Ridiculous.’
Connie shrugged. She started lunging back and forth on her front leg, while holding onto the end of the hospital bed.
‘You really never heard about the prize money for this nineties baby then? You must be the only one.’
‘Oh right, that,’ Tara nodded. ‘I think someone mentioned it at one of my prenatal appointments. I didn’t know there was a prize involved.’
‘It could be one of us,’ Connie grunted. Then she gave a low, guttural moan. ‘You’ll have to get on your feet, though; babies don’t come if you lie on your back.’
‘I’m just so tired. I can’t walk any more,’ Tara said quietly.
‘There’s no getting round it,’ said Connie. ‘You gotta get up, get walking, let gravity do her job.’
Tara reluctantly sat up and swung her legs off the side of the bed. Every movement looked to be a monumental effort.
‘Oh, not again, I don’t … I can’t,’ Tara sank to the floor, her body consumed by an invisible, agonising force.
‘Try and stand,’ Connie said, taking her hand. ‘Trust me, it’s better.’ Connie held Tara up, encouraging her to push down on her forearms for support. Tara rocked back and forth, huffing and whimpering through it with her eyes closed. ‘OK, we can work on your breathing but you’re standing at least.’
The double doors of the ward swung open and a midwife wearing light blue coveralls marched in.
‘How are we doing, ladies? I’m sorry we had to put you in together but I’ve never seen so many babies want to come in one night before. Lucky I didn’t have New Year’s Eve plans, hey?’ the midwife chuckled.
‘They’re all after the prize money,’ said Connie. ‘This one claims she didn’t even know about it.’
Tara’s pain had passed, her eyes were glazed over and she was staring off towards the window. Connie watched her; she knew that feeling – she’d been in labour for four days last time.
‘Oh, you didn’t hear?’ said the midwife. ‘The London Newswent and offered a cheque to the first nineties baby born in the city. We’re all desperate for someone from Hampstead Hospital to be the first. Though the paper must have more money than they know what to do with, if you ask me.’
‘Fifty thousand pounds,’ said Connie.
What Connie couldn’t do with fifty thousand pounds. She could pay back Bill’s parents the money they’d loaned them. They could rent a bigger place. She could even buy the baby some clothes of its own – clothes that hadn’t already been worn by three older cousins and a brother. She couldn’t get her hopes up. There were thousands of other women all over London probably thinking the same thing.
