Living On Three Continents: I Didn't Think It Could Happen In A Lunchtime
A two-week writing workshop at the home of Susan Siddeley, Los Parronales, in Santiago, Chile, was led by Toronto poet Stuart Ross in January. "Perhaps the most inspiring and productive components of the daily sessions were the prompts - challenges I would have abandoned if I hadn’t been part of a group scribbling away, with lunch, high sun and blue pool waiting outside,'' says Susan.
The following piece is her funny and engaging response to one of those challenges.
Much of what I learned when I was young, I picked up whilst stacking the china after Sunday tea.
Of course, the hosting Aunt always protested, “I’ll wash up, later!” But she never did. The visitors’ “no you won’t, where’s the dishcloth?” put an end to that possibility, and as the ladies dealt with the dirty pots, they talked, nonstop. They discussed, dissected and passed judgement on everything from Miss Moxon’s seven cats and the Queen Mother’s hats, to Anthony Eden’s Suez policy and the proposed raising of the school leaving age.
But for me things became really interesting, when they started drying the cutlery. Then, despite the clatter, they closed ranks and dropped their voices.
“Bun in the over I shouldn’t wonder.” “Eeh, I don’t know.” “Under the doctor,” murmur, murmur. “Surprise arrival that one – two nights labour!” Deep sighs and then, “more stitches than a party dress.” The information had me open mouthed, dribbling into my new polo-necked jumper.
“She’ll pay, she will.” And “carrying low too.”
What on earth were they on about? It sounded far too sinister to be about cooking, too intense to concern Dad’s work. Couldn’t be sewing – mother didn’t have a machine.
By the time I turned thirteen, I realised these conversations concerned the swollen stomachs women developed prior to appearing on the street pushing prams, and at that age, busy with homework, the Youth Club and the Top Ten, I lost interest.
I left school, went to college and married.
When I became pregnant I never thought about attending childbirth classes. Who did? I felt nervous, of course, but the doctor said, “you’re young, just drop in to see the nurse if you have a minute.” I was, and I didn’t.
Then, one morning around 10.15am, nearly a month before the expected arrival of our first baby - I knew what time it was, because Mrs Dale’s Diary, had just finished playing on the radio - my husband and I were painting the spare room yellow, when a horrendous pain shot up through my abdomen. Faster than Mother flicking her duster, those long-gone words boomeranged back.
“Excruciating pain... some never right again... 103 stitches!”
“Omigod! Help. Help. Why didn’t I listen?”
After a flood of water fit to launch an arc, more agony than Torquemada ever saw, the blurry face of the doctor and the sudden unforgettable cry of a newborn, I became aware of the radio still playing.
“After the pips, the time will be exactly 1 o’clock Greenwich Mean Time.”
“1 o’clock. No! Never,” I gasped, weak with shock.
“That’s not what they said! Oh dear, I would never have thought it could happen in a lunchtime
