thought for the day

A couple of years ago I went on a writing retreat with a group of feminists from the university. We hung out in a Welsh manor house and did some writing workshops. Some people brought their teaching prep, some didn't. We got pissed, talked politics, went for walks, had fun.

I had the uncommon luxury of not having anything to do except write whatever I wanted to write. I got out the transcripts of my interviews with midwives I made for my masters dissertation and I reworked their stories. Little nuggets of story-truth trimmed and tightened until there was practically nothing left. Never quite finished, but presentable:

Ella’s Story

I was cycling past that day when her husband called me in
to promise to be their midwife.
- Just like before, Ella, when Ashra was born

So I pulled a few strings, as you do.
We were six women in a small, hot room.

Out in the street the ice-cream van and its off-key Greensleeves passed
Leaving me, one hand on a perineum
the other clutching a 99

oh yes, flake please
no sauce

Quickasaflash silver-fish baby slid into my hands.

The ice-cream fell, and as it melted into the carpet they gawped.
Stopped short mid-lick.
Ice-cream running down between their fingers as the blood ran down between mine.

Alison’s Story

He hit her about.

I’d asked her, like we ask them all and this time particularly because of her broken jaw. But it’s difficult when there’s a check-box to fill; and she’d stayed shtum with him sat right there.

She did tell me, at 2 am; when he’d kicked off and, right then and there, she walked.
Out the door, down the road, ignoring the shouts, she was purposeful and unusually proud.

She’d drop in to see me, I’d arrange visits on her own, helped her set herself up in her new home. I like to think I played a part in her decision to leave; just quietly raised her confidence. Made her feel special for the very first time.

I see lots of women like her, but she’s the one I remember. When people ask.