The Bridesmaid Pact. Julia Williams

day. In between clearing up vomit, I’d spent most of the day with him clinging to my shoulder like a limpet. Woody wasn’t normally clingy and it was horrible seeing his smiley face so miserable and wan. It was the first time since he’d been born that he’d been ill, and I didn’t know what to do. If Mum were only a bit more with it, I could have got her advice, but when I expressed concern that Woody wasn’t getting enough fluids, she just said vaguely, ‘Oh, all babies get sick. But they bounce back. He’ll be better tomorrow, you’ll see.’

      By mid-afternoon when it was apparent that Woody wasn’t able to tolerate any food or drink at all, I rang Sarah, who calmly prescribed small sips of water, and Dioralyte, but suggested taking him to the doctor if it got any worse. I knew she was right, but ever since Dad got ill I’d had a pathological hatred of the medical profession. I wouldn’t take him unless I absolutely had to. Luckily, Woody, clearly exhausted by his day’s activities, took that moment to decide to crash out. At least if he was sleeping he wasn’t being sick, so we cuddled up on the sofa together and I watched crap TV and waited for Darren to get in. I was shattered. I couldn’t believe that one little person could create so much work and worry. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything hurting him, and I hated seeing him so ill.

      ‘Hi,’ said Darren as he came through the door, as ever having performed his daily ritual of hand washing (to get rid of all those nasty germs from travelling by tube, you understand). ‘How is he?’ I’d been keeping Darren posted as to Woody’s condition, and he’d managed to sneak away from work early. Like me, Darren had melted the minute that Woody had come into his life, and we were both like a pair of pathetically anxious clucking hens around him.

      ‘He seems OK at the moment,’ I said. ‘He’s been asleep for ages though and he feels a bit hot.’

      ‘When did you last give him Calpol?’ said Darren.

      ‘Just before he went to sleep,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure how effective it’s been, he’s thrown up nearly every dose I’ve given him today.’

      Woody stirred in my arms, and gave a slight moan, before wriggling awake. He looked blearily up at his dad.

      ‘Here, let me take him,’ said Darren, picking up our son and holding him close.

      ‘I think you’ll want this,’ I said, proffering a muslin.

      Too late, Woody had chucked up all over Darren’s back.

      ‘Oh shit, shit,’ said Darren. ‘He’s contaminated me.’

      ‘Darren, he’s probably contaminated me,’ I said laughing. ‘I’ve been clearing this up most of the day. Just wait there and I’ll sort you both out.’

      Five minutes later, having persuaded Darren that it really wasn’t going to be necessary to burn his jacket, and cleaned both of them up, I took a decision. Woody was no better. Much as I hated it, I was going to have to take him to see the doctor.

      

      The waiting room was crowded. It was nearly the end of surgery hours and there were still plenty of people to see. The doctor’s receptionist had squeezed us in as a favour and I felt slightly stupid that I hadn’t taken Woody before. He lay pale and listless in my arms. He clearly wasn’t well. I should have done something sooner.

      When Woody’s name was finally called, I felt a mixture of anxiety and relief. Maybe the doctor would take one look at him and say there was nothing to worry about. Darren squeezed my hand as we went in.

      ‘He’ll be OK,’ he said.

      ‘Hi,’ said Dr Linley, as we sat down. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

      ‘Woody keeps being sick,’ I explained, ‘he can’t keep anything down, and now he’s gone all listless and floppy.’

      ‘Right, and this has been going on how long?’ she said, as she proceeded to examine him.

      ‘Since last night,’ I said. ‘I just thought it was a bug and he’d get over it. But it seems to be getting worse.’

      Right on cue, Woody threw up again. Poor little mite, it wasn’t even as if he had much to throw up.

      Darren was, as usual, prepared with antibacterial spray, wipes and plastic gloves and went into clean-up mode, while the doctor was explaining that Woody might need to go into hospital to have some fluids.

      Hospital? My baby in hospital? That had simply never occurred to me. The last time I’d been in our local hospital had been to see Dad all connected up to drips and wires. I’d vowed I never wanted to set foot in there again, which is why I had elected to have Woody at home.

      ‘Oh,’ was all I could manage to say, feeling helpless, while Darren took charge and asked all the right questions, like how serious was it, and how long did she think he’d stay there. It was as if I was cocooned in a great bubble of silence, I could barely register what the doctor was saying, while Darren picked Woody out of my arms, and motioned me to get up.

      ‘I’ll ring ahead for you,’ I heard, as if in a dream, and she pressed an envelope into my hand, and said, ‘Take this with you.’