The night before the first light
It was just after three in the morning when the contractions began. Our flat was a dusky gloom, the drizzle outside turning the streetlights into blurry halos on the wet pavement. I had risen from the sofa before Claireshe hadnt slept much at all, curled up on the kitchen chair, repeatedly checking the bag by the door and peeking out the window. Claire lay on her side, one hand pressed to her belly, counting the seconds between the waves of pain: seven minutes, then six and a half. She tried to recall the breathing technique from the online videoinhale through the nose, exhale through the mouthbut it came out uneven.
Is it happening yet? I called from the hallway, my voice low; the bedroom door was halfclosed.
Looks like it, she whispered, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed and feeling the cold floor against her bare feet. The pains are getting more frequent.
For the past month wed been preparing for this moment: we bought a large navyblue maternity bag, packed everything from the checklist printed from the NHS websitepassport, NHS card, maternity leave paperwork, a spare nightgown, phone charger and even a chocolate bar just in case. Now even that order felt fragile. I fidgeted beside the wardrobe, riffling through folders of documents.
My passports here NHS card there it is wheres the maternity card? Did you grab it yesterday? I muttered quickly, as if afraid of waking the neighbours through the thin walls.
Claire rose heavily and shuffled to the bathroom just to splash some water on her face. The room smelled of soap and damp towels. In the mirror I saw a woman with dark circles under her eyes and hair in disarray.
Should we call a cab now? I shouted from the corridor.
Lets but doublecheck the bag first.
Were both young: Claires twentyseven, Im just over thirty. I work as a design engineer at a plant in the Midlands; she taught English at a primary school before her maternity leave. The flat is tinya combined kitchen/lounge and a bedroom that looks out over Camden High Street. All around us are signs of the change: a crib already assembled in the corner, a stack of nappies beside it, and a box of toys from friends.
I ordered a black cab via an app; the familiar yellow icon popped up on my screen almost instantly.
The driverll be here in ten minutes, the app said.
I tried to keep my voice steady, though my fingers trembled over the screen.
Claire pulled a hoodie over her nightdress and dug for the phone charger; the battery indicator read eighteen percent. She tucked the cable into the jacket pocket with a face toweljust in case we needed it on the road.
The hallway smelled of shoes and Claires slightly damp coat, still drying from yesterdays walk.
As we packed, the contractions grew stronger and a little more frequent. Claire avoided looking at the clock; she focused on counting breaths and picturing the road ahead.
We left the building five minutes before the cab was due. The hallway light cast a pale patch by the lift, where a draft rose from the stairwell. The stairwell was chilly; Claire pulled her coat tighter around herself, clutching the folder of papers.
Outside, the air was cold and damp even for May: rain beads ran down the awning above the door, a few hurried pedestrians scurried past, huddling in coats or pulling their hoods lower.
Cars were parked haphazardly in the courtyard; somewhere in the distance a muffled engine revved, as if someone was warming up for a night shift. The cab was already five minutes late; the dot on the map crawled forward, the driver evidently looping around the block or detouring around an obstacle.
I checked my phone every halfminute.
Two minutes, the driver texted, but he kept taking the longer route perhaps roadworks?
Claire leaned against the railing of the entrance, trying to relax her shoulders. She remembered the chocolate bar, slipped her hand into the side pocket of the bag and felt the familiar wrappersmall comfort amid the chaos.
At last the headlights appeared around the corner: a white Ford slowed before the entrance and stopped right at the foot of the stairs. The driver, a man in his midforties with a tired face and a short beard, got out, opened the rear door and helped Claire settle onto the seat with all her luggage.
Good evening! Hospital? Got it, buckle up, he said cheerfully, not too loud. He moved efficiently but without haste. I slipped in behind the driver; the door slammed a bit louder than usual, and a fresh breeze mixed with the lingering scent of coffee from a travel mug near the handbrake filled the cabin.
Once we were out of the courtyard we hit a small jam: ahead, flashing amber lights marked a crew repaving the road under the occasional streetlamp. The driver cranked the navigation louder.
Right, they said they’d finish by midnight. Well cut through the side lane, he announced.
In that moment Claire panicked.
Stop! Ive left the maternity card at home! They wont let me in without it! she shouted.
I went pale.
Ill dash back! Were only a few minutes away! I replied.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror.
Take your time, lads. Ill waittheres still time.
I bolted out, splashing through puddles as I raced back up the stairs. Four minutes later I was back, breathless, the card in my hand along with the keyringId forgotten them in the lock and had to climb the stairs again. The driver kept his focus on the road. When I slid into the seat he gave a brief nod.
All set? Lets go then, he said.
Claire clutched the documents to her chest as a fresh contraction hit, stronger than before. She forced herself to breathe steadily through clenched teeth. The car crawled past the construction zone; through the fogged windows I could see the wet signs of 24hour chemists and the occasional silhouette of a passerby under an umbrella.
The cabin was tense, broken only by the occasional voice of the navigation announcing a new detour and the soft hiss of the heater warming the windshield.
After a few minutes the driver broke the silence.
Ive got three kids myself One was born at night, and we walked to the hospital in kneedeep snow. It was an adventure afterward, he said, a smile tugging at his lips. Dont worry too early. Keep your papers handy and hold each others hands tight.
I felt a small lift in my chest; his calm tone was more soothing than any advice from online forums or mumsupport groups. I glanced at Claireshe managed a faint smile despite the strain.
We arrived at the maternity unit just before five in the morning. The rain had softened to a gentle patter, as if tapping lazily on the car roof. James, the driver, was the first to spot the pale glow on the horizonLondon was starting to bleed pale dawn. He turned the car into a less puddlefilled spot near the entrance. Two ambulances were parked nearby, but there was still room for a quick unload.
Here we are, he announced, turning around. Ill help with the bag, dont worry.
Claire struggled to sit up, cradling her belly and gripping the folder of paperwork. I hopped out first, slipped my arm around her elbow, and helped her onto the wet tarmac. A fresh contraction hit her so hard she had to pause and take a couple of slow breaths. The driver deftly lifted the navy bag and set it down a step ahead.
Watch your step, its slippery, he called over his shoulder. His voice sounded like someone who had seen this all before, yet never quite routinejust part of the citys pulse.
The entrance smelled of damp earth, flower beds, and disinfectant. Rainwater collected on the canopy, sometimes dripping onto a sleeve or cheek. I looked around: no one else in sight, only a nightshift nurse behind a glass door and a couple of security guards near the far wall.
The driver placed the bag beside Claire, straightened up, and seemed a little embarrassed by his own helpfulness.
Well good luck to you both. Remember each other, everything else will fall into place, he said, shrugging.
I wanted to say more, but the words got stuckso much had piled up during the night. I simply shook his hand, firm and grateful. Claire gave a small, slightly bewildered smile and whispered, Thank you really.
Dont mention it, he replied, looking away as he retreated to his car. Everything will be fine.
The maternity doors swung open with a soft creak. The night nurse peered out, gave us a quick assessment, and gestured us inside.
Come in! Have your paperwork ready No men beyond this point unless its an emergency. Got the folder? she asked.
Claire nodded and handed the folder through the halfopen door. The bag followed. I lingered under the canopy, rain pattering on my coats hood, hardly noticing it.
Stay here. If you need anything, well call you, the nurse called from within.
Claire glanced back through the doorway, meeting my eyes. She lifted her hand in a tiny all good gesturepalm up, a faint smile. Then she was led down the corridor, the door closing softly behind her.
I stood alone under the early morning sky. The drizzle eased, the dampness creeping up my collar, but it no longer irked me. I checked my phoneonly a couple of percent leftso Id need to find a socket later.
The driver didnt leave immediately; he fiddled with the cars interior, turned on the headlights, and glanced at me through the side window. Our eyes met briefly, wordless, and in that silence I felt more support than any long speech could give.
I gave a thumbsup, a simple thankyou, and he returned the gesture with a tired, wide grin before pulling away.
When the car disappeared around the bend, the street felt oddly empty. For a moment the only sounds were the rain drops on the metal awning and the distant hum of a city waking up behind the rows of houses.
I lingered by the entrance, watching the nurse at the desk as Claire filled out forms. Her face seemed calmer now, the tension of the past hours dissolving with the rain.
I realised I was breathing easier for the first time that night, as if Id been underwater and finally surfaced. Wed made it on time, the paperwork was in order, Claire was in capable hands, and a new morning lay ahead.
The sky above the city slowly turned a pearly pink, the damp air smelling fresh after the nights downpour. I inhaled deeply, just because, without any particular purpose.
In that moment, everything felt possible.
Time seemed to crawl as I paced the little path by the maternity ward, avoiding my phone to keep its battery from dying completely.
About an hour and a half after Claire went in, my phone buzzed. It was her.
Congratulations, youre a dad! Weve got a little boy, hes perfect. All good, she said, her voice tired but bright.
I smiled, feeling the weight of the night lift completely.
