Free Lie Down With Lions by Ken Follett Page B

she used the emergency pot behind the screen in the bedroom. It was then that she noticed a small blood-streaked stain in the crotch of her cotton trousers.
    She did not have the energy to climb up the outside ladder onto the roof to fetch the mattress, so she lay on a rug in the bedroom. The “backache” came in waves. She put her hands on her tummy during the next wave, and felt the bulge shift, sticking farther out as the pain increased then flattening again as it eased. Now she was in no doubt that she was having contractions.
    She was frightened. She recalled talking to her sister, Pauline, about childbirth. After Pauline’s first, Jane had visited her, taking a bottle of champagne and a little marijuana. When they were both extremely relaxed, Jane had asked what it was really like, and Pauline had replied: “Like shit-ting a melon.” They had giggled for what seemed like hours.
    But Pauline had given birth at University College Hospital in the heart of London, not in a mud-brick house in the Five Lions Valley.
    Jane thought: What am I going to do?
    I mustn’t panic. I must wash myself with warm water and soap; find a sharp scissors and put it in boiling water for fifteen minutes; get clean sheets to lie on; sip liquids; and relax.
    But before she could do anything, another contraction began, and this one really hurt. She closed her eyes and tried to take slow, deep, regular breaths, as Jean-Pierre had explained, but it was difficult to be so controlled when all she wanted to do was cry out in fear and pain.
    The spasm left her drained. She lay still, recovering. She realized she could not do any of the things she had listed: she could not manage on her own. As soon as she felt strong enough she would get up and go to the nearest house and ask the women to fetch the midwife.
    The next contraction came sooner than she had expected, after what seemed like only a minute or two. As the tension reached its peak Jane said aloud: “Why don’t they tell you how much it hurts? ”
    As soon as it passed its peak she forced herself to get up. The terror of giving birth all alone gave her strength. She hobbled from the bedroom into the living room. She felt a little stronger with each step. She made it out into the courtyard; then suddenly there was a gush of warm fluid between her thighs, and her trousers were instantly drenched: the waters had broken. “Oh, no,” she groaned. She leaned against the doorpost. She was not sure she could walk even a few yards with her trousers falling down like this. She felt humiliated. “I must,” she said; but a new contraction began, and she sank to the ground, thinking: I’m going to have to do this alone.
    Next time she opened her eyes there was a man’s face close to her own. He looked like an Arab sheikh: he had dark brown skin, black eyes and a black mustache, and his features were aristocratic—high cheekbones, a Roman nose, white teeth and a long jaw. It was Mohammed Khan, the father of Mousa.
    “Thank God,” Jane muttered thickly.
    “I came to thank you for saving the life of my only son,” Mohammed said in Dari. “Are you sick?”
    “I’m having a baby.”
    “Now?” he said, startled.
    “Soon. Help me into the house.”
    He hesitated—childbirth, like all things uniquely feminine, was considered unclean—but to his credit the hesitation was only momentary. He lifted her to her feet and supported her as she walked through the living room and into the bedroom. She lay down on the rug again. “Get help,” she told him.
    He frowned, unsure what to do, looking very boyish and handsome. “Where is Jean-Pierre?”
    “Gone to Khawak. I need Rabia.”
    “Yes,” he said. “I’ll send my wife.”
    “Before you go . . .”
    “Yes?”
    “Please give me some water.”
    He looked shocked. It was unheard of for a man to serve a woman, even with a simple drink of water.
    Jane added: “From the special jug.” She kept handy a jug of filtered boiled water for