The Wee Man

Ken Charleson

It began with a scream, then another and then another which seemed to keep going even as I woke up.

The warm wind circling the mountain-top hospital gently swept the net curtains back and forth across the open window.

I pushed back the cover on my camp bed. I could see my wife still asleep on her mosquito netted cot, her arm still attached to the saline drip by her bedside.

Another scream, short and sharp, this time clearly outside and this time followed by the shrill chattering of the ring-tails swinging energetically from branch to branch amongst the dense foliage of the tangled trees. 35 I wasn't surprised she was still asleep. She had just spent the last 24 hours giving birth to our first child, David.

Slowly but surely, the events of the last day began to swim through my mind like the ice waters of a snow-melted Scottish river, bringing the events of the previous day sharply into focus.

Except this wasn't Scotland, it was Brazil and the balmy air swirling around Corcovado did little to warm the cold dawn of awareness in my fuddled brain.

We had known that Gillian was pregnant before we were posted to Rio de Janeiro and although it meant some adjustment to our domestic routine, basically we carried on as any couple does.

It had been a funny thing for me, even though I could see this wee shape moving around in the grey-black screen of the ultra scan, and I could see the doctor moving the scanner back and forth across Gillian's swollen belly, I couldn't quite make the leap of imagination needed to hold that wee shape in my arms and call it David.

For women it must be completely different. Every day you wake up with this child kicking around inside you. It never lets you forget it's there. And every month you watch yourself getting bigger and bigger and feel it get heavier and heavier and although you still can't hold it, it's there inside you, a part of you as much as your own beating heart or moving legs and arms.

From the start, we had decided not to know the baby's sex. We always just referred to "it" as "Tosh"

We had also decided against the invasive techniques designed to determine any irregularities in the baby's make up. 18

It was a conscious decision. We talked about it long and hard; the risks associated with the tests; the dilemma that would arise if they discovered something wrong. How would we react?

What would we do?

The decision hadn't been hard. We would carry it through, whatever happened. After all, there had been no history of Down's Syndrome in either of our families. Genetically, we were in the clear. Tosh would simply pop out on time and we would all carry on as planned.

We quickly developed our new routines in Rio. The city is a dream-like affair, settled amongst the coves of Guanamara bay and dissected by mountains of which the towering peak of Corcovado with its statue of Christ, is the most imposing.

A giant Christ, arms outstretched, faces out across the gaping Atlantic to Europe from whence had come the Portuguese who had conquered this vast, still largely unfettered land and who had settled it with Catholicism and black slaves.

We lived well; a luxury apartment with a live-in maid, black of course, about two blocks away from the Ipanema beach. Here, the cafes, restaurants, clubs and bars are open most of the night. Rio doesn't sleep.

They say that every Friday night there is a revolution in Rio, but it's always over by Saturday morning.

They also say that there are three religions in Brazil; white catholic, black catholic and football. In Rio there is a fourth; the beach.

Just so you understand, the beach is where everybody, and I do mean everybody, hangs out.

The only thing you take to the beach is a towel. Some people don't even do that. Anything else will get nicked.

If you go to church in Rio at the church entrance you will find prayer candles; white candles to the right and black candles to the left. In this country, undiminished by its various faiths, Catholicism mixes unselfconsciously with voodoo-ism and no-one bats an eye.

And so it was, one fine September morning that, after the months of preparation, of parenting classes and proper diet, of the solemn purchase of cot, cradle and disposable nappies that we made our way up Corcovado to the private maternity clinic we had chosen, to meet the doctors and nurses who would deliver Tosh and set us on our way back down the hill to begin life anew with our new child and heir.

It didn't work out like that.

To begin with, Tosh just simply refused to budge. They tried everything but even the epidural didn't seem to work.

The hours went by. We held hands and talked.

People in white coats came and went. Things were attached and then later removed to be replaced by other things that looked much the same but weren't.

The day slowly dissolved into the night. The ring tails screeched at sundown and then were heard no more until the dawn crept in across our private room and I studied the slow movement of the sun across the pale yellow ceiling.

And then, suddenly, in a flurry of trolleys lights and white gowns and masks, it was all over. The wee man had arrived.

They didn't say at first. Gillian got to cradle him. So did I. He was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen.

And then they said they thought there might be a problem. He was a bit flaccid and they wanted to do some tests and they took him away.

I phoned my mother with the news.

There was a long pause.

"Son" she said "You love him don't you."

It wasn't a question

"Of course I do mum. How can you not love your own son? He's my wee man."

Somewhere down in the streets of Rio, somebody was lighting a candle. It was me; in thanks.