Spare

Crowning, I thought. Incredible.

The skin was blue. I worried the baby wasn’t getting enough air. Is she choking? I looked at Meg. One more push, my love! We’re so close.

Here, here, here, the doctor said, guiding my hands, right here.

A scream, then a moment of pure liquid silence. It wasn’t, as sometimes happens, that past and future were suddenly one. It was that the past didn’t matter, and the future didn’t exist. There was only this intense present, and then the doctor turned to me and shouted: Now!

I slid my hands under the tiny back and neck. Gently, but firmly, as I’d seen in films, I pulled our precious daughter from that world into this, and cradled her just a moment, trying to smile at her, to see her, but honestly, I couldn’t see anything. I wanted to say: Hello. I wanted to say: Where have you come from? I wanted to say: Is it better there? Is it peaceful? Are you frightened?

Don’t be, don’t be, all will be well.

I’ll keep you safe.

I surrendered her to Meg. Skin to skin, the nurse said.

Later, after we’d brought her home, after we’d settled into all the new rhythms of a family of four, Meg and I were skin to skin and she said: I’ve never been more in love with you than in that moment.

Really?

Really.

She jotted some thoughts in a kind of journal. Which she shared.

I read them as a love poem.

I read them as a testament, a renewal of our vows.

I read them as a citation, a remembrance, a proclamation.

I read them as a decree.

She said: That was everything.

She said: That is a man.

My love. She said: That is not a Spare.

Epilogue

I helped Meg into the boat. It wobbled, but I quick-stepped to the middle, got it righted in time.

As she found a seat in the stern, I took up the oars. They didn’t work.

We’re stuck.

The thick mud of the shallows had us in its grip.

Uncle Charles came down to the water’s edge, gave us a little shove. We waved to him, and to my two aunts. Bye. See you in a bit.

Gliding across the pond, I gazed around at Althorp’s rolling fields and ancient trees, the thousands of green acres where my mother grew up, and where, though things weren’t perfect, she’d known some peace.

Minutes later we reached the island and gingerly stepped onto the shore. I led Meg up the path, around a hedge, through the labyrinth. There it was, looming: the grayish white oval stone.

No visit to this place was ever easy, but this one…

Twenty-fifth anniversary.

And Meg’s first time.

At long last I was bringing the girl of my dreams home to meet mum.

We hesitated, hugging, and then I went first. I placed flowers on the grave. Meg gave me a moment, and I spoke to my mother in my head, told her I missed her, asked her for guidance and clarity.

Feeling that Meg might also want a moment, I went around the hedge, scanned the pond. When I came back, Meg was kneeling, eyes shut, palms against the stone.

I asked, as we walked back to the boat, what she’d prayed for.

Clarity, she said. And guidance.

—

The next few days were given over to a whirlwind work trip. Manchester, Dusseldorf, then back to London for the WellChild Awards. But that day—September 8, 2022—a call came in around lunchtime.

Unknown number.

Hello?

It was Pa. Granny’s health had taken a turn.

She was up at Balmoral, of course. Those beautiful, melancholy late-summer days. He hung up—he had many other calls to make—and I immediately texted Willy to ask whether he and Kate were flying up. If so, when? And how?

No response. Meg and I looked at flight options.

The press started phoning; we couldn’t delay a decision any longer. We told our team to confirm: We’d be missing the WellChild Awards and hurrying up to Scotland.

Then came another call from Pa.

He said I was welcome at Balmoral, but he didn’t want…her. He started to lay out his reason, which was nonsensical, and disrespectful, and I wasn’t having it. Don’t ever speak about my wife that way.

He stammered, apologetic, saying he simply didn’t want a lot of people around. No other wives were coming, Kate wasn’t coming, he said, therefore Meg shouldn’t.

Then that’s all you needed to say.

By now it was midafternoon; no more commercial flights that day to Aberdeen. And I still had no response from Willy. My only option, therefore, was a charter out of Luton.

I was on board two hours later.