Tomas Ingleby and the Tale of the Golden Fairy

Prologue

"Blow, Mr Ingleby. That's right--blowww."

Pant, blow, pant, pant, blowww ...

"Very good, Mr Ingleby. Stretch, tie it off now, take another one--and blowww."

Blowww--pant, pant--blowww ...

"Excellent, Mr Ingleby. Nearly done, couple more. Blowww!"

Mr Ingleby blew, and blew, and blew and blew and blew.

"Finished," said Nurse. "Very well done. Super."

Mr Ingleby gasped with relief. Surrounded by balloons, balloons everywhere. Wife insisted on balloons. Lots and lots of balloons, filling the entire ward, whole damn hospital.

"There," said Nurse. "One box of fifty complete. Start the next box now, Mr Ingleby. Just another six boxes to  go. I'll take the pink ones, you do the blue ones, as agreed."

Eh?

"Don't look at me like that," said Nurse. "You're the one couldn't sleep. Might as well make yourself useful. All that energy. Goodness! Look at the time. Supper. She'll be wanting another pineapple and sardine sandwich. All out of mustard too--and peanut butter. Oh dear."

New Year's Eve, five minutes to midnight, bell sounds: ring-a-ding-ding! Nurse frowned.

"Aaaaaaagggghhhhhh!!!!!!"

"Warp speed!" cried Nurse. "Show's started. Gone into labour."

"Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggggghhhhh!"

"Yep. Game on, all right. Don't worry, Mr Ingleby, only a baby after all. Here, take some gas. Not as if she's not giving birth to an elephant."

"Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngggggghhhhhhhaaarrrggghhh!"

"Oh dear, oh dear, Mr Ingleby. You've gone green. What . . .?"

Chaos. Five short minutes that seemed like eternity: doctors, midwives, consultants, electronic equipment beeped and flashed. Mr Ingleby remained outside, swaying, mumbling, groaning, singing, as if he was drunk.

"Clamp," squawked a voice. "Push!"

Mr Ingleby paced up and down. One shriek after another, hands knotted in his hair, gripped and twisted until his knuckles turned white. Nurse mopped his brow.

Then . . . silence, very loud silence.

Deafening.

"Go on in, if you like, Mr Ingleby."

"Waaaah!" screeched a little voice through the doorway.

Mr Ingleby stared blankly. Buried his face in his hands.

The shrieking stopped. Nurse disappeared, reappeared--twice.

"In you go, Mr Ingleby. Honestly, it's all right."

Mr Ingleby stared.

"Really it is."

Bells chimed in the nearby church, fireworks exploded into the air. Midnight! Fanfare, for the birth of a new and perfectly ordinary Ingleby. Not that it wasn't expected. Mrs Ingleby had started to get a little worried. Something bouncing around in there, she'd said, clutching her mushrooming bump as if half expecting some alien entity to burst out any moment. The joke caught on until the poor woman ended up quite paranoid.

Hence the balloons.

And the ribbons and the cards and the banners and the cakes and the candles and the wishes.

Best of all wishes. Someone had gone to an awful length to make this look the most extraordinary birth of all time. And then some.

Mr Ingleby went in. Quite the success it would seem, though it had been close. Nurse broke down into tears.

"Cute," said Doctor.

"Yeah," said Another. "Sure is, well worth it."

"New year babies, eh? Special."

"Bravo! Oh bravo!"  clapped Nurse.

In the quiet after the storm Baby stirred; it yawned and stretched; its nose twitched as if a fly had landed on it.

It opened one eye . . .

Silence.

Time froze: ice-cold Time.

Sharp intake of breath . . .

"Oh," said a voice. "It's a boy. Er, I think."

Half a dozen pairs of eyes lit up like little planets orbiting a strange new star.

Mr Ingleby stopped teetering, rocking back and forth. Popped his balloon and pitched forward.

The delivery team stared: Mrs Ingleby, the baby's face, each other; several recoiled as if they had seen a ghost. Nurse gulped nitrous from the tube. This little boy was anything but normal.

Nurse groped for the alarm.

"Well," said Mrs Ingleby. "Give him here, let me have a look at him. Why are you all staring?"

Mr Ingleby popped his balloon, making everyone jump.

A stray banner courtesy of Uncle Max immediately prior to his trial for felony income tax fraud, improperly installed both senses of the word, witless as it was witty, detached from the ceiling and floated down with a ripple across the bed:

Welcome to Thoracic Park!

Baby yawned and dozed on, oblivious, as if without a care in the world, which was true.

For now.