A child is born: Weeks after emigrating from Scotland, Paul Dalgarno and his wife found themselves celebrating Christmas under an Australian sun with a barbecue ... and a peculiar dose of indigestion

Jess and I slept on a borrowed mattress on Julie’s living room floor; Kolya, light of our lives, slept a few feet from us, in a cot Julie had bought on eBay. His 19-month-old body needed little space and there was hardly any to take up.

His unborn sibling would lay claim to some more in a few hours, assuming she or he arrived, as he or she seemed destined to, on Christmas night.

Jess had started cramping during the festive barbie, sitting in a director’s chair on the decking outside Julie’s kitchen window.

There were 11 of us with party hats and sated appetites. The barbecue’s coals had gone flaky white. A few limp, oily vegetables swam in a ceramic serving dish. Remnants of mashed potatoes clung to the walls of a pan. We’d eaten a lot. Jess and I agreed that her discomfort was probably indigestion.

"Like cramp," she said.

I thought the bubba was coming. Jess was nearly two weeks overdue, as she’d been with Kolya. We had hoping-for-it-to-happen fatigue.

Jess said it could have been the shrimps.

I was cramping for different reasons. Just before Simon’s pavlova had been served, Jess’s older brother Ben called everyone to attention and handed me a card stuffed with $50 notes. I saw and smelt the yellow wad before snapping the card shut. We needed the cash, no question – but the gesture hit me right in the guts.

A fortnight earlier, Julie had told Jess we’d all donate $50 each towards an as-yet undecided group gift rather than buying individual presents.

I told Jess’s siblings they shouldn’t have bothered, that we’d been told something else was happening with the cash.

"We lied," said Ben, laughing.

Kolya was excited by the excitement. Simon lifted him from his high chair; he waddle-walked to his Uncle Ben, who lifted him into the air, squeezed him. I could have reached for the butter knife and thrown it with force into Ben’s abdomen, but I smiled instead.

I handed the money-stuffed card to Jess. She made a show of studying the messages inside before thanking everyone again on our behalf.

They’d all gone by the time we were sure the cramps were contractions. Julie and Simon were at a party; Kolya was out cold in his cot, surrounded by new toys and teddies.

I had the number for the Mercy Hospital in my wallet but couldn’t call. There was no landline in Julie and Simon’s house, and our borrowed mobile phone was out of credit.

I Skyped the Mercy on Julie’s new laptop, which she’d left in the kitchen. Becky, the duty receptionist, sounded further away than the half hour it would take us to drive to Heidelberg.

She suggested Jess take a warm shower, and we hung up.

While Jess was in the shower, I crept into our living room house to check on Kolya, light of our lives, curled up in the darkness: he was still out cold, and that was good. When he woke, he’d have a sister or brother, unless it was the shrimps.

I minced to the kitchen and Skyped Julie. She had to come home, I said, to watch Kolya.

"Right now?" she said.

"Yeah, it’s happening, yeah, hurry."

She was rubbing Jess’s back on the burst-spring sofa by the time I Skyped the Mercy again. Jess could barely speak; Becky said to come in straight away.

En route to the Mercy in our creaking Holden Nova, Jess panted calmly. Things were under some sort of control. Control was an illusion. Julie was minding Kolya, light of our lives; I was following other people’s tail-lights like stars of the East, wondering where they were going on Christmas night. It was cloudy and hot.

Jess groaned. I sank the accelerator.

I skidded the creaking Holden Nova across the emergency bay, and ran round the car to get Jess. I helped her shuffle through the sliding doors and started banging the door of the birth centre. I was about to start thumping again when Becky opened the door.

Fairy lights winked on the ceiling; tinsel wound its way round lampshades on the wall and circled cardboard Santa heads, ready to garrotte them.

An unseen woman’s birthing screams ripped holes in the muggy air.

We were taken to a room with a double bed with a floral quilt, some fertility art on the walls. The rubber floor and a Swiss ball were the only things differentiating it from a three-star bed and breakfast.

The shower-room light was on, the door open. I couldn’t help looking forward to an evening primal-screaming with Jess under the steaming jets.

I lifted her legs onto the double bed, did everything she asked in the order she asked it – mostly that meant rubbing her lower back, with running commentary from Jess.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, that’s it. No, not there. Ah, yeah, oh, that’s better, yeah. No, not there. No, up a bit. No, up. No, up. A bit harder. Yeah. Oh, no, yeah, yes, yeah, that’s it, oh, yeah, there, a bit harder, yeah."

My wrists were going numb: I momentarily eased the pressure – until Jess said "f***’s sake, ah, no", and I ramped it up again.

How dilated was she? She didn’t know. Was the baby imminent?

"No. I don’t think so."

I’d noticed a sign in the emergency parking bay warning drivers their cars would be towed after 15 minutes, no exceptions. It had been at least 25.

I left Jess and ran, jumped into the car, nearly reversed into an ambulance, screeched down the helter-skelter ramp, swerved maniacally into the hospital car park.

It was full, or very nearly. I circled rows of parked cars, punching the steering wheel, shouting: "F***’s sake."

I prayed to the Ghost of Arseholes Past that someone would get in their car and skedaddle, and someone did, eventually, just as I was approaching.

I swung the creaking Holden Nova into the space and ran to the lifts, where an elderly couple were waiting. They said Merry Christmas; I said Merry Christmas back, affecting a casual pose, nostrils flaring.

Ten minutes had passed since I’d seen Jess, maybe more. She could have had the baby already; they could be ready to go home.

When I skidded back into the room, Jess was in the shower making noises. A midwife came into the room and introduced herself as Julia, our helper for the night. She stood on the inside of the shower door and asked Jess if she felt like pushing.

"A bit," said Jess. "Aaaah. I don’t know."

Julia left the room; I rushed to Jess’s side. There was more steam than I’d anticipated. She was bent over, one hand gripping a steel rail that ran along the white wall tiles, the other guiding a showerhead back and forth across her belly. I wondered what might come out of her.

She told me to grab the other showerhead and spray her lower back. The water felt too hot to me, but Jess insisted it was fine. I strafed her slowly, methodically.

Through the steam I could see some staining on the rubber floor where babies had slurped into life. I wondered if any had been born on the loo and fallen in.

A few minutes later, Jess said she was sleepy and might doze off. "Just for a minute," she said, slurring her words.

I tried to say something meaningful about how adrenaline would kick in, but failed. My own adrenaline was flowing unobstructed, my adrenal gland raw.

"Maybe you should take a nap," I said. It sounded ridiculous.

On the hospital tour, we'd been shown a birthing bath and told us it was allocated on a first-come-first-served basis.

Jess stifled a yawn, said: "Can you see if the bath is free? Hurry."

After jogging down the corridor in my dripping birthing shorts, I introduced myself – needlessly – to Becky, who said she’d fill the bath for us and let Julia know what was happening.

When I returned to the shower, Jess was hunched over, groaning at the wall. Julia poked her head through the steam to say that the bath would take about 10 minutes to fill; in the meantime, she wanted to check Jess on the double bed.

Together, we bundled Jess from the shower. Julia held a dinky monitor against Jess’s bulge and squeezed her in several places; we took her under the arms and dragged her back to the shower room.

Julia retreated, a gorilla through the mist. I continued spraying Jess from side to side, eager to pace myself. We could be in situ all night, I thought – maybe longer; we’d be prunes by morning. Or we could be seconds away from emotional and physical devastation.

Julia returned to say she’d stopped running our bath. I thought she meant it was ready. She meant that Jess was. I was about to stand and hoist Jess up when Julia rolled up her trouser legs, unfurled a rubber mat and unzipped a surgical tool kit. I saw scissors, gloves, a small rectangular mirror: no frame, just the glass and four sharp edges; a health and safety hazard, surely – a report of some sort should ...

She told Jess to stay on her knees, which she did, her face against the wall, half-holding, half-leaning on the metal handrail.

I hunkered down, rubbing Jess’s back and welling up simultaneously.

Julia squatted, fed instructions into Jess’s ear and held the mirror between her shaking legs.

Jess screamed and the room filled with an aroma I knew I’d never forget – a kelp smell, the tang of sea. Her broken waters mixed with the shower water and circled down the drain.

Her shrieks grew louder still, as did my supposed-to-be-calming voice: "You’re doing well," I shouted. "Come on, keep breathing, deep breathing …"

"It’s too painful,’ said Jess. ‘It’s really hurting."

Julia told me to switch off the showers as Jess’s screams intensified.

Little pushes, big pushes, panting, pausing. Something was coming. Something big.

Against my wishes, I peeked between Jess’s legs, saw what looked like a coconut. Little pushes, big screaming – Jess’s, not mine.

A strangled head appeared, its shoulders still to come.

Another woman arrived at the shower door to watch the show. Jess was convulsing life through her vagina; the more witnesses, the merrier.

My ears crackled in response to Jess’s screaming; the room seemed to tilt backwards. Out came baby, plop; blue, grey, wrinkled, heavy-light, looking up, lying flat on a rubber mat.

A blue-grey penis.

A boy. Another boy.

Was he breathing? No, he wasn’t. But he coughed and began.

Jess was shaking. I helped her up, blood streaming down her unsteady-foal legs, a grey-blue still-pulsing cord attaching her to her baby.

We were led dripping to the bed, without concern for the floral bedspread.

"10.42pm," said the watching woman. "A Christmas baby."

"Hallelujah – and thanks," I said.

Julia and the watcher left the room, pulling the door gently behind them; we sat on the bed, bloody, with our brand-new boy, Finn.

This is an edited extract from And You May Find Yourself by Paul Dalgarno, published by Sleepers Publishing. The ebook is available through all major ebook retailers. For UK print publication rights contact Sleepers.