by Kate Long
A vision Divine. My eyes blurred with tears and I scrambled back onto my seat. Oh, Nan.
Forty minutes later, just as my bladder had passed from painful to critical, a little grey-haired nurse called me into a dim room, hoisted me onto a table, and pulled my shirt up and my leggings down to my pubic bone. I stared down at the slightly flattened bump as she squirted cold gel on my skin and then stood back for the doctor to get in there with his probe thing.
‘Look at the screen,’ whispered the nurse, beaming.
And there, in flickering white profile, was a head and an arm.
‘It’s sucking its thumb,’ she said.
My God. So there was a baby in there after all. It was all true. The foetus squirmed about as the doctor pressed hard into my flesh for what seemed like ages.
‘Don’t hurt it!’ I called out in alarm.
‘It’s fine,’ he murmured and carried on methodically, taking down measurements every time the machine went beep. ‘Sorry, when was the date of your last period?’
‘I told the midwife, I don’t know.’ Who keeps track of these things?
He moved the probe around and two waving legs came into view. ‘And you haven’t had a dating scan . . . Well . . .’
The image froze.
‘What’s the matter?’ I felt panic rise. Next to my hip the machine made a sinister whirring noise.
The nurse leaned over. ‘It’s OK, he’s just taking a nice picture for your notes. You can take a copy home if you want.’
‘Is there something wrong, though? Is my baby all right?’
The doctor flicked a switch and the screen froze again, then the overhead lights came on. ‘You’re fine, your baby’s fine. I’d say you were about – ’ he glanced over at my notes – ‘about twenty-six weeks. So I’m going to put your due date down as the sixteenth of October.’
‘Oh my God, that’s my Nan’s birthday!’
The nurse grinned and helped me up off the table, but the doctor was busy writing on my file.
‘Can I ask a question?’
‘Sure,’ he said without turning round.
‘Can you tell whether it’s a boy or a girl? I’d really like to know. For the names and stuff.’
He glanced over his shoulder at me.
‘It’s not hospital policy to disclose the sex,’ he said briefly, and turned back again. I wondered how he could be so unmoved by the miracle he’d just revealed.
‘You’ll have to knit lots of lovely white things,’ twittered the nurse, squeezing my arm. I’d have liked her as a mother, I decided. ‘Now, I’ll bet you’re desperate for a pee. I’ll show you where the toilet is.’
And then I was on the bus going home, the grainy flimsy photo clutched in my hands. There was another universe-upside-down moment, when for the duration of that ride I and my baby were at the centre of creation, and the feeling that we two were all evolution had been working towards for millions of years overwhelmed me. Nobody on the 416 seemed to notice my fantastic revelation, but that’s the way the world works, isn’t it? We miss amazing things every day, right under our noses. Maybe it’s for the best. If we went round being amazed all the time we’d never get anything done.
I bounced into the house and went in search of Nan, but there was only Mrs Crowther from Crossroads reading last night’s Bolton Evening News. ‘She’s having a nap in her room,’ she told me. ‘At long last. She’s been up and down like I don’t know what. Something’s mitherin’ her.’
I shrugged and went to find something to eat. In the kitchen I smoothed out the little picture again and drank in the detail. Just its top half, the face in profile, a big forehead. I wondered who it looked like and a pang of memory, Paul’s shining face and floppy hair, skewered me where I stood. Would he not like, would he not want to see . . . ? But that was not Paul I remembered, not the real Paul, who was scum. This baby didn’t need a fantasy father.
I wanted to phone Daniel, but a glance at my watch told me he’d still be doing his sums so I made a giant cheese sandwich and went upstairs to do some more thinking.
When I opened the door and saw what was on the bed I couldn’t believe my eyes.
*
ONE OF THE THINGS that’s bothering me most about this baby business is that it means I’m on my way to being old. Thirty-four, it’s no age is it? You see TV presenters older than me (occasionally). I want to throw out my jumpers and leggings and start again, wear spaghetti straps and combat trousers and little butterfly clips in my hair. Would I really look like mutton? How can I be a grandma? Yet once this baby’s born I’ll feel as if I’ve started down the slippery slope which ends with Werther’s Originals, The People’s Friend and Death. I didn’t think I was even middle-aged really, but look, here I am, Grannie Karen. So even less chance of finding a man. I mean, it’s not exactly an alluring chat-up gambit: Why don’t you come back and see my grandchild? I bet Charlotte never thought of that, did she. How did I ever manage to produce such a selfish daughter?
*
Laid neatly across the bed were three blouses, a pair of jeans and a long floaty skirt. I went over and had a closer look. MUM-2B said all the labels. It was maternity wear! My first set of decent clothes for six months. I tore off the saggy size-16 leggings I’d bought off Wigan market and pulled on the jeans. They were really clever, sort of stretchy round the top and then skinny on the legs like real jeans. It was brilliant to have something that felt comfortable again. I struggled out of the T-shirt and put on the nicest blouse, a floral job, and all right, I looked a bit mumsy, but what could you expect in the circumstances? The point was everything fitted in the right places and didn’t feel like it was going to fall down or cut me in half. Next I tried the skirt, also brilliant, with the same blouse then another, then the third, then I took off the skirt and put the jeans back on and it was then that the front door went and I heard Mum’s voice in the hall.
‘Mum!’ I shouted down.
‘Just a minute,’ she called back. I heard her talking to Mrs Crowther, then the door going again. Finally her footsteps on the stairs, and she was in my room.
‘Well?’ She sounded sharp and I faltered.
‘All these clothes . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you buy them?’
‘How else do you think they got there?’
‘Oh, Mum, thanks so much—’
She cut me short. ‘I ordered them from the catalogue. If you don’t like them, don’t pull the labels out and I’ll return them. You can pay me back in instalments, we’ll have to work it out.’
Even the news that they weren’t a gift didn’t dampen my gratitude.
‘It’s so nice of you . . .’
‘Well, let’s be honest, you were beginning to look a complete sight in that other stuff.’ She turned to go and I stepped forward and grabbed her arm.
‘Oh, Mum, I’ve got to show you something—’ I picked up the scan photo from the pillow and held it out shyly.
She took one glance and then her eyes flicked away. She wrenched her arm free and walked out, slamming the door.
*
SOMETIMES it’s hard to see what a woman sees in a feller. I loved my dad ’cause he were my dad; we didn’t see him so often, but when we did he were grand wi’ us. He made Jimmy a boat out of wood wi’ a mousetrap inside it, so’s when you pressed a button at t’ side it flew apart. We used play wi’ it for hours out on t’ flags at t’ back. For me he made a little chair – I have it now – wi’ spindles an’ turned legs. When I got too big for it, it did for my dolls. An’ although he could be sharp-tongued, he only twice laid a finger on me an’ that was for sayin’ ‘Good shuttons’ to the milkman – I didn’t know it was rude – and for mouthin’ ‘What a face our cat’s got’ at my mother; she saw me in the mirror. He would never have touched our Jimmy, he thought the sun shone out of him; we all did. He had his father’s charm wi’ none of the arrogance.
But when I grew up, an’ especially when I got married, I began
to see what a terrible time he’d given my mother. Grandma Florrie hated him; hated the way he’d turn up at the house an’ expect to stop the night, but she never said no because Polly’d be beside herself wantin’ him to stay and so would we. Sometimes his mother, Grandma Fenton, would come round an’ the two owd women would sit on the horsehair sofa and moan about his behaviour.
We felt sorry for Grandma Fenton. Fancy havin’ produced a son who hated women. She’d been in service when she got caught and she’d never say who the father was, although it was pretty obvious it was the chap who employed her; he wouldn’t have owt to do wi’ it, I suppose. So when Harold was young she had a poor time of it, no benefits in them days, of course. She used have a stall again’ the Victoria where she sold nettle beer, brandy snaps and treacle toffee. An’ she were a nice woman, it was a shame. She’d have done anything for Polly. She never got much love from her son.
I know I’ve been lucky. Bill were a wonderful husband and father. And the more I see of the world, the more I think there aren’t so many on ’em about.
*
I’D BEEN putting it off – frankly I’d rather have driven six-inch nails into my kneecaps – but it had to be done. Steve had got to be told about the situation.
I wouldn’t say we were on bad terms; he’s too bone-idle to harbour a grudge. For him the past is the past, he’s not fussed about the way our marriage turned out. He always seems quite pleased to see me (which is about once a year) and quite pleased when I leave.
He lives in Harrop, at the bottom of the Brow; you could walk it, but it’d be a heck of a climb back up. I took the Metro and parked it up the entry at the end of the terrace.
‘Hey up.’
He’d seen the car and was standing at the door in his stocking feet. He’d grown a moustache since I’d last seen him and it made him look older. Still as lean as a whippet, though, still that sharp-featured face and the cheeky grin.
I walked up the overgrown path and went through the dark hall, picking my way past cardboard boxes, to the back sitting room.
‘Have a seat. Kettle’s just boiled.’
There were more boxes and some bundles of newspaper on the floor, lots of used crockery dotted about, a pair of jeans folded over a wire maiden by the unlit gas fire. When we’d first split up I’d been appalled at the way he lived, but now I just left him to it. A bit of peeling wallpaper border never hurt anyone, I suppose. As long as it wasn’t in my house, obviously.
‘So what’s this all about? You sounded a bit rattled on the phone. Is it summat to do with Charlotte?’ He handed me a mug with a picture of Linda Lusardi on it and sat down opposite.
‘Yeah. God, there’s no easy way to say it. She’s got herself into trouble.’
‘Wha’, at school? I thought she were a gold-star pupil.’
‘No, you great lummox, into trouble. She’s pregnant.’
‘Oh, bleedin’ ’ell.’ Steve put his cup down on the carpet and shot me a twisted grin. ‘Not our Charlie. I thought she had more sense.’
‘Apparently not.’
Steve shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it. Not our Charlie. She’s such a clever girl. Cleverer than us, anyroad, I thought. What did she think she were doin’?’
I shrugged and lay back against the sofa wearily. ‘It’s not like I haven’t warned her a thousand times. But you know what she’s like, so deep. So difficult to talk to. I wasn’t even absolutely sure she had a boyfriend for ages, she’s so secretive. And she’s well on, it’s too late for an abortion. She hid it from everyone.’ It wasn’t my fault, I wanted to add, but then Steve would never have thought like that anyway. I was justifying to myself, not him.
‘An’ this lad, what’s he got to say about it all?’ Unconsciously he drew himself up and squared his jaw.
There was a pause.
‘I’ve not really pursued that line,’ I said awkwardly.
‘What do you mean? Haven’t you been round to his house, had a talk with his parents? Because it seems to me he’s got some explaining to do.’
I couldn’t tell him I’d been too wrapped up in blaming Charlotte and my own inadequacies to dream of doing anything other than getting rid of the pregnancy. When this plan had failed I was so drunk with fury I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t even bring myself to say good morning to Charlotte, let alone have a rational discussion about the role of the baby’s father. In any case, I secretly didn’t blame him, I blamed her, because whatever they say, there’ll never be equality of the sexes till men can get pregnant; she was bright enough to know she’d be the one to get caught, so she ought to have sorted it. Men’ll just try for what they can get where sex is concerned, they don’t think it through; that’s for us women to do. So as far as I was concerned it was her fault.
But Steve had scented a villain and his blue eyes were bright.
‘What’s this little bugger’s name and where’s he live?’
‘Paul. Paul Bentham. He lives round the corner, off Barrow Road, apparently. He used to go to school with Charlotte when she was in the juniors. Cocky so and so. He dumped her about three months ago, and that’s why I thought she was so moody, still pining for him. I never dreamt . . .’
‘Well, I’m going to pay this Paul Bentham a visit and tell him exactly what the state of play is. He can’t just walk away; I didn’t, did I? You’ve got to face up to your responsibilities even at that age. Little shit.’ He thumped the arm of the chair. ‘Upsetting our Charlie like that and then doing a runner. Poor lass. Is she all right?’
What about me? I wanted to shout. I’m not all right! I want to jump on the next bus to Manchester airport and flee the country, except the whole house would collapse without me. Christ, I can’t even pop down the shops without checking Nan’s bag or Charlotte’s sanity; I feel like that Greek bloke who had to hold the world up on his shoulders.
But I hadn’t come round to moan. There’s no point with Steve, he blocks it out, which is partly why we used to have such God-awful rows. He never understood that women like to complain for the sake of it, to get things off their chest, and they don’t want to be fobbed off with practical solutions and courses of action. They just want sympathetic attention, and lots of it.
So I said, ‘She’s fine. I’m not worried about her at the moment, she’s – ’ a bitter laugh escaped – ‘really into the pregnancy now and pretty up-beat. Though I think it’ll all go pear-shaped when the baby’s born.’
‘Well, it does, dun’t it?’
‘Exactly.’
There was a silence while we both remembered the unholy fuck-up we’d made of the post-natal months.
‘Well, she’s got you to look after her,’ said Steve and a big spear of guilt ran through me. ‘So what d’you want me to do? I’m no good at talking to her . . . She scares me a bit, if you want to know.’ He laughed sheepishly. ‘She’s so bloody clever, and she’s taller than me an’ all . . .’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know her well enough.’
I could have made a nasty remark here but I was too conscious that the feelings Steve was trying to articulate were basically my own. In any case, I needed more aggro like I needed a hole in the head.
‘I could probably find some extra cash,’ he continued. He gestured vaguely at the cardboard boxes. ‘I’m looking after some stuff for a chap at work, and there’ll be a few quid in it at the end for me. I don’t mind passing it Charlotte’s way.’
‘I can’t pretend it wouldn’t be welcome. Money doesn’t buy you happiness—’
‘But at least you can be miserable in comfort,’ he finished and we grinned briefly together. ‘Right-oh. ’S not a problem.’
‘I didn’t come round here to scrounge, though.’
‘I know you didn’t.’
‘I thought you needed putting in the picture. She might – she might still want to come round and talk it over with you.’
A look of panic crossed Steve’s face. ‘Oh, bloody hell. Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll
do. I’ll go round to see this lad and I’ll see if I can sort summat out. I mean, I can’t make things any worse, can I?’
I gazed at my cup and considered. Linda Lusardi simpered out at me from under a film of tannin.
‘Probably not. Just make sure you don’t lose your temper,’ I said.
*
I bottled it, the big school revelation. At four o’clock Scan Tuesday I phoned Mrs Carlisle and told her the whole sorry story. She said to give her half an hour to have a think, then she rang back and said what they’d do was let me sit my exams up in Mrs Duke’s office, out of the way, and I could come and go during lesson time so nobody would see me. So that’s what I did, sloping in and out of the building like a bulky shadow. For the external papers I had to have a teacher sit in with me, but for the internal ones I was just left alone to get on with it; me, a bottle of Evian, a packet of Polos and my little curly photo. I’ve never felt so focused.
At the end of the last exam Mrs Carlisle came and had a long chat with me. She’d brought me a syrupy mug of real coffee, unaware that even the smell of instant made me heave. Still, it was something to do with my hands while she went on about deferred university places and childcare options for next year. She’d done a lot of research. ‘You mustn’t let go of your dreams,’ she said, twice. I didn’t even know what my dreams were any more.
On the last day of term she gathered the lower sixth girls together and told them the score. I’d had every intention of going in and saying goodbye; Daniel thought I should. But when it came to it I couldn’t face the glare of publicity and spent the morning down the canal bank at Ambley again, throwing leaves in the water and watching them float off to freedom.
That was on the Wednesday; on Thursday I had a phone call from Julia asking me to meet her in town for lunch and I thought I owed it to her, so I went.
The thing about Julia is that she’s brimming with social aplomb. She must get it from her mother, a girlish woman with a bright, lipsticked smile who can talk to anyone. I remember last Open Day there was a woman with no hair, I think she must have had cancer, and Julia’s mum just breezed up to her and started chatting away. I was on the refreshment stall and I’d been dreading this woman coming over in case I said something like, ‘Do you need a wig?’ instead of ‘Do you need a tray?’ So, I have to admit, if the boot had been on the other foot and it was Julia who’d been pregnant, I’d have been struck dumb with embarrassment.
