Dreams Before the Start of Time

by Anne Charnock

  “I wasn’t ready,” she calls back.

  He offers his hand and shouts over his shoulder, “Max, run and get the cool box.”

  She groans. “Knocked the wind out of me.”

  “Why did you dive?”

  “I shouldn’t have done.”

  “Come on. Give me the rug—we’ll spread out here.”

  “I think we’d be better over there, by those trees.” She points. “There’s a bit of shade.”

  “Good idea. Hey, are you okay?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  Atticus and Max set up camp by the trees, and in the cool air Toni’s nausea begins to subside. She lies down. So far, the afternoon isn’t going quite to plan.

  “Are you hungry yet, Max?” asks Atticus.

  “Not really.” Max looks down the slope towards the Serpentine, scanning for potential playmates. He picks up the Frisbee and throws it. Two children, a girl and a boy, break away from their family groups and reach, all hands aloft, as though compelling the Frisbee to fly towards them. Max chases off.

  “He’s a lot younger than you, Atticus.”

  He grins. “Yeah. Don’t I know it. There’s no lazing around at our house, not with Max.” He lies on his side, propped on an elbow, and stares at her.

  She gazes into his eyes and makes a mental note. Hazel. Her mum’s eyes were similar.

  “Have you ever been to one of those parties, Toni, that seems perfectly fine and pleasant, and then someone arrives late who totally makes things spark? Yeah? That’s how it felt when Max came along.”

  “That’s a lovely way of putting it. That’s really sweet, Atticus.”

  “Everything was fine at home, but then it was better.”

  Toni looks up. One of those perfect-sky days—wavering Prussian green leaves against an impenetrable cobalt blue. Atticus sits up to watch Max and the other children at play. His shoulders shake as he laughs. He twists around, still smiling. “I’m glad you suggested a picnic. We haven’t met up in the daytime before.”

  “Haven’t we? How odd.” She changes the subject. “How often do you baby-sit Max?”

  “Oh, now and then. I live near my parents, so it’s easy to collect him and drop him off. I watch him play football on Saturday mornings. And if I get tickets, I take him to the match.”

  That’s half his weekend spoken for. She bites on her bottom lip.

  When they’ve packed away the remains of their picnic, Atticus shakes out the rug and folds it neatly, but not obsessively so. Toni decides the afternoon has been a success insofar as she’s warmed towards Atticus. The feeling appears to be mutual. However, as they walk towards the tube station, she’s thrown when he suggests they meet again before his next trip to China.

  “China? When are you going?”

  “In ten days.”

  “How long are you going for?”

  “Three weeks.”

  She blurts, “Tomorrow. Come to my place for dinner. I’m going to be crazy busy from Tuesday.” She feels sick and sweaty; she has to tell him before he leaves on his trip.

  On Sunday night Toni barely sleeps a wink. She sits up in bed as soon as there’s a glimmer of light leaking around her window blinds, and she makes two lists.

  Atticus Plus:

  Loves children

  Steady job

  Punctual

  Easy-going

  Sporty

  Travels with his job

  Positive outlook

  Parents still alive (good genes)

  Good-ish looking

  Atticus Minus:

  Might hate the co-parenting idea

  Not a homeowner yet

  Might want to move in!

  A bit boring?

  Football nerd

  Travels with his job

  Spends A LOT of time with his family

  Not serious? Politics?

  Not quite handsome

  She wishes she’d made this list before the picnic. Some journalist. Anyway, the point of the picnic was not to calculate the sum of pluses and minuses. She wanted to be around him, without the sex. That’s all. She can’t believe she hasn’t worked out his politics. Or is he a fence-sitter? She swings her legs out of the bed, sits with her right palm pressed against her forehead. Stop. Stop. Stop. There’s a baby! She shouldn’t be worrying about damned politics.

  On the dot of six o’clock that evening, Atticus arrives at the seventh floor of Toni’s block of flats. He feels elated. A week ago, he sensed she was keeping him at arm’s length emotionally—discounting the sex, of course. But with the picnic and then this dinner invite, he feels a wave of relief. As though he’s scored a goal after a fallow period. He guesses, from the building’s structure and the position of each entrance door along the corridor, that Toni has a one-bedroom flat, possibly two-bedroom. It’s certainly bigger than a studio. Before he knocks, he brushes his palm across the door. He nods and makes an approving lower-lip pout; it’s not real wood, but it’s high-spec. She’s invested well.

  Toni opens the door, and Atticus can tell from her quick appraisal that he’s probably dressed overly smart, and the flowers—a small bunch of white roses—might be a mistake.

  She says, “I haven’t changed. I spent too long cooking.”

  He steps over the threshold. “Smells good.” She stands back and ushers him along the hallway towards her kitchen-come-workspace. “I like cooking.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  He discards the flowers to the steel-topped island where two place settings have been laid.

  “Nice space. I like it, Toni. Very workmanlike. Two desks, I see.”

  “It suits me.” She shrugs. “I changed the flat around recently. I used to have my office in the second bedroom, but I found myself working most of the time either at the island or at the dining table. So I moved the desks in here and sold the dining table. I always eat at the breakfast bar anyway. Works great.”

  “Why two desks?”

  “One for doing my writing—the tidy one. The other for admin. But to be honest, I use the admin desk when I’m writing any PR crap. I don’t want to contaminate my best desk.”

  “Two desks, one office chair, and one armchair.”

  She laughs. “The armchair’s for tea breaks. I do have a sofa bed, but that’s in the second bedroom now.”

  “So when friends come over . . . ?”

  “I haven’t entertained in a long time.” She opens the fridge, and with one hand pulls out two bottles by their necks. “Beer?”

  “Thanks. I’m planning on getting my own place soon. I’m a bit embarrassed I’m still renting.”

  “What’s been stopping you?” She looks at the bottles of beer, stalls and puts one back in the fridge. She pulls out a cola, levers off the bottle tops, and she and Atticus chink their bottles.

  “Other priorities,” Atticus says. “I funded some major repairs on my parents’ house last year. But I’m getting my own life sorted out now. I’d like to buy a flat this year, then do some travelling.”

  Eyes wide open. She nudges for more. “Travelling?”

  “I’ve been delaying it. The time wasn’t right.”

  Toni perches herself on a bar stool. Atticus drops into the armchair facing her. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind working overseas for a year or two. I fancy a stint in China.”

  She frowns. “But you travel with work already. Like I do.”

  “It’s not the same as living there, is it? Wouldn’t you like to live overseas? Be ideal for a travel writer, wouldn’t it?”

  “My last boyfriend said the same. He went off to Australia.”

  “He actually emigrated. That’s different.”

  She straightens her back. “Been doing your homework?”

  “Sorry, Danny mentioned it. But, you know, I wouldn’t want to leave permanently. I’d go for a year or two.”

  “Why China?”

  “I’m getting to like the place. I visited Qingdao last time. It’s like a mini-Shangh
ai, but with German architecture. I’d love to live there. In fact, I’d jump at the chance if a job came up.”

  “I went to China with my dad after my mother died.” She pauses, shifts awkwardly on the bar stool. “That was . . . nearly twenty years ago.” He waits quietly, patiently, for more. She tells Atticus in fits and starts, seems to shrink as she does so—and all the while, she fiddles with a fork, prodding her palm with the prongs—that her mother died in a car accident, her father brought her up. She says that she and her father are close, and she’s also close to her father’s second wife, Anna, who used to live next door. That is, this Anna was a friend of the family while Toni’s mother was alive. Atticus listens without interrupting because he’s taken aback that Toni is opening up. He can’t understand why it’s taken her so long to tell him about her family.

  Toni lays the fork down and wipes her eyes.

  “You shouldn’t bottle this stuff up,” he says.

  “I don’t. I’m always crying.”

  The vegetable lasagne is undercooked. Atticus waits for Toni to pass comment, but she seems not to notice. He shovels strategically with his fork, coming at the lasagne from different directions, chopping in, scooping. He takes a last mouthful as Toni puts down her knife and fork, defeated. She’s made little impression on her meal.

  “I was going to wait ’til later,” she says.

  “For what?” He takes a swig of beer.

  “Listen, Atticus . . .” She pauses. He looks into her eyes—soft brown, they weaken him. “I like you, Atticus, really, but I think we rushed into things. You see, I hadn’t had a relationship for over a year when I met you. I’d forgotten how to date and—”

  “That’s all right.” He smiles broadly. “Everything’s going fine. We can backtrack and start again. I know it hasn’t been romantic, but—”

  “No, I think . . . I’d rather have you as a friend. Before we go any further. I can’t face a big bust-up like I had with Freddie, and I’m just getting used to being on my own again.”

  “What?” He can’t have heard her right, can he?

  “And I need to focus on my work. Things are going pear-shaped; I’ve had an article spiked.”

  “Toni! Things are going great. Let’s start again—proper dates, like the picnic.”

  “It’s not just that. I’m pregnant.”

  She sits in the armchair this time; he sits in her office chair facing her. He has established that she’s feeling fine—though he recalls the drinking session last week—and she hasn’t seen her doctor as yet. She reckons she’s less than two months gone. So, early days.

  “Let’s get this straight. You are going to keep the baby?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “Am I getting any say in this?”

  “I’m telling you, aren’t I? I didn’t have to. The fact is, I’d already sort of decided—before I ever got pregnant—to sign up for co-parenting.”

  “What? You don’t need to co-parent. You’ve got a baby. We’ve got a baby. Why don’t we see how it goes? This could—”

  “Atticus! We hardly know one another. We’re likely to break up sooner or later, and that’s traumatic for a kid. If I’m going to keep this baby, it’s best to rethink and maybe stay platonic. I think you’d make a good dad.”

  “You must be fucking joking.”

  Toni seems to recoil, pushing herself farther back in the armchair. Atticus knows he shouldn’t have sworn at her.

  He says, “I don’t get this. We’re getting on really well, and because you’re pregnant you want to break it off? Or . . . you’re considering an abortion so you can choose a co-parent, a stranger. Have him round to jerk off in the bathroom. Is that how it works?”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s all organized at the clinic, artificial insemination, medical checks and everything.” She stabs a finger at him. “And mind your language. This is my home.”

  “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, looking away. He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, my genes are as good as anybody’s. And do you honestly believe a co-parent would be wholly dependable—wouldn’t get distracted, fall in love, want to move?”

  “But it’s a legal contract.”

  He leans forward and speaks slowly, quietly. “Have you any idea how hollow that sounds? Are you telling me you’d go to court to make this co-daddy show up on time, stop him emigrating, stop him finding the love of his life, wanting a new family—a proper family! Do you believe it’s so uncomplicated? You’re being sold a line, Toni.”

  “I’m not. Lots of people—”

  “It’s a business opportunity. Someone’s exploiting you.”

  “What? No, no, I don’t see it that way. There’s so many people wanting—”

  “Demand. Supply. That’s all it is.” He’s ready to ignite with pure frustration. His face is burning. Must calm down.

  “Please! Don’t see it like that, Atticus. You could sign up too, and we could take the co-parent path with this baby. I know you’d make a reliable father, and we can each take time out, catch up on work, have fun.”

  “Children are fun.”

  He stands. “Never thought I’d be a part-time father.”

  “Well, I have to decide soon.”

  He grabs his coat, walks down the hallway and stops. After a few moments, he walks back to Toni. “I’ll delay my China trip. We’re going to spend time together, and we’ll sort this out. I want you to keep the baby, and I want to keep seeing you. And, if all goes well, we’d eventually move in—”

  “Okay, so what happens? I keep the baby. You’re interested for a few months after the baby’s born, and then you clear off. I’m telling you, that’s the likely scenario. I’ll be a single mother with no help.”

  “Look at me. Do you really think I’m that type?”

  “You’re a guy! You like the idea of a woman having your baby. But if you decide you don’t like me enough, you’ll leave. I won’t accept the risk, Atticus.”

  “I wouldn’t walk away from the child.”

  “You don’t think so.”

  Atticus walks over to Toni. She’s picking up the dinner plates. “Put those down. We shouldn’t be arguing.” He leads her across to the armchair, and he sits down, patting his thigh. “Come, sit here.” But she perches on the end of the chair’s arm and lets her hand hang limp beside him. He takes her hand and caresses each fingertip in turn between his thumb and forefinger.

  Toni wraps four fairy cakes in a fresh tea towel. “Take these for Max.”

  “So, we’ll go to the cinema tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you forget about co-parenting for a while? Park it for now.”

  “That’s not the big decision.” She hands the cakes to him, but she won’t meet his eyes.

  “I know. But honestly? I think we can make it work. We should carry on as we are. And we don’t have to move in together if that’s bothering you. We can have separate places, have the baby, and still stay over with one another. Just not live together. Then the baby will grow up knowing we don’t actually cohabit.”

  “But what happens when we break up?”

  “If we break up, I’ll do the co-parent thing with you. But you won’t have paperwork with a bloody signature on the end.”

  Toni pushes back. “I won’t be left high and dry. I’d make you sign something. And the baby wouldn’t take your surname.”

  He pauses, allows his shoulders to relax. He asks, “Did you consider not telling me?”

  “Only for a moment.”

  “You know, this is a lot for me to take in. You’ve lived with it for a few days.”

  “I’d better see my doctor. Find out how many weeks I am.”

  “Don’t make any—”

  “I won’t. I wouldn’t.”

  BE THE GENTLEMAN

  Automatic doors slide open, and Freddie makes his entrance into Blyth’s, a downtown Sydney sports bar. The bald, black-shirted barman squints at him as though saying to himself, Is this guy famous? />
  The large screen on the brick end wall is showing a cricket match. Freddie grins. What a good start. Cricket is civilized, and even better, it’s a women’s match—pitch perfect for a first date. At some point in the conversation, he’ll carelessly mention that he opened the bowling for his university team. This single fact, he feels, establishes his credentials.

  He’s relieved Australia is playing Sri Lanka. An England Test match would be too tempting; he’d look away from his date. Learned that particular lesson the hard way, a classic dropped catch. He strides across to a booth beyond the bar, which by his reckoning will be less noisy, and drops himself into the leatherette bench so that he faces the bar. His date will enjoy a view of the big screen, which will give her the impression he can take it or leave it when it comes to sport—he isn’t a fanatic. From his seat, Freddie can nevertheless watch the match on a smaller screen over the bar.

  A waiter, all strut himself, hands Freddie a menu. He orders a pint of Crown Lager.

  “Right you are, mate,” the waiter says. He pivots on his heel.

  The menu is sticky to the touch. Freddie tuts. Could be the harbinger of another disastrous date, so he decides to rehearse his get-out. He’ll say to Catherine, or Cathy—he can’t remember which she prefers—that he’s sorry, he bought a ticket weeks ago for a matinée at Eternity Playhouse; he will need to split sooner than he’d like. He’ll say he didn’t want to delay meeting her until next weekend. That’s smooth. And she will probably have a get-out herself, and he should allow her time to deliver hers first. Be the gentleman, you fucker.

  If his date with Catherine, or Cathy, goes well—that is, if they have lots in common, and that’s his main hope this time—then he’ll impress her by saying, Forget the matinée! He’d rather spend the afternoon with her than sit in a theatre.

  Of course, this isn’t true. He hasn’t bought a theatre ticket. But it could have been true, very easily. It’s a regular part of his developing routine. It’s how he likes to relax at the weekends. He goes for a morning run, or a walk on the beach, then showers and goes downtown for lunch and a beer. Then the theatre, or cinema, in the afternoon. By going to the matinée, he leaves his evenings free for actual socializing.