Man of the Month Club

by Jackie Clune

  “Christ, what a nightmare!” sighed Brendan as he gulped down half a pint. “‘Ooh, I want a baby, I want a baby!’ ‘No, I want one more than you!’ ‘Ooh, boo, hoo, hoo!’ It’s pathetic. Honestly—this obsession with kids. Now I know why I spend the majority of my leisure time with homosexuals and barren, sour old dykes. Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” said Amy, supping the bitter, tepid liquid without wincing. “They can’t help it, I suppose. But it gets to the point where it’s the most important thing. Bugger the fact that it’s my birthday, I’ve already been born! Hello, I’m here already!”

  Brendan eyed his friend with characteristic peskiness.

  “So . . . thirty-nine . . . Doesn’t it ever occur to you that you might like to have a kid?” he asked, all measured innocence.

  “Yeah, right! Shh . . . What’s that sound I hear? There—can you hear it?”

  “What—that loud ticking noise? No, I can’t hear a thing.”

  “Exactly. My biological clock doesn’t fucking work,” said Amy.

  “So you’ve always said,” persisted Brendan. “But I was just thinking . . . you know, that it’s the age thing really that turns the most adamant antibaby thirty-nine-year-old into a gibbering, baby-obsessed wreck. Once you get to the age where it’s now or never, isn’t it frightening? Don’t you ever wake in the night and ask yourself if you’re really sure? Don’t you picture yourself in twenty years’ time going on vacation with no one to send a postcard to? No one to guilt-trip and no one to cook for at Christmas?” Brendan held her gaze, knowing he was pushing at all the wrong buttons.

  “No, I don’t, Brendan,” Amy replied coolly. “I generally wake in the night wondering where I should take my next long weekend, or whether I should get that new Armani navy skirt suit or splash out on bespoke.”

  “Yes, because that’s what Amy Stokes does, isn’t it? She doesn’t have any real feelings or needs, does she? She sails above us mere mortals with all our flesh-and-blood concerns, and she doesn’t need anything or anyone, does she? That’s what you’d have us all believe, isn’t it?” he pushed. He always liked to do this when he’d had a few. The tiresome devil’s advocate drunk.

  “All right, Brendan. You win. Yes, you’re right, the lady doth protest too much; underneath this grim, self-serving spinster exterior there beats the heart of a woman aching to bear fruit, a woman whose womb churns and strains each time she passes a virile young male. A woman who yearns to become a milky, sleepless balloon with only a puking, wriggling bundle of raw need for company. I’ve got to hand it to you, Brendan, you’ve seen right through me.”

  “But people like you should have children—you owe it to the planet! You’re attractive, intelligent, you’re a nice person—you should be adding those qualities to another human being and passing them on! If people like you don’t have children, it’ll just be morons out there! I really worry about that, I really do. All the nice people who could actually improve the next generation are too busy leading full lives to procreate. Where would we be now if Mrs. Einstein had thought, ‘Actually, I don’t think I’m the mothering kind. I won’t bother with having children’? You’re being selfish! You’ve got something special, and it is your responsibility—no, your duty—to pass it on!” said Brendan, warming to his theme. Amy knew it was the alcohol, but at times like these, with all the talk of babies and motherhood and parenting, Brendan always got strangely animated. She wondered if secretly, like a lot of gay men she knew, he harbored hopes of fatherhood at some point in his life. His tack was clever. Of all the arguments for having a child, this, it seemed to Amy right now, was the most seductive. She had always had a sneaking suspicion that she was something to write home about, a cut above the rest. Her mother had often slapped her down for the way she sauntered up the aisle to Holy Communion as if she were on par with the Almighty Himself. At school she had been bullied for not looking nervous when she had to read at Assembly—she had slouched casually, used her clear, loud voice unashamedly, and looked over the page a lot at the cross-legged captives in front of her, and this was not the done thing for a working-class kid.

  Was such high self-esteem the middle-class reason to have kids? Did she possess Nobel Prize-winning eggs? The idea of having a baby had always been so abstract, so impersonal somehow. She hated the way new mums claimed such ownership of their babies: “My baby, my children.” The one thing that always struck her about even the tiniest of babies was just how themselves they were, how frighteningly them they seemed to be. Any influence one could have on them was purely cosmetic, totally after the fact of their personalities. Far from divesting her of the fear of responsibility, this awareness of the individuality of babies made Amy feel panicky. What if you didn’t like your child? What if it turned out to be stupid? Ugly? What if it became a murderer or a rapist? What must mothers of those children feel? Amy did not want to end up feeling as though her own womb had betrayed her and played host to a future crack-addict mugger.

  She became aware that Brendan was staring at her in triumph. He had gotten to her. As far as he was concerned, he had gotten her thinking about it and that was a huge triumph. Little matter that he’d probably be absolutely horrified if she ever did U-turn and try for a baby.

  “’Nother pint?” chirped Brendan, maintaining the know-it-all look he reserved for occasions when he couldn’t think of how to seal his victory right away.

  “Yes, as long as you don’t think it will deplete my folic acid reserves,” said Amy, draining the last of the dishwater from her glass.

  “Well, you’re drinking for two now,” said Brendan as he skipped off to the bar. Outside, the rain pelted down on a young couple pushing a pram along Church Street, presumably trying to get a young baby to sleep. They wore the look of resigned slaves, their tiny emperor dictating their every move, day or night, rain or shine. Amy shuddered and did something her mother was always telling her to do. She counted her blessings.

  . 5 .

  Still foggy from the cheap wine and warm beer, Amy slung on her shades and headed out east to Essex. Her birthday fell on a weekend this year, which meant one thing—she would have to make the requisite mum visit and suffer the minimum contracted two hours of sighing, overfeeding, and non sequiturs. The birds had woken her again that morning with their angry guffawing, but now that she knew what the noise was, she could more or less ignore it. Three magpies. What was that bloody rhyme? One for sorrow, two for joy, three for an almighty hangover. Her usual dawn breakfast in bed of a couple aspirin and a pint of Robinson’s barley water settled her back down to another three hours of sleep before she had to get up and at it, throwing a disgruntled Germaine into the only other seat of the car.

  “Come on, stinky, we’re off to see Grandma—you know, the old lady who stuffs you full of choccy drops when she thinks I’m not looking.”

  Germaine perked up at the mention of choccy drops and adopted the “Let’s go!” position: chin resting on the dashboard, ears aloft, paws perched on the edge of the seat. Amy thought for the first time in ages what a great consolation a dog is. She didn’t need Germaine like some sad, lonely bastards needed their dogs—partner, baby, and life substitute all rolled into one—but nevertheless, it was nice to have someone to talk at in the morning, someone to displace all of the anxiety of a parental visit. In their nine years together, Amy reckoned Germaine must have seen her in just about every mood, every situation, and every phase, and she had always just sat impassively, nonjudgmental and ever-patient, her only concern that the dog walker arrived on time. She was a witness to Amy’s life, proof that Amy existed. If a woman cries in the middle of a Docklands development and there is no dog there to see it, has she really cried?

  Although the day was gray and drizzly, she threw down the cover of her BMW and sped out of the underground car park, almost knocking over a young girl pushing a baby stroller.

  “Oi!” shouted the pram-faced teen mum. “Watch where you’re going!”

  “Sorry, but you shouldn’
t stick the front wheels into the road and think it’ll make the traffic stop,” said Amy, putting her foot back down on the accelerator. In her rearview mirror, she registered the girl’s obscene gestures as the trailing wind carried her shouts of “Fuck you!” along the deserted Saturday street.

  Heading out of town was always such a pleasure on a Saturday morning. Amy only ever felt like a real Londoner when she was leaving it behind. As the empty northbound lanes of the M11 snaked out ahead of her, Amy felt a smug sense of superiority as she glanced at the tailback of gauche day-trippers streaming into London. She didn’t have to queue to visit London; she lived there and was therefore able to treat it with easy contempt, as if it were her longtime wife, whose body and company held no further surprises. She stroked the leather of her passenger seat and felt a guilty shiver of pleasure. Everyone wants what I’ve got, she thought, before her latent inner Marxist had time to suppress the idea.

  Slamming on the radio, she tuned with one hand while expertly steering with the other. Snatches of crappy love songs crackled in and out of focus as she twizzled the dial, looking for some stirring classical music.

  “Bye bye baby, baby good-bye” . . . zzzz wwwrrr . . . “Baby you can drive my car!” . . . “And you can say baby, baby, can I hold you tonight?” . . . ggggrrrr eeeee . . . “Baby baby baby, where did our love go?”

  What was this pop obsession with the word “baby”? It had always made Amy shudder when anyone had used the word as a term of endearment toward her. She couldn’t help thinking of cheap American porn actors or Barry White. To her, the word meant one thing only: money. Finally settling on classic FM, she pushed back in her seat and put her foot down just as “O Mio Babbino Caro” blasted out. It felt good to be cold and windswept.

  The vestiges of last night’s failed celebration still clung to her, as did the rancid cigarette smoke she’d once again given in to. Just this trip to her mum’s, and then the whole sorry birthday affair could be put away for another year. And this was going to be a good year. After seventeen consecutive years at work, Amy was taking a six-month sabbatical, and the thought of all that free time was intoxicating. She hadn’t yet decided what she was going to do with her time: get fit (naturally), travel (well, go on holiday—she had never really got the whole uncomfortable expeditions-to-unspoiled-wildernesses thing), lounge around moaning about being bored, then going out and spending stupid amounts of money on unnecessary distractions. Whatever she decided to do, she was looking forward to it. She hadn’t had a long break since her school days; not for her the long summer of relaxing in Europe looking at Giotto frescoes or Gaudi cathedrals. It had always been three months of temping, operating industrial dishwashers, and being patronized by middle-management losers. This was going to be her time, the time she would use to decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

  It wasn’t that Amy was unhappy with her career—far from it. She’d never bothered with that “Oh my God, what is my life about?” bullshit that so many of her friends seemed to go in for. If you followed that line of thought, reasoned Amy, then everything on this Earth becomes both as meaningless and meaningful as you wish to make it. But if we provide our own structure, our own moral code, and our own criteria for leading a good and fulfilling life, then surely true happiness is more attainable? The black dog of depression had never so much as sniffed at Amy’s lamppost, let alone cocked its leg at her life.

  The speedometer hit 100 mph as she fell in love with her life anew. It would be good to have six months off. Time to relax, research a few new design possibilities, and source a few more Asian suppliers. Besides, she was suffering from baby overdose. She needed a break from nappy talk and cuddly toys and doe-eyed bloody women with fashionably neat bumps.

  Well, the dead arose and appeared to many! Hello there, Amy, come in, come in, you’re very welcome,” fussed her mum as she pulled open the door.

  “And little Germaine—go on through, the back door is open,” she added, ignoring the fact that the dog had already bolted through the house toward the cat-infested garden.

  “Hi, Mammy, how are you?”

  “Are you hungry? Did you have any breakfast? You don’t eat enough. Have you had breakfast? Would you like a bacon sandwich? Cereal? Or shall I do you an omelet?”

  Amy ignored all of the questions. She had learned early that having an Irish mother meant all food-related inquiries were purely rhetorical. No matter if you’d just come from a Roman banquet of seventy courses that required four emetics and an enema, Amy’s mum would still force you to accept a plateful of buttery sandwiches and a few slices of Guinness cake, washed down with as much strong tea—“tea you could trot a horse on”—as you could swallow.

  Amy headed ritualistically for the kitchen and performed the universal action of all adult children returning home. She opened the fridge and stood gazing into it, hoping for inspiration.

  “Did you have a good journey? That M-eleven is very busy Father Don was saying at Mass that the new slip road for Stansted is the culprit did you get stuck in traffic? I have a cake in the oven there’s ham there, nice ham with bits on the one that you like or there’s yogurts if you’re watching your weight although I don’t see why you should there’s not a pick on you.” It was always like this. The stream of a lonely consciousness emptying itself on the first available pair of ears. She’d calm down in a minute and remember to be disapproving.

  “No, I’m fine, Mum. Honestly, I had breakfast only an hour ago,” she lied, wincing at the old-lady contents of the fridge. “How are you, Mum?”

  “Oh, not too bad now, but remember that Martin McFinnegan you were friends with at school? The boy with the blond hair and the harelip? Hugh’s son? He was in your class. Oh go on you must remember him—he was a good friend of yours.”

  “We were in the same class, Mum, he wasn’t a friend of mine. He was terminally dull.”

  “Well, he’s terminally ill now, Amy, God help him. Leukemia. They say he’s only a few months to live. I’ve put in for a Mass for him. Or there’s corned beef in the cupboard or a bit of pink salmon. It’s boneless.”

  “Poor Martin,” said Amy, trying to remember his face.

  “Three children under five. God help his poor wife. You could put a bit of pickle on it.”

  “Oh, dear. That’s awful,” said Amy, wondering all over again at her mother’s morbid fascination with the misfortune of others. It must be part of the Irish DNA.

  “And remember Maura at the crossroads back home her with the chickens you used to feed? And the whiskers? She used to ride down the lane muttering about the price of butter? Well Auntie Annie stopped in to have a look at her last Friday morning and wasn’t she stone-cold dead in the bed? Annie was very upset about it. I could do you a bit of chicken if you like. I’ve got salad dressing.”

  “Oh, dear,” repeated Amy, knowing this was all that was required for old Maura. She’d never liked the old bag anyway.

  “God rest her soul, she was awfully mean. Remember that day you spent all afternoon polishing her silver, she had a lot of stuff stashed away from somewhere or other, and what did she give you? Only fifty pence and there we were, hoping for a fiver!”

  “There was Dad hoping for a fiver, more like.”

  “Now, Amy, you mustn’t speak ill of the dead. God rest his soul, he wasn’t a bad man, just misguided, and he loved the bones of you. So, are you courting yet?”

  “Erm, courting, no. I’m too busy at work. Did I tell you I got that Tweenies bed linen contract? Worth an absolute fortune. I was one of seven up for it and I got it.”

  “Well, time marches on and I still haven’t got a grandchild. Seventy-two and no little one to rest on my knee, and there’s Mona Brennan with seventeen.”

  Here we go, thought Amy. She’s read the parish death announcements, now it’s time to launch her assault on my ovaries and completely ignore my work success, even though she brags about it when I’m not around.

  “Lord knows if I could’v
e had more than one baby, if God had seen fit in His infinite wisdom to smile down upon us and send me another child, I might be a grandmother now . . . but there you have it—it was not to be . . .”

  “Mum, I haven’t even got a boyfriend, let alone a potential father to your grandchild. And I keep telling you, I don’t even want children.”

  “Don’t say such things, Amy, because you never know when you might change your mind and God might be listening and turn your womb to stone.”

  “It already is stone, so he’s welcome to it.”

  “I see you with a couple of children, Amy, no matter what you say. You can’t fight fate, and I’ve long had a nose for such things, so you’d better get started. Oh, happy birthday by the way, Amy, I forgot to send the card but I’ve got a little something for you . . . wait now ’til I see . . .”

  And with that, she scurried off to the sideboard and rummaged around for what seemed like an age.

  Amy uttered a silent prayer.

  “God give me the strength to accept those gifts which I cannot change, the courage to change those gifts with receipts, and the wisdom to not point out the difference. At least it can’t be any worse than the pens and the hankies.”