Going Too Far

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered, taking the cup and saucer from him and sipping thirstily.

  ‘Now then,’ he said kindly, perching beside me on the bed, ‘what are we going to do about all this, eh?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know,’ I whispered, ‘I really don’t.’

  ‘Do you want to keep the baby?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes I want to keep it – at least, I’m pretty sure I do. When you’ve told me who it belongs to I’ll know for sure, of course.’

  He frowned. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, you can do that, can’t you? Take a blood test or something? My husband’s AB negative which is pretty rare, so if we took some blood from the baby and it turned out to be the same, well, that would be terrific, wouldn’t it? Then we’d be almost sure it was his.’

  Peter Bowles pursed his lips and looked at the floor. Then he folded his arms and turned to look at me.

  ‘Mrs Penhalligan,’ he said gently, ‘there is absolutely no way of knowing who the father of your child is before it’s born.’

  I stared at him, aghast.

  ‘What?’ I whispered. ‘No way of knowing? But there must be!’

  He shook his head. ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘But – but what about all those tests you do – amniocen-whatsit and – and all those blood tests and things?’

  ‘Amniocentesis is about extracting fluid, not blood. It tells us if the baby has Down’s syndrome and it can also tell us the sex of the child. The blood tests we do are samples of your blood, not the baby’s, to check for other abnormalities. There isn’t one test that is actually done on the baby itself. It would be too dangerous, you see, and we certainly wouldn’t attempt anything simply to find out who the father is.’

  ‘So … what you’re telling me is … there’s no way of knowing?’ I stared at him in horror.

  ‘No way at all, I’m afraid. The only thing we can do is try to work out the date of conception. Did you sleep with both men in the middle of your cycle?’

  I cringed deeply. Must he be so basic? I supposed he must. ‘Yes,’ I whispered.

  ‘Within weeks or days of each other?’

  I clenched my toes and squirmed. ‘Days,’ I breathed, ‘possibly two days, I think.’ Oh God, please let me die now. I dared not look but I knew the eyebrows were well raised.

  ‘Hmmmmm …’ he murmured, ‘in that case I’m afraid there really is no way of knowing.’

  I think I must have looked awfully shaken, because he squeezed my hand.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said gently. ‘What I suggest you do is make a decision as soon as possible as to whether or not you want to keep the baby. The sooner you make that decision the better it is all round, for you and the foetus. You do see that, don’t you?’

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Suddenly the baby had become a foetus.

  ‘And if it’s all right with you,’ he went on, standing up, ‘I think I’d still like to make that examination, just to make absolutely sure. Is that OK?’ he asked gently, his brisk army manner totally evaporated now.

  ‘Yes, of course, Mr Bowles,’ I whispered.

  He frowned. ‘Taylor, actually.’

  ‘I – I mean Taylor.’

  I took the blanket off my thighs, swung my legs back on to the bed again and lay down, dumb with disbelief. No way of knowing? No way at all? What on earth was I going to do?

  Peter Bowles put his Marigolds on again and I lay there, staring blankly at the elaborate plaster cornicing on the ceiling. God, what a mess. I sighed. Well, at least I had plenty to think about as he went about his business; I had enough problems to fill an entire woman’s magazine. What must he think of me?

  I swivelled my head slightly to the left and took a sneaky look at his face. Inscrutable, of course. Another thing they all learn at medical school. How to make a gynaecological examination without betraying the slightest trace of emotion. But, suddenly, he frowned. He seemed to take a closer look, then he reached behind him to a little table and picked up what looked like … a pair of tweezers. Tweezers! What the hell were they for? I raised my head slightly from the bed and watched, fascinated, as he used them to remove something … from within my person. Heavens! From inside? Surely not. What the hell was it? Had something fallen out? Had the baby fallen out? He turned away, tweezers in hand, and, still frowning, gingerly dropped whatever it was … in the waste-paper bin. Bloody hell, in the bin? What was it?

  ‘Um, wh-what was that?’ I ventured querulously.

  He shook his head, lips pursed. ‘Noo … nothing, nothing at all.’

  ‘No, really, I’d like to know. What was it?’

  ‘Nothing of any consequence, nothing to worry about.’ He resumed his examination.

  I stared at him, incredulous. Nothing of any consequence? He removes something from inside me, chucks it in the bin and says it’s nothing of any consequence? Jesus!

  He straightened up and slipped his gloves off in a businesslike manner.

  ‘All finished, Mrs Penhalligan, and yes, you are most definitely pregnant, cervix very swollen. If you’d like to pop your clothes back on I’ll just go and write a few notes. Take your time.’

  He slipped around the curtain, drew it back again for me, and disappeared to his desk.

  I sat up, slipped off the bed and grabbed my clothes, hurriedly tugging them back on. Then I cocked an ear to the curtain to make sure he wasn’t coming back, and tiptoed over to the bin in the corner.

  I peered in. It was empty. How extraordinary, empty, except for – wait a minute, a small piece of paper at the bottom. I reached in and picked it out. I turned it over in my hand and stared at it. It was a Green Shield stamp. I frowned, completely foxed. A Green Shield stamp? Up my whatsit? Surely not. Suddenly I went cold. My jaw dropped. I clapped my hand to my mouth. Oh good grief! It must have been stuck to the tissue! The grotty one I’d found at the bottom of my handbag, it must have been stuck to it along with all the other bits of fluff and gunge, probably been there for centuries! Oh God, fancy having a Green Shield stamp up my – what must he think?

  I swept the curtain aside and hurried to his desk.

  ‘Mr Taylor, I –’

  ‘Won’t keep you a moment …’ he purred, cutting me short. His dark head was bent low, he was writing studiously. I bit my lip. What did it say? What was he writing? I craned my neck but I couldn’t see. I could imagine, though. ‘Doesn’t … know … who … the … father … of the … child … is … and keeps Green … Shield … stamps –’ I couldn’t bear it.

  ‘L-look, Mr Taylor, about the stamp, you see the thing is, there wasn’t any loo paper downstairs so I used an old tissue at the bottom of my handbag and – and I think it must have –’

  ‘No need, Mrs Penhalligan,’ he said, shaking his head vehemently, still writing away, ‘no need at all, really.’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘Now then.’ He looked up abruptly and gave me a bright smile. ‘I’d like to see you again in about another six weeks just to make sure everything’s going smoothly, so let’s see now, that would be …’ He consulted his diary.

  ‘But I really would like to explain about the –’

  ‘July the sixteenth. That suit?’

  He didn’t want to know. He simply didn’t want to know, did he? And who could blame him? Wasn’t it enough of a shock to an eminent gynaecologist to have a patient who didn’t know who the father of her child was without wishing to know why she should feel the need to secrete ancient voucher stamps so snugly about her person? And why did it have to be Green Shield? So naff, so common, so very un-Harley Street?

  I bit my lip and stared at my shoes, suffused with shame. Peter Bowles neatly recapped his pen and arranged it, just so, above his papers. He flicked out his arms, realigned his cuffs, folded his arms and smiled in a most professional way.

  ‘Y-e-s, well, that seems to be all for the moment, Mrs Penhalligan. I’ll see you again on the sixteenth and, if I don’t hear anything to the contrary,
I’ll book you into Queen Charlotte’s, OK? I do hope everything sorts itself out. I’m quite sure – well, I’m quite sure you’ll soon come to terms with your rather, ahem, unusual situation.’ He coughed nervously. ‘Now, any questions? Good, good,’ he said, getting smartly to his feet and thus forestalling any other horrendous enquiries I might have. He stuck his hand out. ‘Look forward to seeing you on the sixteenth then. Goodbye!’

  His smile was kind, but I couldn’t meet it. I stared red-faced at his leather-topped desk, like an errant child in a headmaster’s study. I nodded and extended my hand, hoping he’d make contact with it without me having to look up. He did.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I whispered when he’d released it, ‘see you on the sixteenth.’

  I picked up my bag and Sam’s case, turned round and shuffled miserably from the room.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  That evening I was ambushed by a premature attack of morning sickness. I lay on Pippa’s sofa with a bucket poised on the carpet beneath me, feeling incredibly sorry for myself. Pippa was on the floor beside me in her dressing gown, painting her toenails with meticulous attention. I watched as her brushstrokes swept slowly up and down.

  ‘Remind me never to take medical advice from you again, Pippa,’ I muttered bitterly, ‘not even if I’m dying. I’ll arrange my own doctors from now on, thanks very much. Incidentally, could you give that a rest for a sec? The fumes are going right up my nose.’

  ‘Nearly finished,’ said Pippa, hastily applying a few final strokes. She screwed the top on the varnish and sat up. ‘Well, I’m sorry, I was only trying to help, and so what if he is charming? It’s better than having some repulsive old toad examine you, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t, give me a repulsive old toad any day. At least it doesn’t matter if you make a complete fool of yourself.’

  I tried not to gag as she waved her feet in the air to dry them and I got another noxious whiff.

  ‘And if you must do that I’d move away from the bucket if I were you,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not sure how good my aim is.’

  Pippa got up hurriedly and plumped down in an armchair opposite. She stretched her legs out and surveyed her sparkling red toes.

  ‘I must admit old Taylor is rather yummy, just my type now that I’m into older men. Did he mention me at all? Ask how my blood pressure was or anything? It always seems to rocket when I visit him.’

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ I snapped, ‘we had enough to talk about without getting on to your very minor problems, it wasn’t even as if he could solve mine!’

  Pippa frowned. ‘Yes, I must say that does seem a bit rum. I mean, if they can do all that amazing in vitro stuff, you’d think they could sort out a tiny technicality like who the father of your child is, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I have an idea one is supposed to have an inkling oneself, at least that’s the impression he gave me,’ I said grimly. ‘God, what’s that revolting smell?’

  ‘It’s a packet of crisps, Polly,’ she said patiently. ‘Can’t I even eat a packet of crisps in my own home?’

  ‘Not when they smell like rotting armpits you can’t. Please put them away, Pippa, unless you want a technicolour carpet.’ I clutched my mouth dramatically and rolled my eyes.

  She sighed and screwed the top of the bag shut. ‘It’s all very well but I’m really hungry, you know. I haven’t had supper yet because you can’t stand the smell of baked beans, I can’t paint my nails, I can’t fry sausages –’

  ‘Don’t even mention sausages,’ I whispered, gulping back the bile.

  ‘But I thought this sickness lark was supposed to be restricted to mornings. How come you get it in the evenings too?’

  ‘I don’t know, Pippa,’ I groaned, resting my head on the arm of the sofa, ‘and I’m sorry, really I am. I know it’s frightfully inconvenient of me and I apologize for feeling so lousy, so sick, so tired, so permanently nauseous, so tummy-churningly wretched. It must be awful for you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s OK,’ said Pippa cheerily, lighting a cigarette and somehow missing my shovel-load of sarcasm, ‘I don’t really mind. It might be nice to open the fridge door now and then without you collapsing in a heap and shrieking for the smelling salts though. D’you think it would be all right if I did it now? You’re not going to smell the salami long-distance, are you, only if I don’t make myself a sandwich soon I’ll expire.’

  ‘No, no,’ I muttered, ‘you go and stuff your face, see if I care.’

  ‘D’you want anything?’

  ‘You could bring me a dry biscuit to nibble on, I might just be able to manage that. If it’s not too much trouble, of course.’

  ‘No trouble at all!’

  She got up with an alacrity that made me wince and bounded off to the kitchen. I groaned and shut my eyes. A few minutes later she was back with a plate piled high with dead meat. She sidled guiltily past, tossing me a biscuit as she went.

  ‘All right if I eat in here?’ she asked, ostentatiously scraping her chair right back. ‘I mean, right in the corner, practically in the garden?’

  ‘Sure, sure, just don’t be surprised if I honk, that’s all.’

  I moaned low and half closed my eyes. Pippa regarded me thoughtfully as she munched her salami sandwich. Suddenly she put her plate down.

  ‘Can I have a feel?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your tummy, can I feel it?’ She jumped up and knelt down beside me, pulling up my jumper.

  ‘Pippa, for goodness’ sake, I’m only a few weeks pregnant – you’re not going to feel anything!’

  ‘Even so …’ She put her hand on my tummy. ‘Weird, isn’t it,’ she said after a moment, ‘to think there’s something in there. How does it feel? D’you feel different? I mean, apart from sick, d’you feel like you’re carrying a baby?’

  Suddenly I felt rather important. I sat up and adopted a slightly superior tone. ‘Well, yes, I suppose one does feel a bit special, rather – you know, chosen.’

  ‘Chosen? God, anyone would think you were the Virgin Mary!’

  ‘Hardly,’ I said grimly, ‘but all the same, yes, I do feel incredibly blessed.’ I smiled serenely and stroked my tummy like the girl in the waiting room had, trying hard to re-create the Madonna look.

  ‘Is that why you’re looking so gormless?’ Pippa kneaded around with her hand looking for action. ‘Is it kicking yet? Can you feel it?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I snapped, dispensing with the blessed look, ‘it’s only about the size of a pea, for goodness’ sake – ouch, geddoff, that hurt! In fact,’ I reflected, ‘that’s how I like to think of it at the moment.’

  ‘What, as a pea?’

  ‘Well, some sort of vegetable, not a baby at any rate, not until I know more about it. A little potato perhaps, or a carrot.’

  ‘Gosh, it would be a bit disappointing to give birth to an eight-pound carrot, wouldn’t it? Imagine lugging it around for nine months thinking it was a baby then out pops a carrot.’

  ‘It would come out pretty easily though, wouldn’t it? Just the right shape!’ We giggled.

  Suddenly I frowned and pulled my jumper down. ‘And that’s another thing, Pippa, this giving-birth lark. I’m not at all sure about it.’

  She sat back on her heels. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’m not very good at pain. As a matter of fact I’ve got an extremely low threshold – some people have, you know.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be a breeze, don’t worry about it. All you need is the right birthing partner to spur you on, keep your pecker up.’

  ‘What the hell’s a birthing partner?’

  ‘Oh, it’s someone who sprays you with water and warms your feet up and brings along sandwiches – oh, and plays soothing music, that kind of thing.’

  I frowned. ‘Music? What, on a guitar or something?’

  ‘No, idiot, on a tape recorder, unless you particularly want a live guitarist. I’m sure it can be arranged.’

  ‘So who is this person
?’ I felt none the wiser and had visions of a Cat Stephens lookalike droning away on a guitar in the corner of my delivery room, occasionally pausing to eat a sandwich, fiddle with my feet or spray me with water.

  Pippa looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘Er, well, actually it’s your husband, but of course in your rather unusual situation …’

  I sat bolt upright. ‘Oh help! You mean I haven’t got a birthing partner? You’re right! I can’t have Nick and I certainly don’t want Sam – oh, Pippa, what am I going to do? I can’t possibly have this baby on my own!’

  ‘Well, don’t panic, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t necessarily have to be your husband, I’m sure it could be – I know!’ Suddenly her eyes shone dangerously. ‘It could be me!’

  ‘Er, well, Pippa, I’m not sure if –’

  ‘Yes! Of course, I’d be brilliant …’ She was gazing rapturously into space now and I could tell she’d already got herself kitted out in the Florence Nightingale garb and was mopping my fevered brow yelling ‘PUSH! PUSH!’ at the same time as maintaining feverish eye contact with the dreamy white-coated doctor in charge.

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll see shall we, Pippa?’ I said a trifle nervously. ‘Actually I wondered if I might try the whole thing unconscious – some people do that, don’t they?’

  Pippa frowned. ‘I think if you have a Caesarean it’s possible, but I’m pretty sure you’re only allowed one of those if your pelvis is too small to squeeze the baby out, and I hardly think, Polly’ – she looked doubtfully at my distinctly child-bearing hips – ‘you’d qualify on that score.’

  I sighed. ‘Oh well, that’s out then. I’ll just have to rely on pain relief. They have all sorts of knock-out drops these days, don’t they?’