Travelling Light
‘Mike and I have some really exciting news.’ Alison spoke with smug complacency, accompanied by a radiant smile.
‘Really?’ Jane asked, already aware of what was coming. Alison’s previous six pregnancies had been heralded by that same self-satisfaction. ‘And what’s that?’
‘We’re expecting another baby.’
‘Congratulations!’ Jane trotted out on cue. The resources of the planet were already stretched to breaking point. Was it socially responsible to procreate on such a scale?
Alison paused to sugar her tea, appearing now a shade embarrassed. ‘And, actually, it’s … twins.’
Jane froze. The very word was perilous; never failed to rouse a flood of emotions: shame, horror, guilt, disgust.
‘We’re thrilled, of course, but I must admit it was a tremendous shock. I mean, to be pregnant at all, at my age!’
Yes, Jane thought, determined to keep her mind off twins, forty-six was more the time for menopause than pregnancy. She, thank God, had avoided both, so far, although hot flushes and night sweats couldn’t be far off, since she and Alison shared exactly the same birthday – same day, same month, same year – a coincidence that had bonded them at school. As adults, though, they had grown further and further apart, and, once Alison started breeding, it had proved more or less impossible to maintain a meaningful friendship, especially when the kids were younger. Indeed, she had barely been able to finish a sentence without some baby bawling, or toddler wanting its bottom wiped, or bursting into tears over some broken toy (or promise). And she had watched the house itself gradually taken over, changing from an attractive adult realm into a rumpus-room-cum-nursery: pram in the hall, high-chair in the dining-room, cot and bunk-beds upstairs, potties in the bathroom, toys littered on the floor. And, even now, when three of the six were teenagers, things had not improved: raucous music blaring from their rooms, adolescent tantrums, wrangles over homework, football boots and skateboards dumped anywhere and everywhere. Miraculously, this was the first time in a decade she had found all the offspring out. The two eldest had gone roller-blading, and Mike had carted the rest off to the park – deliberately, she suspected, since she had never made a secret of her own lack of maternal instincts.
Yet, even without the children’s actual presence, there was no danger of forgetting them, since they had left their imprint on the fabric of the house: paintwork scuffed, carpets stained, walls scribbled on and marked, even strips torn off the wallpaper in places. And, with Alison now starting again from scratch, the assault was unlikely to stop. The thought of just the washing made her reel. The machine was always churning away, full of dirty clothes times eight – soon to be dirty clothes times ten, along with a double load of nappies.
Alison gestured to the home-made cake, which shared the kitchen table with colouring books and crayons. ‘Help yourself to another piece.’
‘Thanks, I will. It’s good. But you haven’t eaten anything.’
‘To be honest, it’s hard to keep food down. I don’t know why they call it “morning” sickness. Mine seems to last all day.’
Jane suppressed a shudder, hoping she’d be spared the details. As a result of her various pregnancies, Alison had suffered swollen ankles, violent indigestion, haemorrhoids, mastitis, varicose veins and even pre-eclampsia. Not to mention the labour itself: humiliating, undignified, and excruciatingly painful, according to all accounts.
Alison leaned forward and gave her arm a sympathetic pat. ‘Actually, I do feel rather awkward bringing up the subject of twins, when—’
‘It’s OK,’ she interrupted. ‘Not a problem.’
‘And I can’t help worrying that once they’re born, they may bring back sad memories.’
‘Look,’ Jane said, a shade impatiently. ‘All that was years and years ago.’
‘Yes, you were only seven, weren’t you?’
‘Nine.’
Alison shook her head in deep regret. ‘It must have been quite tragic.’
‘For my mother, yes.’
‘But for you, the elder sister – what a dreadful loss!’
Jane stabbed at her cake with her fork. Gain for her, not loss. Although, of course, she had never explained to anyone – never would, never could – the sense of sheer relief she had felt to be an only child once more; no longer forced to share her parents with two disruptive intruders, or watch those tiny tyrants drain her mother’s energy, her father’s time and money.
‘I know you don’t like talking about it, but it might actually help to get it off your chest, Jane.’
Absolutely not. Inconceivable to admit to an earth-mother, of all people, that, as a child, she’d been glad those babies died. It was a cause of the deepest shame; a shame so acute at times, she felt debarred from the whole human race.
‘I’ve never liked to bring it up before, not all the years we’ve known each other.’ Alison sounded nervous, although not nervous enough, unfortunately, to drop this dangerous subject. ‘But, you see, once I knew I was expecting twins myself, I’ve been thinking about your twins.’
‘They weren’t mine,’ Jane retorted, refusing to be associated with the unwelcome interlopers who had overshadowed a whole two years of her childhood – and the nine months before, when her mother’s undivided attention switched from her, the existing daughter, to those unborn aliens.
‘Your sisters, though.’
‘Not really.’ From the moment they arrived, premature and sickly, the entire household had revolved around them, and she had been pushed out; made to feel she didn’t count. A high price to pay for sisters.
‘But don’t you think,’ Alison persisted, ‘it might have made you wary of having children of your own?’
She faked a casual laugh. ‘Good gracious, no! I’m just too selfish, that’s all.’
‘Of course you’re not selfish. You’ve always been a marvellous friend – and so generous to my children.’
Jane refrained from answering. Shelling out on presents hardly counted. A form of recompense. Doing good to atone for evil.
‘In fact, if anyone’s selfish, it’s me,’ Alison remarked earnestly, ‘propagating my own genes.’
Despite her inner turmoil, Jane tried to lighten the mood. ‘But it’s a religious thing for you, Alison. Remember what Sister Ignatius used to tell us? Once we left school, our duty as good Catholic women was to produce more souls for God.’
Alison had the grace to laugh. ‘Well, I’ve certainly done that!’
‘Do you really still believe?’ Jane asked, keen to shift attention from herself.
‘Yes, actually I do. Not in all the inessentials, but as far as God and Christ and the Church are concerned, I can’t see any better way of living.’
Jane continued hacking at her cake, irked by the fact that she and Alison had nothing left in common. At school, they had shared a simple childish piety, a love of horses, an interest in athletics, but nowadays they were miles apart in their beliefs, ideals and whole way of life. So why did she still bother calling round, wasting precious Saturdays with someone who upheld irrational concepts like virgin births and three persons in one God? She already knew the answer: it was for their mothers’ sake. Those mothers had been close friends since early childhood and, both widowed now, had moved to the same sheltered housing complex. And each asked her daughter regularly, ‘How’s Alison?’ ‘How’s Jane?’
‘Well, Mum will be pleased,’ she said lamely, finally reducing the cake to a mass of sticky crumbs.
‘She’s delighted. My mum told her yesterday and apparently, she’s already knitting bootees!’
The silence was uncomfortable. Jane guessed they were both thinking the same thing: had the twins survived, her mother might have been knitting bootees for their babies, instead of Alison’s. ‘I suspect she’s never quite forgiven me for pursuing a career and depriving her of grandchildren.’
‘You could have had both, you know. Look at Caroline – mother of three, and a C.E
.O. already!’
Caroline. Another dutiful alumna of St Joseph’s Convent School for Girls. ‘Yes, and she spends her whole time trying to juggle home and job, and risking a heart attack in the process. I saw her a couple of months ago and she looked absolutely whacked. She was fretting about some survey or other that said working mothers spent only nineteen minutes a day with their kids. And you should have heard her, laying into herself, because she reckoned she spent even less. I’ve told you, Alison, I’m too selfish for all that breast-beating.’ People found the concept of selfishness easier to accept – and it was certainly more tactful as far as Alison was concerned. How could she admit to a mother of six – eight – that the very thought of pregnancy filled her with revulsion? Once pregnant, you lost all vestige of control; your body swelling inexorably as some alien life-form took up residence inside it; snaffled your food, leeched away your vitamins, prevented you from sleeping, kicked you in the ribs, and finally split you apart in its struggle to get out. She had seen it as a child; watched, appalled, while her mother’s slender figure expanded and ballooned, and the once-energetic woman, who used to race her to the shops and take her swimming, skating and cycling, disappeared completely, transformed into a beached and breathless invalid.
‘I suspect you’re in denial, Jane, my love. It’s a basic instinct for women to want children.’
‘One that’s dying out,’ Jane snapped, angered by this extended conversation. ‘More and more women, these days, make a careful, considered decision to stay childless.’ Her own decision had been arrived at rather earlier – somewhere between the age of nine and ten. ‘Yet it’s still regarded as shameful, like admitting being gay was, twenty years ago, or Americans letting slip that they never go to church. Sometimes, when people ask me – and they still do,’ she said pointedly, with a resentful glance at Alison, ‘I’m tempted just to lie and pretend I wasn’t able to conceive. I’d get sympathy then, not blame.’ She sprang to her feet, strode over to the sink, and banged her cup and plate down on the draining-board. ‘Anyway, I’d better go – I need to do some errands.’
‘I’m sorry, Jane, I’ve upset you.’
‘Not at all,’ she muttered, although vowing to herself to avoid all future visits. In nine months’ time, those twins would be a living, breathing reality, stirring memories she was too terrified to face. Yet how could she end a friendship that had lasted forty years, or – worse – explain the breach to her mother? Alison was the daughter her mother would have liked to have had herself.
‘Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it!’ Alison gave her a hug – one of genuine affection. That was part of the trouble. Her friend’s natural, inbuilt decency made her own vile nature seem all the more despicable. Would Alison continue to hug her if she could see into her mind?
Parcelling up the remainder of the cake, Alison insisted she took it home with her, then lumbered out to open the front door. ‘Oh, look!’ she said, ‘here’s Mike back, with the gang. You’ll just have to stay a bit longer now, and say hello to them all.’
Jane let herself in to her smart, uncluttered flat with an overwhelming sense of relief. No destructive children had ever wreaked their havoc here. Her white walls were still immaculate, the cream carpeting unscathed, and there was not the smallest chip or crack in her elegant bone china. Her home was an oasis in comparison with Alison’s, and, indeed, such perfection was essential for her basic peace of mind. To have a neat and tidy flat seemed as crucial a requirement as untainted food or unpolluted air. Every surface must be clean and clear, and no shred of flotsam and jetsam allowed to foul the tide of her ordered adult life.
Having put away the cake, she hung her jacket in the cupboard and stowed her bag on the shelf. Glancing in the mirror, she couldn’t help but contrast her face and figure with Alison’s. The six pregnancies had taken their toll; left her friend with saggy breasts and a flabby, protruding stomach. And the strain of bringing up six kids had etched deep frown-lines into her forehead, whereas she, thank God and Botox, was completely free of wrinkles. In six months’ time, Alison would be vast, if her last pregnancy was anything to go by. That baby had been a ten-pounder, and, of course, twins would be still worse.
Suddenly, a plan hatched in her mind: why not ensure she was out of the country when the twins were due in September? It would be the perfect time for a holiday abroad: the resorts less crowded, the heat less intense, and the risk of encountering families with children considerably reduced. One of the perks of childlessness was freedom: freedom to go away whenever one chose; not restricted to school holidays or child-friendly destinations. And, even more important, the freedom of travelling light. Holidays for Alison involved tons of paraphernalia, and, with two babies on the way, it would be back to carrycots and pushchairs, baby-baths and booster-seats, feeding-bottles, sterilizers and piles of disposable nappies. Not to mention all the older children’s clobber: roller-blades and scooters, cricket bats and swimming gear, stacks of toys and games, clothes and shoes and picnic stuff and a veritable first-aid chest – wagonloads’ of baggage that had to be transported, along with the actual tribe.
The thought of her own vacation, with one small, streamlined suitcase, was definitely appealing, especially as she hadn’t been abroad since the autumn before last. In fact, she could probably take a good four weeks, since she was owed the leave left over from last year. She would need to time it carefully, of course, to ensure she was at least 2000 miles away the first weeks after the birth, when Alison would be bloated still, her colossal breasts leaking milk and padlocked to a crumpled, red-faced monster; a bawling, burping bundle of appetite and need.
Having retrieved her bag and jacket, she went straight out again, heading for the travel agent. Best to book well in advance, to allow the widest choice of dates and destinations. Besides, having been stuck indoors with Alison half the afternoon, she hadn’t had a chance yet to enjoy the rare spring sunshine. So far, March had been continually wet and blustery; more raging lion than gambolling lamb. Only today had the wind died down and the sun resumed its role of coaxing green from brown. She decided to take the long route, through the park, and see if the horse chestnuts were in leaf.
Not quite. The fat, sticky buds were swollen and distended, but no fluttery green sprays had yet opened like the fingers of a hand. The blackthorn was in flower, though, having changed from last week’s mourning into a froth of white confetti. Ironical, she reflected, how even here, in the park, she couldn’t escape from procreation. Birds were hatching their young; frogs copulating in the pond; catkins puffing pollen-clouds on every passing breeze; the whole of nature burgeoning and breeding. Still, she was feeling distinctly better, out in this soft, scented air and enjoying the sense of relaxation engendered by the weather. Now that winter’s grip had loosened, people were coming out of hibernation like butterflies or bees, basking beneath benevolent blue skies. Some were walking dogs, others flying kites, several simply lazing on the grass.
She took the path that led past the large lily-pond, on towards the bandstand, through the rockery and rose-garden and eventually out to the High Street, keeping up a brisk, determined pace. She hated being idle, even at weekends; preferred to stick to a timetable; have some goal in mind.
All at once, she stopped, riveted by the sight of two babies in a pushchair – twins – her twins; the twins who had died at two years old, yet alive and resurrected. She continued staring in amazement, although uncomfortably aware that their wary mother, a slip of a girl, in a garish purple anorak, was eyeing her suspiciously – as a potential baby-kidnapper, perhaps. Quickly she averted her gaze, but, too shaken to walk on, sank down on the bench beside the girl, so she could watch the twins surreptitiously. The likeness was astounding and all the more extraordinary, considering how rare that particular colouring was: the rich, gleaming, red-gold hair – not carroty, not ginger, but genuinely titian – and the distinctive eyes, a brilliant speedwell-blue. As an insipid-looking
child herself, with mousy hair and drab grey-nothing eyes, she had been jealous of those hated babies’ sheer glamour and appeal. How horribly unfair it seemed that no one ever stopped to ogle her, exclaim about her beauty or joke about the droves of men who’d be queuing up to date her. She was simply overlooked: the plain, boring, elder sister, not worthy of a second glance.
Again, her gaze strayed back to the twins. It was as if she were looking at the photograph which still stood in pride of place on her mother’s mantelpiece: the same mop of auburn curls, the same delicate, porcelain skin; even the same listless air, as if the babies were over-tired or ill. She knew from Alison’s family that most toddlers were tornadoes – explosive, irrepressible – yet these particular two sat slumped passive in the pushchair.
‘How old are they?’ she asked their mother, suddenly.
‘Just coming up to two. But they’re small for their age. You see, they haven’t been too well….’
Desperately, Jane tried to close her ears; couldn’t bear to hear the details: the slow decline, the death, the parents’ lifelong mourning, while she, the sister, silently rejoiced.
‘Chantal has a problem with her breathing, and Melanie’s not eating as she should.’
Fancy names. Of course. Exceptionally beautiful children must have names to match. Her mother’s two had been Rosamund and Bella. Another painful contrast. Plain Jane was considered good enough for her.
‘Do you have children?’ the girl asked, thawing now a little.
‘No.’
‘Actually, twins are quite a handful.’
Jane gave the curtest nod, aware she must seem rude. ‘Yes,’ she repeated, her voice indistinct and shaky. ‘I know.’
‘Why? Do you have twins in the family?’
The silence seemed to stretch for ever. ‘I had twin sisters,’ she blurted out, at last. ‘Just like these, in fact. The same hair and eyes and … but I, er, lost touch with them.’
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