The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  The doctor looked hardly older than a student, and was so fidgety that I wondered whether he’d ever encountered a flesh-and-blood patient. He spent almost the entire appointment picking at raw, flaking skin on the back of his hands and staring at a point somewhere above my left shoulder. When I told him I was pregnant, he raised his eyebrows and peered at my details on his computer screen, which can have revealed little other than my name and date of birth. Presumably he thought it would be more appropriate for me to be consulting him about the onset of menopause rather than the birth of a baby. After a stilted discussion during which the doctor tried to elicit information about my personal circumstances and I demurred, he finally completed the necessary formalities. Once all of that was out of the way I decided to take advantage of having a doctor before me to make some inquiries concerning the rights of a deceased person’s relatives to access their medical records. He turned out to be a mine of useful information, despite his youth; perhaps they concentrate more on matters of paperwork than bedside manner at medical school these days.

  I left the surgery with a handful of glossy leaflets about pregnancy and childbirth, which I skimmed through when I got back to my flat later that afternoon. They were invariably illustrated with photographs of content-looking, heavily pregnant women with their hands placed protectively on their bellies, or radiant new mums smiling proudly down at the precious bundles in their arms. More often than not there was a proprietorial male lurking in the background with a hand on their partner’s shoulder. The women all looked youthful and radiant, glowing with the delight of appropriately timed procreation. I was at a loss to see what these instinctive breeders had in common with me; I felt like someone attempting to infiltrate a fundamentalist group with a less-than-believable cover story.

  The leaflets brought home to me the reality of what would be happening over the course of the forthcoming months, not only to my own body, but to that of the growing creature inside me. The upside was that the nausea was due to abate completely within the next few days. There was, however, a multiplicity of downsides. I couldn’t imagine my abdomen, which I consider to be well-toned for a woman of my age, distending to such gargantuan proportions. Neither could I imagine my modest breasts transforming into giant milk-producing udders. The bodily convolutions involved in the birth process itself didn’t bear thinking about. I went to the sitting room and stood on the sofa in front of the overmantel mirror with a cushion stuffed between my blouse and my slip. I turned sideways, laced my fingers together under my cushion-belly and put on a placid, bovine, expectant-mother expression. No, it didn’t look right. It most definitely did not.

  I threw the cushion back onto the sofa and returned to the kitchen to study the leaflets. It surprised me to discover that what was referred to as my “baby” was already about three inches long and an ounce in weight. I’d been so preoccupied with the fallout from my mother’s death, and with the clamorous physical symptoms of my morning sickness, that I’d failed to address the fact that what was growing inside me had gone beyond simply a clustered mass of cells. I didn’t think of it as an actual person, but the information I read awakened in me a visceral sensation unlike any I’d experienced before. What I was now dealing with wasn’t simply an abstract dilemma; at the end of this process—which the doctor had informed me would be in late-March next year—I’d be walking out of the hospital with a flesh-and-blood baby. That was so laughably surreal that my mind balked at the fact. I scooped up the leaflets and put them in the tray I keep for matters pending.

  Later that day, as I was typing an email to the senior partner of the surgery giving him the benefit of my advice on the service provided by his practice, there was a knock on my front door. Fearing that I’d failed to put the wind up Richard sufficiently, I peered round the bay window curtain. It was only my neighbor, Kate, from the upstairs flat, who’d no doubt locked herself out yet again. I’ve reluctantly agreed to look after a set of keys for her in case of just such eventualities. When Kate and her partner, Alex, moved in five years ago, she was a well-groomed young professional woman working in an investment bank—something to do with personnel or communications, or that sort of thing. Both she and Alex had worked extremely long hours, and I’d barely seen or heard either of them. Kate was now the flustered, disheveled mother of a two-year-old and a baby, both of whom she had in tow. Alex continues to work the same hours, and must be as much a stranger to his family as he is to me.

  “Oh, great, Susan’s in,” she said addressing the toddler, a small ginger-haired girl clinging to her mother’s leg. “We didn’t think she’d be back this early, did we? She’ll never guess what we’ve done, will she?”

  “I’ll just get the keys for you,” I said.

  The baby, who was only a few weeks old, was fast asleep, cocooned in a portable car seat that its mother had hooked over her arm. Kate had a smile on her face that was patently the product of sheer willpower, rather than happiness, and her once voluminous pre-Raphaelite tresses were hanging around her face like limp seaweed. It occurred to me that this might be a good opportunity to carry out some scientific research, so I asked whether she and her offspring would like to join me for a cup of tea. Kate hesitated and her expression faltered, no doubt because in all the years we’ve been neighbors we’ve never stepped over the threshold of each other’s flat. A moment later she reconstructed her smile and turned to the toddler.

  “Ava, shall we have a little drink in Auntie Susan’s house? Would you like that?”

  Surprisingly, the toddler, rather than backing away in horror, beamed and nodded. I led the family through to my kitchen, made the tea and poured a glass of orange juice. It was a pleasant early-autumn afternoon and the French windows were open onto my tiny courtyard garden. Winston was stretched out on the back wall, soaking up the last of the day’s warmth. The toddler wandered out.

  “Auntie Susan’s so lucky having a garden flat, isn’t she, Ava?” Kate called after her, slumping into one of the kitchen chairs and placing the car seat on the floor between her sensibly shod feet. She smiled at the baby in an exaggerated fashion, and started making “mama baba dada” noises at it. “We should’ve thought more about a garden when we were buying a flat,” she continued, addressing the baby, “but we didn’t know we were going to have you two little ones at the time, did we? Not that mummy and daddy could’ve afforded a garden round here anyway, could we?” The baby began to grizzle, so she unstrapped it from the car seat, picked it up and bounced it rhythmically in her arms. I assumed it was a boy, as it was wearing the obligatory pale blue romper suit.

  “What’s it called?” I asked, reminding myself that that was the sort of inquiry that parents expect.

  “You’re called Noah, and you’re an absolute angel, aren’t you?” she said, gazing into the baby’s eyes, which were starting to close again. “Except when you wake up at three o’clock in the morning and we’ve only just got you off to sleep.”

  I sensed that this was my entrée into a few more probing questions.

  “What does it feel like being a mother? Are you glad you did it, or do you feel it was a terrible mistake?”

  Kate laughed.

  “We love it, don’t we? We’re tired all the time and it’s tough money-wise, but we wouldn’t be without you and Ava for the whole world, would we?”

  It was now or never. I held my breath, tensed my muscles and dived in before I lost the nerve.

  “Would you mind if I held it?” I asked.

  A look of panic crossed Kate’s face, as if I’d asked whether I could take it white-water rafting, and she instinctively held it closer to her chest. It was apparent, however, that she couldn’t think of how to refuse my request.

  “Are you going to have a cuddle with Auntie Susan, sweetheart?” she said to the baby, reluctantly passing it over to me. I held it in the same way that Kate had—horizontally in my forearms with its head resting in the crook of my elbow. I
t was much heavier than I’d anticipated; I’d naively expected it to be the weight of a handbag, whereas it was more like a full briefcase. It was soft and clammy, and its smell was a mixture of clean washing and warm milk, with faint undertones of urine. No doubt the baby could sense my awkwardness, as it started to contort its face, which was darkening from rosy pink to a sort of puce. I tried to bounce it in my arms as Kate had done, but perhaps my movements were too jerky and uncoordinated. It began to howl.

  “Oh, come back to Mummy, precious. I think you’re a bit tired and hungry, aren’t you? Would you like some milky?”

  And then a disconcerting thing happened. Kate’s top obviously had some sort of concealed opening, like a doorway in an old mansion hidden by a revolving bookcase. One moment she was sitting at the table looking perfectly normal, the next moment a flap was lifted, a catch undone and her left breast was on full display. Now, I must say that I don’t consider myself to be a person who’s prudish or easily shocked; one body is pretty much like another body as far as I’m concerned. I was entirely unprepared, however, for having my neighbor’s breast displayed in my own kitchen, and I’m sorry to say I found myself declaring that there was an important call I absolutely had to make before five o’clock. Kate did the revolving bookcase trick, and normality was restored. The baby, however, was not impressed by the withdrawal of its food source.

  “Ava, time to go now. Auntie Susan’s got things to do,” she called through the French windows. Strapping the baby into the car seat she cooed, “We had a lovely time, didn’t we? It’s so nice to talk to some grown-ups for a change, isn’t it? We’ll have to do this again, won’t we?”

  My encounter with Kate had been far from successful in convincing me either that I had a hitherto undiscovered maternal streak, or that the life of a mother was something to be desired. Having said that, I’ve found from experience that I’m able to turn most situations, however unpromising they might be, to my advantage. Although Kate might be sinking under the stresses and strains of the maternal life, there’s no reason why I should do the same. For one thing, I don’t have a male partner to look after, which, I’ve observed, is often like having another child (witness my father and brother). Furthermore, the baby will have inherited my genes, and I’d therefore expect it to be reasonable and moderate in its behavior. Finally, I have absolutely no intention of giving up my job; I believe there are very good day nurseries that take babies from a young age. All you have to do is deposit the child first thing in the morning, collect it in the evening and the nursery does the rest. The downside, naturally, is the cost; another reason why it’s imperative that I secure my inheritance within the next few months.

  * * *

  I looked at my watch again; it was now a quarter to three. After answering the intercom, the receptionist turned to me to say that if Edward didn’t turn up within the next five minutes the meeting with Mr. Brinkworth would have to be canceled and rescheduled for another day. I was about to object when the door was thrust open and in strolled Edward. I was surprised to see Rob just behind him.

  “Suze, my darling sis, how’re you doing? Brought your boxing gloves, have you?”

  “You’re late. Where have you been?”

  “Just didn’t see the point of the meeting—we all know what the will says—but I was dragged here. Likes to keep the peace, old Rob...always trying to increase the positive karma in the world.”

  Edward threw himself down onto one of the low vinyl chairs and began rolling a cigarette.

  “Ed Green, here to see the boss,” he called over to the receptionist. “Don’t worry, it’s for later,” he added, finishing his construction job and tucking it behind his ear.

  “Hi, Susan,” said Rob, still loitering by the door. “Hope you two get this sorted today.”

  He smiled, as if we were on friendly terms with each other. Not a chance, I thought. His appearance was that of a man who’d been tunneling through a bog: mud-caked boots, filthy combat trousers and some kind of donkey jacket affair. I was sure it wasn’t necessary for a manual laborer to get into quite such a state; maybe he thought it made him look solid and dependable. If so, it wasn’t working.

  “I hope you don’t think you’re coming into the meeting—with us,” I told him. “This is a family matter.”

  “Are you joking? Look at the state of me. Plus, I’m knackered. I’ve been knee-deep in mud since seven this morning. Project-managing work on the grounds of a care home up the road. If you need a lift back to the station after the meeting, though, give me a bell. I can be here in five.” He came over to where I was sitting and pulled a business card out of one of his many pockets:

  Robert Rhys, BA (Hons), Dip. PSGD

  Garden Design and Landscaping Services

  From Planning to Completion

  I read it, then handed it back to him. “That won’t be necessary, thank you. I have the number of a local cab company.”

  “Don’t bother trying to be nice to her, Rob, mate. She’ll only kick you in the teeth.”

  The receptionist’s intercom buzzed.

  “Miss Green, Mr. Green?” she said. “Mr. Brinkworth will see you now.”

  7

  The receptionist ushered us down a low-ceilinged, windowless corridor. It was lined from floor to knee-height with piles of overflowing buff-colored folders held together with elastic bands; black lever-arch files marked with words such as Exhibits, Statements and Evidence; and bundles of yellowing papers tied together with pink string. For an establishment that claimed to have expert knowledge of the law, their indifference to tripping hazards was telling.

  Framed by a doorway at the end of the corridor, I could see a portly, red-faced man sitting behind a mahogany desk, the surface of which was barely visible under mounds of the same folders, files and papers. This pompous-looking man was unmistakably Mr. Brinkworth. The solicitor, hearing our approach, raised his eyes from a document he was ostentatiously perusing and peered over the top of his half-moon glasses. If he thought this action would impress me with its air of judicial authority, he was mistaken. I’m not unused to dealing with such puffed-up types, and know how easily they can be popped. As we entered his office he stood up and extended his hand, first to Edward and then to me.

  “Ah, the Greens, at last. I was wondering whether this meeting was going to happen today. Sit down, sit down.” Mr. Brinkworth gestured to two sagging tub chairs, both of which were lower than his own regal throne by a good three or four inches. His back was to a large picture window, and I had to squint to focus on him. Such obvious strategies, and ones that would in no way unsettle me. Edward, putting on his usual act, slumped in the chair next to me with his arms folded across his chest and a defiant expression on his face.

  Flanking the room were bookcases crammed with dusty brown-spined volumes of Halsbury’s Laws of England, gray-spined Halsbury’s Statutes and blue-spined All England Law Reports, probably bought for effect by the meter and never opened. At a small desk crammed into the farthest corner sat a scrawny young man whose liberal peppering of acne scars and dandruff was apparent from a distance of several feet. He was introduced by Mr. Brinkworth, with a dismissive wave of his hand, as Daniel, his trainee solicitor, who would be making notes of our meeting. The unfortunate youth blushed at hearing his name and focused his attention on smoothing back the cover of his blue counsels’ notebook.

  “Right, Mr. Brinkworth,” I began, “let’s start with the question of how my mother came to make this will, which couldn’t possibly have reflected her wishes.”

  “All in good time, madam. Let me just locate the paperwork and we’ll see where we’re up to.”

  Mr. Brinkworth rummaged through the massed ranks of files on his desk, wheezing from the exertion involved. With the help of Daniel, who had scampered over, he finally pulled out a thin cardboard folder from the bottom of the furthermost pile, almost causing an avalanche.
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br />   “Ah, that’s right. The late Mrs. Patricia Green. House, bank account, building society account, two beneficiaries. All very straightforward. Here’s a copy of the will for each of you, so you can settle your minds as to the exact terms.” He launched the two documents across the battlefield of his desk, my own copy overshooting and landing at my feet. “Nice little sum in the accounts, by the way. As an illustration, certainly enough to buy each of you a new car—midrange—with a bit left over. I should be able to send checks out to you very quickly once this little difference of opinion is resolved.”

  Mr. Brinkworth’s dangling in front of me a hypothetical Ford Focus or Vauxhall Astra was ludicrous. I have never felt the need to learn to drive, living, as I do, in London. Only a masochist would want to contend with ill-mannered metropolitan drivers who believe themselves empowered, by their metal armor, to act like crusading warriors. On the underground, you can usually avoid engaging with your fellow travelers if you’re careful not to make eye contact. I ignored Mr. Brinkworth’s silliness and repeated my request for an explanation of how such a dubious will came to be written. I told him it was obvious to me, and should have been obvious to him, that there was someone else at work behind this.

  “Yes, yes, I’m aware of your misgivings, but before we waste time discussing all that, I have a proposal to put forward.” He turned to Edward. “As you know, Mr. Green, my hands are tied whilst your sister’s block is in place. The fact is,” he continued, “that the will was properly drawn up and executed, and you’re entitled to remain in the former family home. I’m sure, however, that we’d all like to settle this matter without legal proceedings. What I propose is this—you, Mr. Green,” (here he pointed at Edward with a blue plastic Biro), “agree to vacate the property by a certain date—say twelve months hence—and on that basis you, Miss Green,” (here he waved the Biro in my direction), “withdraw the block and allow me to deal with the estate. You might both wish to seek your own independent legal advice, but I think you’ll find that any lawyer you consult will tell you it’s the perfect solution.”