* * *
Looking at the blurry ultrasound photographs, I was quite sure I’d made the right decision. I remain so. If the test causes the termination of the pregnancy, then so be it. I’ll simply return to the position I was in a few weeks ago, and I was perfectly content with my life then. More than content.
It was getting late, and I was shattered. I carefully placed the photographs on the mantelpiece, propped up with the help of an ammonite fossil that I’d found on a childhood beach holiday. I straightened the sofa, switched off the lights and pushed aside my new polished oak doorstop to close the sitting room door. The casket is exactly the right size, shape and weight and matches my coffee table perfectly. My mother wouldn’t have minded. She was a very practical woman and would be delighted to be of use.
October
8
October is my favorite month, and its arrival signals a boost to my energy levels. I’m not someone who enjoys the summer; hot weather and its associated shedding of clothes and inhibitions hold no attraction for me. Colleagues often try to badger me into taking a “proper” summer holiday, but I find the length of time people waste lazing on a beach or by a pool incomprehensible. When I explain this, my colleagues simply laugh and say, “Oh, Susan!” Fortunately, by October, even the threat of an Indian summer has passed, and a woman can happily wear heavyweight fabrics and thick cardigans—and behave in a sensible fashion—without drawing attention to herself. This month, however, began in a less than invigorating manner.
It was after three o’clock—the early hours of a Saturday morning—and I was finally drifting off into an uneasy sleep. The teenage children of the fitness-crazy couple across the road were having a raucous party, and the deep thud of their dance music had been hammering away at my head since eleven o’clock the previous evening. I can only assume their parents were away at an Ironman race, or something similarly masochistic.
Over the years, I’ve become accustomed to the constant noise besieging my flat: the squeal of car alarms and police sirens; the grumble of buses and trains; shouts of rage or mirth from the street. All of these I accept without complaint as an unavoidable consequence of living in London. The teenagers, however, had turned the volume of their music up to such an extraordinary level that my patience was pushed to the limit. I’d contemplated calling the police to report the nuisance but, having done that in the past, I’ve found that the authorities generally act as though it’s I, rather than the person I’m reporting, who’s the problem. Even if they did take action on this occasion, which was highly unlikely, the youths would no doubt turn down the racket until the police were out of earshot then turn it up even louder than before.
At first, the insistent banging and ringing seemed to be part of the music but, as I was hauled out of my almost-sleep, I realized that someone was at the door of my flat. I assumed it was a prank by a delinquent partygoer who had somehow managed to get into the communal hallway. On opening my door to tell them exactly what I thought of their behavior I found not the expected drunken youth, but Kate, ashen-faced. She was clutching the car seat in which lay her baby, wearing nothing but a nappy. Kate, herself, was sporting an odd combination of red polka-dot pajamas, flip-flops and a Barbour jacket.
“Susan, thank God you’re home,” she said above the insistent drumbeat. Although I knew there must be something seriously amiss, as she was addressing me directly for once, I regret to say I was unable to muster up my usual courteousness.
“Surely you haven’t locked yourself out in the middle of the night.”
“It’s Noah,” she said, breathlessly. “He’s got a raging temperature. I can’t get it down. I’ve tried everything—paracetamol, ibuprofen, stripping him, cold flannels. I’ve just phoned the emergency helpline. They told me to take him to A and E. I’m not waiting for an ambulance. I’m going straight there in the car. It’s just—Ava’s asleep. I can’t take her with me. Can you look after her while I’m gone? You can climb into my bed and go back to sleep. At least there’ll be someone there if she wakes up. Tell her I’ll be back soon. I’m sorry about this. I’ve got no one else to ask.”
I looked at the baby. His cheeks were crimson, his sparse hair was plastered to his tiny head and his limbs looked floppy. He appeared neither awake nor asleep. I felt an odd lump in my throat.
“What about Alex?” I said, hoping there was an alternative to my involvement in this domestic crisis. “Can’t he look after the child?”
“He’s not around. It’s a long story. Please, Susan, please. I’ve got to go. Straightaway. You’ve got my keys. Just let yourself in. Help yourself to whatever you want. I’ll ring and let you know what’s happening.” She was backing away down the hallway and then down the path to her car, which she always parks directly outside my bay window. I followed as far as the front door.
“I don’t mind helping out for an hour or two,” I called after her. “But find someone to take over from me as soon as possible. I’ve got a very full schedule tomorrow. I hope everything’s alright,” I added, as she strapped the car seat in place and jumped in next to it. With a screech of tires, she was gone.
* * *
This really was an unfortunate situation. It was vital that I wasn’t below par the following day as I’d meticulously planned a shopping expedition. The morning sickness was now a distant memory, and I’d very quickly gone from looking like a marathon runner to looking like an Eastern European shot-putter. The stage had now been reached where I was no longer able to wear my usual outfits, even if I left the top button of my skirt or trousers undone. I therefore urgently needed to invest in some suitable attire.
I’d taken the time carefully to research the subject of maternity wear and had planned a capsule wardrobe that would see me through from October to the birth in March, viz: two pairs of black trousers (one wide-legged and one slim-legged) with stretch panels; two black skirts (one above the knee and one below) with same panels; seven long-sleeved jersey tops, variously in black, gray and white; two charcoal knit cardigans (one fine gauge and one heavy gauge); and certain items of expandable lingerie, the details of which I’ll omit. All that needed to be done was to try said items on for size and purchase them. I’d planned to leave my flat at eight thirty in the morning and be back by one thirty so I could spend the afternoon carrying out legal research. This disrupted night was going to have an impact on my carefully structured timetable.
* * *
I went back into my flat and picked up Kate’s front door keys. I also bundled up my duvet, sheet and pillow; under no circumstances would I sleep in someone else’s used bed linens. Once inside Kate’s flat, I dumped my bedding on the sofa and surveyed my surroundings. The sitting room, which was directly above my own and of identical dimensions, seemed considerably smaller, probably because of the baby and child paraphernalia scattered over the floor: a muddle of jigsaw pieces, an avalanche of building blocks, heaps of lurid plastic in various configurations, enough ravaged synthetic creatures to fill a veterinary hospital, together with a play mat, changing mat, bouncy chair, potty and the like. I don’t see why having children should be an excuse for letting your domestic standards slip. I’d be very surprised if my own did.
I tiptoed down the corridor and peered into the bedroom. A night-light in the shape of a giant mushroom was giving out a soft glow. I could make out the shape of an unmade double bed against one wall, with a Moses basket at its foot, and a toddler-sized bed against the opposite wall. It was all horribly cramped. I was pleased that I’d soon secure my inheritance and be in a position to buy a two-bedroom flat. My charge was spread out like a starfish on the smaller bed, breathing deeply and rhythmically despite the thumping music from across the road. I picked up a grubby toy from the floor (some character from a popular children’s television series), placed it next to the sleeping child and covered her with the duvet she’d kicked off.
Next I crept to the kitchen, which I
found to be as chaotic as the sitting room; unwashed dishes in the sink, spilled food on the kitchen table and surfaces, overflowing bin. I knew I’d be unable to go straight to sleep in such a strange environment after being so thoroughly disturbed, so decided to engage in some physical labor to tire myself out. I donned a pair of yellow rubber gloves that I found in an unopened packet in a drawer and set to work with soapy water, scouring cream and floor cleaner. Once the kitchen was spotless I tackled the sitting room, finding receptacles for the various scattered items, organizing the clutter on the shelves and mantelpiece, straightening the rug and plumping the cushions on the armchairs. By the time I’d finished it was five thirty, the music had stopped and I was exhausted. I switched off the standard lamp in the corner of the room and settled down on the sofa.
I’ve always had difficulty falling asleep at night, even when not bombarded by noise pollution. The moment I closed my eyes, the irrational feeling creeps over me that something dreadful might happen if I’m not vigilant. As I tried to summon sleep, I thought about the years I’d lain awake as a girl, waiting for my father to return from the pub. My bedroom was above the front entrance and hallway of my childhood home, and I could tell from even the smallest sounds that drifted up through the floorboards what state he was in. If he found the lock with his front door key straightaway it was good; if he dropped his keys or fumbled to find the lock it was bad. If he closed the front door quietly it was good; if he slammed the door it was bad. If his footsteps across the hallway were light and even it was good; if they were heavy or irregular it was bad. If there was a gush of water being poured into a glass it was good; if there was a clink of a bottleneck against a tumbler it was bad. If he came straight up to bed it was good; if he started playing Italian opera at full volume it was bad. I sometimes wonder if Edward lay awake thinking the same thoughts. I don’t know. I never asked him.
As I pushed the memory to the back of my mind, I felt a tap on my shoulder. There, standing in the half-light filtering in from the street, was the child. She was clutching her stuffed toy and looking down at me with an expression of curiosity on her face.
“Hello, there,” I said, “I’m Susan, your neighbor from downstairs. Do you remember me?” The child nodded, as though there was nothing at all unusual in the situation. “Your mother had to go somewhere urgently so I’m looking after you for an hour or two. Do you understand?” She nodded once more, climbed over me and squashed herself into the limited space between my recumbent body and the back of the sofa.
“I’m sorry, there’s not enough room for the two of us. Go back to your own bed, there’s a good girl,” I told her. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes closed. “Go back now, please. I need to sleep and so do you,” I added, with more authority. She shook her head again and closed her eyes even more tightly. I must admit, I’m not particularly experienced in dealing with small children; I’d far rather engage with people who are amenable to reason and logic. After a further concerted effort to get the child to comply with my instructions, I abandoned the sofa, went to the bedroom and climbed into the toddler bed. It was so tiny that I had to curl up like a fetus to fit into it. Within a couple of minutes, the child reappeared, clambered over me and squeezed herself into the narrow gap by the wall.
“Young lady,” I said, “this is unacceptable behavior.” But she’d already closed her eyes and was feigning sleep. After remonstrating with her to no avail, I returned to the sofa, and once more she followed. Her doggedness might be considered an admirable quality if she was using it to more constructive ends. Cursing under my breath I headed for the bedroom yet again. I had no doubt that the stubborn creature would follow me. I contemplated barricading the door, but decided that that might result in tears. Exhausted, I climbed into the double bed—used bed linen was no longer quite as repugnant to me as it had been a few hours earlier. As predicted, there was soon a patter of feet and a bounce on the bed, but at least there was ample room for the two of us. Just as I was beginning to drift off—and the child appeared to be, too—the phone on the bedside table rang.
“Susan, it’s Kate. I haven’t woken you up, have I? I just wanted to check everything’s okay.”
“Nothing to worry about here,” I managed. “The child isn’t missing you.”
“Noah’s got tonsillitis,” she said. “They’ve given him antibiotics. They’re going to keep him in for observation for a few hours until his temperature starts coming down, so I’m going to stay with him. I can’t get hold of Alex but I’ve left a message explaining the situation and telling him to call me as soon as he can.”
“Is he far away? How long will it take him to get here? I’ve got important things to do.”
“I haven’t a clue where he is. He’s left me. He’ll probably be with his girlfriend.”
I expressed appropriate regret at the situation in which she found herself, but asked her to ensure that she found somebody—anybody at all—to relieve me at the earliest possible opportunity. Kate informed me that her parents lived in the Midlands, so they couldn’t help out, and her friends were all tied up with family commitments or were away from London. I gave her my mobile number and instructed her to let me know the moment a rescue party had been dispatched.
By the time I finished speaking to Kate the child was sitting bolt upright, bright eyed and ready for the day.
“It’s not morning yet,” I explained to her, trying to push her gently down onto the bed. “Let’s go back to sleep for an hour or two.” She wriggled away from me, ran out of the bedroom and returned a minute later with an armful of books. I endeavored to ignore her. Her persistence was such, however, that in the end I capitulated and read story after story about creatures, places and situations that couldn’t possibly have any basis in reality. After what felt like an hour, I decided that, while I was awaiting a phone call to signal the end of the ordeal, I might as well stick to my original schedule for the day, albeit that the timing would need to be adjusted. I therefore dressed the child in a manner appropriate to the weather, gathered up a selection of the less garish toys and returned to my flat. As she insisted on trailing after me, I parked her in front of the television—something I wouldn’t, of course, do with a child of my own—so I could prepare our breakfast. She didn’t eat much of her muesli or drink much of her grapefruit juice, which I knew she’d regret later. After breakfast, I explained to her that we would be taking a trip on a train, and that I expected her to be on her best behavior. She nodded her assent.
* * *
At the Tube station, I asked the birdlike woman perched behind the ticket counter—who I’ve always found to be sullen and grumpy—for a one-day travel card for the child.
“You don’t need to pay for the little one, love. How old is she?” she inquired, her face breaking into a luminous grin. She waved her bony fingers at the child in the buggy, who shyly waved back.
“I’ve no idea. How old do you think she is?”
“Don’t you know?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
I cast my mind back to when I’d first encountered the child.
“Well, I suppose she can’t be more than three.”
“I’m two.”
“Oh, she talks,” I said, taken by surprise.
Managing a buggy and a toddler on the underground is more of a challenge than I’d anticipated. Each time we approached an escalator I had to stop, unstrap the child, fold up the buggy (easier said than done) and hoist it onto the moving staircase while simultaneously keeping hold of, and maneuvering, the child. Each time we alighted from an escalator I had to do the same in reverse. All this as other passengers were bearing down on us like a stampede of buffalo.
I couldn’t believe how many escalators needed to be negotiated just to travel a short distance. There were also two changes of trains and numerous flights of stairs (which required a tricky backward operation with the buggy on its rear wheels) before we reached our f
irst destination. I resolved to email those in charge of the underground to pass on my thoughts regarding their transportation system. Once sitting on the train, I found it was much harder than usual to avoid engaging with my fellow passengers; people were continually beaming at the child, then looking up and smiling at me. Some even asked me her name or age, information that I could now provide confidently. I expect we appeared to be a mother and daughter having a fun day out together. I, myself, have little interest in children, but I suppose she’s quite winsome to look at, with her golden curls, rosy cheeks and big blue eyes. If you like that kind of thing.
We arrived at the first shop on my list seventy-two minutes later than timetabled. I picked up the items of maternity wear that I wished to try on and went to the changing rooms. The buggy wouldn’t fit in the cubicle, so I had to park it in the corridor and deposit the child on the floor in the corner. No sooner had I started undressing than she began whining that she was hungry. I explained to her that it was her own fault for not eating her muesli; I had finished all my breakfast and was still feeling satisfied. She was unable to accept responsibility for the situation in which she found herself, and continued to grouse. I paid no attention and proceeded with the important job of assessing the quality, functionality and appearance of the items of clothing. As I did so, the shop assistant put her head around the curtain and asked, in a concerned voice, whether everything was alright. I explained that the child was the author of her own misfortune, but the woman looked sorry for her nonetheless.
Armed with two large carrier bags, we headed back to the underground station. In an effort to put an end to the whining, I stopped at a fruit stall to buy some bananas, peeled one and gave it to the child. She squished it between her fingers, which she then wiped on her coat, dress and the sides of the buggy. I explained to her calmly why her behavior was unacceptable, but she proceeded to bawl unintelligibly. The only words I could make out were mummy, home and what sounded like sweeties. I regret to say that the rest of the shopping trip could only be accomplished with the judicious employment of chocolate buttons, which I drip-fed to the child at five-minute intervals.
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