The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  I realized as soon as the words came out that I shouldn’t have said them in front of my brother’s ally. Stupid.

  “Ed wasn’t scheming. He wouldn’t take advantage of your mum. He was concerned about her. Always checking on her, making sure she was okay before he went out, seeing she had everything she needed, running errands. He was great with her. If you saw him in the pub with his mates, then saw him at home with your mum, you’d think he was two completely different people. He was really gentle and thoughtful when he was with her. She brought out the best side of him.”

  I must say that this is an aspect of Edward’s personality that he’s managed to keep concealed from me for more than four decades. Frankly, it’s one that I don’t believe exists. Rob’s assertions were beyond credibility.

  “But if she wasn’t thinking straight, and Edward happened to put it into her head, even innocently, that he needed to stay in the family home...”

  “I’ve got no reason to think that happened. Look, this is nothing to do with me. I don’t know any more than you do. Sorry, but I’m a bit uncomfortable with this conversation. Let’s talk about something else.”

  I have no idea what Rob thought he and I could possibly have to discuss with each other.

  * * *

  Later that evening, as I sat alone watching an episode of some gloomy Scandinavian detective series (Rob was at a friend’s stag night celebration), I wondered whether my questioning had been too heavy-handed. If I tried a lighter touch Rob might still be fooled into disclosing information about my brother’s actions and intentions, or about my mother’s mental state. I didn’t want to frighten him off. I resolved that, the following day, I’d deploy all my innate warmth and charm.

  12

  I was imprisoned between two filthy navvies on the front bench seat of a white Transit van; not a situation in which I’d ever expected to find myself. Rob was seated to my right, one hand on the steering wheel, the other tapping out the rhythm of the song he was humming. He was dressed in his work clothes, which, as usual, bore traces of every trench he’d excavated and bag of manure he’d spread. The equally malodorous goblin-like creature on my left was Billy, Rob’s assistant and general dogsbody. Billy was a good head shorter than me, all bone and sinew, with deep wrinkles cross-hatching his cheeks. He had three stud-earrings in each ear and self-inked tattoos on his fingers. When he wasn’t jabbering away, barely comprehensibly, he was twitching, scratching himself or rolling a cigarette. Sometimes all at the same time. I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover he was out on day-release.

  Climbing into Rob’s van, I’d had to negotiate the yellowing newspapers and discarded paper coffee cups piled up in the foot well. The black vinyl seats were gashed in places, revealing the stuffing, and there was a thick film of grime over everything. I took the precaution of placing one of the newspapers on the seat before I sat down, in case my dry-clean-only black wool trousers were contaminated beyond salvation. The suspension of the van was obviously shot; every bump in the road was magnified a hundredfold and my bones were jarred in an alarming manner as I was repeatedly propelled into the air and jolted back down again. To be fair, Rob had been slightly abashed when he opened the van door for me.

  “I don’t usually carry passengers, other than Billy here. Hope you don’t mind roughing it.” Certainly I minded. It was necessary, however, for me to satisfy myself that my furniture and boxes would be stored safely.

  We were bound for Rob’s newly purchased house—a “hop and a skip” away, I was assured. As we hurtled over a particularly craterous pothole, Billy produced one of his previously constructed roll-up cigarettes. I didn’t believe he’d actually light the thing until he began flicking at a plastic lighter. I take no pleasure in telling people what to do, but I had no alternative but to direct him, in the strongest possible terms, immediately to desist from his intended course of action. He didn’t seem unduly put out, and I couldn’t help thinking he was probably used to being given commands by police officers, prison guards and the like. Rob, though, was shaking his head.

  “I don’t think she means to put it so rudely, mate,” he said, leaning around me. “It’s just her manner.”

  “No probs. Sorry, love, I forgot you was in the family way,” Billy said, squeezing my thigh just a little too high up for comfort. “You hardly look it. My missus was the size of a house by four months. Mind you, she’s the size of a house, anyway.” He chuckled away to himself, returning his cigarette to his tin. “Have you given up while you’re carrying?”

  “I don’t smoke. I never have,” I informed him.

  “I thought you did,” Rob piped up. “Years back, when we were all students. Everyone did in those days.”

  “You’re mistaken. Perhaps you’re thinking of someone else. I don’t even remember meeting you.” If I had ever done anything so contrary to logic and good sense, which I hadn’t, I certainly wouldn’t be admitting it to Rob.

  “Nasty habit, anyway,” said Billy. “Going to stop, myself, in the new year. So, what’re you having?”

  I explained to him that I had no idea. I was due to have another scan the following week, at which I could choose to find out. Whether it would be appropriate or desirable to do so wasn’t something to which I’d yet addressed my mind.

  “My missus was made up when we was told we was having a girl. Looking forward to dressing her up like a little doll and buying her My Little Ponies, she was. Then our Amy arrived, and all she wants to do is wear a football kit and kick a ball around. You never can tell. So what d’you want? A son or a daughter?”

  Those two words pierced my consciousness like the snapping of fingers to someone in a trance. I repeated them to myself: son, daughter. I’d be a woman with a son. Or I’d be a woman with a daughter. Not only that, but fate had already made the decision for me. It wasn’t something over which I had even a modicum of control. And then another word insinuated its way into my mind. If the baby was going to be a son or daughter, that would make me a mother. A child would look at me and think, not “estranged sister” or “work colleague” or “woman-I-sometimes-see-on-the-Tube,” but “mother.” That mattered. It mattered more than could be explained simply by logic alone. It mattered that I was not a disappointment, not a source of dissatisfaction, frustration or regret. I was confident my child would consider that I was fulfilling the parental role in an exemplary manner—failure isn’t in my vocabulary—but what if...? Billy was continuing to jabber on about how I’d get on fine without the baby’s dad, that hardly any dads he knew stuck around for very long, but I was barely listening to him. “Mother.”

  “Susan, are you still with us?” Rob was saying. “You look like you’re away with the fairies.”

  “I’m absolutely fine, thank you. Were you saying something?”

  “I was just asking whether you wanted anything from the caf. I’m popping in for a couple of coffees for Billy and me.”

  “Oh, a pot of Earl Grey, thank you,” I said, automatically.

  * * *

  That morning, I’d set my alarm for seven o’clock and finished work on my old bedroom before Rob summoned me for yet another of his vegetarian truckers’ breakfasts (if “vegetarian trucker” isn’t an oxymoron). It had taken very little time to clear the room, my mother having depersonalized it as soon as I went away to university. The only things I decided to keep were a copy of Little Women that had belonged to my mother, and a copy of Just So Stories that had belonged to my father.

  Rob was rather muted over breakfast, no doubt nursing a hangover from the previous evening. It had been after one o’clock in the morning by the time I heard his key in the door. I’d found myself unable to sleep until he returned, which accounted for my feeling uncharacteristically lackluster. The doorbell rang as Rob was in the garden emptying food waste onto the compost heap and I was flicking through the previous day’s newspaper. Billy quickly made himself at
home, tossing his jacket over the end of the banister, striding into the kitchen and throwing himself down onto one of the kitchen chairs. I gained the distinct impression that this was far from his first visit here.

  “So you’re moving some stuff out of your brother’s house, are you, love?” he asked, blowing his nose on a grubby bit of tissue he’d produced from the pocket of his jeans. “I know Ed a bit, from The Bull’s Head. Boss fella.”

  “This isn’t my brother’s house,” I told him. “It belongs to us both equally, and it’ll soon be sold.”

  “Oh, sorry, I got the impression your mum’d left the house to Ed. Sounded like he’d got plans for it.”

  “He’s having difficulty coming to terms with the fact that he’ll have to move out.”

  Rob returned from the garden, and Billy got to his feet.

  “Right, governor, where do we start,” he said, rubbing his hands together, probably at the thought of the overtime he’d be paid.

  There was nothing for me to do but oversee operations as Rob and Billy grunted and strained under the weight of the boxes and furniture. While they were securing the contents in the van, I wandered from empty room to empty room. Each was filled with ghostly impressions of the objects they’d once held. Where the furniture had stood, the carpet was darker and plusher, protected from sun and wear, and the feet had left deep depressions. On the faded wallpaper were darker shapes of the pictures and mirrors that had once hung there. There was even a faint silhouette of the wooden crucifix that my mother had, in more recent years, hung above her bed. Despite these echoes of the rooms’ previous lives, the memories they held were already dissipating, like smoke after a candle’s been extinguished. In my old bedroom, I closed my weekend bag, which was marooned in the middle of the bare floor, and took a last look through my window. I picked up my things and closed the door behind me. Enjoy your music room, Edward, I thought, because you won’t have it for long.

  * * *

  I perched on an upturned wooden packing case and sipped my flinchingly over-brewed tea while the two men unloaded the van and heaved the various tables, wardrobes and chests of drawers into position in the downstairs front room and two of the bedrooms of Rob’s house. Next a set of stepladders appeared and my boxes were hoisted up to the loft. Rob was quite correct when he said his house was “a bit of a wreck.” I concede that it was a potentially tolerable period terrace in an area not entirely without its attractions, but the kitchen, bathroom and decor had clearly been chosen by a color-blind lunatic in the 1970s. It had been touched by neither paintbrush nor pasting brush—nor, apparently, by vacuum cleaner or duster—since then. A very sorry situation in which to place my mother’s treasured possessions. Beggars, however, can’t be choosers.

  When the job was finished, Rob handed Billy a couple of folded notes.

  “Have a beer on us,” he said, replacing his wallet in the back pocket of his trousers.

  “Ta, governor. And good luck with the rest of your pregnancy, love. I can tell you’re going to be a brilliant mum. You and the little one should come and live back here in Brum. It’s much better than down that London. There’s loads of parks and all sorts of stuff going on for kids. It’s changed a lot since you was a girl.”

  “I’ll bear your advice in mind,” I assured him.

  * * *

  I accepted Rob’s offer of a lift to New Street station, Kate having decided, most inconveniently, to stay an extra couple of days at her parents’ house. As we were fastening our seat belts, he asked about the father of my baby. The directness of the question took me aback. I was going to tell him to mind his own bloody business, but I was still working hard on my friendly-and-amenable act.

  “I’m not in a relationship with the father,” I explained. “I’ve told him I don’t need his assistance.”

  “Is he okay with that?”

  “Not yet, but he will be. He still mistakenly believes he wants some sort of involvement.”

  “Why did you refuse, then? Did he treat you badly?”

  “No, quite the opposite. If you must know, I’ve got three reasons for refusing—one, I don’t want to be indebted to him morally or financially, two, I want to be free to make my own decisions about the child, and three, he doesn’t really want the responsibility, anyway.”

  “Surely it’s for him to know what he does and doesn’t want. You can’t just make his mind up for him. If he helps out financially or in other ways, that doesn’t mean you owe him anything. You created the baby together, so you’re both equally responsible. And the making-all-the decisions-yourself thing, well that’s just not fair. I think you might have control issues.”

  I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep up the act. I could feel my mask slipping.

  “What’s your agenda, Rob? Are you a spokesperson for Fathers 4 Justice, or something? Because, otherwise, I’m not sure why any of this concerns you.”

  “I don’t know anything about them. I’m not making a political point here. It’s just... I’ve got personal experience which gives me a perspective on things that maybe you don’t have.”

  “What kind of personal experience could you possibly have that’s relevant to my situation?”

  There was a long silence. I hoped my rhetorical question had closed the subject.

  “When I was at college, I was a bit of a dick, if I’m honest,” he began. I held myself back from saying that it came as no surprise. “I had quite a few girlfriends, and they didn’t always last that long. There was one girl I was serious about, though—Alison—and she was serious about me, too. Only problem was, she kept nagging me to sort myself out. I was into all the usual student stuff, but just a bit too much into it, if you know what I mean.”

  “Not really.”

  “Nothing serious, just drinking too much, smoking too much, getting stoned most days—a bit heavier on the weekends. Then just before finals she found out she was pregnant. She was supposed to be on the pill. We talked endlessly, going round the houses. In the end, I said she should have an abortion, that we were too young to be parents. She agreed, but on the day she was booked into the clinic she had a stinking cold. They said she needed to go away, wait until she was better, then make another appointment. She never rearranged it. I kept nagging her, and she said she was going to do it, but time went on. After a few weeks, she said it was too late, she was going to keep the baby. I was shit scared. I didn’t want the responsibility. I wanted to carry on going out with my mates, getting off my head on the weekends, spending my money on having a good time.”

  We’d been stationary at a busy crossroads for quite a while. The traffic lights had turned green and the driver behind was honking his horn. Rob crunched the van into gear.

  “I don’t really know why I’m going into all this. But there is a point at the end of it.” He was quiet for a moment as he overtook a cyclist, then carried on with his story. “Eventually she told me to get my act together or piss off. I grabbed the lifeline. I said, at the end of the day, it wasn’t my problem to deal with. It was Alison who messed up the contraception and her who’d decided to keep the baby, so she couldn’t expect me just to do whatever she wanted. I told you I was a dick.” More honking from the car behind as Rob’s driving became progressively slower. He put his foot down on the accelerator and waved two fingers in the air; a wasted gesture, seeing as we were in a van.

  “Alison left Birmingham and went back to live with her parents in Edinburgh. I didn’t think much about the baby at first—I was too busy enjoying myself—but as time went on I started wondering. I didn’t even know whether I’d got a son or daughter. Around the time of what would’ve been its fifth birthday, I decided to contact Alison. I was hoping it wasn’t too late to get to know my child. I managed to find her parents’ number, and gave them a call. They weren’t particularly pleased. I expect they’d heard all sorts of terrible stories from Alison, most of which w
ere probably true. They did say I’d got a son, that his name was James and that Alison was living happily with someone else.”

  Rob paused. I thought perhaps he’d finished, but after a sigh he continued.

  “Alison’s parents warned me not to try to contact her, she wouldn’t want anything to do with me. I couldn’t just leave it at that. I phoned and phoned, begging them to let me have her number. I explained that I just wanted to be a father to my son. They must’ve told her, because one night I got a call from her. She was very calm, very firm. She said I’d given up any right to see James when I walked away. He was a happy, confident little boy. He called her new partner ‘Daddy.’ She said I meant nothing to him, that my name wasn’t even on the birth certificate. I could’ve fought to get access to James. Who knows, I might even have won. But I knew I’d done the wrong thing by walking away in the first place. I didn’t want to do the wrong thing again by messing up their lives. I decided to leave them in peace. But every single day I think about my son, wondering what he’s up to, what he looks like, what he sounds like. He’s over twenty now. I’ve no idea whether he ever thinks about me. He mightn’t even know I exist. I missed my chance to watch my son growing up. It’s my own fault. I can’t blame anyone else. I’m just saying, Susan, don’t do this to your baby’s father. Not unless you’ve got good reason to, not unless he’s mistreated you or deserves it.”

  We were at the station car park by this point. Rob leaned his head on the steering wheel for a few seconds, then turned to me. I was going to say something firm to him, but he looked as if he might cry. Please don’t, I thought. I’m not at all equipped to deal with men crying. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  “Shit, I only wanted to give you the benefit of my experience,” he said, sniffing and laughing. “Let’s get your bags out of the back.”

  I accepted Rob’s offer to carry my luggage onto the train, seeing as I was returning to London with far more than I’d set out with. On the way, Rob, calmer now, continued with his theme.