In Bloom

by C. J. Skuse

  ‘Why does it threaten you that your wife might have a mind of her own?’

  ‘I won’t be spoken to like this in my own home.’

  ‘Let’s go outside then, Adolf, I’ll do it in the street.’

  Marnie stepped back towards the bassinet and gripped the edge, as though Raph was her shield. Mr Aryan Nation stepped towards me. ‘Better watch your mouth, Rhiannon. I don’t take kindly to people calling me names.’

  ‘What, Adolf? I’ve called you worse. Haven’t I, Marn?’

  He whipped his head round to look at her.

  Marnie shook her head. ‘Rhiannon, please go now.’

  He towered over me by a clear foot. ‘What else have you called me?’

  For God’s sake, you’re going to get me killed here.

  ‘Goebbels. Heil Husband. Timmler. And plain old The Cunt.’

  His nostrils inflated. I prepared myself for flames but I did not stand back. I would not. I thought of Julia – the way she was at school. I thought of Grandad. I thought of Antony Blackstone at Priory Gardens. Same eyes – blue. Same smile – thin. Same breath – rank. Same meaty fists ready to pound.

  ‘Do your worst,’ I said. ‘Don’t mind the pregnancy thing. Go for it. Hit me. Choke me. I want you to.’

  ‘Tim, no!’ cried Marnie somewhere in the blurry distance.

  But he did. He choked me right there in the kitchen, underneath the family wall calendar. ‘Show me… who you really are,’ I spluttered. He tightened his grip. ‘Give it… to me, baby.’

  He put his face right next to mine so I could feel the heat from his skin, taste the salt. ‘Get. Out. Of. My. Fucking. House. You. Skanky. Bitch.’

  Then he let go, and I bent over and coughed my airways clear. I rose up, face all hot, and smiled at him. ‘Not. Without. My. Fucking. Pizza. Bitch.’

  It was the smile that did it. He flung open the oven door, ripping the pizza out with no gloves on and threw it in my face. Then he grabbed the bagged salad and tore it open, sprinkling it over my head. Dough ball after dough ball came flying at me as hard as bullets. Well, of course not as hard as bullets but they were frozen so they were still pretty hard.

  ‘There. You. Go. Have. Your. Pizza. And. Don’t. You. Ever. Come Near. Me. Or. My. Wife. Or. My. Son. Again.’

  Each of those full stops represents a dough ball, by the way. That’ll teach me to buy the bigger pack.

  He pushed me out on to the Welcome mat and slammed the door behind me.

  I waited on the doorstep, still plucking pieces of Lollo Rosso out of my hair. I could hear both of them shouting – Marnie giving as good as she got. F’ing this. F’ing you. F’ing Rhiannon. Bitch. Whore. Slamming. This guttural Mel Gibson-esque shouting from him. This high-pitched twittering from her. The baby was crying.

  I got to the bottom of the road when I looked back at the house. Marnie was upstairs. Bedroom window, pulling the curtains. She saw me. I waited. The curtains closed and she was gone.

  When I got back, there was an episode of Kitchen Nightmares on that seemed to sum up my sitch. The son was driving the business into the ground while the parents had health issues and were on the verge of bankruptcy. Gordon tried everything. Got the guy counselling for his alcoholism, gave their restaurant a makeover, devised a whole new menu, even bought them new cash registers. But things didn’t change. The son got worse. The dad had a heart attack. Customers complained about slow service. And in the end, Gordon just walked away.

  Sometimes you have to I guess.

  Saturday, 8th December – 30 weeks, 6 days

  God is playing the comedian. He has sent me boats – lots of boats – about a hundred in all – in the form of the Monks Bay Christmas Flotilla, an annual event that takes place when the sun goes down one Saturday each December. Every boat in the harbour is adorned with fairy lights, and sails around honking horns and blasting out Noddy Holder.

  The Flotilla was clearly the highlight of the year for Monks Bay’s residents. Everyone came out to enjoy it. A real family event.

  Probably why I felt so utterly out of place.

  Along the harbour side was a Christmas market. Fish and chip shacks transformed into chestnut and eggnog stalls as chefs turned sausages on sizzling grills and flipped crepes and span sugar in copper barrels. There was a pop up ice rink, glow-in-the-dark mini golf and a giant inflatable snow globe filled with paper snow that people were having their pictures taken in. Mum, Dad, sisters, the dog. The WOMBAT choir sang carols and rattled charity buckets. I donated generously to the animal and homeless ones but try as I might I just can’t find a shit to give about the closure of the town pool.

  The foetus is now the size of a coconut and oddly enough, the thirty-one-week mark seems to be the point at which I can no longer stand up for more than twenty minutes. Everything starts to buckle. I’m as heavy as a baby elephant and I have backache like I’ve been lugging boxes for a week.

  When I thought my feet were going to burst into flames, I sat down on a mooring post on the jetty and rubbed my aching bump.

  ‘You all right, Love?’ asked Elaine. ‘Have you got any pains?’

  ‘Just one. Right in my backside.’

  We each sat on a different mooring post and watched the ships bob and glide in the fishy water. Tink jumped up on my lap but jumped down again when there was no room for her and the bump. She jumped on Jim instead.

  ‘Here’s to a good Christmas and a better new year for all of us,’ he announced, toasting us both with his eggnog.

  ‘I don’t want to think about next year,’ Elaine sighed, sipping her eggnog, before tipping it into the harbour. ‘Urgh, that’s curdled. Don’t drink it, Rhiannon.’ She took my cup off me and threw mine away too.

  ‘Let’s not think about next year then,’ I said. ‘Let’s focus on Now, not Next.’

  ‘Well said,’ smiled Jim, raising his cup. ‘To living in the moment.’ Elaine patted my bump and sort of steeled herself to say something else, but then just exhaled.

  ‘Right, well I want to do a bit of shopping,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I need to be on my own, Elaine,’ I said. ‘You know, surprises.’

  She beamed. ‘Oh, I see. All right then, love, we’ll see you at home.’

  Let’s focus on Now, not Next – my own words swirled round as I walked through the town. ‘Now’ I tried stepping into Christmas. ‘Now’ I tried eating candy floss. ‘Now’ I walked along the harbour edge and watched boats bobbing, people on board clinking glasses and watching fireworks go up on the jetty. ‘Now’ I stood and listened to WOMBAT tunelessly murdering ‘I Saw Three Ships’ and ‘Mary’s Boy Child’.

  I tried so hard to feel contentment; to feel that this was normal and it was enough. That the deafening forced jollity of jingle bells and Shakin’ Stevens booming out of every damn shop was what I wanted to hear. That the sight of my friend Marnie walking along with Tim, hand in hand like something in chains, didn’t make me want to scream.

  But there was only heartburn and aching feet. And the woman in the mustard jumper who didn’t hold open the door for me in Boots. The man in the brown jacket who pushed past. The man in the fudge shop who didn’t offer me a bag. And the paedophile Sandra Huggins eating a toffee apple and watching the flotilla – eyes dazzled by the lights. Jigging along to Elton John. New handbag. Smiling with her friend – and the friend’s child.

  The friend’s child. The friend’s child. She was allowed around children. After what she did. Did the friend know what she was? Did she know what that woman had done in a previous life?

  No, not a previous life. This fucking life.

  You gotta accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, latch on to the affirmative, don’t mess with Mrs Inbetween.

  Why was the choir singing that? That’s not a Christmas song.

  I nipped into the next door travel agent, ten minutes from closing, and got a good armful of brochures for Jim and Elaine’s Christmas present. All-inclusive E
urope. Australia on a shoestring. Cruises. I’ll go through them all later and pick something out. California perhaps. I want Jim to see the Superbloom. I can just see his face.

  *

  Keston finally answered his phone – I must have tried him seventeen times since I saw him at the Well House. He didn’t seem eager to chat.

  ‘Rhiannon, you’ve got to trust me on this. Let me get on with it.’

  ‘I need to know what’s happening. What’s going on with Géricault? Where are my new documents? Did the pictures come out ok? I know the wig’s a bit ropey but it was the best one I could find.’

  ‘Yeah yeah it’s all being processed, I told you it takes time.’

  ‘I saw Sandra Huggins at the flotilla. She was with a child.’

  ‘On her own?’

  ‘No, with her friend. It was the friend’s child I think. Even so.’

  ‘Don’t go near her. I mean it.’

  ‘She looked happy. What right does she have, hmmm?’

  ‘Leave it, Rhiannon, please. Only call me in an emergency, all right? I’ll be in touch when I know more. Sit tight.’

  I couldn’t ignore the nagging doubt I had about Keston. Yeah he knew Dad and they were mates and they’d done bad things, but he was still a detective. And I was a mass murderer. If I was him, I’d want to nab me. I’d want that adoration. Perhaps he was playing softly softly, catchy mummy.

  He still had friends in the force. He took that oath thing they all take to protect and to serve and all that – or is that just Police Academy?

  I don’t know. And bloody baby brain means I can’t think straight. Help me out here why don’t you? Throw me a bone.

  How can I help? What do you want me to do? I’m just a coconut.

  ‘Should I trust Keston Hoyle?’

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  ‘Helpful. Thanks.’

  All I can think about is that fudge in your handbag. You cracking it out again any time soon?

  Thursday, 13th December – 31 weeks, 4 days

  1.Lorry drivers who drive in the middle lane and go as slow as the guy in the inside lane so you can’t overtake.

  2.People who respond to a Like or a Favourite with a conversation.

  3.People who run ultra-marathons – when did running more than one marathon in a lifetime become a thing?

  I feel like Keston and DI Géricault are laughing at me today, somewhere in this town. I can hear laughter wherever I go. It follows me around. It’s in the shower drain when I got down to pluck the stray hair out. It’s in the crash of the waves on the shore. It’s in the swaying of the bare branches in Jim’s garden. Keston’s told me not to phone him, he says everything’s in hand but no news is bad news. No news means ‘something’s up’. No news means the cancer’s come back and it’s gone to his brain.

  ‘Dad, send me a sign! Where are you?’

  I’d asked Keston what was happening with Géricault but he skirted around the answer. He told me to stay clean away from Huggins – Don’t go near her. I mean it. Why? Why would he care about Huggins? He hates paedophiles as much as I do. He’d spent half his career targeting them and getting together with his mates to bump them off and then conveniently sweeping the police investigations under the carpet.

  Maybe he’s trying to protect you from yourself?

  Maybe Dad did send him for me and he is just looking out for me, like he said. But I can’t live on maybes. I still can’t fully trust him. I can’t take the risk. The only person I know I can trust is myself.

  Oh well that’s reassuring.

  Had another scan this afternoon – my bump had been measuring small for the last few midwife appointments and she just wanted to check everything was okay. All is well and the placenta appears to be in the right position now, where it wasn’t before. She checked my blood pressure and piss again – all fine – and the baby’s heartbeats are as strong as a horse’s hooves clopping along. For some reason, her kicks are becoming much more prominent now, like tiny electric shocks at any moment. It’s like transporting Karate Kid around with me. She looked huge on the scan too – a proper person now.

  ‘That’s scary,’ I said.

  ‘No, it’s your baby,’ said Bitch Midwife. ‘She’s a fifth engaged now.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means she’s almost in the right position.’

  ‘Right position for what?’

  ‘To come out.’

  ‘COME OUT?’ I cried. ‘She can’t come out yet. I’m not due until February. It’s too early. She’ll die.’

  ‘No it’s perfectly normal for the head to engage this early on, we see it all the time, don’t worry. How are your antenatal classes going, by the way?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Terrific,’ I said. ‘Learning so much.’

  ‘Now’s the time to put your feet up as much as you can. Try not to exhaust yourself. She needs to bake for a little bit longer if possible.’

  ‘What; if I do something strenuous will she fall out?’

  ‘I don’t know about falling out but you might bring on labour,’ the bitch laughed. ‘You’ll get some warning though, at least!’

  ‘How much warning?’

  ‘Try not to stress about it. Have you picked your birth partner?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. My friend Marnie I expect. She’s got a baby of her own. I was going to ask her, seeing as she knows what to do.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Of course I couldn’t ask Marnie. She was gone from my life as quickly as she’d arrived. I had no one. I left the hospital through a side door and there were these big windows I walked past and there it was – the full on lean-back preggo waddle, like you’ve shit yourself, in all its ugly glory. Hideous. Wretched.

  My ribs ache today. My back still aches but not as much as my ribs. And my bra hurts. Bitch Midwife says I ‘need better bras with no under wiring’ so I’ve bought a load of maternity ones in Marks. She also recommended I ‘try eating more blueberries’.

  Bought some baby bath stuff in Boots, too. Lavender-scented, because it was on offer, and some cream for my itchy bump – apparently that’s a thing too, Itchy Bump Syndrome. And I saw this cute pink flopsy rabbit with a rattle in one foot and shiny pink stitching reading ‘Happy Bunny’ on the other. I held it to my nose – it was soft and smelled of lavender. I chucked that in the basket as well. At least she’ll have one cuddly toy that wasn’t Elaine-selected and approved. An old woman recognised me from some news item a month ago.

  ‘Starting to nest I see?’ She grinned, nosing her colossal beak into my basket.

  ‘Oh no, this was on offer, that’s all.’

  She peered into my basket where the Marks bag of bras was. ‘Oh I think you are. So exciting getting everything ready, isn’t it? I remember it well. Will your husband be out of prison for the birth?’

  For three seconds I allowed myself to live inside her mind – inside her mind where I was pregnant with Craig’s baby and we were married, like we planned. Like he was going to be free any minute to come home and move to Honey Cottage with me, like we’d planned.

  ‘He’s not my husband,’ I said eventually. She looked down again at my bump. For one moment I felt the blood rush to my hands when I thought she might rub it. If she had, I may have torn the papery skin from her flesh and worn it as a scarf but, luckily, she kept her arthritic digits to herself.

  ‘Oh, well best of luck to you.’ She smiled toothily. ‘Being a mother is the most important job a woman can do.’ I didn’t reply but she had already shuffled off in the direction of the Tena Ladys anyway.

  A business card fell out of my purse when I was paying. I had to stand like a giraffe to pick it up. It was the one Heather had given me – Wherryman & Armfield Solicitors. And a golden gondola etched on one side.

  I called her the moment I got back. She answered on the first ring.

  ‘Heather – it’s Rhiannon Lewis. Are you busy? I need you.’

  ‘Name it,’ she said.

  Tuesday, 1
8th December – 32 weeks, 2 days

  1.People who park craply.

  2.People who hunt animals for sport.

  3.People who call you ‘Mummy’ when you’re pregnant (i.e. Jim).

  4.Those Nicole Scherzinger yoghurt ads.

  5.People who make yoghurt.

  Seren called today. It wasn’t a long conversation.

  ‘So, Cody was Googling Craig’s building firm today. To find out a bit more about him,’ she said, her voice ever so slightly on the wobble.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘He found out… that Craig’s in prison. For multiple murder.’ Her breath caught.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  Silence.

  Her breath caught again. ‘What the fuck have you done, Rhiannon?’

  Thursday, 20th December – 32 weeks, 4 days

  Today Jim and Elaine got the decorations down from the loft and then we trimmed up. They have certain traditions in the Wilkins household when it comes to trimming up/Christmas in general. One of them is that Elaine likes to put a cuddly toy in the corner of every step on the staircase and wrap the bannisters with holly and ivy intertwined, fresh from the garden. Another is that they like to eat the first mince pie of the season with a glass of sherry as they ‘toast’ the angel on top of the tree – the angel Craig made aged seven.

  They also like a certain Christmas film on when they’re trimming up – a terrible Seventies made-for-TV version of A Christmas Carol. The irony of the movie wasn’t lost on me. Perhaps being visited by the ghosts of all the people I’ve killed is all I need to see the light. Perhaps my dreams of AJ are trying to tell me the same. Maybe seeing my own grave is all I need to change for good.

  Or maybe life isn’t that straightforward.

  Tink came scurrying in with a decorative stair Santa in her mouth and refused to give it back to Elaine, who chased her around the house for it.

  ‘I’d let her have that one, E,’ laughed Jim, as Tink scampered out of the room. It was the first time I’d seen Elaine laugh in months.