I received an answer to the letter I wrote to James before I found his hoard, suggesting that ‘now I’ve had a chance to cool off’ I’d be amenable to settling our trifling differences and resuming our marriage, so I sent him a postcard asking what he wanted me to do with all the love letters from his mistress. That should circulate round the village in record time.
Later I saw Bess in the distance with Margaret, but I turned and walked away through the whirling bronze leaves. Early autumn was always my favourite time of year …
The kitchen cupboards are still full of tins of dog food. I wonder if I could get a refund …
It’s no use, I simply can’t hide my head in the sand any longer. My abdomen is becoming spherical and I have a strange sensation round my bust … which is growing.
Fergal might be right.
I certainly don’t need this worry on top of all the others, so I’ve got a pregnancy testing kit – rather a pretty thing to put to so sordid a use. There were simpler kits, but who’d trust some sort of dipstick?
I’ve added an early-morning sample and must leave it for two hours: please let it be negative!
It wasn’t: it was blatantly positive.
I am shaking like a leaf at the thought of something – and something I don’t want – growing inside me, with nothing I can do about it.
There is abortion, but since it was my carelessness that caused the baby in the first place, I can’t very well murder the poor little thing, can I?
It must have been the barbecue – it’s the only possible time – which means I’m getting on for three months pregnant, I think, so it now has all its little fingers and toes and a heart beating in time with mine …
No, I can’t murder it.
But I just know when James finds out he’ll put my decision to throw him out down to softening of the brain caused by the pregnancy. I must press on with the divorce before he finds out – and I suppose I must see my doctor.
The doctor confirmed that I was pregnant, and seemed surprised when I told her the exact date of the conception. (Perhaps I should name the infant ‘Kebab’ or ‘Punch’?)
When I broke down and wept that I didn’t want it – I’d left my husband (sort of) and would make an awful mother, she went all Catholic and started waffling on about the Sanctity of Human Life.
The hospital antenatal clinic will send for me for a thorough going-over, and I get the impression my partially suppressed periods were not good news, though at least they have now ceased altogether.
I was in such a state I took a taxi home, where I was met on the doorstep by a thin, shivering, muddy Bess. Her frantic, affectionate and messy greetings were just what I needed to thaw my numb state of shock. I showered her, then poured half my bottle of conditioner over her, since I could see she’d be hell to brush. I still had to cut one or two really bad snarls out, but she looked a lot better afterwards, and wolfed down an enormous dinner. (Just as well I hadn’t returned the dog food!)
Considering how thin she is, her tummy really is a funny shape. I only hope we aren’t sharing a Similar Condition. It would be too ironic for words.
Since I’d forgotten to lock the door in the surprise of finding her, James just walked straight in later and demanded, ‘Have you taken Bess?’
Funnily enough, now I had the pregnancy to worry about, I’d ceased to be nervous about James: it was like looking at an alien but harmless being from another planet.
‘I haven’t taken her. When I got home she was waiting on the doorstep in a terrible state! What on earth have you been doing to her?’
‘Nothing! The silly bitch seems to have gone dotty, or something. Perhaps it’s catching?’ he added nastily, but the remark just slid off me. ‘She wouldn’t eat, she wanders round the flat howling when I’m at work, and Margaret can’t do a thing with her. You must have spoiled her.’
‘I spoiled her? I thought she was your dog?’
‘So did I,’ he sighed, and deflated a bit, like my soufflé the only time I tried making one. ‘But I suppose I was wrong about that and about a lot of other things too. Look, Tish, couldn’t we talk over a cup of coffee?’
I hesitated, but he seemed suddenly so unimportant and diminished that I led him into the kitchen.
Bess promptly tried to hide behind the Aga. He gave her a look of disgust. ‘That creature might as well stay with you, since it’s clear she doesn’t want anything to do with me any more. I don’t seem to be having much luck with females lately.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I mused, getting out a second-best mug for his coffee, ‘you still have little Wendikins and Margaret to sympathise with you, and Mother to complain to.’
‘But – look here, Tish, you ought to let me explain about Wendy! The girl was nothing. She’s Alice’s sister, you know, and she made all the running. And I’m not seeing her any more.’
‘Aren’t you? Never mind, perhaps you’ll find someone else.’
‘What on earth do you mean? I don’t want anyone else! She didn’t mean anything to me – but you’re my wife, and I want you to stop all this nonsense at once. You must admit, I’ve been very patient.’
‘I expect you have, looked at from your viewpoint. I’m sure Bluebeard thought he was being perfectly reasonable, too. But you must stop thinking that I threw you out because I found out about the girl. I’d already made up my mind long before that. Wendy’s only made me even more determined on a divorce, not just a separation. We’ve both changed, and there’s no point in trying again.’
He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like a rather dim fish and I added, ‘Anyway, our marriage didn’t even have going for it what I thought it had in the first place – on your side it was a sham. I’d rather be alone now.’
He looked at me with a sort of dawning horror. Had he really thought I’d dismiss Wendy as some sort of minor peccadillo, sob contritely on his shoulder, and beg him to return to me?
Certainly, patent uninterest was not what he was expecting.
‘Tish, what’s come over you lately? You never used to be so cold and hard – and I still love you!’
‘Do you?’ (‘It’s love, Jim – but not as we know it!’ said Spock’s voice in my head.)
In silence we sipped coffee-substitute and Bess cautiously emerged, looking pointedly at the biscuit tin. I gave her a ginger nut, and it vanished in a bite and a gulp. A bit like it does with Bob.
James heaved a long sigh. ‘Uncle Lionel warned me that you’d have small provincial ideas on fidelity if you ever found out about my bit of fun. But just remember that it’s not what I wanted, so don’t come running back crying in a few months and expect me to take you on again.’
‘No, I certainly won’t!’ I assured him, thinking that in a few months I will be quite incapable of running anywhere! ‘And I’m glad you’ve taken it so well, James.’
He gave a snort. ‘How on earth do you think you’re going to manage? What about the mortgage, the practical arrangements? I don’t think you realise just how much is involved. And what am I supposed to do about somewhere to live? I can’t stay in the flat for ever.’
‘I do realise what’s involved, and I can manage very well as long as I don’t have to give you any lump sums immediately. We can get the furniture, and car and your radio equipment and everything valued, and make an equal division. That is – I suppose you are going to let me have the house?’
‘I suppose so,’ he replied sulkily. I don’t expect he thought I’d have worked it all out, and was hoping I wouldn’t be able to manage financially without him.
He cast a disparaging glance around the kitchen. ‘Since I’ve been living in the flat I’ve rediscovered how much more comfortable modern houses are. If we’d got back together I was going to suggest we move to a big modern, detached house in a couple of years, maybe on that new estate at Lower Nutthill.’
Move to a horrible modern box, just when I’d got my little cottage how I wanted it? Is he mad?
He continu
ed on, oblivious. ‘I suppose we can work it out to be fair to both of us – but I hope you’re right about being able to manage.’
I could see he didn’t really expect me to be able to, and was perhaps even counting on my running back to him soon and begging him to return.
‘As long as I keep writing I won’t starve to death, James,’ I assured him cheerfully. ‘This American contract is going to be very lucrative. Do you want any of the furniture and things? What about the wedding presents?’
He said he didn’t want to burden himself with a lot of junk (our wedding presents were not junk – I wrote the list myself!) but he would like the CD player, TV, video, etc. I said that was fine (I can always rent a little TV), so long as they all came out of his share at the Reckoning – along with the car, which of course he’s still got.
I insisted we go to see a solicitor I’ve heard of to get everything in writing and set the divorce in motion and he reluctantly agreed, then said, very seriously, ‘There’s just one more thing!’
I wondered what on earth could be coming. I knew that mood of sweet reason wouldn’t last!
‘The Shack – I can’t move all that stuff until I’ve bought another house. Can I come here in the evenings and use it? I won’t bother you. I’ll use the side gate.’
I didn’t really want him trailing in and out, but equally I didn’t want to spoil the entente cordiale (such as it was) either, so I said reluctantly, ‘I suppose so – though I want the whole lot moved as soon as possible, especially the aerial.’
He got up to go, relieved of his most pressing worry. He’d been more grieved at the idea of being parted from his radio than from me. Bess looked relieved, too. I’m glad the stupid bitch is staying. I’ll get her made mine in writing, while James is still in Reasonable Mode.
I escorted him off the premises, wondering why on earth he didn’t just move in with Howard and Alice and dear little Wendy. They could be one big happy family.
As I closed the gate, Nerissa skimmed to a halt in one of those flat thin sports cars, like a red credit card on wheels.
‘Hi, Tish!’ she called gaily, but her huge brown eyes were on James, who was transfixed, though that might have been by the car.
‘Is this your husband? You didn’t tell me he was sooo handsome!’
‘Didn’t I?’ I said. ‘Yes, this is James – James, Nerissa.’
‘Actually, I wondered if I might persuade you down to the pub for a drink, Tish,’ she cooed. ‘Only Fergal’s just so busy at the moment, and I did enjoy our little chat. But maybe you and James were just going out?’
‘James is going out – I’m staying in,’ I said concisely. Becoming bosom friends with Fergal’s fiancée was too masochistic a prospect for me. ‘Some other time, perhaps.’
‘Actually, I was thinking of having a quick one at the Dog and Duck myself, if you’d settle for my company?’ James offered eagerly.
‘Love to,’ she said promptly, then added with a glance at me, ‘If Tish doesn’t mind my hijacking her gorgeous husband!’
Only the best butter, I thought. But it was certainly working on James, who was halfway into the car already.
‘That’s all right – I’ve finished with him,’ I told her. ‘You can have him.’
As they drove off I read the expression on James’s face clearly: he thought I’d be raging with jealousy, and he was also doing Fergal one in the eye by going off with his girl.
I’m not sure what Nerissa was thinking. Or if she was thinking.
I haven’t seen James to speak to since the night he went off with Nerissa, but he pops round to the Shack most evenings. I could watch him unobserved from the bedroom, but it would be pointless because he’s totally uninteresting.
Bess is now afraid of being left alone in the house in case James or the Wrekins come to drag her off again, but conversely, Toby seems much more laid-back and less snappy without James about the place.
Of course, I had Mother sobbing and incoherent on the phone, saying she’d done her best for me, and it wasn’t her fault if I’d turned out a mess and ruined my life. Anyone would think I was a heroin addict turned prostitute the way she went on.
If she hadn’t interfered I would probably have had a happier – if shorter – relationship with Fergal than I found in my marriage.
I love Mother, but I like her less and less as I get older …
However, I at last feel calm enough to go and ask her face to face why she lied about Fergal’s letters and calls, without physically assaulting her (I think), and I could combine the visit with a quick look at maternity clothes.
In loose things you wouldn’t know I was pregnant yet, but I don’t have many loose things. The maternity clothes in magazines are all very strange, though I suppose you can’t do much with something shaped like a blancmange except put a frill round it.
What am I going to do about the Incubus?
Come to think of it, there is nothing I can do.
I’ve noticed some funny sensations lately, which might be the Incubus stirring …
This can’t be happening to me!
The hospital has pressingly invited me to go for an antenatal check-up and a scan on 26 October. I’m to drink gallons of water and not go to the loo beforehand, but also to take an early morning sample, mid-flow, for the clinic.
Aren’t these two directions somewhat conflicting? Ought I to read up on what horrors are in store? I’m dreading it.
James and I had a fairly painless meeting last week in front of a strange solicitor who seemed to find it all very amusing. A separation is being drawn up, as complicated as the division of Siamese twins, and we’re going in for the quickest quickie divorce possible. (James balked a bit at this point, but mention of Little Snookums Wendy’s letters seemed to work wonders.)
Just as we were about to part, James remarked out of the blue that I was looking rather fat.
I told him I’d put on weight, but thought it suited me (ho, ho!), and he said I shouldn’t let myself go just because I was living alone now.
Pig!
Fergal: October 1999
‘Nympho Nordic blondes in sexy sauna scandal reveal all!’
Sun
Thought they already had.
The papers must be having a Bad News Day.
Wonder why these articles never seem to bear any resemblance to events as I and the rest of the band remember them. Their fiction is always stranger than the truth.
Maybe we’re inhabiting a parallel universe but not, despite what the newspapers may say, a permanently horizontal one.
Carlo’s fiancée is giving him hell.
Chapter 28: Bonfire of the Vanities
Felt really sick this morning, but it was just nerves about going to the hospital. I wish I hadn’t read the books and was still in a state of (semi) blissful ignorance.
First I had the scan, in a sort of grimy little Portakabin round the back of the hospital.
I was bursting, because after the mid-stream sample I thought I’d better top up a bit, as it were.
I had to strip off to my undies behind an inadequate curtain and put on a funny cotton gown. I wasn’t sure if it tied at the front or the back, but mine had lost its tapes so it didn’t much matter.
Then I lay on a table and had hot oil rubbed into my stomach, like a sacrificial Bride of Frankenstein, before the girl ran a probe thing over my bump. A picture formed on a TV screen, but she said nothing while she pushed it to and fro, until I eventually demanded to know whether she’d found it, or wasn’t I pregnant after all?
She laughed, the heartless hag. ‘Of course I’ve found it! Look.’ And she pointed to what looked like some alien creature crawling along a sea bottom – and I have a blurry grey photo to prove it.
When I was dressed again (oily enough to stir-fry, but dressed), and had – oh joy! – been to the loo, it was time for the antenatal clinic which is, of course, miles away.
There was another long wait before I was ushered off with s
ix others into a cubicle room where I had to strip off yet again and put on another little dressing gown.
We emerged into an inner holding pen clutching plastic bags with our clothes in, like prison camp inmates and, since the dressing gowns were all very short midget length, the only sound in the room was that of thighs unpeeling from plastic chairs.
Finally it was my turn, and I suppose the doctor spoke English, because the nurse seemed to understand what he was saying. He smiled a lot and I felt like telling him it was nothing to smile about.
After the unspeakable examination I stood in humiliated silence on the scales, had my blood pressure taken, and answered questions, some downright insulting. Do I look as if I change my bed partners every night and twice on Saturday? I don’t even change my library books that often!
I was assured that everything seemed normal, and asked whether my dates were right, but unless this was the Second Coming, they had to be.
I was not to worry about that early light bleeding.
I was not to worry.
(Well, that’s all right then, I thought – I’ll just stop.)
On the way out, the nurse handed me about fifty leaflets on things like smoking during pregnancy, diet and sterilisation (bottles, not people – too late). Two were in Urdu.
How wonderful to emerge free into the weak October sunshine! I don’t ever want to go there again. Still, most of my appointments are with my doctor.
I suppose I could just turn up at the maternity ward when I was in labour without all this? They could hardly refuse me! I don’t feel any inclination to tell anyone about the baby yet, either.
When I got home I had a long soak in the bath.
The iron pills they gave me have led to ingrowing constipation. I must get some more figs. I’m supposed to eat a balanced diet, and Bess had better have one too – since she was either expecting, or swelling in sympathy, I had the vet look at her and it’s the former. How could she do this to me?
Good Husband Material Page 25
