Well, that took the biscuit, because I don’t suppose I’d even have met James if she hadn’t concealed Fergal’s letters!
And speaking of James, I’ve finally got round to arranging a meeting. It’s to be early evening at the Dog and Duck, because I want to be on neutral ground when I tell him. He sounded very mystified.
When I arrived at the Dog and Duck, James was sitting in the corner with a drink, and I got an orange juice and went over.
‘Hi,’ I said, sitting down with my coat still pulled around me to hide the bump.
A little silence fell then, while I tried to think how to begin the Great Revelation, but my mind was blank. Really, I didn’t want the bother of telling him at all.
‘Well, what “important thing” do you want to discuss?’ James asked at last rather condescendingly, and I suddenly realised that he was expecting me to beg him to come back to me!
‘I’m having a baby,’ I announced baldly.
His mouth fell open. ‘A baby? Whose baby?’
‘Really, James! It’s yours, of course, and will be born around the beginning of April.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me before? So this is why you’ve been behaving so strangely!’
‘I haven’t been behaving strangely, and this will alter nothing between us.’
‘Of course it will!’ A bemused smile spread across his face. ‘A baby! My son …’
‘Daughter, I hope. I think it’ll be easier to bring up a daughter alone.’
‘But there’s no need to be alone,’ he exclaimed, going all spaniel-eyed and trying to hold my hand across the table. ‘This alters everything, you must see that? You couldn’t cope on your own, and I promise I’d be a better husband.’
Well, he certainly couldn’t be a worse one.
‘I can cope alone, and you’ve already proved I can’t trust any promises you might make. I can’t be bothered with it all, James. I’m perfectly happy on my own, and I just don’t need you any more.’
‘Well, if it’s like that, I’ve been managing perfectly well on my own too! But you aren’t going to stop me seeing my son—’
‘Daughter!’
‘Whichever. I can get access, you know. I might even get custody.’
I went cold. ‘I’ll have an abortion, then. I’m not going through all this just to have the baby taken away from me and brought up by your blond-haired floozie!’
He blenched. ‘You – you wouldn’t! Surely it’s too late for an abortion?’
‘No, I’m only about four months gone, but I won’t have one if you leave me alone – and I’ll let you see the baby within reason. Just don’t try threatening me again!’
My protective feelings surprised even me, let alone James, and of course I wouldn’t have had an abortion, even if I’d known about the baby immediately.
James was too frightened of what I might do to press me further (which shows just how little he knows me), so I left him there to his dubious celebrations.
A second later he came haring out after me, but only to hand me my fingerless mitts. As he did so, a middle-aged woman on a bicycle squealed to a stop and gazed searchingly at us, her eyes lingering on my stomach.
‘All men should be castrated once they’ve fathered a child,’ she volunteered, matter-of-factly.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I responded, stunned, and she nodded and pushed off again.
One look at James’s face gave me the uncontrollable giggles.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, and dashed back into the pub, perhaps fearing that the Great Castrator might return with a knife to get on with the Good Work.
Seemed like a wonderful idea to me.
Mrs Deakin says the Great Castrator must have been Loony Louie. She’s perfectly sane on all subjects except this one, which has got such a grip on her mind that she had pamphlets printed about it and pushed one through every letterbox in the village, a year or two ago. I was sorry I’d missed it, but Mrs Deakin said she’d lend me hers.
She didn’t congratulate me on my pregnancy directly, but advised me that the best thing a pregnant woman can do is drink a bottle of Guinness a day, for the iron content.
Sounds more fun than those horrible pills.
Just as I was going to bed, James rang, drunk as a skunk, to inform me that the baby couldn’t be his since we hadn’t ‘had relations’ (where does he get these expressions from?) at the right time.
‘Have you forgotten the night of the barbecue in July? Not that it was very memorable, admittedly, but that was the fatal night.’
‘Oh …’ he muttered, then there was a pause and some angry whispering off, so I guessed that this very distasteful conversation had been instigated by his floozie.
‘How do I know it’s not that Rocco’s?’
‘I wish it was! I wish the father was anyone other than you!’ I yelled, and slammed the phone down.
My hands shook for ages afterwards. And I know I should tell Mother next, but I can’t bring myself to.
Mrs Peach came crunching up the frosty path this morning and presented me with a parcel wrapped in newspaper.
‘This’ll do you good. It’s a rabbit, fresh-killed, and I’ve cleaned it for you ready for the pot – women in your condition are always squeamish.’
Then she stumped off before I could gather my wits and thank her.
The newspaper was getting a bit limp, so I took it into the kitchen – but I really couldn’t eat a rabbit, especially one newly killed in my honour. Ugh! And I couldn’t give it to Bob this time, either, in case that got back and hurt her feelings.
Then I had a brain wave and cooked it for Bess, who was ecstatic, though I was nearly sick taking out all the fragile little bones, before I gave it to her.
While I was recovering from this, six author’s copies of my last (ever) novel with Thripps arrived in the post. On the cover my pretty, dark-haired young heroine had been transformed into a raddled, red-haired, worldly hussy with a definite squint – but still, I won’t have to worry about Thripps covers any more from now on.
I’m writing very well again, and new plots just spring into my mind. I jot them down quickly before I forget them. It’s surprising really, with all this trauma going on, but useful. I need to write as many as possible before the Incubus arrives, because I may be a little occupied afterwards.
Margaret called today, the first time since her misguided attempt at peace negotiations, ‘just for a chat’. But really, it’s no use if she believes everything James tells her, despite evidence to the contrary, like Mother – but I suppose James is terribly plausible. I wonder what happened to Margaret’s first husband.
She didn’t stay long, and I gave her a message for James about Bess’s pregnancy, because I forgot it last time I saw him. She looks distinctly heavy now round the middle, a strange thing in a Borzoi.
Mother phoned again, incoherent and tearful, complaining that I’d callously failed to inform her of my pregnancy. (Guilty as charged.) James had rectified my omission, of course, telling her he didn’t want his child to be the product of a broken home, and she demanded to know why I didn’t come to my senses and take him back.
‘Leave her alone, you drunken fool!’ Granny’s voice shouted clearly in the background. ‘Let her live her own life!’ Or something like that.
On my next antenatal visit to the doctor (who at least isn’t a total stranger), I took the opportunity to do some shopping at the supermarket and got a bit carried away.
As I struggled back to the bus stop, laden with four large bags, a horn sounded imperatively and a strangely familiar little white sports car drew alongside with Fergal at the wheel, looking decidedly grim.
‘Get in!’ he ordered tersely.
‘I’m not sure I can,’ I replied doubtfully, for the seats were awfully low down and something had obviously put him in one of his rages. ‘Anyway, the shopping wouldn’t fit, and there’s a bus due any minute, so thanks, but—’
He got out, silently relieved me
of my bags, wedging them somehow in the back, then opened the passenger door.
I gave in. It was a relief to sink down into the seat, even if I never managed to climb out again.
I sneaked a glance at Fergal as he pulled out into the traffic, and thought about those letters … which by some association of ideas caused me to exclaim, ‘This surely isn’t the same Frog-eyed Sprite you had all those years ago, is it?’
‘Yes, I never sold it.’ He flashed an angry look at me and snapped, ‘What the hell do you think you were doing, Tish?’
‘Me? Doing? What – when?’
‘Now! Just! Carrying great heavy bags of shopping in your condition.’
‘They aren’t that heavy! Anyway, I needed a few things and Mrs Deakin is a bit expensive,’ I explained defensively.
‘I don’t know what your husband is thinking of, letting you do it.’
‘He isn’t letting me do anything! I do what I like, and it’s no business of yours.’
‘You can stop pretending you’ve achieved married Nirvana, Tish. Mrs Deakin told me you’d split up and are divorcing.’
Oh God! If Mrs Deakin knows all the details, everyone within a ten-mile radius of Nutthill knows.
‘He can’t keep his hands off other women, this nice, solid, middle-class husband your mother picked out for you?’
‘It’s nothing to do with you!’
‘No, it isn’t. But he could at least do the heavy shopping for you, since you’re expecting his child.’
‘I don’t want his help! I’m learning to drive, anyway.’
‘Since when?’
‘Oh – ages,’ I said airily. ‘I’m expecting the test date through at any moment.’
‘Who’s teaching you?’
‘A nice lady recommended by Mrs Deakin.’
He was silent while I seethed indignantly, but at least the inquisition seemed to be over – almost.
‘Do you practise?’
I jumped. ‘What?’
‘Do you practise driving between lessons?’
‘N-no. James has the car and anyway, I don’t know anyone who’d go with me.’
‘I will,’ he offered, to my complete amazement.
‘But I couldn’t possibly drive this!’
‘There’s a little Mini Cooper in the garage we can use.’
‘It’s very kind of you, Fergal,’ I said, touched, ‘but—’
‘No, it’s not kind, it’s self-preservation. I don’t want another half-taught driver loose on the local roads.’
‘Thanks very much! But unless your temper’s improved drastically, you wouldn’t make the most patient of teachers. I haven’t forgotten last time.’
‘I’ve mellowed. Let me know when you want to go out. Do you know my telephone number?’
‘No.’ And what’s more, I’ve no intention of ever phoning him for this, or any other reason.
When we stopped outside my gate he scribbled it down on a bit of paper. ‘There. Right, let’s get this lot in.’
‘You don’t have to—’ I began, trying to lever my bulk out of the passenger seat and failing: gravity was against me.
He came round and pulled me upright with no apparent effort. You forget how strong that misleadingly slender body is – like coiled steel under your fingers. Warm coiled steel …
‘Go and open the door.’
He dumped everything on the kitchen table, refused a polite offer of coffee, and stalked out again, saying he had things to do.
I wondered if they involved Nerissa.
None of my business if they did.
Mrs Peach’s face rose like a full moon over the dividing hedge, luminous with interest.
I’m turning into a satsuma! I even prefer them to sherbet dips now.
That was all I meant to buy from Mrs D., but I ended up with a hyacinth bulb in a growing vase shaped like something a man might be offered in hospital to pee into.
She was looking very pleased with herself, and when she’d finished wrapping my involuntary purchases, she suddenly whipped a paper bag out from under the counter.
‘This is for you! You don’t look like a knitter.’
Inside was a tiny, beautifully hand-knitted woolly baby jacket with white satin ribbons.
‘Oh – how lovely!’ I exclaimed, tears coming into my eyes. ‘I don’t know what to say!’
‘That’s all right then. I like to knit of an evening, and a baby jacket makes a nice change from the church bazaar stuff. Don’t say no more about it.’
She was pleased because she could see I was touched; there was something about that minute jacket that really first brought it home to me that I was having a baby. Not some vague, nebulous Thing, an Incubus, unwanted and troublesome, but a whole, new little person. It would need all sorts of things – and I know nothing about babies.
Rushing home, I started ransacking the baby books, but they were all more concerned with grisly things like the actual birth and cracked nipples, than what clothes it needs, and where it sleeps.
I need something a bit more practical: an Owner’s Manual.
Galvanised by panic, I dashed into town next morning, as soon as I’d finished writing, to find one. I also bought a magazine for pregnant women, because it had a pattern in it for a big, baggy shirt.
I suspect I may still need these clothes afterwards, because I’ll have a big, baggy body to fit into them.
The list of things you need for a newborn baby will cost a fortune and I don’t know what half of them are for, but I have already made some economies. I’ve called the TV rental firm to remove the one I hired after James took ours, and I won’t renew the licence. I can listen to the radio instead. And I’ve cancelled the daily paper.
Instead of watching TV I can do more writing and research, finish my dungarees off, and start making voluminous nighties for hospital. (The mere word ‘hospital’ gives me the shivers!)
Perhaps I should accept one of their pressing invitations to antenatal classes, but deep inside, I really don’t want to know.
Bess is behaving very strangely, and keeps trying to get inside cupboards if I leave the door open. Is this the nesting instinct? The puppies are due any minute.
When I got her a lovely big cardboard box instead and padded it out with an old blanket, she immediately dragged the bedding off and jammed herself with it down the gap at the side of the Aga.
She needn’t think I’m going to let her have her puppies in such a narrow space. I wouldn’t be able to see whether she was all right or not.
She growled at me when I put the blanket back in the box. Her nerves must be playing her up.
I know the feeling.
Fergal: November 1999
‘WILD CHILD!
Nerissa Bright on why Fergal Rocco
is the only man for her …’
Exposé magazine
The girl’s in love with publicity, not me. I’ve come to the conclusion she’ll do or say anything to get in the public eye.
She’s managed to project this image of herself as my long-standing girlfriend, on the strength of a couple of one-night stands and a few photographs of us in the same place at the same time.
Cunning, in its way, and I suppose it diverts any interest from Nutthill and Tish. I’m sick of holding off, waiting for her stupid husband to realise what he’s got now she’s pregnant: the bastard doesn’t deserve her.
And I couldn’t let her struggle with that heavy shopping, could I?
Chapter 30: Pupped
Bess had her puppies last night!
I thought I heard a strange noise around midnight, and came down to find her back in the corner by the Aga, licking something small and wriggly.
I had to get a torch to see what she was doing, and then only had a quick look, because of not wanting to upset her.
There was only the one puppy, but she seemed to be straining a bit. It was all very messy, and Borzois are such a funny shape for giving birth that I called the vet.
He
wasn’t too pleased, but I insisted he come and help Bess, and finally he agreed, though it was over an hour until he actually arrived.
By then Bess had pretty well done everything herself, and I felt wrung out.
The vet had a quick look. ‘Just what I thought. No need to call me out, she’s had a perfectly normal delivery and all six are doing well. Funny-looking little blighters! You’ll get my bill, plus call-out charge. Don’t forget – nourishing diet.’
He paused on the threshold and added cheekily, ‘Both of you had better have a nourishing diet!’
Perhaps I’ll change to a different vet.
But – six puppies! What am I going to do with them?
One thing’s certain – they’re not leaving the kitchen until they’re all house-trained.
Wearily, I erected a sort of little cardboard wall around the Aga out of the rejected box to keep out any draughts, put a drink within Bess’s reach, and finally dragged myself off to bed for what remained of the night.
Bess looked as mentally confused as I felt when I stumbled back downstairs, bleary-eyed, later that morning. Her half-naked, blind brood squirmed around her.
When the doorbell rang I could hardly summon the energy to answer it; someone had filled my bones with lead in the night. My hair was a tangled Medusa snarl, I hadn’t so much as washed my face and was still in my old dressing gown, so of course it had to be Fergal, in a crisp blue linen shirt, looking twice as alive as most people and about twelve times as alive as me.
My recoil and attempt to shut the door were instinctive, but he got past me somehow and raised one eyebrow. ‘I came to take you out driving, but I can see you’re in no fit state. What’s up?’
‘N-nothing! Bess had six puppies last night, and I was up for most of it. I’m just tired – very, very tired.’
I swayed slightly and he removed my grasp from the door knob and shepherded me in. ‘You need to go back to bed.’
‘I can’t – Bess needs seeing to, and Bob will be here soon, and I was going to write a list of shopping for him to get me from Mrs Deakin’s – I’m nearly out of milk – and – and—’
‘Go to bed,’ he ordered firmly. ‘Have you had any breakfast?’
Good Husband Material Page 27
