by Lucy Hay
I wandered into the arcade, zombie-like. In a little cabinet were all the prizes you could exchange your tokens for: stickers, some cheap jewellery, embossed cigarette lighters amongst them. Mum and Dad never liked us coming in these places; they said they were seedy. Then Dad got a summer job in one a couple of years’ back and he had had to contend with our sniping all season about his supposed hypocrisy. We were too young to appreciate work was work and principles didn’t always come into it; all we saw was Dad going back on his word. I wondered if that was what parenthood was really about: putting up with your kids sometimes, as much as nurturing them? I’d never thought of it like that before, but then I supposed we hadn’t been the easiest of children to raise either. But then, was there any such thing?
Mum always said parenthood was the hardest job of all, but I had just assumed it was something people just did. Mum made it look easy: motherhood seemed to come naturally to her, as if she’d done it before. I wondered if I could be like her, or whether I would just screw everything up. The media seemed to think no one could parent successfully without how-to websites, articles, books and programmes galore, covering everything from increasing a foetus’ intelligence through to choosing a school when it was still in utero. I’d seen the feverish despair in various couple’s eyes on television, appealing to Supernanny and her many contemporaries as their families went wrong: “Help us! Our children are running riot and our marriages are falling apart!” It always seemed to be those couples that seemed quite privileged to me, too: they had nice houses, large gardens, money in the bank. If they couldn’t do it, how could I: a teenager, with no money and no home? Yet at the same time, I could see what a nonsense that worry was too. As I had already asserted in my own mind, my mother had started young too and raised us well with little money, in a rented house and with no man at her side for extended periods. I had never believed age, class or money or lack of it defined anyone’s ability on anything else; why would parenthood be any different? There was no reason I could not be a good mother, as long as I took it seriously and thought my actions through, like my own Mum had. I could not rely on kneejerk fears to make my decision; I must weigh up every solution in the situation carefully if I was to choose the right one.
On the surface, the answer was deceptively simple: I had the child – or I didn’t. Yet the more I considered both, the more complicated both scenarios became: another paradox. An abortion was a deceptively “quick fix”: things could go “back to normal” in a matter of days, weeks at the most. I could go to university and everything else I had planned would fall into place. The pregnancy could be consigned to memory, an unpleasant glitch in my otherwise smooth transition into adult life. For many girls, it would surely be that; it didn’t make them bad people, either. Yet part of me wondered whether it would be as simple as that for me. We were not just talking short term, but the long term as well. Would I be relieved? Or would I look back and wish I had done things differently? If I was to choose that path, I needed to be one hundred per cent sure.
If I were to have the baby, I needed to recognise I was almost certainly taking on the role of a single mother. Even if Mike wanted a role in the child’s life – something I would be keen to encourage - I didn’t believe I wanted him to have a role in mine any longer. We couldn’t use the pregnancy as an excuse to patch up our differences and struggle onwards, together: that seemed foolhardy given our history. I needed to listen to my gut instinct, not hope for the best like we had before. Look where that got us! Our relationship had been the triumph of hope over experience and now was the time to draw a line under it; it was best for all involved, including the child. I didn’t want to be a single mother; it hadn’t been in my life plan, but then it probably wasn’t in most women’s. But Mike and I living together, getting married, being a family – all that “expected” stuff - was out of the question. If “whatever works” was key, then that would simply not work. Not for me. And if Mike was truly honest with himself, not for him either.
There were so many other factors to consider, as well: working would prove difficult, especially with childcare and public transport as poor as they were where I lived. Did I move away? But what then about my family, my support network? If I were to become a mother, what would become of my education? I had not finished yet and I knew somehow I would not be sated by parenthood alone. Just because I had a child did not make ambitions go away, overnight. I refused to succumb to stereotype, especially when I knew it could be done. How could I tell my child to follow their dreams if I had never followed mine? In fact, in some ways, I needed to follow them all the more, not just for myself but to show my child parenthood – or indeed anything unexpected - needn’t be the end of one’s youth or life.
I knew too there would be various judgements made of me, no matter which choice I made. Whether I had an abortion or kept the baby, people would feel it their right to tell me what I “should” have done. Some would smugly tell me I was being responsible, not having the baby; others would tell me I had murdered it, with disgust in their eyes. If I kept the child, no doubt I would be called a drain a society, with no thought for the contributions I might be able to make, or what my child could become. The tabloids carried ceaseless hysterical headlines about pregnant teens and young mothers, suggesting the majority of them did it as a lifestyle choice in order to claim benefits and get free housing. Of course, what those newspapers didn’t say was that nearly all of those young parents and babies ended up in bed and breakfasts instead, like Letty Welles did in Year 11. Letty said the noise at the B & B was horrendous: her little boy, Jack, would cry for hours at the raised voices and slamming of doors, with cigarette smoke filtering up from the communal areas, infecting every room, so the air never felt clean. She and Jack had constant coughs and colds and there was never enough of anything: milk, food, peace. If those teen parents were making a conscious lifestyle choice in order to improve their lives materially, you’d have thought they would have made a better one! But then why would bigots listen to reason, when they were absorbing and regurgitating prejudice?
I was outside again, but I didn’t remember leaving the arcade. Looking down the length of the long sea front, I saw the bright coloured lights blink on, reflected in the tide as it came in. There was no sign of the boy and girl, or their mother. It was dusk. I could hear laughter coming from nearby pubs as drinkers spilled out into the beer gardens that overlooked the cove. I looked at my watch: nearly eight o’ clock! Panicked, I realised the last bus was about to depart. I hitched my bag on my shoulder and ran. The high street was deserted as my feet pounded the pavement: a ghost town, eerie and silent. I could hear my breath catch in my throat as I struggled to keep up with myself. I did not want to have to go to Mike’s and ask him to drive me home, nor could I face Shona’s interrogation. I didn’t want to see either of them, for fear they could read my news etched across my face. Despite my reluctance to return earlier, I suddenly knew: I had to get home. I needed to talk to Mum.
Racing through the marketplace, all the stalls were packed up: not one trader remained. The only soul in the vicinity was a drunk, slumped under the clock tower with a plastic bottle of cider. He gave me a gummy smile as I ran past, yelling something I couldn’t catch. I made it into the bus station to see the number 23 leaving the junction. Barely anyone was on board, yet still the Driver refused to stop or open the doors as I ran alongside, banging on them. I couldn’t hear his words above the grumbling noise of the engine, but from his gestures I knew he was swearing at me and telling me to get back. Finally I was forced to stop, out of breath, with a stitch in my side. I was forced to watch the bus sail out of the station and onto the link road. Exhausted, annoyed and still panting for breath, I sat down on one of the graffittied benches in the bus station.
I dug my phone out of my bag in the vain hope it might have come back to life as electronic gadgets sometimes do, but it wasn’t to be: the phone’s LCD was still blank and useless. I recalled reading somewhere that packing
a waterlogged phone in unboiled rice sometimes does the trick in drawing the moisture away and making it work again, then laughed at myself: I had much more important things to worry about than a dead phone. First up, how was I going to get home? There was no guarantee Shona or her family would be in; I didn’t want to drag myself up the cliff for nothing. And Mike’s house was closer, I could at least phone Mum from there. But then I’d have to wait for her to come and get me: what if I cracked in the meantime and told him? Worse still, what if Mum couldn’t come and get me and I was stuck with Mike all night? If Amanda or Sal were out, then there would be no one to look after the twins, perhaps Mum would be unable to fetch me at all. Despite my best intentions to the contrary, if I ended up at Mike’s all night, the inevitable would happen: we’d end up in bed and I’d talk myself out of breaking up with him! Since that was the only decision I had been able to make that day, I wanted to be able to hold on to it.
Thoughts racing, my gaze wandered over the empty bus station, towards the wall of payphones near the tourist information centre. On it were various faded posters for hotels, including The Belle View. Dad! There was Dad. He was bound to be at work. Perhaps I could stay with him or he could take me back to Mum’s in one of Pablo’s vans? I got up hurriedly and grabbed a phone, shovelling some change in the slot. In three rings, a bored Pablo answered.
“Hola.” He said.
“Pablo, it’s Lizzie. Lizzie Carmichael?” I said breathlessly.
“Yes, yes, what you want.” Pablo yawned. In the background I could hear muzak turned up too loud.
“I need to speak to my Dad, please.” I said, crossing my fingers.
“Night off.” Pablo said. “Back tomorrow for breakfast.”
With that, he hung up. Cursing, I slammed the phone back in its handset – and then slammed it a couple more times for good measure. Typical!
“Elizabeth Carmichael?”
I turned from my near-vandalism guiltily: a young policeman in uniform stood in front of me. He wasn’t much older than me, perhaps twenty: he had that eager look of someone just starting out. I didn’t recognise him, perhaps he had transferred from another town. Nearby, a police car stood. A WPC sat in the front in a neon jacket, visibly bored, clutching a Styrofoam cup. I did recognise her: she was Chloe Bensham’s older sister, Matilda. She’d been three or four years ahead of us at school and like Chloe had always been an ugly duckling. Not now, though: Matilda had slimmed down, her acne was gone, her hair was cut in a flattering style, visible even under her distinctly unflattering black and white checkered hat. Involuntarily I waved and Matilda gave me a little wave back, her features blank: she didn’t recognise me.
“Yes.” I gulped, wondering if he was about to book me. “Look, I was just annoyed, I didn’t actually break the phone…” I started anxiously, but the policeman interrupted me.
“We’ve been looking for you.” He said, smiling at me indulgently, like a grandfather would, despite his own young age.
“Looking for me?” I was confused. I wasn’t a criminal on the run, why would they possibly be looking for me?
“Yes, your parents were worried.” He said. He laughed at the look on my face. “They called your friends… and your boyfriend, but no one had seen you. You said you’d be back hours ago. They couldn’t get you on your phone?”
Of course. “It’s broken.” I said lamely, holding it up for his inspection, as if he cared. “I lost track … And I missed the bus.”
“We’ll give you a lift home.” He said, opening the patrol car door for me.
Mute, I got in. The Policeman sat down heavily behind the wheel, muttering something about me into the radio. There was a burst of static, then he turned the ignition on again. Matilda smiled at me in the rearview mirror and held up a bag of sherbet lemons. “Want one?” She enquired.
I took a sweet. “How’s Chloe?” I said suddenly. With a twinge of nostalgia, I realised I hadn’t seen her in years: she hadn’t gone to college with the rest of us, but taken her GCSEs and disappeared into the ether. None of us had missed her, except perhaps Shona who’d always enjoyed picking on someone fatter than herself.
Matilda smiled, realising my connection at last. “Good. Really good, actually. She got a job as a nanny, working for a family up in London. Well rich they are, you should see her room: she showed it to me on the webcam. Chloe reckons they even have one of those big American fridges that dispense ice cubes.”
I laughed. That sounded like Chloe. Chloe had always liked little children; she used to look after her little nephew – Callum? Caleb? – after school for her aunt. Chloe reckoned little kids were the most sensible people around; they never got caught up in all the usual adult and teenage rubbish and never overcomplicated things. Inexplicably, I remembered a textiles lesson at school and cutting out squares and squares of fabric with Chloe, just because we hadn’t anything better to do and couldn’t work out how to use the sewing machine. The textiles teacher – I’d forgotten her name – had gone crazy at us, saying we were wasting fabric and we should be ashamed of ourselves. Chloe had then said the teacher should be ashamed of herself for not doing her job properly and teaching us how to use the sewing machine. We’d ended up in detention with the geography teacher Mr. Keller, a large fat man with a Walrus moustache. We were supposed to write an essay about saving resources, but instead Mr. Keller kept telling us about his break up with his “bitch of a wife”. We were pretty sure he’d visited the pub at lunchtime too; he smelt of booze. We never did learn how to use the sewing machine.
The police car sped into the night. Soon the streetlights in town had fallen away, with only the cats’ eyes in front of us and the yawning darkness of fields to either side of us. The only sounds were the engine, Matilda’s rustling sweet wrappers and the occasional burst of static from the radio. I settled back in my seat, the day’s events still whizzing through my head. How did I break my news to my parents, my sisters? I supposed I just came out with it and braced myself, especially when it came to the elder two. Family life was in some ways a goldfish bowl; siblings are so keen to call you out on your behaviour. Sal would brand me an idiot for getting myself into the situation, for sure – but then, when hadn’t she? She had never been a fan of Mike and had been quick to give me unsolicited advice about my relationship – which coincidentally turned out to be true – but more by accident than design. Amanda might be derisive too, but then she could never keep it up. Besides, my decision should not be based on how they might react. Sal and Amanda had their own lives: in just a couple of years Sal would be off to university and I felt sure she’d never look back. One day, Sal would be successful in everything she did and the neverending teenage angst she felt now would seem like a distant memory; perhaps she’d even be happy. As for Amanda… No matter what she chose to do with her life, she would land on her feet. She always did! Neither would concern themselves with my choices, past or present, then; by the same token, I couldn’t let them influence me now.
Finally, the Policeman pulled the handbrake and said, “Here we are.”
Home. Trepidation struck me again. I stared at the little cottage, the lanterns outside casting sickly yellow glows near the little river that travelled past the house and into the garden. One year, Sal, Amanda, Hannah and me had tried to float in a tin bath we’d found, but our combined weight – not to mention the shallowness of the river itself – had sunk it to the bottom of the riverbed. There had been a hole in the bath too, it turned out: suddenly our makeshift boat sprang a leak, soaking our jeans and leggings. We’d all piled out, shrieking and laughing and blaming one another for being so fat. Mum had appeared on the doorstep with that crooked smile of hers, juggling towels and both twins, still babies, hanging on to her hip like furless koala bears. “What are you all like!” She’d said.
Drawn by the lights of the police car and its engine, Mum appeared on the doorstep again, her face pulled taut with worry this time. I could see Dad and the other girls in the living room through the
window, their eyes wide. None ventured out with Mum – probably because she’d told them not to.
“Thank you for bringing me back.” I said to the Policeman and Matilda, my eyes still fixed on Mum outside.
“You’re welcome.” Matilda said, a sherbet lemon still in her mouth.
The Policeman opened the door for me; I got out. I stood there a moment, hesitant. Mum had her arms folded around her thin frame, as if hugging herself, her eyes full of questions: where had I been? What was going on? Was I okay?
Words dried up in my mouth; everything I had reasoned and rehearsed abandoned me. I felt frustration, then anger: I was trying to be a grown up here! Behind us, the police car started up again, drawing out of our drive.
“I’m sorry.” I said and started crying.
Still bewildered, Mum had her arms around me seconds later. She cooed at me like I was a baby, telling me that whatever it was, it would be all right. And I wanted to believe her, but suddenly the situation seemed too huge and beyond my control; it had run away with me. Dad stood helpless on the step, wondering if he should come out as well, yet knowing somehow he had to keep the other girls at bay while I had my moment with Mum.
“I’m pregnant.” I spluttered.
Mum’s reaction flickered across her face momentarily: was that relief? Perhaps she had been expecting worse. I wondered briefly how it could be worse, then reminded myself it always “could be worse”: another of Mum’s mantras, especially when us girls were complaining about our lot in life, be it having to clean our bedrooms, help around the house or clean out the cat’s litter trays. As I had gone AWOL for the whole day, Mum would have had plenty of time to dream up alternate, worse scenarios, too.
