The Second Child

by Caroline Bond

  ‘Anne?’

  I froze. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you going to be long in there, darling?’

  ‘No. I’m just going to have a quick shower. I’ll be out of your way in five minutes.’

  There was a pause, then he said. ‘Can’t you shower later?’

  I looked down at myself. ‘Well…’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, but I really need to be away by seven-thirty. I’m due in theatre at ten.’ There was no arguing with the needs of his patients, or with Nathan. I turned off the water, grabbed my robe and covered myself up. The minute I unlocked the door, he strode into the bathroom. ‘Thank you.’ He shut the door on me. It was only as he turned the lock that I remembered the pile of nightclothes on the floor.

  That night Nathan was a little later home than usual, but he brought me flowers, creamy-white Calla lilies, elegant and fragile. As I cut the stems and put them into a vase he talked, at length, about his new schedule and how he was going to be busier than ever, due to a trial that he’d been asked to work on with a colleague over at Guy’s. Apparently it was going to necessitate quite a few very early starts. He was worried about disturbing me, especially given how much I needed my rest.

  I moved into the guest bedroom and used the house bathroom that night, and for the duration of every period from thereon in, allowing both of us to avoid the messy evidence of my failure to conceive.

  Fourteen long months later I finally fell pregnant and Nathan fell in love with me and my body again. He would lie pressed against my back, his fingers stroking my non-existent bump, adapting and embellishing our plans. He was loving and protective, and very pleased. And I felt safe and happy and hopeful, for a little while.

  But my happiness faded quickly. It became infused with the anxiety that I was going to fail at being a mother. I began to worry that, given I’d taken so long to get pregnant, somehow I wasn’t designed to be pregnant. And as the weeks went by and I expanded to accommodate our child, my worries worsened and darkened. They spread to encompass every problem that was possible, at every stage of pregnancy. At first I was terrified of miscarrying the baby, losing the child that we both wanted so much. When I voiced my fears, Nathan would smile, lay his hand on my stomach and say it was only natural to be concerned. And he was right. Everything proceeded quite normally. I passed the twelve-week landmark, my sickness abated, my belly grew, it was all going to plan, but inside I was increasingly tormented by anxiety about the development of the baby. I had no faith in my body to deliver what Nathan wanted. When I braved talking to him about my worries, he was initially supportive and reassuring, but it became obvious, very quickly, that my concerns were beginning to irritate him. Before long he began to discount everything I said as hysterical nonsense. He claimed that my old job had given me a morbid fascination with birth anomalies. He told me I just needed to calm down.

  The irony of his response still doesn’t mean anything to him.

  And as the months went by, he started staying up in London more and more and I stayed home, alone. By the end of my pregnancy I found myself saying very little to him at all, certainly nothing about my persisting fears, and he seemed pleased with my silence. In hindsight, it was the beginning of a separation that was only ever going to end one way.

  It was fitting, I suppose, that he was halfway round the world when I went into labour.

  I can’t bear to think about that week. How frightened I was. How utterly alone I felt during the birth. How shocked afterwards. Nathan simply was not there. At the most difficult time in my life he was absent.

  Of course he expressed delight at the birth of his daughter, when I finally got hold of him; he sent a bouquet of exquisite flowers, which were not allowed on the ward; he caught the next plane home, after he’d delivered his keynote speech, and drove straight up to fetch me, after he’d slept off his jet lag. All actions that made the right impression, but revealed his real priorities. I remember him coming into the room when he finally made it up to Leeds. He bent down to embrace me, smelling of aftershave and cold air, and of the world of importance and normality outside the hospital. The nurse who had shown him in glanced back at us before she left, curious and perhaps envious. Then he turned to Rosie. He lifted her out of her crib and examined her, silently, before lightly pressing his lips against her downy little head. My heart contracted. I felt balanced on the cusp of two lives, neither of which I could envisage, both of which I was unsure I would cope with.

  Nathan professed love at first sight and promised me, faithfully, that things would be better now that we were a family, and I wanted to believe him.

  We travelled home in silence, save for the snuffles of our new daughter.

  But he was too impatient to be a good father, and too frustrated with me to make the effort to be a good husband. Despite having a newborn in the house, everything still had to fit in with his priorities and his schedule. His home life was supposed to be a calming back-drop to his career, there to sustain and enhance him. I let him down badly there. I knew that the sight of me, in my dressing gown, in a kitchen littered with baby paraphernalia and milk-crusted muslins, was not how he wanted to start and end his days. As Rosie fed and cried and grew fat and healthy, latched onto me like a limpet, he retreated further and further into his work and I withdrew, once again, with my daughter, to my separate bedroom.

  Then came his effortless lies about working away, and his mounting frustration with what he saw as my leaky, emotional needs. He never understood how trapped I felt. He believed in resilience and, when I failed to deliver that, he advocated – strongly – medication. Quiet was better than vocal, in his book. And I went along with it because the tablets did help, at least a little; they made me realise that I had to do better.

  So I tried. By a sheer act of will, I set about hauling myself back up to his exacting standards. And I did it. By the time Rosie turned one, the house, Rosie and I were always ‘Nathan-ready’, neat, clean, perfect at all times. It was such hard work and it was, ultimately, pointless.

  I did try, but it was never enough.

  I gave him the child he wanted, the life he wanted, and still it was not enough.

  The pain blots me out.

  I hear Rosie come in from school, but as much as I want to get up and go down to her, I can’t. Yet again I can’t. There’ve been so many times when I haven’t been there for her. I listen to her footsteps.

  When she was very little and I was ill, she used to come and play on the end of the bed, whispering to her toys while I lay there, out of reach. When the pain started to lift, she’d sense it and wriggle up inside the covers for a cuddle. The comfort of her small body used to be enough to bring me back to myself.

  There’s a tap at the open door. I struggle upright. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Here!’ She passes me a flannel, warm to the touch. ‘Is it a bad one? I know nothing really helps, but…’ She shrugs.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ I rest my head back against the pillow and lay the cloth across my forehead. It smells of lavender oil. The heat and the gesture touch the sharp edges of the pain, which recedes slightly. ‘Have you time to sit and talk to me for a while? Tell me about your day.’

  ‘Maybe later. You rest. I’ve got homework to do.’ And she flees.

  37

  Support

  ROSIE

  MUM LASTS till Wednesday before she flakes out. I leave her to it. She does look crap, proper ill, the worst she’s been for a while, but it’s still classic Mum. She can only keep up the pretence for a few days at a time before she collapses. The weekend was her grandest performance for quite a while. Hiring ramps and beds for her, all the fuss about trying to get the ‘right’ presents for her, turning the house upside down for her. It was completely OTT. And I noticed that she kept sitting with her, trying to get a response. I had to look away, it was so awkward. I didn’t know what she was playing at – playing at being her mum. Lauren is Sarah’s, always will be… end of.

  With Mum in b
ed, the house feels like it used to when I was little. The same silence, the same hollow feeling in my belly. Course, it’s not the same, not really, not now I’m grown-up. It’s not like I need her fussing around me. I go to school like normal. I’m not the hot topic any more. Lou Mabbot has been suspended for something they found in her locker. The top theory is drugs, but the bitch-queens are trying to get a rumour going that it was a pregnancy test, a positive one. I’m old news.

  Period three is History with the sub-teacher Mr Omiduran. He’s having a ’mare arriving this late in the term. He’s made the fatal error of thinking that a top set, full of ‘nice’ girls, is going be okay. Wrong. We’ve had four lessons with him so far and the behaviour has been getting worse. It’s not helped when he moves Marcus Hill next to Emma C! We all wait for them to start. It doesn’t take long. She claims he’s drawn on her shirt, he says that she’s kicking him under the desk, she moans that he won’t keep his elbows on his side, and so on and so on. Petty stuff designed to make sure we don’t get any work done. He’s stupid enough to keep talking to them, pleading with them to settle down. Then Emma C pushes Marcus and he falls off his chair with a massive clatter. Something inside Mr Omiduran just snaps. He yells, proper yells, and once he’s started he doesn’t seem to be able to stop. He starts ranting on about how we’re wasting his time. Wasting our time. How we should be ashamed of ourselves. That we have a world of opportunities and privileges. That we could do what we want with our lives, but that we’re too stupid to make the most of what we have. He’s furious, out of control, his words loud and nasty and personal, shouting that we’re all a waste of space. I’m a waste of space, useless. Ugly and useless.

  It surprises me when Indira puts up her hand and keeps it up, trying to attract his attention. At last he notices her, the quietest, best-behaved girl in the class braving his rant. It stops him in his tracks. His voice drops from raging to tired. ‘Yes, Indira. Sorry. What is it?’

  ‘Mr Omiduran. Rosie!’ Everyone swivels round to stare at me and I become aware of a choking noise in the room.

  He nominates Indira to take me to Red Base. She looks horrified, but does as she’s told, walking alongside me down the thankfully empty corridors, which seem to amplify the noise coming out of me. She deposits me outside the office and scuttles off. And I just stand there until Mrs Boyd comes out.

  ‘Lord, Rosie, you gave me a fright. Whatever’s wrong?’ There’s no way I’m going to talk to Mrs Boyd. Small, big boobs, dressed too young for her age, thinks that students like her because she’s popular with the naughty kids, which she is, but only because they know she’s such a pushover. ‘Come in. Here.’ She passes me a handful of tissues; there are always plenty of tissues in Red Base. I wipe the tears off my face, but I don’t say a word. Mrs Boyd gives up after ten minutes and we stare at each other. She cracks first. ‘Shall I ring your mum?’

  ‘No!’

  She jumps.

  ‘I want to talk to Ms Suri.’

  Half and hour later Ms Suri arrives, takes me by the arm and pulls me into the side office. ‘Now then? What’s the matter?’

  So I tell her. About the weekend and the party, and about the ramp and Mum making such a fuss, and about the bracelet and the bats, and about all the food and Lauren wearing her hat and Phil playing football with me. I don’t tell her about Dad. Even I can tell it sounds mental. Like a really nice weekend. And it was, but it wasn’t. She listens, then she says, ‘So you’re worried about keeping everyone happy and finding it impossible?’

  And it seems like kinda almost the right reason for why I’m so upset, so I nod and she makes a sympathetic noise and passes me some more tissues. Because in a way she’s right: what am I supposed to do with them all? There’s Dad, who doesn’t really care about seeing me, he just likes pulling me out of a drawer when it suits him, showing me off for a bit, then shutting me away. And there’s Mum, who’s all over the shop, making a huge effort at the weekend when everyone was around, but completely withdrawing into herself, now it’s just the two of us. She always wants me to talk, to tell her things, but she never tells me anything. And there’s Sarah, who likes me one minute, then doesn’t the next. I can tell, I can see it in her face. She finds me hard work. And my friends think I’m really moody and weird and they’re not interested in what’s going on any more, because nothing really is. Nothing is getting any easier or any better or any clearer. The only person I want to be with is Phil. He’s the only one who likes me as I am.

  I ramble on about it all to Ms Suri, talking crap, because that’s what it is: crap, confusing crap; and she’s sympathetic and patient and doesn’t look at her watch once, which is nice of her because she’s always busy, always running around sorting out people’s problems, but even she goes and stuffs it up by suggesting, after about half an hour of me talking, that maybe she should call Mum. I stupidly say, ‘No, she’s ill in bed’ and that seems to worry Ms Suri even more, and she starts talking about counselling services and I realise that me spilling my guts at school, even with Ms Suri, is a really bad idea. So I backtrack and say I’m just tired and then – and this is mean – I say that Mr Omiduran lost his temper in class and it was that that had set me off. That really I’m okay. That I’m just tired after the weekend, and that me and Mum are getting on well really. It takes me another twenty minutes of this kind of stuff before she’s convinced I’m not going run off and do something stupid. In the end she shrugs, pats my arm and promises that she’ll check in with me every couple of days and then she lets me go. I walk back to my last lesson feeling stupid and genuinely tired.

  That’ll teach me to confide in teachers.

  ANNE

  In the morning the migraine is gone, leaving me exhausted, but functioning. I make myself open the curtains, shower and fix my hair and make-up. In the afternoon I even manage a little bit of shopping. I contrive to be chopping fresh basil for a home-made pasta sauce when Rosie thumps into the kitchen after school.

  ‘Hi. You feeling better?’ She slings her school bag on the floor.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Pasta okay for tea?’

  She glances at the pans and my efforts. ‘’Kay. Nice. I’ll just go up and get changed.’

  We eat early in the kitchen, together for a change, with the radio on in the background, her choice of channel, but she’s mindful enough to keep the volume low. We talk about school and about my plans for the garden. In truth, I’ve not thought about it. We avoid talking about the Rudaks. It’s such a pity, but I have to spoil the little oasis of calm that we’ve achieved; the call from Nathan was a warning that I can’t ignore. As I watch Rosie eating her pasta and chatting, I feel a chill at the thought of the havoc that Nathan being dragged into it could cause. I need to warn Sarah off.

  ‘I was thinking I might come up to the tournament in Leicester?’ Rosie stops forking pasta into her mouth. I persevere. ‘It sounded like a nice day out, from the way Sarah was talking about the one in Watford. I could maybe make us all a picnic.’

  Her response is not encouraging. ‘You never come to watch me play. You hate football.’

  ‘I don’t. Anyway, that’s not the point. I should support you more.’

  She looks at me so sceptically that I feel ashamed. ‘But it’s all planned. I’m going with the girls. Phil and Sarah are meeting me there and taking me up to Leeds. You said it was all right. You said that I could stay with them for some of half-term.’ Her fork clatters into her bowl and I can see the flare of rebellion in her eyes.

  I need to placate her, quickly. ‘I know. I’m not going to interfere with you staying with them. But I need to speak to Sarah. Things have… moved on – at least they have regarding Lauren.’ She makes a gesture that is so dismissive that, even in the midst of my turmoil, it shocks me. Her self-absorption is absolute. I plough on. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, but with being under the weather I haven’t had a chance. Anyway, what I mean is, I’ve formally agreed to Lauren staying with Phil and Sarah. I’m not making any
legal claims to shared maternity or regular access, just to staying in her life, but only in as far as Phil and Sarah feel comfortable.’ Precisely the arrangement I can only dream of them agreeing to, in relation to Rosie. I watch her processing this information and wait for her questions.

  ‘Right.’ Nothing. She has no interest in Lauren. Then. ‘What about me?’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah, me.’ She studies me with her pale-grey eyes and I feel breathless in the face of such a direct question.

  ‘Oh, Rosie. Please. One thing at a time.’ I see her brace herself. I step in swiftly to head her off.

  ‘I know we need to sort things out, but it’s so important. I don’t want us to rush into anything. With Lauren, it’s simpler. The solution. What’s best for her, and for the Rudaks… and for us. But we still need to work out what’s best for you… for us. Properly. Don’t we? And we will. I promise. I’m not sure we, or you, or they really know what that is yet, do we?’ I’ve never been so inarticulate.

  She slowly twists the rings on her fingers, then she says, bitterly, ‘So Lauren is the priority, is she?’

  This is going so badly wrong. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ Though she’s right to doubt me. My motives are muddy. For an unnerving moment I wonder if she can see into my soul.

  ‘But that’s why you want to come to Leicester… to sort out stuff about Lauren. It’s not really to watch me play, is it, Mum?’

  Our truce is well and truly over.

  For the next ten minutes I attempt to convince Rosie that she is my priority and that what I want, more than anything, is to get back some of the closeness we once had. I desperately need her to see how much I love her. But she can’t. She isn’t listening. Her beautiful face is stiff with disbelief. She has had enough of me.

  She pushes her chair away from the table and stands up. ‘Forget it, Mum. I’m going with the girls.’ And with that, she walks out of the kitchen.