The Ice Marathon

by Rosen Trevithick

  The lady looked uneasy.

  “Can I get you a tea?” I asked her. “Your son loves tea. He likes toast too – well toasters, actually, and …”

  She took my hand very gently and looked at me with lovely, kind eyes. They were the same colour as Simon’s – very beautiful. “Perhaps I’ll make the tea,” she said softly. “Maybe you’d like to sit down.”

  “SIT DOWN? I’ve got five cots to make!”

  She sighed, smiled and disappeared into the hall, presumably in search of the infamous kitchen. I decided to use the opportunity to do a little more work on cot number one. But, which bits were cot number one? WHAT HAD POSSESSED ME TO GET TWO WHITE COTS? How could I possibly be expected to tell the difference between cot number ONE and cot number FOUR? A little sob squeaked out of my throat.

  A sob? What the fuck? This was my happy time – my super, splendid, awesome, wholesome maternity leave. This was not a time to sob!

  I felt deeply disturbed by the sob. So much so that another sob came out. TWO SOBS? This caused further upset and a third sob came out. No! Not today. There are IN-LAWS here. You have to smile for the in-laws, otherwise they might think that there is something the matter.

  By the time that the nice lady returned, I was sobbing almost hysterically. Breathing had become difficult.

  She placed the tea somewhere and joined me on the floor. She put an arm around me. It was very comforting. I found it odd that she didn’t ask what was wrong, so I decided to volunteer the information.

  “Cot number one is the same colour as cot number four!” I sobbed.

  “I know,” she said, rocking me backwards and forwards as she held me tight.

  “I have to build five cots!”

  “I know,” she said, stroking my hair. “I know.”

  But how did she know?

  “Do you often feel like this?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let me put it another way, what usually helps when you feel like this?”

  “I don’t know,” I sobbed.

  “Come on, you do know …”

  “Walk,” I muttered.

  “A walk?”

  I nodded.

  “Would you like us to go for a walk?”

  I didn’t, but I began to realise that it might help with the sobbing, and I really didn’t want to be sobbing. I forced myself to nod again.

  “Well I know a lovely park not far from here. Let me tell Gerald what’s happening, and we’ll go for a nice, gentle walk, just you, me and that little boy in there.”

  This lady, Simon’s mum, was so utterly lovely. I was taken aback and if truth be told, rather moved. Without family of my own, I wasn’t used to this sort of support from a member of another generation. Her manner soothed me and gave me hope for the future. Raising my son would be so much easier with such an understanding grandmother.

  Chapter 8

  “You told my parents that you’re bipolar?” Simon asked, sounding deeply concerned.

  “I’m sorry!” I scoffed. “I didn’t realise that it was something to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed.”

  “Well, it certainly sounds like it!” I barked.

  He took my hand. “It’s not you that I’ve got a problem with, it’s them.”

  I didn’t believe him. His mother had been lovely. She’d walked around the park with me twice, then come back into my flat, made me another cup of tea and set up a DVD for me to watch. Then she’d stayed with me, until Simon arrived. She didn’t seem like somebody with a problem to me.

  “What? What problem?”

  “Can we not talk about them, please?” he asked.

  “But they’re our baby’s grandparents. If there’s something I should know …”

  “There’s nothing to know, I just don’t find them very … tolerant. I don’t know what you thought you were doing building cots in your condition anyway. I told you I’d help with things like that.”

  “And I told you I could manage,” I snapped. Then I realised that he was right. I did need his help, and what was more, he needed to be involved. This was our baby, not mine. “You can clear away the dishes if you want to help,” I smiled.

  “Thanks for dinner,” he said, grabbing the plates together.

  “I just emptied a jar.”

  He smiled. “Do you mind if I stick around for a bit?”

  “What for?” I asked, automatically. Then I smiled. Over the last few weeks, I’d enjoyed him popping in and out.

  “Well, you’ve had a bit of a funny day, haven’t you? And my family were partly responsible.”

  “No, they were lovely. The mania was less delightful.”

  “What will you do tomorrow?”

  “I’ve already booked in to see my doctor.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Just sit with me for a bit? Maybe we could watch a film …”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  We cleared away the dinner dishes. I still felt slightly embarrassed when we were in a kitchen together, but at least this was not the kitchen.

  “How’s your training going by the way?”

  “Not bad actually, I ran twenty miles at the weekend.”

  “Twenty miles? Are you serious?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s amazing! Where did you go?”

  “Mostly on the coast. Running on snow is apparently similar to running on sand.”

  “You ran twenty miles on sand?”

  “Only four weeks left until the race,” he pointed out.

  I swallowed.

  “You are all right, aren’t you? About me going to Antarctica.”

  “I don’t own you!” I laughed. In all honesty, I was dreading his ten-day excursion to the southern hemisphere. Nicky and Dave were great, but at the end of the day, they weren’t the baby’s father and I didn’t feel comfortable asking them for help with some of the bigger things on my mind.

  What if, God forbid, our baby had a physical problem that the ultrasound missed? What special treatment would he need? Would he even live to see Simon return from Antarctica?

  My fears weren’t limited to the baby’s health. If my mood didn’t stabilise, how would I be able to raise even a healthy baby? What if I couldn’t cope? What if I needed somebody to change him in the night, or give him a bottle while I was sleeping?

  Then I remembered that Simon wouldn’t be able to do those things either. He had a job to go to and even though he’d helped me find a house close to his, he was still a car drive away. I tried to smile.

  “Obviously, if the baby’s late, I won’t go. I’m not missing the birth for the world.”

  “Wait, you want to be at the birth?”

  He looked suddenly concerned. “Unless you don’t want me there.”

  I surprised myself by looking straight into his eyes and saying, “No, actually, I think I do.”

  * * *

  The morning of the birth was nothing special – just an ordinary cold November day with patchy cloud and a bracing breeze. No harp playing, no glittering storks flying through the air, not even a full sun. How could a day so bland deliver the most remarkable event of my life?

  Likewise, how could that sex, that peculiar, aggressive, careless sex, have resulted in something so profoundly beautiful, in every single way? Somebody so well formed that it was hard to believe that any part of his creation was down to chance. He seemed like the most intentional thing in the world. How could any new human have happened by mistake, let alone one so perfect?

  The birth was as straightforward as pushing seven pounds through your vagina could ever hope to be. The pain dragged on and on for what felt like days. Towards the end, I actually felt I might pass out.

  And then there was Joseph.

  At first, he looked oily and slimy like a gremlin cocoon. But then the doctor wrapped him in a cloth and put him in my arms. He had ten perfect little fingers and ten perfect little toes. A cute horizontal line ind
ented his squashy nose. He opened his wet eyelids and there were his eyes – shiny and blue like his father’s. When they looked up at me, so bright and twinkling, I knew instinctively that there was nothing wrong with my son. He was perfect.

  Simon, who was still wearing the shirt and suit trousers that he’d put on for work, shuffled forward and moved the swaddling cloth so that he could get a proper look at his son’s face. Instinctively, Joseph reached out and grabbed onto his father’s finger. I heard Simon gasp. His eyes widened. He looked at me and laughed with delight then looked back at his son. It was a moment that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

  “So what do you think?” I asked.

  Simon choked on his words. He tried again, “Ah, he’s rubbish,” he joked. “And so ugly.”

  I smiled. “He takes after his father then.”

  Simon chuckled. He grabbed his camera and was about to take a picture, when suddenly he stopped smiling, and looked deep in thought. I was worried for a moment. Eventually, he spat out, “You don’t want me to marry you, do you?”

  I laughed out loud, and then, just to check he knew I’d noticed the joke, I said the words, “Ha ha.” Then, for good measure, I added, “Very funny.”

  “I’m not joking. Well, maybe I am about the marriage part. But you don’t think … you don’t think that perhaps … You and me should try and … well … you know … make a go of it?” Then he quickly added, “I mean for Joseph’s sake, obviously.”

  “But we hate each other!” I laughed.

  “Do we?” he asked, studying me carefully.

  Before I could make sense of what he was trying to say, Nicky came rushing through the door, carrying at least five bags of shopping. She dropped them all in an instant, creating a clatter that suggested breakages.

  “Oh my God!” she cried, rushing forward. I felt a brief pang of guilt. I knew how much Nicky wanted a baby, and here I was popping one out unplanned.

  “We’re going to call him Joseph,” I told her.

  “Oh!” she said, tapping him on his little nose. “It’s perfect. Such a lovely gesture. Wait ‘til I tell Dave. He’ll be over the moon.”

  “Sorry!” said Simon, holding up his phone. “Already texted him, and Joe’s mum.”

  “Aw!” sung Nicky, clutching her heart. “I bet she was touched.”

  “Delighted.”

  I looked at my little boy and joked, “No pressure, but your father and your namesake are both marathon runners.”

  “So, how much does …” Suddenly, Nicky’s phone began to ring. “Sorry! Sorry! I’ll be right back!” she whispered, and hurried out of the room.

  “I’m going to cancel my flight,” said Simon, quickly.

  “No, you’re not. You’ve been training for this for months. It means the world to you.”

  “But …”

  “Plus, it cost thousands of pounds.”

  “Most of that was corporate sponsorship.”

  “And they’re just going to hand over the money even if you don’t do it, are they?”

  “It’s too soon!”

  “It’s in two weeks, and you’ll be back in no time,” I told him, forcing myself to smile. I looked down at baby Joseph. Could I do this beautiful boy justice by myself? Four months ago, I didn’t even know he existed and now he was here in my arms needing food, love and continuous attention.

  Above all, I worried about what I would do if I became depressed or manic. At such times, I could barely look after myself. Still, at least I had Simon’s parents now. Judy, particularly, seemed lovely and she’d been so supportive when I’d had that relapse.

  “Let’s see how things go,” Simon conceded. “There’s no need to make a decision today.”

  “All right,” I agreed. “Let’s see how things go.”

  Simon started fiddling with his camera again. I hadn’t seen it before.

  “I didn’t know you were into photography?”

  “Oh, I don’t know how to use it, yet …”

  The next thing I knew, Simon’s mum had entered the room, she hurried over at such speed that she only just managed to stop when she got to the bed.

  “Hello Judy,” I said with a smile.

  “How is he?” she asked, bounding towards me with enthusiasm and reaching towards him. For a moment, I thought she was going to lift him out of my arms, but she just held his little hands in hers.

  “He’s perfect,” I told her. “Would you like to hold him?”

  Her eyes became glassy. “Yes please,” she squeaked.

  I noticed that Simon’s father, Gerald, had entered too. He watched from the side of the room, expressionless like a potato.

  “There will be more tests, but so far the signs are positive,” explained Simon.

  Gerald frowned.

  “He’s healthy!” I told him. “I just know.”

  He continued to scowl.

  Simon snapped away with his new camera, making very professional-sounding shutter and clicking noises.

  “Would you like one with you in?” Judy asked him.

  He looked uneasy for a moment.

  “Come on!” said Judy, “Of course you want to be pictured with your new family.”

  This was awkward. I’d never had my picture taken with Simon before. We just weren’t that … close. Now here we were, being photographed together for the first time, with our baby. It felt somewhat surreal.

  “I do, yes,” said Simon. “It’s just that it’s a very expensive camera.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Judy assured him, shooting me an amused glance. She practically had to prise the camera out of his hands.

  Simon put an arm around me and we smiled for the photo. It felt as though Joseph and I had intruded on somebody else’s family scene. Now we would be immortalised in the Moran family album, and I hardly knew these people.

  Judy asked, “Have you chosen a name?”

  I let Simon tell her. “Joseph.”

  “Oh!” she said, clutching her heart as Nicky had done. “That’s lovely.”

  Then, she turned to me. “And how are you?”

  “I feel … healthy,” I told her. And I did, I really did.

  Chapter 9

  It may be hiding, but I knew it was there. A horrible, blood curdling, face prickling, heart-rate-accelerating beast. A beast in my airing cupboard. I had seen one before – lots of them in fact – but not one this bad. Where was that big, black, hairy, frightening house spider?

  My thoughts immediately turned to Joseph – what if the hideous creature crawled onto my baby – my beautiful baby! I shuddered. I had to call Simon.

  Wait! What was I thinking? It was quarter past one in the morning. You don’t call the father of your five-day-old child out in the middle of the night because of a spider. No matter how much it made my skin crawl, it was just a spider.

  I decided to go back to bed. Joseph had settled and I should be grateful for this chance to catch up on my sleep. I hurried back into the bedroom, checking my footing as I went. That particular bastard spider may be hiding in the airing cupboard but who knew how many might be lurking elsewhere in the house?

  I couldn’t settle. A wisp of my red hair tickled my face. I leapt. My skin prickled all over. I had a nasty vision of creepy crawlies scuttling all over me. Seconds later, I turned the light on.

  Calling Simon would almost certainly be a mistake. It may be a Saturday but he’d already lost enough sleep this week – there had been my labour and then two nights staying over to help with Joseph.

  Maybe I could just text – a text would be unlikely to wake him if he were fast asleep, and it sounded less demanding than a call. Yes, a text would be just fine.

  But what could I say? ‘Help! Spider in the house’ sounded insane. It might make him think I was in a dark place and although I was jittery, I was far from clinically depressed.

  Eventually, I decided upon ‘Can’t sleep. Don’t suppose you want to evict a spider for me?’ That was to-the-point without b
eing demanding.

  As soon as I sent it, I felt stupid. It was just a silly little spider and it was the middle of the night. I was a mother now. I had to be mature.

  I was stunned when, thirty seconds later, Simon replied to say, ‘I’ll be right over.’

  * * *

  By the time he arrived, I felt even more ridiculous. The energy saving light bulb had fully warmed up and my surroundings were now bright, cheerful and felt entirely harmless.

  “Where is it?” he asked, smiling. He appeared to be wearing a pyjama top and jeans. His brown hair was scruffy, which I found I rather liked – it looked much cuter than its ordinary orchestrated style.

  “In the hall – airing cupboard,” I told him. “It’s fine. It’s probably gone out of the window now.”

  “What’s a spider doing in an airing cupboard? I thought they liked damp.”

  “It likes tormenting me, that’s what!”

  “Would you like me to look for it?”

  “Would you?”

  Much scrambling and laundry churning later, we concluded that the spider had moved on. This did disturb me – where had it moved to? Still, at least if Simon were here, I’d have someone to call if it showed its face and eye-stalks again.

  “Are you tired?” he asked.

  “Yes, in a way. But I don’t think I could sleep.” I was going to add ‘my heart’s racing’ but thought it made me sound melodramatic.

  “I’ve brought over a DVD if you fancy watching that?”

  “What is it?”

  “Coupling. The episode where Patrick visits Sally in the middle of the night to save her from a spider,” he said with a mocking chuckle.

  I laughed. “Would that be with or without Peter Serafinowicz?”

  “Shut it!” he said, jabbing me in the ribs.

  Five minutes later, we were sitting together on the sofa with mugs of hot chocolate.

  Simon flicked on the television. We were immediately greeted by the orange tones of Larry the Lion. It appeared to be some form of premature Christmas special. What was a kids’ show doing on at this time of night anyway?

  “Change the channel,” I commanded. I certainly did not want to be reminded of the night we met – at least, not that part …