Five Unforgivable Things

by Vivien Brown

Chapter 12

  Ollie, 2017

  A teacher who drinks. Is that what he was turning into? Was that the kind of example he was setting the kids he worked with? Not that they knew. But he knew. And, if he carried on this way, it would only be a matter of time before someone smelt it on his breath or he got caught swigging from a hip flask in the games cupboard, and then what? Career over. Reputation in tatters.

  Ollie peered at his face in the mirror above the bathroom sink. He looked tired. When he bared his teeth they had taken on a dull yellowish tinge, and his tongue was coated in a layer of white gunk that tasted like old socks, or the way he imagined old socks to taste, having never actually tried any. He spent longer than usual scrubbing away with his toothbrush, until he tasted blood and knew it was time to stop. Not only to stop brushing, but to stop drinking too, and feeling sorry for himself, and moping over a woman who was very clearly never coming back.

  His first class of the day was athletics. The field stuff, not the track. Okay, so it was September, but there were only so many more chances to enjoy being outside before the kids were confined to using the shoddy gym equipment in the hall or out battling the elements with their hands and faces turning blue with cold on the hockey field come winter. And it could be fun. Ten and eleven year olds, having their first go at holding the javelin (the school only owned one), learning to carry it, launch it safely, aim it in a graceful arc (some hope of that happening!) through the air with only a small chance of it landing where it was supposed to. Like Cupid’s arrow, he thought, flying wildly about and finding its own spot, no matter how hard you tried to tell it where you wanted it to go. But now he was being fanciful. They were no cherubs, they were just kids, kitted out in baggy shorts and school polo shirts, half of them out for a lark and enjoying the freedom of escaping their desks, and the rest – mainly the girls – wishing they could be somewhere else entirely. And, amongst the lot of them, maybe one, just one if he was lucky, who might have some shred of athletic talent and ambition. He couldn’t help wondering sometimes why he bothered wasting his time, why he hadn’t opted to teach secondary school kids, where he might have at least run into a spark or two of enthusiasm.

  He pulled on his jacket, checked the pockets for stray cans, and threw his finished cereal bowl into the sink to join all the plates and cutlery and pans that had been accumulating there over the weekend. He’d wash up later. But then, that’s what he always said, and later there was usually something else more pressing or enticing, or more than likely liquid, vying for his attention, and that meant he never quite got around to it.

  He closed the door behind him and stood for a few seconds, breathing in big gulps of cool, clean morning air. The school was only a twenty-minute walk away. That’s why they’d chosen this flat, to save on fares and petrol, and if a games teacher wasn’t fit and healthy enough, barring the asthma that had hung around since childhood and still reared its ugly head from time to time, to manage a brisk walk to and from work every day, then, as he’d jokingly said many times, there was something wrong with the world.

  The trouble now was that he was living in the flat all alone, so something very definitely was wrong with the world, or his small part of it at least. Whatever the advantages of its location, Ollie wasn’t good at being alone. From as far back as he could remember, he had never had to be alone. They say that twins have a special bond, having started out side by side from day one, their tiny growing bodies curled together in the cramped space of their mother’s womb, being pushed out into the world within minutes of each other, sharing all of childhood’s little milestones and miracles. But this, this connection he felt with his sisters, was something else. Something bigger, greater and even more infuriating. It was something so few people had, or understood.

  He quickened his pace, glancing at his watch. He was going to be late again, and it was starting to rain. Little rivulets ran over his collar and trickled down his neck. Year six, taking on the javelin in the rain. Was that the only highlight his day had to offer? Oh, what joy!

  For a moment he thought about turning back, going home and hiding under the crumpled duvet cover he hadn’t washed in a while. Or even going back to Mum’s for a few days and letting her look after him, the way she had when he was small and feeling under the weather, smothering him in blankets and sympathy and soup. But it was only the third week of term. Time off mid-term was frowned upon, unless he said he was sick. Lied. The thought of it was certainly appealing, going back to bed, or the sofa, losing himself in sleep, waiting for the rain to stop. Waiting for something, anything, to happen that would shake him out of this hole he’d been sliding into ever since Laura had left. The hole with such slippery sides that escape just got harder and harder to envisage. But they’d find him and pull him back, however deep he fell. His mum and his sisters. They always did. Because they knew. When he was in trouble, when he was in pain, they just knew. And that was exactly why he was avoiding them.

  ***

  ‘I know it seems early to be thinking about Christmas …’

  Ollie stood in front of the head teacher’s vast and surprisingly empty desk. He had half expected his summons might have something to do with his drinking, that he’d been rumbled somehow and was about to be given his marching orders. During the short walk from the staff room, he had been bricking it, his mind whirling about, trying to come up with answers before he even knew what the questions might be. But Christmas?

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ he said, lamely, with no idea what was coming next. It was only the end of September, for heaven’s sake, and they’d hardly seen the back of summer yet. The kids’ holiday memories, in all their poetic and artistic glory, were still pinned to the walls in the library. Christmas remained a distant nightmare he was nowhere near ready to contemplate.

  ‘But if we want to do something well, I do think it’s important to give ourselves plenty of time to plan, don’t you, Oliver?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And now you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here this morning? To be honest, it’s to ask a favour. I would normally have felt able to count on Mrs Carter as usual, but, as you know, she’ll be on maternity leave over the Christmas period, so I need someone else to step in. I was hoping that someone might be you. It’s a job that calls for great enthusiasm, organisational skills, and a certain amount of … well, stamina, for want of a better word.’

  ‘Now I’m intrigued.’

  ‘The nativity play, Oliver. Staff, children, a few willing parents, all working together, you know? We’ve done nativity plays for as long as I can remember. Tea-towel head dresses, the girls squabbling over who’s going to be Mary, the boys desperate to avoid being in it at all, not to mention the plastic baby Jesus. Let’s just say I have visions of something a little different this year. More lively. Costumes, music, perhaps bringing a more modern twist to it. Mrs Carter will be missed, of course, but her absence does give us an opportunity for change, do you see?’

  Ollie nodded, not entirely sure that he did see at all, but it usually paid to agree with the boss. ‘And, er, how do I fit into this exactly?’

  ‘I want you to lead, Oliver. Plan, produce, put a team together, casting, rehearsals, all of that. Organise the whole thing. You know, from a different perspective, the whole thing seen through fresh eyes …’

  ‘Me?’ Ollie pulled a chair over from a corner, deciding this was as good a time as any to sit down. He could be here for some time. ‘But I have absolutely no experience of anything like that. I don’t go to church, so the religious side of a nativity is … well, not really my thing. I can’t act, I can’t sing, and I haven’t been inside a theatre since I was at school myself. Hamlet, I think it was. I can still see him holding that mouldy old skull. Gave me nightmares for weeks afterwards.’

  ‘Hardly the same thing. And I said organise it, Oliver. I’m not asking you to lead a church service, or to get up on stage and perform. Unless you want to, of course. Sometimes you don’t know where your
talents lie until you try. Now, take your class earlier this morning, for instance. I was watching through the window, and little Victoria Bennett threw an almost perfect javelin, didn’t she? Never touched one before, I bet. We could even have a future champion on our hands.’

  ‘Lucky fluke, more like.’

  ‘That may be so, but she tried something new, and look what happened. So, my request stands. Go away and think about it if you like, but I would like to get the ball rolling sooner rather than later. Perhaps I could have your answer after lunch?’

  ***

  He left it until the bell rang for the end of the school day. Well, half-past three still counted as after lunch, didn’t it? The Head was busy with a mound of paperwork, a cup of coffee gone cold beside him, and Ollie knew better than to linger too long. They both knew he didn’t want to do it, but neither of them seemed surprised when he said he would.

  As he left he ran into Victoria Bennett and her mother, dithering about at the school gates, two younger kids clutching not quite dry paintings and clinging to the handle of a pram, which was occupied by presumably yet another Bennett, one that Ollie hadn’t even known had been expected, let alone born. The mother was fishing about in an enormous shopping bag, pulling out various bits and pieces, including a brown mushy banana and a roll of nappy sacks, until she managed to locate and extricate a bright-green plastic purse. ‘Now, only get the cheap stuff, you hear me?’ she said, pushing a pound coin into her daughter’s hand. ‘And no dawdling on the way home.’

  ‘Bread …’ she said, by way of explanation, standing aside to make room for Ollie to pass as Victoria ran off in the direction of the corner shop. ‘She’s a good girl, really. Just a bit scatty sometimes.’ She laughed. ‘But then, you’d know that, wouldn’t you, sir?’

  ‘Mrs Bennett, I’ve told you before, you don’t have to call me sir. Mr Campbell, please …’

  ‘Right, sir, er, Mr Campbell. She doing all right is she, my Vicky? At her lessons and that?’

  ‘Well, I can’t speak for her work in class as I don’t teach her, but she proved herself surprisingly good with the javelin this morning. Hidden talents there!’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know you were doing gardening with them now. Javelins, eh? They’re those pretty little white ones, aren’t they? That smell so nice. Well, fancy that, my Vicky with green fingers, eh? Who’d have thought it? Anyway, mustn’t keep you sir. I’ve got the kids’ tea to be getting on with as soon as I get back. If our Vicky remembers the bread and doesn’t come back with a packet of seeds instead, that is. Ha, ha!’

  Ollie stood for a moment gazing after her. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. But she had inadvertently reminded him that he needed to get some bread too. The last lot was going as mouldy as that old skull he remembered from Hamlet, and he’d need some for toasting if he was going to have beans again.

  Chapter 13

  Kate, 1986

  I’d seen all the stuff in the papers about Louise Brown, the baby born through the miracle of IVF. I can’t say I’d paid a lot of attention to the finer details of it at the time, but if I was going to have eggs taken out of me and messed about with in some test tube, there was a lot I needed to know.

  ‘It’s a complex process, and still a relatively new one, but it will all be fully explained at the clinic, if things get that far. But, of course, there is a waiting list,’ Doctor Meredith said, slipping his specs off his nose and rubbing at the lenses with a tissue from the box on his desk. I couldn’t help wondering if he was doing it just so he wouldn’t have to look me in the eye. ‘And I’m afraid,’ he went on, ‘that the NHS is unlikely to offer more than one or two attempts, even if you’re deemed suitable for treatment. It’s a very costly procedure with far from guaranteed results. And then, there’s your age to consider …’

  ‘What do you mean, my age? I’m thirty-four. That’s surely not too old, is it? I know lots of people who’ve had babies at my age. Or older. My aunt Nora was nearly forty.’

  ‘Ah, but these other mothers, they may simply have delayed starting a family, Mrs Campbell. Or had a happy accident, shall we say? But things are different, in your case, where we know there is a problem …’

  ‘But we don’t actually know what the problem is, do we?’

  ‘Your infertility remains unexplained, certainly. But after this long without contraception and without a pregnancy, it’s safe to say that there is a problem. Not with your husband’s sperm, we know that much, but …’

  ‘Me. You mean that the problem is me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, no.’ He put his glasses back on and picked up the thick wad of papers that made up my medical notes, skimming through the top couple of sheets and reminding himself of the facts. ‘You appear to be ovulating, and your periods are reasonably regular, but our tests have shown a blockage in one of your tubes, so …’

  ‘Yes, I know that. But I still have the other one, don’t I? It only needs one tube to make a baby.’

  ‘It does indeed. But making a baby is not happening, is it? We have come to the point where you are in need of more specialist help. IVF may indeed be the best option left to you, other than waiting and hoping, which, as your doctor, is not a course of action I’d recommend. At your age …’

  ‘There you go again. My age.’

  ‘What I’m trying to say is that IVF may well be our preferred choice but the NHS is very unlikely to offer treatment to a woman over the age of thirty-five. In fact, to be blunt …’

  ‘But I’m not thirty-five. Not yet.’ This couldn’t be right. What was he saying? That the sorry-we-can’t-help-you signs would come down like steel shutters the moment some calendar said I was past my prime? No, I was still young. We both were. And we had a good marriage, Dan and me, a home of our own, a nursery all painted and waiting, things so many younger would-be parents didn’t have to offer a child. ‘I still have a year …’

  ‘That’s true, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘The NHS waiting time is currently standing at two years, Mrs Campbell. I’m sorry, but by the time you reach the top of the list you will already be too old.’

  ***

  ‘I suppose we could adopt.’

  ‘Dan! I can’t believe you just said that.’

  ‘Lots of people do. And there are babies out there needing good homes, aren’t there?’

  ‘Maybe so, but why would we want to do that, when we can have one of our own?’

  ‘But we can’t, can we? Be realistic, sweetheart. It’s not happening, and it might not ever happen. The one we lost just might be the only one we were ever meant to have.’

  ‘Meant to have? You make it sound like the whole thing is pre-ordained somehow. Written in the stars, or something. Fate.’

  ‘Maybe it is. But it’s been a long time now and we have to face facts. So, I think we should start looking at alternatives, don’t you? Before we really are too old.’

  ‘How can you be so defeatist?’ I knew I was starting to shout, but why on earth couldn’t Dan see things the way I did? What did he expect us to do, exactly? Just because some doctor thought we were wasting our time, we should nod our heads like obedient sheep, lie down and take it, just give up? ‘Don’t you want a baby that looks like you? Or me? One that’s really ours, one they can make from our own genes and stuff?’

  ‘Make from our own genes and stuff?’ He was laughing at me now. ‘Very scientific, I’m sure …’

  ‘So I may not be Einstein, and I freely admit I don’t know enough about how IVF works, but I do know I’m not ready to give up just yet. Maybe not ever. Having babies is a natural thing, isn’t it? It’s sort of what we’re here for, to keep the species going. And if Auntie Nora could do it at forty, why the hell shouldn’t I?’

  ‘But IVF, Kate? Really? It’s still quite experimental, you know. Needles and scans, and getting pumped full of dodgy drugs with who knows what kind of side-effects, and all the fertilising bit done in
some lab somewhere without either of us even being there. It’s so clinical, I don’t think actually having sex comes into it at all. And you call that natural? Nobody even really knows why it works, or why it doesn’t. And, let’s be honest, it usually doesn’t.’

  ‘How do you know? What makes you such an expert all of a sudden?’

  ‘Okay, so I’ve been reading up a bit about it. Researching things. It’s what I always do, before I go into anything new. You know that.’

  ‘Like reading Which? magazine, you mean? Customer reviews and checking out value for money? For God’s sake, Dan, this isn’t quite the same as buying a new washing machine or a fancy lawn mower, is it?’

  ‘Why not? Look, if the NHS is a no-go, and you’re so dead set against adoption, then there’s only one way left, isn’t there? And that’s to go private. If we’re going to invest a fortune in trying for this baby of yours …’

  ‘Ours.’

  ‘Yes, ours. I meant ours. But, if we do, then I want to make sure we choose the best clinic. Look at what’s involved. Where they are. What they cost. The ones with the best results …’

  ‘You mean it?’ I hadn’t seen that coming. ‘No adoption? We can really do this? IVF? And find a way to pay for it?’

  ‘If it means that much to you, yes. But it’s not cheap, Kate. We could try it once, twice, God knows how many times, totally bankrupt ourselves, and still end up with nothing.’

  ‘Or with a baby.’

  ‘Yes. If we’re lucky, with a baby.’

  I slung my arms around his neck and hugged him so tightly he had to push me away before I stopped the air getting to his lungs. ‘Thank you, Dan,’ I said, the tears flooding into my eyes. ‘And it will work. Whatever the stars have to say about it, luck will be on our side. I just know it will.’

  Chapter 14

  Beth, 2017

  Beth slathered a big dollop of rose-scented hand cream onto her palms and rubbed her hands together, fingers slipping between each other and up and down over her thumbs, trying to smooth the roughness of her skin and remove the lingering smell of perming lotion. She always wore gloves when chemicals were involved, but somehow the smells still got through. Her nails were looking ragged too. Time for a bit of a pampering session with a giant emery board, a little bottle of shiny varnish and a much bigger bottle of Pinot in front of a mushy DVD.