The Samaritans it was. I had seen endless ads crying out for recruits, so they were obviously desperate. I spent a long time deciding what to wear to the initial meeting and finally opted for dungarees, a pair of sandals that I bought in Scholl (luckily I didn’t bump into anyone I knew in there – I’d never live that one down) and tied a red bandanna round my head in the manner of Leroy in Fame.
When I arrived to my local Samaritan centre, the place was heaving with men and women dressed in smart suits, including the lady from the Samaritans. I felt like a complete plonker
The meeting went quite well as, thankfully, we didn’t have to ‘care and share’ or give impassioned presentations on what talents we had to offer. I decided to sign up for the training. It couldn’t be that bad – could it? After all, I spent hours listening to my friends complaining, so I was quite confident I’d be a whiz on the phones.
The training – which took place over a six-week period, every Wednesday night and all day Sundays (I’d better have twins at this rate of do-gooderness) – proved intense. The team leaders kept asking us how we felt about death and losing people close to us. Everyone was nodding and staring at their feet, remembering lost loved ones. Well, I’ve never lost someone close to me except Garfield – if you can count a cat. I tried to remember how sad I was when he got run over by a car, but it was so long ago that I couldn’t even picture what he looked like and kept imagining the cartoon cat, which made me want to laugh.
Then we had to discuss topics like abortion, euthanasia, crime and anorexia. It was all a bit stressful. None of my group seemed to have a sense of humour. When I said that my father prayed for euthanasia to be legalized, so he could suffocate my granny in her sleep and save the rest of us from her constant moaning, there was a deathly silence.
The team leader took me aside and asked me if I really thought the Samaritans was for me, and explained – as if to a three-year-old child – that while it was great to have a sense of humour in life euthanasia was no laughing matter.
After tea-break we did our first role-play where you had to pretend to be a Samaritan and deal with the caller’s problem. Darryl, a very intense middle-aged volunteer from Belfast, was playing my caller. He was pretending to be a woman who was a victim of physical abuse.
‘Samaritans, can I help you?’ I said, in my most sympathetic voice. I decided to try a deep, neutral sounding voice .
Darryl looked at me strangely. ‘Yes, hello. I’m in a terrible state. I don’t know what to do. You see, my husband . . .’
‘Mmm, I see, so you’re married, then?’
‘Em, yes, I am, actually. Anyway, my husband . . .’
‘Where did you two meet?’
‘Well, in university. Anyway, the thing is he beats me and I just don’t—’
‘Do you mean to say he’s beaten you more than once?’
‘Well, yes, that’s why I’m calling,’ hissed Darryl, glaring at me. ‘I’m a victim of abuse and I’m feeling so depressed. I think I just want to end it all.’
‘Well, I don’t blame you, that’s dreadful. But you should never have let him thump you twice. Next time he does it, get out a baseball bat and give that son-of-a-bitch a belt over the head with it that he’ll never forget,’ I said.
Darryl glared at me, mumbled, ‘Pathetic,’ under his breath and stomped out of the room.
The team leader took me aside and reminded me of the Samaritans’ golden rules, most of which I had broken: never give advice, never interrupt, never judge . . . Then she asked me to go home and have a nice long think about why I wanted to be a Samaritan and maybe to look at other forms of community service.
After much reflection on the short journey home, I decided not to continue with the Samaritans but to use the listening skills I had learned during the training in my everyday life. I would become an excellent, non-judgemental listener, so that all my friends and family would come to me first with their problems and, hopefully, that would be do-gooderish enough.
15
A few weeks later Henry called us to say that Imogen had given birth to healthy twin girls. He was over the moon, as were James’s parents. I forced myself to be enthusiastic, congratulated Henry, told him how wonderful it was to have two beautiful daughters and how I couldn’t wait to see them. James then spoke to Henry again and all I could hear was, ‘Of course we’ll come, we wouldn’t dream of not being there . . . We’ll come for a long weekend . . . It’ll be great to see everyone . . . What’s that? . . . Oh, wow, Henry, that’s really nice of you, she’ll be thrilled. Hold on, I’ll put Emma back on now.’ He handed me the phone. ‘Henry wants to ask you something,’ he said, smiling at me.
‘Emma,’ said Henry, sounding all formal, ‘Imogen and I would like you to be godmother to little Sophie.’
My heart sank. I felt sick. The last thing in the world I wanted was to be godmother to Imogen’s kid. Besides, I knew they were only asking me because we had no kids and they felt sorry for me. ‘Oh, Henry, that is so nice, but I’m sure Imogen has friends she’d much rather ask.’
James poked me and mouthed, ‘What are you doing?’ I slapped his hand away.
‘Not at all, Emma, it’s you we want,’ said Henry.
‘OK, then, I’d be delighted. Thanks for asking me. It’s really sweet of you.’
‘Excellent. We’ll see you in a few weeks’ time for the christening.’
‘Super.’
I hung up and sat down on the couch. I thought I was going to throw up. The last place in the world I wanted to be was at a christening.
‘Emma, it was a bit rude of you to refuse at first,’ said James. ‘It was really thoughtful of Henry and Imogen to ask you to be godmother. I thought you’d be chuffed.’
I looked at him. He just didn’t get it. He tried to and he was really supportive, but he just didn’t really get it. ‘James, why on earth would someone desperately trying to have a baby want to be godmother to someone else’s child, especially when it’s someone they don’t really get on with?’
‘You get on well with Henry and I thought Imogen was growing on you. Besides, it’ll be nice for you to be involved in the christening.’
‘I’d rather set fire to myself.’
‘Emma!’
‘No, I really mean that. I can think of nothing worse than having to go to the christening and stand there while everyone coos over the two beautiful twins and tells their parents how lovely they are and analyses who they look like and says how wonderful it is for Thomas to have two sisters and how you never know the true meaning of the word ‘‘love’’ until you have a child and how your life is not really full or complete until you experience the joy of motherhood. And then they’ll all stare at me and ask when I’m going to have children – you know, James, for some mad reason I just don’t really fancy that.’
‘Oh, come on, stop exaggerating. It won’t be that bad and people don’t go on like that.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. Men don’t go on like that to other men, but men and women go on like that to other women. We get the brunt of it, believe me. It’s just like when you’re single and people in relationships go on about the joy of finding your soulmate and the special bond that marriage brings and how they can’t imagine being alone and then say things like ‘‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll meet someone soon . . . plenty of fish in the sea . . . How do you have the energy to go out all the time, we prefer to stay in . . .’’ and you want to scream, ‘‘I’m flipping exhausted! I’m sick of going to nightclubs but if I stay in, alone, I’ll probably slit my wrists.’’’
James shook his head. ‘How did we get from you being godmother to slitting your wrists because you’re alone on a Saturday night?’
‘Because I’m trying to explain to you how difficult it can be. You’re tormented when you’re single, then if you get married, you’re constantly quizzed about having a baby, and then if you’re lucky enough to have one child, you’re asked if you’re going to have another and if,
God forbid, you have two children of the same sex you’ll be asked if you’re going to try for another child in the hope that it will be a different sex, and if it isn’t, everyone will look at you with pity and say, ‘‘Ah, well, maybe you’ll go again.’’ That’s what I’m trying to explain to you, because that’s what it’s like.’
‘Well, next time anyone asks you if you’re planning to have kids, tell them to sod off and mind their own business.’
‘Oh, yeah, sure. I can just see myself telling Imogen’s mother to sod off at the christening. It’s not that easy.’ ‘She’s a bit of a battle-axe, it wouldn’t be that difficult. I’m sure you could manage it.’
‘It’s not funny, James. I really don’t want to go to the christening and now it’s a million times worse because I’m godmother. Why the hell did they have to ask me?’
‘They were trying to be nice, Emma, wanting you to feel included. It’s a pretty big honour to be asked to be godmother, you know,’ James said, and before I could answer he added quickly, ‘I can see that a christening is not your ideal day out right now, but you just need to calm down. It’ll be fine,’ he said, and turned on the TV. He clearly didn’t want to continue this conversation.
There was no point in arguing any further. James didn’t really understand why I was freaking out and I didn’t want him to think I was totally ungrateful to his brother for asking me to be godmother. I had a sneaking suspicion that James had told Henry we were trying for a baby and that was why I’d been asked. It was a pity-ask. There was only one thing for it: I’d have to look sensational so that no one would be tempted to feel sorry for me. I didn’t want anyone’s pity. Besides, I thought, in a lame attempt to cheer myself up, it was weeks away, I might be pregnant by then but I needed to relax, like Dr Philips had said, and stop getting so wound up.
I woke up the next day and had a stern talk with myself. Getting het up was bad for me. I had to force myself to be calmer and more Zen-like. I decided to try yoga. Lucy swore by it – mind you, she never seemed that chilled out herself. Still, all the magazines and health columns raved about it so it was worth a shot.
I went down to the gym to see what they had on offer. Astanga yoga, Hatha yoga, Iyengar yoga, Sivananda yoga and Pilates. I had only heard of Astanga and Pilates and there happened to be an Astanga class beginning five minutes later, so I opted for that.
A tall, lithe woman of about fifty was taking it. There were ten other people in the room and they all seemed to know each other. There was lots of ‘Are you going on the Astanga weekend in Kerry?’ and ‘How’s that knee injury?’ The teacher introduced herself as Anna and asked if there were any beginners. No one put up their hand so I didn’t either. I just wanted to sit at the back of the class and try to blend in.
‘And we begin with Samasthiti, the first stage of Tadasan,’ said Anna.
I looked around and everyone was sweeping their arms up over their heads and staring at their thumbs. So far, so good.
‘. . . and swan dive into forward bend, nose towards your knees, fingers level with toes.’
While the rest of the class bent their bodies effortlessly in half, my nose was parallel to my belly-button and my fingers were gripping on to my knees. At least Anna was bent double and couldn’t see my pathetic attempts.
‘. . . Downward Dog, tailbone reaches towards the ceiling, press hard into the hands – arms straight, shoulders working, chest drops between the armpits pressing towards the thighs, press the heels down to lengthen the hamstrings.’
Everyone dived down – hands and feet flat on the mat with their bums sticking up in the air. I followed suit. A lot of very loud, raspy breathing ensued. It was very offputting. They all sounded as if they were being strangled. I was going purple and gasping for air as the blood rushed to my head.
It was between the Warrior and the Upward-facing Dog that Anna spotted me for the intruder I was. ‘You, in the pink top,’ she barked, as I collapsed from my pathetic attempt at the position, ‘how many times have you done yoga before?’
The class all turned from beneath their postures to glare at me. They sighed and shook their heads. Clearly a beginner was the scourge of this yoga class. I was now purple from embarrassment as well as blood rush.
‘Oh, well . . . uhm, just once,’ I lied.
‘You should have told me you were a beginner,’ she snapped, as she strode over and began twisting my body into positions that defied gravity and sanity. I was in agony but too afraid of her to complain. She twisted my head one way, my shoulders the other, and my tailbone (I thought only animals had those) until I was sweating profusely and crying with pain. I thought the class would never end. When it finally did, I hobbled out the door and went straight home to soak in the bath. Relaxing – my arse! I had never been so humiliated or tortured in my life. Anna was a sadist and the class were a bunch of pompous yoga-ists. Never again. I’d have to find a less painful way to relax.
As I was watching Netflix on the couch later that night, munching chocolate fingers, I felt very relaxed. Maybe this was my way of chilling out. It might not be healthy, good for the figure or stimulating to the mind, but it was a whole lot more fun than trying to salute the sun as a Downward Dog warrior.
16
Three months and another phantom pregnancy after my visit to Dr Philips, I still wasn’t pregnant. I was feeling really despondent, on top of which the christening was looming. We were off in a couple of days and I was dreading it. I was feeling very sorry for myself when my mother called. ‘Hi, it’s Mum, how are you?’
‘Crap.’
‘Do you have to use that word? It’s so common.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Oh, I can see you’re in a mood. What’s wrong with you?’
‘What is wrong with me, Mother, is that I’ve been trying to get pregnant for ten months and have nothing to show for it.’
‘I told you it would take time.’
‘Can you, please, for once in your life, not do the I-told-you-so thing?’
‘There’s no need to take your anger out on me, young lady. I realize it must be frustrating but these things take time. You can’t rush it.’
‘Ten months is not rushing it.’
‘Well, getting yourself into a heap about it won’t help. You have to keep busy and stop thinking about it all the time. Let nature take its course. Take on more work and keep your mind off it.’
‘Mum, I’ve been doing three weddings a week on top of my slot with Amanda Nolan on Afternoon with Amanda. I’m very busy.’
‘That brazen hussy ruining that poor man’s political career,’ Mum said, referring to John Bradley’s political demise after the story of his affair with Amanda broke. My mother was a staunch supporter of Bradley’s party and had been devastated when he was forced to resign.
‘He’s the one who was married, Mum. He’s the one who cheated on his wife. Amanda’s single,’ I said, defending her. She was one of the few people I enjoyed spending time with any more. She didn’t have any children and had no interest in talking about them. She said she had seen far too many women changed by motherhood from fun loving interesting people to one-track obsessives, and decided it was not for her. She thought I was mad wanting to get pregnant and was constantly trying to change my mind. She was very funny about it, and always made me laugh. I liked her for being different: it made a nice change from hearing and reading that you’re not complete as a person until you have a child.
‘She’s a well-known girl-about-town. John Bradley was a fine politician. The party’s not the same since he left. That new fella, Finnegan, is useless.’
‘Well, Bradley should have kept his penis in his trousers, then, shouldn’t he?’
‘Emma! There’s no need to be vulgar. You’re being very contrary. I hope you’re being nice to James. You’d want to be careful, Emma. You need to mind your man. If he comes home to a grumpy face every night he’ll run off with a pretty young one with a spring in her step.’
‘Well
, that’s great. Thanks, Mum, just what I needed to hear. Thanks for cheering me up by telling me my husband is going to run off with someone else. Is it too much to ask for a little sympathy for my predicament, particularly as I have this christening coming up?’
‘Now, listen to me, Emma. You’re to stop feeling sorry for yourself and go to that christening with a smile on your face. Nobody likes a whinger. I know it’s not the ideal situation, but you’ve been asked to be godmother to that little girl and you’ve accepted, so you must go and be gracious and charming. Everyone has their own problems, you’re not the only person to go through this and you won’t be the last. So just try to buck up and think positively. Now, go and put some lipstick on and a nice skirt and welcome your husband home with a cheery smile. I’ll call you before you go.’
Aaaargh, my mother had the most amazing ability to wind me up. I was in a rage now. God, what century were we living in? ‘Go and put some lipstick on’ – had she missed the whole feminist movement? Where had she been in the sixties? I glanced at my reflection in the hall mirror as I passed it. I stopped and stared down at my saggy tracksuit bottoms, oversized long-sleeved T-shirt and slippers. My hair was due a wash and I wasn’t wearing any makeup. I looked a state. But I was enjoying looking like this. It suited my mood – foul. I stomped back to my horizontal position on the couch.
The Baby Trail: How far would you go to have a baby? (The Baby Trail Series (USA) Book 1) Page 11
