I heard that wailing again last night.
It was exactly 2:48 am when the sound forced me out of my sleep. I felt my whole body go tense.
"Martin," I whispered, "Martin, can you hear it?" I reach across and rubbed his shoulder. He moaned slowly. I think I may have heard him say, "What?"
"I can hear it again," I said. "Listen."
He shuffled around slightly and pulled the blanket up over his head.
"Martin," I hissed, allowing my voice to become louder. "Wake up. You can hear it clearly now."
The wails were filling the air. I was sure I wasn't imagining it. I think I actually heard the sound of a car going past the house at the same time as I heard the baby's crying, which sort of proved to me that I wasn't making it up, because if I could hear one 'real' sound, then surely the other one must have been real as well.
I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. I looked at the clock by my side again. Yes, I'd seen the time correctly: it was 2:49.
I cleared my throat. "Martin, you've got to get up." I pushed his shoulders again. "Martin, please!"
His voice emerged, thick and sleepy. "Oh, for God's sake, Pauline, what is it?"
"Listen!"
He turned to look at me, his eyes blinking. We remained silent for a while, looking at each other.
Suddenly, the sound was gone. Everything around us was silent.
"I just heard it a second ago," I said.
"Heard what?" he asked, lying back down again.
"You know what!" I pushed the blanket aside and walked up to the window, my feet cold on the carpet. "It was loud and it was clear. If you'd woken up ten seconds faster, you would've heard it too!"
He began pulling the blanket over himself again. "Pauline, please just let me get some sleep."
"But I heard it!"
"Yes, okay, you heard it. Now just get back to bed."
I walked over to his side of the bed and pulled the blanket off him. "No! I want you to stay up so you can hear it too!"
He looked into my eyes for a few seconds. Then, with a sudden release of tension, he bolted out of bed, grabbed a pillow and began walking towards the door. He stopped in the doorway for a moment and turned around. His voice was low and rigid. "No! YOU can stay up. YOU can spend another night listening for this fucking baby! I am going to get some sleep!" He slammed the door behind him.
I turned to the window, straining my ears.
No more sounds came. After about ten minutes, I got back into bed and tried to get to sleep.
Tuesday, 30 January 2007
Monday, 29 January 2007
Luck
I've been thinking about luck coming from unexpected quarters, ie blessings in disguise, the silver linings of clouds, all that sort of thing. Not in a general sense: specifically in relation to the death of a child. To put things very bluntly - and today I'm in a frame of mind which prevents my finding any reasons whatsoever for NOT putting EVERYTHING bluntly - I wonder if the manner of Jessica's death was 'lucky'.
Given that she had to die, given that Martin and I had to lose her... was the way in which she died a blessing in disguise?
I suppose what's brought this on is a forwarded email I received today about a child in a Third World country who has a rare form of cancer. His parents are trying to get people from around the world to donate money so that they can pay for a particularly expensive form of therapy which may well save the boy's life. [This is a digression, but I didn't make a donation. I suppose I'm just too suspicious of how real these emails are. But that's besides the point.]
The point - for me, anyway - is: if you've got to lose a child, then would it be better for the child to die of cancer or for the child to be plucked away from you suddenly and inexplicably, like Jessica was? Children die every single day, don't they? They must die in their thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. They must die in all sorts of different ways, some of which I'm sure must be so unusual or awful as to be scarcely believable. Are some of these ways 'better' than others? We talk of the elderly as having 'good' deaths, don't we? Why can't the same distinctions be applied to children?
When I take everything into account, I sometimes feel I have to concede that Jessica's death was 'good', as far as deaths ago... and as far as one can put aside the age of the person who has died. She wasn't in a horrible accident. She didn't have a terrible illness or disability. She didn't commit suicide. [Of course, she was too young to have been able to do that anyway, but I've discovered that children not much older than she was take their own lives every single day around the world.] She didn't have her life taken away by somebody else.
I must stop myself from dwelling on these things.
Given that she had to die, given that Martin and I had to lose her... was the way in which she died a blessing in disguise?
I suppose what's brought this on is a forwarded email I received today about a child in a Third World country who has a rare form of cancer. His parents are trying to get people from around the world to donate money so that they can pay for a particularly expensive form of therapy which may well save the boy's life. [This is a digression, but I didn't make a donation. I suppose I'm just too suspicious of how real these emails are. But that's besides the point.]
The point - for me, anyway - is: if you've got to lose a child, then would it be better for the child to die of cancer or for the child to be plucked away from you suddenly and inexplicably, like Jessica was? Children die every single day, don't they? They must die in their thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. They must die in all sorts of different ways, some of which I'm sure must be so unusual or awful as to be scarcely believable. Are some of these ways 'better' than others? We talk of the elderly as having 'good' deaths, don't we? Why can't the same distinctions be applied to children?
When I take everything into account, I sometimes feel I have to concede that Jessica's death was 'good', as far as deaths ago... and as far as one can put aside the age of the person who has died. She wasn't in a horrible accident. She didn't have a terrible illness or disability. She didn't commit suicide. [Of course, she was too young to have been able to do that anyway, but I've discovered that children not much older than she was take their own lives every single day around the world.] She didn't have her life taken away by somebody else.
I must stop myself from dwelling on these things.
Wednesday, 24 January 2007
Jam, continued
I asked the milk/sugar question. Yes to both; two spoons. I handed her a steaming mug. "Oh, I love the smell of coffee, don't you?" she said.
I smiled and nodded.
She looked around the kitchen. "This is a lovely house. Have you been in it long?"
"Oh, thank you. Yes, quite a while, I suppose. Just over three years. We haven't..."
"Oh my goodnes, that DOES make me feel ancient! You're calling three years a long time? I won't tell you how long Simon and I have lived over the road!"
"Why, how long have you lived there?"
She shook her head and looked away, as though embarrassed. "Twenty-three years last October!"
My mouth opened in surprise. "Oh my God! I don't know anyone who's lived in the same place that long! You must be really happy there, though."
She sighed and took a sip of her drink. "Yes, I suppose we are. But it's not just that. We couldn't possibly bear to move anywhere else, not even if we wanted to. We did talk about it once, but..." she began laughing again, "that was about fifteen years ago!"
"Oh, right!"
"No, we do like it here, really. I mustn't sound ungrateful. I think travelling and seeing the world and living in all sorts of different places must be wonderful - and there have been times when I've wondered what my life would've been like if I'd been less of a home body - but I think there's also a lot to be said for staying in one place for a good long while and really getting to know it."
"Absolutely."
"Travelling doesn't have to mean covering great distances, does it? At least not geographically."
I wasn't sure where this conversation was going. I found myself wondering why I'd invited this woman in, why I'd offered to make her a coffee, why she felt it was all right to come round to my house. "No," I said, dragging the word out.
"Have you done much travelling?" she asked.
"Me?" And why should I tell you if I have or I haven't, I thought. "Umm... no, not really. Just the usual. You know, skiing trips to France, beach holidays in Portugal."
"Portugal sounds lovely. The skiing's not my cup of tea, though. I prefer to leave that sort of thing to people less allergic to physical activity than I am."
Again, I couldn't help laughing briefly. "It's not as difficult as people make out, you know."
"Oh, no, no, I'm sure it isn't. But... well, each to their own."
There were a few moments of silence.
"Do you have any special plans for today?" she asked.
"Umm... no, not really. I just need to take care of a few things here and there. You know, a bit of cleaning. All that kind of thing."
"But the place is spotless. I wish my house were as clean as this."
"I seem to remember it being very clean when I saw it."
"That's because you only saw the porch!" She laughed again. "I make the most public areas as tidy as possible... but it's probably accurate to say that the cleanliness of each part of my house is inversely proportional to how frequently it's seen by friends and guests... and neighbours."
I had another sip of my chocolate. It was quite cold and tasteless by now. "Well, I'm sure that applies to everybody, doesn't it?"
"Yes, yes, I suppose so."
From where I was sitting, I managed to look into her mug without her realising. I saw she'd almost finished her drink. "Well, you really needn't have brought us the jam," I said, "but I know Martin will appreciate it very much. And I'm sure he'll enjoy trying it."
She looked alarmed for a fraction of a second. She placed her mug back on the table and stood up. "No, you really mustn't keep thanking me. It's a pleasure." She began walking towards the door. "And I'm really sorry to have barged in on you."
I smiled and followed her into the hall.
When I opened the front door, she turned to me and whispered. "You know... the reason why yo came to see me and my husband the other night? Do you... do you still hear the noises?"
I looked into her eyes, and although I saw nothing that should have given me cause for suspicion, I decided all I wanted at that moment was for her to leave my house. So I lied. "No. We haven't heard them for ages. In fact, we're pretty certain we must have imagined them. It was probably a fox or something, like you said."
She nodded and looked right into my eyes for a few moments. "Oh, right." She turned away and stepped outside. "Well, thanks very much for the coffee. You know you're more than welcome to pop in again for a drink and chat."
"Thank you." I began shutting the door. "And thanks again for the jam. Bye now."
"Bye bye."
And I shut the door, perhaps more firmly than I should have.
I smiled and nodded.
She looked around the kitchen. "This is a lovely house. Have you been in it long?"
"Oh, thank you. Yes, quite a while, I suppose. Just over three years. We haven't..."
"Oh my goodnes, that DOES make me feel ancient! You're calling three years a long time? I won't tell you how long Simon and I have lived over the road!"
"Why, how long have you lived there?"
She shook her head and looked away, as though embarrassed. "Twenty-three years last October!"
My mouth opened in surprise. "Oh my God! I don't know anyone who's lived in the same place that long! You must be really happy there, though."
She sighed and took a sip of her drink. "Yes, I suppose we are. But it's not just that. We couldn't possibly bear to move anywhere else, not even if we wanted to. We did talk about it once, but..." she began laughing again, "that was about fifteen years ago!"
"Oh, right!"
"No, we do like it here, really. I mustn't sound ungrateful. I think travelling and seeing the world and living in all sorts of different places must be wonderful - and there have been times when I've wondered what my life would've been like if I'd been less of a home body - but I think there's also a lot to be said for staying in one place for a good long while and really getting to know it."
"Absolutely."
"Travelling doesn't have to mean covering great distances, does it? At least not geographically."
I wasn't sure where this conversation was going. I found myself wondering why I'd invited this woman in, why I'd offered to make her a coffee, why she felt it was all right to come round to my house. "No," I said, dragging the word out.
"Have you done much travelling?" she asked.
"Me?" And why should I tell you if I have or I haven't, I thought. "Umm... no, not really. Just the usual. You know, skiing trips to France, beach holidays in Portugal."
"Portugal sounds lovely. The skiing's not my cup of tea, though. I prefer to leave that sort of thing to people less allergic to physical activity than I am."
Again, I couldn't help laughing briefly. "It's not as difficult as people make out, you know."
"Oh, no, no, I'm sure it isn't. But... well, each to their own."
There were a few moments of silence.
"Do you have any special plans for today?" she asked.
"Umm... no, not really. I just need to take care of a few things here and there. You know, a bit of cleaning. All that kind of thing."
"But the place is spotless. I wish my house were as clean as this."
"I seem to remember it being very clean when I saw it."
"That's because you only saw the porch!" She laughed again. "I make the most public areas as tidy as possible... but it's probably accurate to say that the cleanliness of each part of my house is inversely proportional to how frequently it's seen by friends and guests... and neighbours."
I had another sip of my chocolate. It was quite cold and tasteless by now. "Well, I'm sure that applies to everybody, doesn't it?"
"Yes, yes, I suppose so."
From where I was sitting, I managed to look into her mug without her realising. I saw she'd almost finished her drink. "Well, you really needn't have brought us the jam," I said, "but I know Martin will appreciate it very much. And I'm sure he'll enjoy trying it."
She looked alarmed for a fraction of a second. She placed her mug back on the table and stood up. "No, you really mustn't keep thanking me. It's a pleasure." She began walking towards the door. "And I'm really sorry to have barged in on you."
I smiled and followed her into the hall.
When I opened the front door, she turned to me and whispered. "You know... the reason why yo came to see me and my husband the other night? Do you... do you still hear the noises?"
I looked into her eyes, and although I saw nothing that should have given me cause for suspicion, I decided all I wanted at that moment was for her to leave my house. So I lied. "No. We haven't heard them for ages. In fact, we're pretty certain we must have imagined them. It was probably a fox or something, like you said."
She nodded and looked right into my eyes for a few moments. "Oh, right." She turned away and stepped outside. "Well, thanks very much for the coffee. You know you're more than welcome to pop in again for a drink and chat."
"Thank you." I began shutting the door. "And thanks again for the jam. Bye now."
"Bye bye."
And I shut the door, perhaps more firmly than I should have.
Tuesday, 23 January 2007
Jam
I was sitting in my kitchen the other day. Martin was out. My hands were wrapped around a large mug of hot chocolate. I was considering whether to turn up the heating when the doorbell rang. I looked up at the clock: 10 am. The postman had already been. I certainly wasn't expecting anyone. I thought I'd just ignore it, but a few moments later I heard a voice calling out, "Hello! Anyone in?"
I couldn't place it exactly, but the voice was familiar, so I put my mug on the table and walked across to the front door.
I opened it and was greeted by a smiling, elderly woman. "Oh, you are in. I'm not disturbing you, am I?" It took me a few seconds to recognise her: it was the woman from the house across the road, the one from which Martin and I think we can hear the baby's wailing.
"Oh, hi," I said, clearing my throat. "It's... Mandy, isn't it?"
She nodded, her smile widening. I noticed she was holding a carrier bag. "I'm not disturbing you, am I? Only, I thought you might like these?" She held up the bag.
I smiled back but couldn't think of what to say.
"Home-made jam," she continued. "I remembered your husband said he loves home-made jam, so I thought he might like to try some of mine."
I saw two large jars inside the bag. "Oh... thank you. That's really kind."
"Not at all. I made too much, I've still got plenty left over." She opened the bag. "You got some marmalade here, with real Seville oranges. This is the time of year for Seville oranges, you know. And the other one's blackberry. I have to say, I usually make blackberry jam in the summer with blackberries I've picked myself in our garden, but these were bought in a shop." She pushed the bag towards me. "They've made a fairly decent jam, though, if I do say so myself."
I found myself reaching out for the bag and taking it. "Oh, well, thank you. I don't really know what to say. You... you shouldn't have."
"Not at all. I hope you enjoy it. And I'm really sorry if I disturbed you. I don't make a habit of popping up unannounced, I can assure you."
"Oh, no, I wasn't doing anything at all. Just... sitting... having a hot drink..."
We stared at each other for a few moments. Her smile didn't fade for an instant.
"Would you...." I started. "Would you like to come in for a coffee?"
"Oh, I'd love one, to be honest!"
"Oh, well, please, come in." And that was when I realised that I was still wearing my dressing gown. I ran my fingers through my hair: it was in a complete mess. I pulled the dressing gown tighter around myself. I showed Mandy into the kitchen and said I'd be with her in a moment: I just needed to go upstairs "for something."
I ran up the stairs, threw the dressing gown on the floor, pulled on some jeans and a black T-shirt, brushed my hair and walked downstairs.
Mandy's brow furrowed as soon as she saw me. "Oh my goodness, you didn't need to get changed on my account! Oh, now I feel bad for just turning up."
I walked over to the kettle. "Oh no, no, it wasn't on your account at all. I was just about to get changed anyway. Tea or coffee?"
"Are you sure you don't mind my staying?"
I couldn't help smiling. "Absolutely. I wouldn't have invited you in otherwise."
"Well then, I'd love a coffee. And I promise I'll make it a quick one."
I opened the carrier bag which I'd placed on the table and pulled out one of the jars. "You really didn't have to do this, you know. It's very kind."
She smiled and shook her head. "Why don't you just try some. I'd love to know what you think of it."
I opened the jar; it was the blackberry. It certainly looked okay. "Ooh, smells lovely," I said. I looked up and saw her face beaming back at me.
"Have you got a scone by any chance?"
"Umm... no. And to be honest - and please don't take this the wrong way - I'm not really a jam person. I hope you don't mind. I never have jam. It's Martin who's really into jam. I'm sure he'll love it when he comes home. Do you mind if I... if I don't have any?"
Her smile flickered for just one moment, but she brushed my words away with her hand. "Don't be silly. It was mainly your husband I was thinking about anyway."
"Are you sure you don't mind?"
"Not at all."
I turned away to face the kettle. I was sure my cheeks were burning red, but there was no way I was going to try some "home-made jam" from some woman I barely knew who'd suddenly turned up on my doorstep.
I couldn't place it exactly, but the voice was familiar, so I put my mug on the table and walked across to the front door.
I opened it and was greeted by a smiling, elderly woman. "Oh, you are in. I'm not disturbing you, am I?" It took me a few seconds to recognise her: it was the woman from the house across the road, the one from which Martin and I think we can hear the baby's wailing.
"Oh, hi," I said, clearing my throat. "It's... Mandy, isn't it?"
She nodded, her smile widening. I noticed she was holding a carrier bag. "I'm not disturbing you, am I? Only, I thought you might like these?" She held up the bag.
I smiled back but couldn't think of what to say.
"Home-made jam," she continued. "I remembered your husband said he loves home-made jam, so I thought he might like to try some of mine."
I saw two large jars inside the bag. "Oh... thank you. That's really kind."
"Not at all. I made too much, I've still got plenty left over." She opened the bag. "You got some marmalade here, with real Seville oranges. This is the time of year for Seville oranges, you know. And the other one's blackberry. I have to say, I usually make blackberry jam in the summer with blackberries I've picked myself in our garden, but these were bought in a shop." She pushed the bag towards me. "They've made a fairly decent jam, though, if I do say so myself."
I found myself reaching out for the bag and taking it. "Oh, well, thank you. I don't really know what to say. You... you shouldn't have."
"Not at all. I hope you enjoy it. And I'm really sorry if I disturbed you. I don't make a habit of popping up unannounced, I can assure you."
"Oh, no, I wasn't doing anything at all. Just... sitting... having a hot drink..."
We stared at each other for a few moments. Her smile didn't fade for an instant.
"Would you...." I started. "Would you like to come in for a coffee?"
"Oh, I'd love one, to be honest!"
"Oh, well, please, come in." And that was when I realised that I was still wearing my dressing gown. I ran my fingers through my hair: it was in a complete mess. I pulled the dressing gown tighter around myself. I showed Mandy into the kitchen and said I'd be with her in a moment: I just needed to go upstairs "for something."
I ran up the stairs, threw the dressing gown on the floor, pulled on some jeans and a black T-shirt, brushed my hair and walked downstairs.
Mandy's brow furrowed as soon as she saw me. "Oh my goodness, you didn't need to get changed on my account! Oh, now I feel bad for just turning up."
I walked over to the kettle. "Oh no, no, it wasn't on your account at all. I was just about to get changed anyway. Tea or coffee?"
"Are you sure you don't mind my staying?"
I couldn't help smiling. "Absolutely. I wouldn't have invited you in otherwise."
"Well then, I'd love a coffee. And I promise I'll make it a quick one."
I opened the carrier bag which I'd placed on the table and pulled out one of the jars. "You really didn't have to do this, you know. It's very kind."
She smiled and shook her head. "Why don't you just try some. I'd love to know what you think of it."
I opened the jar; it was the blackberry. It certainly looked okay. "Ooh, smells lovely," I said. I looked up and saw her face beaming back at me.
"Have you got a scone by any chance?"
"Umm... no. And to be honest - and please don't take this the wrong way - I'm not really a jam person. I hope you don't mind. I never have jam. It's Martin who's really into jam. I'm sure he'll love it when he comes home. Do you mind if I... if I don't have any?"
Her smile flickered for just one moment, but she brushed my words away with her hand. "Don't be silly. It was mainly your husband I was thinking about anyway."
"Are you sure you don't mind?"
"Not at all."
I turned away to face the kettle. I was sure my cheeks were burning red, but there was no way I was going to try some "home-made jam" from some woman I barely knew who'd suddenly turned up on my doorstep.
Monday, 22 January 2007
Train
A few years ago, I didn't notice most of the mums and dads and kids around me. Now I seem to see them everywhere. I suppose this isn't surprising, really.
The other day, I had to go up to London on the train. I was sitting reading a newspaper and the train stopped at Haslemere, or it may have been Godalming. A family got on board: mum, dad, girl of about 7, boy of about 5. The woman caught my attention. Her face had a hard look, but she'd covered it under a layer of quite skillfully-applied make-up. Her hair was blond and arranged in a neat, recently-cut bob. She wore a black, wool coat and tight, shiny knee-length boots. The overall message seemed to be: "I may be a mother, but that doesn't make me a lost cause."
She plonked the kids in a pair of seats and sat across the aisle opposite her husband. He opened his green and red 'I'm a hiker' rucksack and pulled out two smaller cases. Each of the kids received one case, which they proceeded to open to reveal... portable DVD players. Up came the screens, out came the DVDs (Japanese anime), in popped the headphones. And that was that: the sum total of the parents' interaction with their children. I couldn't help myself from staring at them. It says a great deal about the mother and the father that they didn't seem to notice that the were being stared at almost all the way to London.
The children didn't speak to each other. The parents didn't speak to the children. The parents hardly even spoke to themselves. The woman pulled out a magazine from a handbag. The man got stuck into a paperback.
I suppose in a way I shouldn't find cause for complaint in this scenario. At least they weren't being loud or obnoxious or disruptive or rude. But in a way, that's what made the whole thing worse. The entire 40-odd minute trip to London was a lost opportunity. The parents could've interacted with the kids in so many ways. They could've pointed out the sights the train went past. They could've talked about what they were going to do when they reached their destination. They could have read a book together. If they absolutely had to watch a DVD, at least they could've watched the same one together. But no: the family trip was obviously meant to be conducted by four individuals who happened to be in the same family. Each person in their own cell and a cell for each person... a rechargeable cell at that, with Bluetooth headphones and wifi Internet access.
And then I think about myself and wonder if I would've been any different if I still had Jessica. It's easy for me to stare from a distance and pontificate, but I'm sure one of the main reasons why I feel the way I do at the moment is because I have experienced loss.
If Jessica had lived until she was 5 or 7, and Martin and I had decided to take her up to the Natural History Museum or the V&A, who's to say that I wouldn't have bought her a portable DVD player or a Nintendo DS or an iPod just to keep her 'happy' (ie quiet)?
One of my colleagues at work is the father of a two-year-old boy and the other day he was telling all of us how pleased he was that he'd managed to teach the boy to use the DVD player in his room.
"This way," he explained, "he doesn't have to wake us up on a Sunday morning. If he gets up before we do, he can stick his Thomas The Tank Engine DVD on by himself and so Cathy and I get to have a bit of a lie in."
Everybody laughed, but afterwards, in the loos, there were several muttered grumblings: "I'd like to see what THAT boy's going to be like as a teenager..."
Haven't parents always tried to find clever ways of keeping their children occupied? Colouring books, musical instruments, puzzles, physical games... But then I suppose the 'technology' which was needed for those activities wasn't quite so incisive. It didn't cut off all interaction between the person carrying out the activity and the parent/guardian/cousin/sibling/friend.
I can see I'm slipping into 21st century cliches now. Maybe in a few years' time babies will have Bluetooth headsets implanted into their skin at the same time as they get their measles injections. And maybe some scientists will work out that baby talk is actually a complex language and babies will use their headsets to communicate with each other - telepathy-style - and there won't be any need for them to learn languages like English or French and, within a couple of generations, the planet will be overrun by baby-talk-babbling, wired-up adults sitting still in their individual rooms in their individual houses.
I think next time I go on the train, I need to take my own MP3 player with me, shut my eyes and listen to my music.
That's if I ever listen to music again.
The other day, I had to go up to London on the train. I was sitting reading a newspaper and the train stopped at Haslemere, or it may have been Godalming. A family got on board: mum, dad, girl of about 7, boy of about 5. The woman caught my attention. Her face had a hard look, but she'd covered it under a layer of quite skillfully-applied make-up. Her hair was blond and arranged in a neat, recently-cut bob. She wore a black, wool coat and tight, shiny knee-length boots. The overall message seemed to be: "I may be a mother, but that doesn't make me a lost cause."
She plonked the kids in a pair of seats and sat across the aisle opposite her husband. He opened his green and red 'I'm a hiker' rucksack and pulled out two smaller cases. Each of the kids received one case, which they proceeded to open to reveal... portable DVD players. Up came the screens, out came the DVDs (Japanese anime), in popped the headphones. And that was that: the sum total of the parents' interaction with their children. I couldn't help myself from staring at them. It says a great deal about the mother and the father that they didn't seem to notice that the were being stared at almost all the way to London.
The children didn't speak to each other. The parents didn't speak to the children. The parents hardly even spoke to themselves. The woman pulled out a magazine from a handbag. The man got stuck into a paperback.
I suppose in a way I shouldn't find cause for complaint in this scenario. At least they weren't being loud or obnoxious or disruptive or rude. But in a way, that's what made the whole thing worse. The entire 40-odd minute trip to London was a lost opportunity. The parents could've interacted with the kids in so many ways. They could've pointed out the sights the train went past. They could've talked about what they were going to do when they reached their destination. They could have read a book together. If they absolutely had to watch a DVD, at least they could've watched the same one together. But no: the family trip was obviously meant to be conducted by four individuals who happened to be in the same family. Each person in their own cell and a cell for each person... a rechargeable cell at that, with Bluetooth headphones and wifi Internet access.
And then I think about myself and wonder if I would've been any different if I still had Jessica. It's easy for me to stare from a distance and pontificate, but I'm sure one of the main reasons why I feel the way I do at the moment is because I have experienced loss.
If Jessica had lived until she was 5 or 7, and Martin and I had decided to take her up to the Natural History Museum or the V&A, who's to say that I wouldn't have bought her a portable DVD player or a Nintendo DS or an iPod just to keep her 'happy' (ie quiet)?
One of my colleagues at work is the father of a two-year-old boy and the other day he was telling all of us how pleased he was that he'd managed to teach the boy to use the DVD player in his room.
"This way," he explained, "he doesn't have to wake us up on a Sunday morning. If he gets up before we do, he can stick his Thomas The Tank Engine DVD on by himself and so Cathy and I get to have a bit of a lie in."
Everybody laughed, but afterwards, in the loos, there were several muttered grumblings: "I'd like to see what THAT boy's going to be like as a teenager..."
Haven't parents always tried to find clever ways of keeping their children occupied? Colouring books, musical instruments, puzzles, physical games... But then I suppose the 'technology' which was needed for those activities wasn't quite so incisive. It didn't cut off all interaction between the person carrying out the activity and the parent/guardian/cousin/sibling/friend.
I can see I'm slipping into 21st century cliches now. Maybe in a few years' time babies will have Bluetooth headsets implanted into their skin at the same time as they get their measles injections. And maybe some scientists will work out that baby talk is actually a complex language and babies will use their headsets to communicate with each other - telepathy-style - and there won't be any need for them to learn languages like English or French and, within a couple of generations, the planet will be overrun by baby-talk-babbling, wired-up adults sitting still in their individual rooms in their individual houses.
I think next time I go on the train, I need to take my own MP3 player with me, shut my eyes and listen to my music.
That's if I ever listen to music again.
Friday, 19 January 2007
Wall
I've been drawn away from writing about the party. I'll finish that particular story some other time.
I've been thinking of the consequences of the weather we've been having. A two year old boy was killed whilst out for a walk with his childminder. A wall collapsed onto him.
That's set me off thinking all sorts of thoughts, most of which I'd rather not be thinking.
Would that have been a better way? was the first question I asked myself. Would that have been a better way than Jessica's?
I've been trying to imagine how the parents would have been informed. I suppose my social diet of films and TV programmes is partly to blame, but I keep picturing a scenario in which the childminder walks into the house - trembling with fear - and sees Mr and Mrs Parent engaged in some hideously cuddly domestic activity, like making their own jam. Mrs Parent immediately senses that something's wrong. "What's the matter, Natasha?" she asks.
At which point Natasha falls to her knees, throws her arms around Mrs Parent's legs and screams, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I tried to save him, there was nothing we could do."
No, I think it's safe to assume that the reality was rather different.
At what point would the parents have come to know about what had happened? Which of them would have been told first? I expect it was the mother. Would it have been a phone call from the childminder? Was she in a fit enough state to make a call? The news reports are sketchy on details of her injuries. I suppose she would've called an ambulance first. And then what? Apparently someone on the scene gave the boy mouth-to-mouth.
What would it have been like to have been the mother of that boy, getting a phone call from the childminder.
"Hello."
[bawling, weeping] "Oh my God, Mrs Smith. Jakey's hurt. He's badly hurt. Oh my God!"
"Hello? Natasha? Is that you?"
"Mrs Smith, you've got to come quick, it's Jake." [a deep breath to compose her thoughts and control her crying] "He's just lying there. He's not moving. The man says he's not breathing."
[the blood's drained out of her voice] "Natasha, where are you? What's happened?"
"The wall. It was the wall. We were just walking and... [sobbing] oh my God, oh my God, I'm so sorry, Jakey, Jakey..."
"Natasha! Please, calm down! Where are you? What happened?"
[responding to the urgency in Mrs Smith's voice] "We were walking. Jakey and I. It was windy. You know, the storm. We were walking past this wall. He was holding my hand. There was this sudden gust of wind. And then next thing I knew, I was lying on the pavement, covered in bricks. And I looked around. But I couldn't move properly. And I saw Jakey's hand. It was sticking out from under... under a pile of bricks... and... and... oh my God, Mrs Smith, he's not moving, he's not moving."
"Where are you? Have you phoned an ambulance?"
[focussing again] "Yeah, yeah, we have. This man, he helped me up. And I called an ambulance. And they're on their way. And he's giving Jakey mouth-to-mouth."
"Where are you?"
"We're... we're near the Post Office in the Co-op. You know, just near the crossroads."
"Right, I'm on my way."
How far away was she from the crossroads near the Co-op? What if she was nowhere near home on that day? What if she was away on some business meeting somewhere in another county? What if she doesn't work at all, but hires the services of a childminder every now and then so she can have the ocassional girls' day out with her friends? What if she was in a bar enjoying an early marguerita, nibbling on olives and cheese straws?
When does she phone her husband? Before she gets in the car? During the journey?
"Something's happened to Jakey. I've just had call from Natasha. They were out for a walk and a... she said a wall collapsed on him."
"What??"
"And she's had to call an ambulance 'cause he's not moving. How soon can you get there?"
"Where are they?"
And so the vital piece of information is conveyed again and another person begins to speed towards the crossroads by the Co-op.
What's Mrs Smith thinking during her drive? Does she put on the radio to drown out her thoughts? Something loud and brazen. Does she hold onto the steering wheel so tight that her fingers feel sore for days afterwards? Does she feel a tear falling down her left cheek and then fling it away, biting her lips, determined not to lose control?
No, she's probably on the phone to Natasha all the way during the journey. She keeps checking her mobile to make sure she's got enough battery left. She tries to remember when was the last time she charged her Bluetooth.
"Is the ambulance there yet?"
[her voice now more rigid] "No. I phoned ages ago. I don't know where the nearest hospital is."
"Is he breathing."
[to someone else] "Is he breathing yet?" [back into the phone] "No, no he's not. The man says he can keep going with the mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance comes. [pause] It's Mr Smith on the other line again. What shall I do?"
"No! Don't hang up! I need you to stay on the line to me!"
[This will probably be the point about which they will argue for weeks and months. It might even be the thing that leads to their divorce.]
"But he keeps phoning!"
"NO! I've told him where you are. I'll call him myself in a minute."
[pause] "They're here! They're coming. The ambulance is here."
Mrs Smith can hear the sirens. Her stomach churns and squeezes tight. She thinks she's going to be sick but she pushes down the accelerator and keeps going. She hears car doors slamming. She hears voices shouting, Natasha talking, explaining the events again.
Was that a red light she just went through?
Suddenly, she realises Natasha's calling her again. "Mrs Smith. Mrs Smith, you there?"
"What? Yes, yes, what is it?"
"They're taking Jakey to... [speaking to someone else] Where? [back into the phone again] They're taking him to... [and she gives the name of the hospital]"
"Is he going to be ok?"
"They don't know. They've gotta take him to hospital."
"You go with him, Natasha."
"Yeah."
"Keep your phone on."
"Yeah."
"I'll start heading for the hospital."
"Yeah, all right."
Mrs Smith goes through a quick route-change in her head, makes a sudden left turn and is on her way to the hospital.
Natasha again. "Mr Smith's calling."
"No!"
"But... don't you want to tell him which hospital he's got to go to?"
"What?" [a pause] "Okay, I'll call him. But then I'm phoning you write back! Don't switch off your phone, even if the ambulance people tell you to!"
"Yeah, ok."
Mrs Smith phones her husband, spends about thirty seconds telling him the name of the hospital and the reason for Natasha's failure to answer his calls. Then she hangs up without telling him if Jakey's breathing. She tries Natasha's number, but there's no answer. The ambulance crew have probably told Natasha that the mobile would interfere with their equipment.
And then she really is left with her silence. Does she phone her husband? Who knows. I think I probably wouldn't have.
And then the rest of the story will probably be dominated by people in uniforms. Mrs Smith will arrive at the hospital and sprint into A&E. She'll see Natasha sitting on a chair, hands clasped together, eyes staring into the distance. She'll scream at the woman behind the counter: "Jake Smith!"
And then a small troupe will gather around her and she will be whisked away and a few minutes later a man in a white gown will use words like "head injury", "sorry", "sustained" and "nothing more".
And will Mr Smith be by her side at this point? And when will they get a chance to see their little Jakey?
And after they've heard the story again from Natasha, will they ever want to speak to her again? Will they grow to hate her? I don't even know her, I don't even know if she's real, but I hate her just the same. I hate the fact that she chose the route she did. I hate the fact that she was walking on the outside of the pavement. I hate the fact that not one of her limbs has been horribly mangled, that she doesn't need serious medical attention.
Maybe that's the one good thing about all this: today, I'm not too numb to hate.
I've been thinking of the consequences of the weather we've been having. A two year old boy was killed whilst out for a walk with his childminder. A wall collapsed onto him.
That's set me off thinking all sorts of thoughts, most of which I'd rather not be thinking.
Would that have been a better way? was the first question I asked myself. Would that have been a better way than Jessica's?
I've been trying to imagine how the parents would have been informed. I suppose my social diet of films and TV programmes is partly to blame, but I keep picturing a scenario in which the childminder walks into the house - trembling with fear - and sees Mr and Mrs Parent engaged in some hideously cuddly domestic activity, like making their own jam. Mrs Parent immediately senses that something's wrong. "What's the matter, Natasha?" she asks.
At which point Natasha falls to her knees, throws her arms around Mrs Parent's legs and screams, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I tried to save him, there was nothing we could do."
No, I think it's safe to assume that the reality was rather different.
At what point would the parents have come to know about what had happened? Which of them would have been told first? I expect it was the mother. Would it have been a phone call from the childminder? Was she in a fit enough state to make a call? The news reports are sketchy on details of her injuries. I suppose she would've called an ambulance first. And then what? Apparently someone on the scene gave the boy mouth-to-mouth.
What would it have been like to have been the mother of that boy, getting a phone call from the childminder.
"Hello."
[bawling, weeping] "Oh my God, Mrs Smith. Jakey's hurt. He's badly hurt. Oh my God!"
"Hello? Natasha? Is that you?"
"Mrs Smith, you've got to come quick, it's Jake." [a deep breath to compose her thoughts and control her crying] "He's just lying there. He's not moving. The man says he's not breathing."
[the blood's drained out of her voice] "Natasha, where are you? What's happened?"
"The wall. It was the wall. We were just walking and... [sobbing] oh my God, oh my God, I'm so sorry, Jakey, Jakey..."
"Natasha! Please, calm down! Where are you? What happened?"
[responding to the urgency in Mrs Smith's voice] "We were walking. Jakey and I. It was windy. You know, the storm. We were walking past this wall. He was holding my hand. There was this sudden gust of wind. And then next thing I knew, I was lying on the pavement, covered in bricks. And I looked around. But I couldn't move properly. And I saw Jakey's hand. It was sticking out from under... under a pile of bricks... and... and... oh my God, Mrs Smith, he's not moving, he's not moving."
"Where are you? Have you phoned an ambulance?"
[focussing again] "Yeah, yeah, we have. This man, he helped me up. And I called an ambulance. And they're on their way. And he's giving Jakey mouth-to-mouth."
"Where are you?"
"We're... we're near the Post Office in the Co-op. You know, just near the crossroads."
"Right, I'm on my way."
How far away was she from the crossroads near the Co-op? What if she was nowhere near home on that day? What if she was away on some business meeting somewhere in another county? What if she doesn't work at all, but hires the services of a childminder every now and then so she can have the ocassional girls' day out with her friends? What if she was in a bar enjoying an early marguerita, nibbling on olives and cheese straws?
When does she phone her husband? Before she gets in the car? During the journey?
"Something's happened to Jakey. I've just had call from Natasha. They were out for a walk and a... she said a wall collapsed on him."
"What??"
"And she's had to call an ambulance 'cause he's not moving. How soon can you get there?"
"Where are they?"
And so the vital piece of information is conveyed again and another person begins to speed towards the crossroads by the Co-op.
What's Mrs Smith thinking during her drive? Does she put on the radio to drown out her thoughts? Something loud and brazen. Does she hold onto the steering wheel so tight that her fingers feel sore for days afterwards? Does she feel a tear falling down her left cheek and then fling it away, biting her lips, determined not to lose control?
No, she's probably on the phone to Natasha all the way during the journey. She keeps checking her mobile to make sure she's got enough battery left. She tries to remember when was the last time she charged her Bluetooth.
"Is the ambulance there yet?"
[her voice now more rigid] "No. I phoned ages ago. I don't know where the nearest hospital is."
"Is he breathing."
[to someone else] "Is he breathing yet?" [back into the phone] "No, no he's not. The man says he can keep going with the mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance comes. [pause] It's Mr Smith on the other line again. What shall I do?"
"No! Don't hang up! I need you to stay on the line to me!"
[This will probably be the point about which they will argue for weeks and months. It might even be the thing that leads to their divorce.]
"But he keeps phoning!"
"NO! I've told him where you are. I'll call him myself in a minute."
[pause] "They're here! They're coming. The ambulance is here."
Mrs Smith can hear the sirens. Her stomach churns and squeezes tight. She thinks she's going to be sick but she pushes down the accelerator and keeps going. She hears car doors slamming. She hears voices shouting, Natasha talking, explaining the events again.
Was that a red light she just went through?
Suddenly, she realises Natasha's calling her again. "Mrs Smith. Mrs Smith, you there?"
"What? Yes, yes, what is it?"
"They're taking Jakey to... [speaking to someone else] Where? [back into the phone again] They're taking him to... [and she gives the name of the hospital]"
"Is he going to be ok?"
"They don't know. They've gotta take him to hospital."
"You go with him, Natasha."
"Yeah."
"Keep your phone on."
"Yeah."
"I'll start heading for the hospital."
"Yeah, all right."
Mrs Smith goes through a quick route-change in her head, makes a sudden left turn and is on her way to the hospital.
Natasha again. "Mr Smith's calling."
"No!"
"But... don't you want to tell him which hospital he's got to go to?"
"What?" [a pause] "Okay, I'll call him. But then I'm phoning you write back! Don't switch off your phone, even if the ambulance people tell you to!"
"Yeah, ok."
Mrs Smith phones her husband, spends about thirty seconds telling him the name of the hospital and the reason for Natasha's failure to answer his calls. Then she hangs up without telling him if Jakey's breathing. She tries Natasha's number, but there's no answer. The ambulance crew have probably told Natasha that the mobile would interfere with their equipment.
And then she really is left with her silence. Does she phone her husband? Who knows. I think I probably wouldn't have.
And then the rest of the story will probably be dominated by people in uniforms. Mrs Smith will arrive at the hospital and sprint into A&E. She'll see Natasha sitting on a chair, hands clasped together, eyes staring into the distance. She'll scream at the woman behind the counter: "Jake Smith!"
And then a small troupe will gather around her and she will be whisked away and a few minutes later a man in a white gown will use words like "head injury", "sorry", "sustained" and "nothing more".
And will Mr Smith be by her side at this point? And when will they get a chance to see their little Jakey?
And after they've heard the story again from Natasha, will they ever want to speak to her again? Will they grow to hate her? I don't even know her, I don't even know if she's real, but I hate her just the same. I hate the fact that she chose the route she did. I hate the fact that she was walking on the outside of the pavement. I hate the fact that not one of her limbs has been horribly mangled, that she doesn't need serious medical attention.
Maybe that's the one good thing about all this: today, I'm not too numb to hate.
Wednesday, 17 January 2007
Meeting, continued
A few days later, I was walking back home from a day’s lectures and as I turned the corner into my street, I saw Martin emerge from my house. He cast a quick glance in my direction, but I’m nor sure he recognised me. He looked a bit worried about something, turned away from my front door and began walking away in the other direction.
I stepped inside the hall and saw Zoe sitting in the lounge, watching television. “What was up with Martin?” I asked. “He seemed totally preoccupied by something.”
My question had obviously caught her by surprise, because she wasn’t able to suppress a quick giggle. She hugged a cushion closer to herself, trying to cover her mouth with it. “Nothing,” she squeaked.
I laughed and shook my head. I knew I didn’t need to ask again. I walked into the kitchen and started making myself a cup of tea. Sure enough, after a few moments, Zoe bounced in behind me. "You're evil, you are," she said, jabbing me in the back with a finger.
I was doing my best not to make eye contact with her. I knew that was the best way of encouraging her to talk. "Why?"
"'Cause you've just made me be really mean to Martin."
I gave her a brief, quizzical look.
"You know the other day, yeah," she continued, "when you told Mike that Martin fancies him?"
I nodded.
"Well... I just told Martin that Mike fancies HIM!"
I couldn't stop myself from laughing briefly. "Why?" I asked.
"Oh come on! You said it'd be a good laugh. You should've seen his face. He looked so... so upset, like he'd hurt somebody."
I tried to put my most disapproving look on my face. "Zoe! For God's sake! You shouldn't go mucking about like that, not when someone really IS gay!"
"But he's not!"
"How d'you know?"
"'Cause I asked him."
"What, you just came out with it and said, 'Are you gay?'"
"Well.... yeah, basically." Her brow was beginning to furrow now. "He was totally okay about it. I just told him that Mike really likes him and I said something like, 'Is there anything I should tell Mike?'"
This time, I couldn't stop a loud guffaw from bursting out of me. "Oh my God! You didn't!"
"Well, yeah, I did. And he just said, 'Well, I'm not gay, if that's what you mean.' And I think that's when he started feeling a bit uncomfortable, so he made up some excuse about why he had to go."
"God, Zoe, you've probably traumatised him or something."
She laughed briefly, but then looked worried again. "Shall I... shall I give him a ring afterwards and tell him I was joking?"
"No!" I shouted. Then I lowered my voice. "No, there's no need for that, is there? I mean, if he really isn't gay, then no-one's being hurt by any of this."
Zoe was staring into my face, waiting to see what I'd say next.
"I reckon we should just leave things as they are," I said. "It's only a practical joke, isn't it? If we never say anything about it again, then it'll all just go away."
But of course, it didn't go away. Over the next few weeks, whenever we were with Mike, we teased him about the heart palpitations he was giving Martin every time his name was mentioned. And every time we bumped into Martin - which seemed to be happening more and more - we'd throw in the odd comment about how Mike was sorry he'd missed him or how Mike really liked his new trainers or how Mike was wondering if he'd seen the latest Almodovar.
Looking back on it all now, it all seems... well, 'childish' somehow doesn't even begin to describe it. Odd word, childish. I mean, is this the kind of thing that children really do. Maybe we tend to use the word 'childish' to describe such behaviour because it's a way of kidding ourselves that actually, 'adultish' would be a much more accurate word.
Anyway, we kept teasing and passing comments and making eyes and hiding behind giggles, until finally we decided to have a house party and to invite both Mike and Martin.
I stepped inside the hall and saw Zoe sitting in the lounge, watching television. “What was up with Martin?” I asked. “He seemed totally preoccupied by something.”
My question had obviously caught her by surprise, because she wasn’t able to suppress a quick giggle. She hugged a cushion closer to herself, trying to cover her mouth with it. “Nothing,” she squeaked.
I laughed and shook my head. I knew I didn’t need to ask again. I walked into the kitchen and started making myself a cup of tea. Sure enough, after a few moments, Zoe bounced in behind me. "You're evil, you are," she said, jabbing me in the back with a finger.
I was doing my best not to make eye contact with her. I knew that was the best way of encouraging her to talk. "Why?"
"'Cause you've just made me be really mean to Martin."
I gave her a brief, quizzical look.
"You know the other day, yeah," she continued, "when you told Mike that Martin fancies him?"
I nodded.
"Well... I just told Martin that Mike fancies HIM!"
I couldn't stop myself from laughing briefly. "Why?" I asked.
"Oh come on! You said it'd be a good laugh. You should've seen his face. He looked so... so upset, like he'd hurt somebody."
I tried to put my most disapproving look on my face. "Zoe! For God's sake! You shouldn't go mucking about like that, not when someone really IS gay!"
"But he's not!"
"How d'you know?"
"'Cause I asked him."
"What, you just came out with it and said, 'Are you gay?'"
"Well.... yeah, basically." Her brow was beginning to furrow now. "He was totally okay about it. I just told him that Mike really likes him and I said something like, 'Is there anything I should tell Mike?'"
This time, I couldn't stop a loud guffaw from bursting out of me. "Oh my God! You didn't!"
"Well, yeah, I did. And he just said, 'Well, I'm not gay, if that's what you mean.' And I think that's when he started feeling a bit uncomfortable, so he made up some excuse about why he had to go."
"God, Zoe, you've probably traumatised him or something."
She laughed briefly, but then looked worried again. "Shall I... shall I give him a ring afterwards and tell him I was joking?"
"No!" I shouted. Then I lowered my voice. "No, there's no need for that, is there? I mean, if he really isn't gay, then no-one's being hurt by any of this."
Zoe was staring into my face, waiting to see what I'd say next.
"I reckon we should just leave things as they are," I said. "It's only a practical joke, isn't it? If we never say anything about it again, then it'll all just go away."
But of course, it didn't go away. Over the next few weeks, whenever we were with Mike, we teased him about the heart palpitations he was giving Martin every time his name was mentioned. And every time we bumped into Martin - which seemed to be happening more and more - we'd throw in the odd comment about how Mike was sorry he'd missed him or how Mike really liked his new trainers or how Mike was wondering if he'd seen the latest Almodovar.
Looking back on it all now, it all seems... well, 'childish' somehow doesn't even begin to describe it. Odd word, childish. I mean, is this the kind of thing that children really do. Maybe we tend to use the word 'childish' to describe such behaviour because it's a way of kidding ourselves that actually, 'adultish' would be a much more accurate word.
Anyway, we kept teasing and passing comments and making eyes and hiding behind giggles, until finally we decided to have a house party and to invite both Mike and Martin.
Tuesday, 16 January 2007
Meeting
I've been thinking a lot today about how Martin and I met. I've got a friend who reckons she can pinpoint the specific moment when she decided that she would marry the man who later did become her husband. [In fact, I think I may have written about her in this blog already.] But I've been going over and over this question in my mind all day today, and I don't think I can identify a similar moment for myself. [In fact, now that I stop to think about, I think I may have written about this very subject not long ago. It's obviously playing on my mind at the moment.]
Put simply: Martin and I met at Uni. We were both in our second years. He was studying architecture. I was studying psychology. He was a friend of a friend. He may even have been a friend of a friend of a friend. I'm not sure of the exact number of the levels of separation that existed between us at first. I didn't find him in the least bit attractive. In fact, I think I thought of him as a bit of a pathetic hanger-on who always seemed to need to be around other people who were doing interesting things.
I remember he had a very annoying laugh. I suppose what I didn't like about it was that I found it nervous. And I was quite unforgiving in those days. Nervous meant insecure which meant pathetic which meant 'Sorry, haven't got any time for you in my life.' Even now, there are still moments when he can be a bit goofy-looking, but for some reason, that was the only side of him I noticed when we first met. His hair's quite curly, but he wore it quite long then, which meant that his eyes were nearly always covered by these ridiculous ringlets which he kept pushing across one side of his face or the other. He liked to think of himself as being a bit 'indie' when it came to his sense of dress, so I never saw him in anything other than tattered trainers and orange-and-brown-striped jumpers. He's always had a nice voice - gentle without being unmasculine - but I didn't realise that at the time either.
One thing I do remember was that the first time I met him, I was convinced he was gay. As I said, he was introduced to me as the friend of a housemate. I walked into the kitchen one day and there he was, having a cup of tea with Zoe. There were no sparks, no instant fireworks. "Martin, this is Pauline. Pauline, this is Martin." That was the sum total of Zoe's introduction. I nodded, said Hello, made myself a cup of tea and walked out again.
I remember that whilst I was waiting for the kettle to boil, the two of them were chatting about some film they'd been shown during a lecture which contained some of the best footage of the buildings of pre-war Berlin, or something along those lines.
After he'd left, I marched back into the kitchen, looked Zoe straight in the eyes and said, "Another one for your fag harem?"
She opened her eyes wide. "Who? Martin?"
I smiled and turned away, pretending I'd only walked into the kitchen to get some milk. Zoe laughed. "No! Come on! D'you really think he's gay?"
I looked at Zoe again and shook my head knowingly.
Zoe opened her mouth and laughed again. "But..." she said, "but, there isn't anything in the least bit gay about him... is there?"
"Why, d'you fancy him?" I asked.
She looked away instantly. "Oh, please! I hadn't even asked him to come round. He's just a friend of En's. En told Martin it would be all right to pop by and borrow a book off me. We're on the same course."
"Yes. I gathered that from the intellectual conversation you two were having."
"Oh my God, tell me about, what a load of bollocks! I didn't understand half the things he was going on about anyway."
At this point, I felt like I'd done my bit, so I just smiled again and turned around, ready to walk out.
"Hang on, P, wait." I stopped and looked at Zoe. "D'you... d'you really think he's gay?"
I laughed and walked out of the kitchen, calling out "What difference does it make, anyway?" as I went.
---
Later that evening, Zoe and I were sitting in our lounge watching TV, together with another friend of Zoe's, Mike.
I stretched out my leg and tapped Mike's knee with my toes. "Has Zoe told you about your new admirer?"
Mike smiled. "Eh?"
Zoe turned to look at me and I managed to give her a quick wink. "Haven't you told him yet?" I asked.
"Umm... no, not yet," she said. "I was gonna... I was gonna do it later."
Mike furrowed his brow. "What admirer?"
I turned to Zoe. "I can't believe you haven't told him yet."
"Well..." she said, "why don't you tell him, then?"
My smile widened and I turned to Mike. "Zoe's got this new friend, right?" Mike nodded. "He's called Martin and he's on the same course as her. Except that she can't quite work out why he's tagged on to her, 'cause all he ever seems to do is keep asking questions about you."
"Eh? What d'you mean?" Mike asked.
I nudged Zoe with my elbow. "Go on, tell him."
Zoe nodded and cleared her throat. "Yeah, yeah... it's a bit weird, really. He keeps asking how you and I met and are you enjoying the course and what are your plans after you finish Uni and are you into Spanish cinema, 'cause if you are, he's always on the look out for someone to go to the CineHouse with him."
"You're fucking having a laugh," Mike said, leaning back in his seat and scratching his chin.
"No, it's true," I said. "He keeps asking when you're going to be around here, but Zoe keeps putting him off by telling him she doesn't know."
"Well... what the hell does he want from me?"
I raised my eyebrows. "What do you THINK he wants, Mike?" I paused. "He's gay and he fancies you. Simple as that."
"What? Is he really?"
Zoe turned to look at me, giving me a steely stare. I ignored her. "Oh yeah," I said. "But don't worry, he's completely okay about and everything. He came out when he was 13. He was telling Zoe about it the other day. He obviously just finds you very attractive, that's all."
"Bloody hell," Mike muttered, shaking his head.
"I'm surprised Zoe's not told you this already," I said.
Zoe's voice became an undertone. "Yeah... can't imagine how it could've slipped my mind..."
"Anyway," I said, "it's no big deal. He fancies you and that's that. It's not like he's gonna get anywhere, is it, so there's no point thinking about it." I turned back to the television.
When Mike wasn't watching, Zoe reached across and pinched my arm. I managed to turn my squeal of pain into a loud cough.
A few hours later, after Mike had gone home, Zoe turned on me, demanding to know what I'd been playing it. "Oh, for God's sake, it's just a bit of fun," I said. "It's not like anyone's getting hurt, is it?"
Put simply: Martin and I met at Uni. We were both in our second years. He was studying architecture. I was studying psychology. He was a friend of a friend. He may even have been a friend of a friend of a friend. I'm not sure of the exact number of the levels of separation that existed between us at first. I didn't find him in the least bit attractive. In fact, I think I thought of him as a bit of a pathetic hanger-on who always seemed to need to be around other people who were doing interesting things.
I remember he had a very annoying laugh. I suppose what I didn't like about it was that I found it nervous. And I was quite unforgiving in those days. Nervous meant insecure which meant pathetic which meant 'Sorry, haven't got any time for you in my life.' Even now, there are still moments when he can be a bit goofy-looking, but for some reason, that was the only side of him I noticed when we first met. His hair's quite curly, but he wore it quite long then, which meant that his eyes were nearly always covered by these ridiculous ringlets which he kept pushing across one side of his face or the other. He liked to think of himself as being a bit 'indie' when it came to his sense of dress, so I never saw him in anything other than tattered trainers and orange-and-brown-striped jumpers. He's always had a nice voice - gentle without being unmasculine - but I didn't realise that at the time either.
One thing I do remember was that the first time I met him, I was convinced he was gay. As I said, he was introduced to me as the friend of a housemate. I walked into the kitchen one day and there he was, having a cup of tea with Zoe. There were no sparks, no instant fireworks. "Martin, this is Pauline. Pauline, this is Martin." That was the sum total of Zoe's introduction. I nodded, said Hello, made myself a cup of tea and walked out again.
I remember that whilst I was waiting for the kettle to boil, the two of them were chatting about some film they'd been shown during a lecture which contained some of the best footage of the buildings of pre-war Berlin, or something along those lines.
After he'd left, I marched back into the kitchen, looked Zoe straight in the eyes and said, "Another one for your fag harem?"
She opened her eyes wide. "Who? Martin?"
I smiled and turned away, pretending I'd only walked into the kitchen to get some milk. Zoe laughed. "No! Come on! D'you really think he's gay?"
I looked at Zoe again and shook my head knowingly.
Zoe opened her mouth and laughed again. "But..." she said, "but, there isn't anything in the least bit gay about him... is there?"
"Why, d'you fancy him?" I asked.
She looked away instantly. "Oh, please! I hadn't even asked him to come round. He's just a friend of En's. En told Martin it would be all right to pop by and borrow a book off me. We're on the same course."
"Yes. I gathered that from the intellectual conversation you two were having."
"Oh my God, tell me about, what a load of bollocks! I didn't understand half the things he was going on about anyway."
At this point, I felt like I'd done my bit, so I just smiled again and turned around, ready to walk out.
"Hang on, P, wait." I stopped and looked at Zoe. "D'you... d'you really think he's gay?"
I laughed and walked out of the kitchen, calling out "What difference does it make, anyway?" as I went.
---
Later that evening, Zoe and I were sitting in our lounge watching TV, together with another friend of Zoe's, Mike.
I stretched out my leg and tapped Mike's knee with my toes. "Has Zoe told you about your new admirer?"
Mike smiled. "Eh?"
Zoe turned to look at me and I managed to give her a quick wink. "Haven't you told him yet?" I asked.
"Umm... no, not yet," she said. "I was gonna... I was gonna do it later."
Mike furrowed his brow. "What admirer?"
I turned to Zoe. "I can't believe you haven't told him yet."
"Well..." she said, "why don't you tell him, then?"
My smile widened and I turned to Mike. "Zoe's got this new friend, right?" Mike nodded. "He's called Martin and he's on the same course as her. Except that she can't quite work out why he's tagged on to her, 'cause all he ever seems to do is keep asking questions about you."
"Eh? What d'you mean?" Mike asked.
I nudged Zoe with my elbow. "Go on, tell him."
Zoe nodded and cleared her throat. "Yeah, yeah... it's a bit weird, really. He keeps asking how you and I met and are you enjoying the course and what are your plans after you finish Uni and are you into Spanish cinema, 'cause if you are, he's always on the look out for someone to go to the CineHouse with him."
"You're fucking having a laugh," Mike said, leaning back in his seat and scratching his chin.
"No, it's true," I said. "He keeps asking when you're going to be around here, but Zoe keeps putting him off by telling him she doesn't know."
"Well... what the hell does he want from me?"
I raised my eyebrows. "What do you THINK he wants, Mike?" I paused. "He's gay and he fancies you. Simple as that."
"What? Is he really?"
Zoe turned to look at me, giving me a steely stare. I ignored her. "Oh yeah," I said. "But don't worry, he's completely okay about and everything. He came out when he was 13. He was telling Zoe about it the other day. He obviously just finds you very attractive, that's all."
"Bloody hell," Mike muttered, shaking his head.
"I'm surprised Zoe's not told you this already," I said.
Zoe's voice became an undertone. "Yeah... can't imagine how it could've slipped my mind..."
"Anyway," I said, "it's no big deal. He fancies you and that's that. It's not like he's gonna get anywhere, is it, so there's no point thinking about it." I turned back to the television.
When Mike wasn't watching, Zoe reached across and pinched my arm. I managed to turn my squeal of pain into a loud cough.
A few hours later, after Mike had gone home, Zoe turned on me, demanding to know what I'd been playing it. "Oh, for God's sake, it's just a bit of fun," I said. "It's not like anyone's getting hurt, is it?"
Monday, 15 January 2007
Walk
I went for a long walk yesterday: 45 miniutes one way to get to my nearest town. There was no particular reason for why I wanted to walk. Martin offered to go with me, but I said I preferred to be alone and he didn't argue. [During the walk, I wondered to myself if I'd wanted him to argue, but that's another story.]
"Are you taking your phone with you?" was all he asked.
I nodded, kissed his forehead, whispered, "See you in a bit," and walked out the back door.
I think, at first, I was slightly annoyed by the fact that it was a nice day. It wasn't as cold as it could have been, although I had wrapped myself very well in a thick, knee-length coat, leather gloves and a long scarf wound round my neck several times. There were barely a few wisps of cloud in the sky, which was bright and blue. The air smelt fresh. The roads were fairly quiet. The whole atmosphere felt too... too conspicuous at first, as though it demanded me to notice it and admire it. But I put on my dark sunglasses, pulled up the collar of my coat and decided to concentrate on the paving stones under my feet. After a while, I felt comfortable enough to raise my head a little and notice some of the things I was walking past.
I tried to think about nothing in particular. In fact, as I said, most of the time, I preferred to count the paving stones. I'd look up and choose a marker in the distance, like a pillar box or a particular house. And then I'd guess how many paving stones stood between me and this marker. And then I counted them all the way.
At first, my guesses were way off. But they got better and better as I went along. I had no idea how many thousands of paving stones marked the path between my house and town.
Eventually, I got to the small shopping precinct. Some of the bigger shops were open and I went into the large Waitrose.
Until recently, I'd never really noticed other people with prams or toddlers, but of course, now that I make a conscious effort to look away from them, I see them everywhere. After a few seconds spent walking down a Waitrose aisle, I realised that maybe my Sunday walk hadn't been such a clever idea after all.
What is it about some parents who feel they need to do their Parenting at full volume? It seems like such a blatant appeal for some kind of external validation or affirmation. It also seems like the height of arrogance to me. So many parents seem to think that the best way to discipline your child is to let every single person around you hear that you're doing it, almost as though the effectiveness of the discipline is proportional to the volume at which it's being delivered... which would also be proportional - as Martin would no doubt point out - to the child's embarrassment.
This one Waitrose Mum was a case in point. Actually, I say she was a Waitrose Mum, but she looked and sounded like anything but. Yes, this is incredibly snobby of me, but then I am a snob about these things. It felt as though she'd been looking for an Asda, but hadn't found it, so she decided to nip into the nearest supermarket she could find.
She was dragging some poor child behind her, a little boy who couldn't have been more than 5. He had the remains of some red sweet smeared all around his lips and on his hands and his threadbare white T-shirt. Even though he was young, his eyes and skin already seemed to have the same rustic poor look that set his Mum apart from everybody else in the place. And I couldn't hear exactly what the boy was saying, but he was clearly trying to whine his Mum into submissions, constantly attempting to pull her back to the aisle they'd just left.
And then suddenly, as though the boy had been annoying his mother for nigh on three months of the most incessant, insufferable brat behaviour imaginable, she wheeled around, loomed over him, jabbed a finger towards his face and in a voice so loud that plenty of the customers at the nearby checkouts turned around to look, barked, "Now, look here Jordan. I've fuckin' had enough of this. You are NOT gettin' no fuckin' sweets no more. Not today. You had yours and you ate 'em. And you ate some of Marley's too. So fuckin' pack it in, all right?" And with this she turned around and began walking towards another aisle.
Not surprisingly, little Jordan, left standing there by a mother who, to all intents and purposes, was walking away from him, began bawling even more loudly... except that his outburst went along the lines of, "Get me some fuckin' sweets NOW!"
If I'd seen a similar scene on television, I would've dismissed it as some hopelessly misguided attempt on the part of a scriptwriter to show an awareness of the reality of the life of this country's working classes. Even though I saw and heard it all happening in front of me, I couldn't quite believe it.
And on the way back home - with the weather taking a turn for the worse - I also realised that no-one seemed interested in doing anything to deal with what was going on. I presume none of the customers complained, which allowed the management not to have to do anything about it.
And then I asked myself why I didn't complain. And if I had complained, what would I have complained about? The mother's behaviour or the child's?
"Are you taking your phone with you?" was all he asked.
I nodded, kissed his forehead, whispered, "See you in a bit," and walked out the back door.
I think, at first, I was slightly annoyed by the fact that it was a nice day. It wasn't as cold as it could have been, although I had wrapped myself very well in a thick, knee-length coat, leather gloves and a long scarf wound round my neck several times. There were barely a few wisps of cloud in the sky, which was bright and blue. The air smelt fresh. The roads were fairly quiet. The whole atmosphere felt too... too conspicuous at first, as though it demanded me to notice it and admire it. But I put on my dark sunglasses, pulled up the collar of my coat and decided to concentrate on the paving stones under my feet. After a while, I felt comfortable enough to raise my head a little and notice some of the things I was walking past.
I tried to think about nothing in particular. In fact, as I said, most of the time, I preferred to count the paving stones. I'd look up and choose a marker in the distance, like a pillar box or a particular house. And then I'd guess how many paving stones stood between me and this marker. And then I counted them all the way.
At first, my guesses were way off. But they got better and better as I went along. I had no idea how many thousands of paving stones marked the path between my house and town.
Eventually, I got to the small shopping precinct. Some of the bigger shops were open and I went into the large Waitrose.
Until recently, I'd never really noticed other people with prams or toddlers, but of course, now that I make a conscious effort to look away from them, I see them everywhere. After a few seconds spent walking down a Waitrose aisle, I realised that maybe my Sunday walk hadn't been such a clever idea after all.
What is it about some parents who feel they need to do their Parenting at full volume? It seems like such a blatant appeal for some kind of external validation or affirmation. It also seems like the height of arrogance to me. So many parents seem to think that the best way to discipline your child is to let every single person around you hear that you're doing it, almost as though the effectiveness of the discipline is proportional to the volume at which it's being delivered... which would also be proportional - as Martin would no doubt point out - to the child's embarrassment.
This one Waitrose Mum was a case in point. Actually, I say she was a Waitrose Mum, but she looked and sounded like anything but. Yes, this is incredibly snobby of me, but then I am a snob about these things. It felt as though she'd been looking for an Asda, but hadn't found it, so she decided to nip into the nearest supermarket she could find.
She was dragging some poor child behind her, a little boy who couldn't have been more than 5. He had the remains of some red sweet smeared all around his lips and on his hands and his threadbare white T-shirt. Even though he was young, his eyes and skin already seemed to have the same rustic poor look that set his Mum apart from everybody else in the place. And I couldn't hear exactly what the boy was saying, but he was clearly trying to whine his Mum into submissions, constantly attempting to pull her back to the aisle they'd just left.
And then suddenly, as though the boy had been annoying his mother for nigh on three months of the most incessant, insufferable brat behaviour imaginable, she wheeled around, loomed over him, jabbed a finger towards his face and in a voice so loud that plenty of the customers at the nearby checkouts turned around to look, barked, "Now, look here Jordan. I've fuckin' had enough of this. You are NOT gettin' no fuckin' sweets no more. Not today. You had yours and you ate 'em. And you ate some of Marley's too. So fuckin' pack it in, all right?" And with this she turned around and began walking towards another aisle.
Not surprisingly, little Jordan, left standing there by a mother who, to all intents and purposes, was walking away from him, began bawling even more loudly... except that his outburst went along the lines of, "Get me some fuckin' sweets NOW!"
If I'd seen a similar scene on television, I would've dismissed it as some hopelessly misguided attempt on the part of a scriptwriter to show an awareness of the reality of the life of this country's working classes. Even though I saw and heard it all happening in front of me, I couldn't quite believe it.
And on the way back home - with the weather taking a turn for the worse - I also realised that no-one seemed interested in doing anything to deal with what was going on. I presume none of the customers complained, which allowed the management not to have to do anything about it.
And then I asked myself why I didn't complain. And if I had complained, what would I have complained about? The mother's behaviour or the child's?
Saturday, 13 January 2007
The Road, continued
I took a few steps closer towards my front door and realised that it was the sound of several people talking. I went into the front room, where the curtains were drawn. I parted them in the middle, just enough so that I get a view of the road outside my house.
The old man was still there, but he wasn't alone. About six or seven other people had stopped to look at the cat. I couldn't hear the exact words they were saying, but some of them were raising their voices. The old man kept pointing in the direction of my front door. One of the people - a middle-aged man wearing a dark suit - kept shaking his head, as though he'd been angered by something. At one point, he began walking towards the house, but a woman standing next to him - she was also wearing a suit - grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
They stayed like that for several minutes, talking, gesticulating, nodding, looking at the cat. Then the man in the suit took his mobile phone out of his jacket and made a long call, during which no-one else spoke. They just watched him, sometimes exchanging anxious glances with each other.
At one point during the conversation the man nodded his head several times and began looking intently at my house. I guessed he was trying to find its number. He then finished his call, said a few words to the other people gathered there and began striding right up to my front door.
I immediately let go of the curtains and stood still.
A few moments later, I heard the door bell ring. I crept away from the windows, edged towards the sofa and sat down quietly.
The door bell rang again, and then there were a few moments of silence. Then it rang again and again several times. The man began banging on my front door, loudly. At one point, he shouted out, "Hello." I just sat still, trying to keep my breathing as calm as I could.
Then I heard him walk away from the front door, but his footsteps went around the back of the house. A few seconds later, I heard him banging on the back door. "Is there anybody there?" he yelled.
He didn't hang around the back door very long. I heard his footsteps walk back around the house again, across the drive and back to the pavement. When I heard the voices of the people again, I allowed myself to stand up and walk back towards the curtains. I parted them as I'd done before. The people were giving all their attention to the cat now. Some of the people had knelt down on the pavement. A new person turned up with what looked like a small blanket, which they placed across the animal. I couldn't see if the blanket was covering the cat's whole body.
Their conversation now seemed less angry and more intent. The man in the suit had taken charge, motioning to various people not to get too close to the cat.
After a few more minutes, someone pulled up in a mini-van and emerged holding what looked like a small cage, of the sort I'd seen people transporting pets on ferries and planes. He spoke to the man in the suit and the old man. Again, the group looked in the direction of my house. The man holding the cage made a note of my house number. Then he spoke to the group as a whole, after which they all seemed to huddle around the cat, so that I couldn't make out exactly what was going on, but after a few moments, the man placed the cage very gingerly into the back of the mini-van. He turned to the man in the suit and the old man and spoke to them for a few moments. He gave each of them a card, shook hands with them, got back in the van and drove away.
The other people stayed on the pavement for just a few more minutes, talking to each other, but it wasn't long before the group dispersed and the pavement was left empty.
I let go of the curtains and stood still. And then I found myself touching my tummy. I rubbed it a few times, very slowly, very gently. And I remember that was the moment when I decided I would keep my baby. At the time, I didn't know exactly what had led me to that decision, but there was no doubt in my mind that that is what I was going to do. And then, I remember that I suddenly felt extremely hungry, so I went into the kitchen and made myself one of the largest breakfasts I'd had for a long time.
---
After I'd cleared up the kitchen, after I'd changed my clothes, after I'd taken the dressing gown out of the dishwasher and put it in the drier, I picked up the cordless phone, sat on the settee in the lounge and dialled Martin's mobile number. He picked up straight away.
"Hiya. D'you just get up?"
"Yeah. I've just had breakfast, that's all."
"That was a long sleep! How you feeling?"
"Umm... better... much better." I paused. "Thanks for phoning work. Did they say anything?"
"No, nothing at all. They just thanked me and said to tell you to get better soon." A few moments passed. "D'you want to... to talk... or d'you want to wait til the evening?"
"Umm... well, we can talk when you get home... talk properly, I mean. But... do you... do you want to have a baby, Martin?"
His voice went quiet. "Yeah... yeah, I do."
I'm sure I whispered the next words. "Shall we... shall we have one, then?"
"Yeah... I think we should."
"Yeah... so I do."
A few seconds of silence.
"I'll see you at home, then," I said.
"Yeah... I'll be back early."
And we told each other that we loved each other and that was that. The decision had been made.
The old man was still there, but he wasn't alone. About six or seven other people had stopped to look at the cat. I couldn't hear the exact words they were saying, but some of them were raising their voices. The old man kept pointing in the direction of my front door. One of the people - a middle-aged man wearing a dark suit - kept shaking his head, as though he'd been angered by something. At one point, he began walking towards the house, but a woman standing next to him - she was also wearing a suit - grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
They stayed like that for several minutes, talking, gesticulating, nodding, looking at the cat. Then the man in the suit took his mobile phone out of his jacket and made a long call, during which no-one else spoke. They just watched him, sometimes exchanging anxious glances with each other.
At one point during the conversation the man nodded his head several times and began looking intently at my house. I guessed he was trying to find its number. He then finished his call, said a few words to the other people gathered there and began striding right up to my front door.
I immediately let go of the curtains and stood still.
A few moments later, I heard the door bell ring. I crept away from the windows, edged towards the sofa and sat down quietly.
The door bell rang again, and then there were a few moments of silence. Then it rang again and again several times. The man began banging on my front door, loudly. At one point, he shouted out, "Hello." I just sat still, trying to keep my breathing as calm as I could.
Then I heard him walk away from the front door, but his footsteps went around the back of the house. A few seconds later, I heard him banging on the back door. "Is there anybody there?" he yelled.
He didn't hang around the back door very long. I heard his footsteps walk back around the house again, across the drive and back to the pavement. When I heard the voices of the people again, I allowed myself to stand up and walk back towards the curtains. I parted them as I'd done before. The people were giving all their attention to the cat now. Some of the people had knelt down on the pavement. A new person turned up with what looked like a small blanket, which they placed across the animal. I couldn't see if the blanket was covering the cat's whole body.
Their conversation now seemed less angry and more intent. The man in the suit had taken charge, motioning to various people not to get too close to the cat.
After a few more minutes, someone pulled up in a mini-van and emerged holding what looked like a small cage, of the sort I'd seen people transporting pets on ferries and planes. He spoke to the man in the suit and the old man. Again, the group looked in the direction of my house. The man holding the cage made a note of my house number. Then he spoke to the group as a whole, after which they all seemed to huddle around the cat, so that I couldn't make out exactly what was going on, but after a few moments, the man placed the cage very gingerly into the back of the mini-van. He turned to the man in the suit and the old man and spoke to them for a few moments. He gave each of them a card, shook hands with them, got back in the van and drove away.
The other people stayed on the pavement for just a few more minutes, talking to each other, but it wasn't long before the group dispersed and the pavement was left empty.
I let go of the curtains and stood still. And then I found myself touching my tummy. I rubbed it a few times, very slowly, very gently. And I remember that was the moment when I decided I would keep my baby. At the time, I didn't know exactly what had led me to that decision, but there was no doubt in my mind that that is what I was going to do. And then, I remember that I suddenly felt extremely hungry, so I went into the kitchen and made myself one of the largest breakfasts I'd had for a long time.
---
After I'd cleared up the kitchen, after I'd changed my clothes, after I'd taken the dressing gown out of the dishwasher and put it in the drier, I picked up the cordless phone, sat on the settee in the lounge and dialled Martin's mobile number. He picked up straight away.
"Hiya. D'you just get up?"
"Yeah. I've just had breakfast, that's all."
"That was a long sleep! How you feeling?"
"Umm... better... much better." I paused. "Thanks for phoning work. Did they say anything?"
"No, nothing at all. They just thanked me and said to tell you to get better soon." A few moments passed. "D'you want to... to talk... or d'you want to wait til the evening?"
"Umm... well, we can talk when you get home... talk properly, I mean. But... do you... do you want to have a baby, Martin?"
His voice went quiet. "Yeah... yeah, I do."
I'm sure I whispered the next words. "Shall we... shall we have one, then?"
"Yeah... I think we should."
"Yeah... so I do."
A few seconds of silence.
"I'll see you at home, then," I said.
"Yeah... I'll be back early."
And we told each other that we loved each other and that was that. The decision had been made.
Friday, 12 January 2007
The Road
As I said, I didn't wake up the next day until about 11 o'clock. I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was a note stuck to the side of the lamp. It was from Martin.
'I phoned in sick for you. I said you'd been sick in the night. Get some rest. We'll talk about it all tonight. Give me a ring when you get up. Love you.'
I turned over and considered going back to sleep again, but then my eyes fell on the alarm clock.
I almost stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen. I picked up the kettle from its cradle and filled it up with water from the tap. I stood staring at it until it boiled. Then I took a mug out of a cabinet and threw a tea bag inside it. I think I must've stared at the tea bag in the mug for ages, because I remember thinking that I needed to boil the kettle again.
I sat down with my tea, wrapped my hands around the mug and just kept very still. I hadn't looked out any of the windows yet. I had no idea what the weather was like outside. I wasn't really aware of what clothes I was wearing, although I realised later that I'd put my dressing gown on over my nightie.
It was when I brought the mug to my lips to take the first sip of my tea that I heard a noise from the road outside. A screech of brakes. A car door opening. Then silence for a few moments. Then a car door closing. And finally a car engine roaring away. There was something about the speed with which the car drove away that pulled me away from the kitchen and made me walk over to the front door.
I opened it and immediately saw something lying by the side of the road. There were some slippers by the door. I put them on and walked outside.
The thing lying by the pavement was a cat on its side. It wasn't moving but it was obviously still alive. Its eyes registered my presence. Its red tongue was half sticking out of its mouth. One of its front paws was making rapid, small jerky movements. Its fur was becoming increasingly in dark blood, but I couldn't see an obvious cut anywhere.
I knelt down and looked closely at the animal. It wasn't making a sound, but I could see that its breathing was becoming increasingly shallow and quick. Its eyes kept staring at me, blinking every now and then.
I remember staring at its unmoving body. I looked at its head covered in short, dark fur. I looked at its whiskers, long and thick. I looked at its paws, stretched out stiffly, paralysed. I saw the blood spread wider and further across the fur, making it look darker still.
I found myself reaching out to touch it. As soon as the cat noticed my hand coming towards it, its eyes opened wider and its breathing became more laboured.
"Shhh," I said. "It's all right. Don't worry." It actually took me a moment to realise that I was speaking. For some reason, my voice didn't sound like my own. I'd never had a cat as a child. In fact, I'd never had a pet of any sort. I'd never wanted to have one. But I found myself trying to comfort this animal.
I placed my hand as gently as I could on the top of its head. "You'll be all right," I said. "It's all right. Don't you worry now."
I tried to move my hand as slowly as I could. I lowered it a few inches, until it was lying at the top of the cat's neck. Then I allowed it to go lower still, closer to the growing patch of blood.
The cat's eyes kept staring at me. Its breathing had calmed down again. The jerky movements of its paw had become almost imperceptible.
I moved my hand lower and felt my fingers brush against a few strands of wet fur. A part of me wanted to pull away, but I forced myself to be very still. My hand moved again. I felt the blood begin to spread onto the tips of my fingers. It was hot and thick. Trying to keep my touch as soft as I could, I moved my hand lower and lower, finding a delicate trail through the mottled fur, all the way down to the end of the animal's body.
Then I heard the voice: "Is it dead?"
I jerked my hand away and rubbed it on the front of my clothes. I turned around and saw a man standing right next to me. I hadn't heard him walking towards me. I don't know how long he'd been there. He was quite elderly, probably over seventy. He was wearing a faded blue shirt and grey trousers. I'm fairly sure he had a bag full of groceries with him.
I stood up and took a few paces away from him. "Sorry?"
He pointed at the cat and spoke slowly. "Your cat. Is it all right?"
I turned to look at the bloodied mess lying by the side of the road, its eyes still staring at me. I thought that maybe it had stopped breathing, but I wasn't sure. Then I felt the stickiness on my fingers and I looked down at my right hand. A red thickness was beginning to dry into the lines of my palm. And that was the moment when I realised I was wearing my dressing gown: I looked down and saw a trail of faint crimson where I'd rubbed my hand.
"Sorry?" I said again. "No, it's not mine." I took a few paces backwards, in the direction of my front door.
"Oh dear," the man said. "Well, what's happened to it? Hadn't we better get some help?"
I shook my head and kept walking away, hiding my bloodied hand behind my back. "I don't know... I'm sorry... I've got to... get back inside..." I turned around and quickened my pace.
"But, just one moment." He'd raised his voice. "You could call the RSPCA or something. They'd tell us what to do."
I reached my front door and slammed it shut behind me. The next moment, I was running up the stairs and into my bathroom. I turned on the hot tap, shoved the plug into the hole in the sink and pumped the sink full of soap from the dispenser. I struggled out of my dressing gown and threw it onto the floor. I plunged my hands into the sink and rubbed every shred of the blood off. I pulled out the plug and watched the frothy water drain away.
I picked up the dressing gown and ran downstairs with it, almost throwing myself into the kitchen. I opened the washing machine and threw the dressing gown inside. I filled the tray with washing powder, turned the temperature setting to its maximum and switched on the machine. It was only when I heard the water start to pour into the drum that I felt my shoulders and the back of my neck relax.
And then my ears became aware of some sort of hubbub outside the house, somewhere beyond the front door...
'I phoned in sick for you. I said you'd been sick in the night. Get some rest. We'll talk about it all tonight. Give me a ring when you get up. Love you.'
I turned over and considered going back to sleep again, but then my eyes fell on the alarm clock.
I almost stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen. I picked up the kettle from its cradle and filled it up with water from the tap. I stood staring at it until it boiled. Then I took a mug out of a cabinet and threw a tea bag inside it. I think I must've stared at the tea bag in the mug for ages, because I remember thinking that I needed to boil the kettle again.
I sat down with my tea, wrapped my hands around the mug and just kept very still. I hadn't looked out any of the windows yet. I had no idea what the weather was like outside. I wasn't really aware of what clothes I was wearing, although I realised later that I'd put my dressing gown on over my nightie.
It was when I brought the mug to my lips to take the first sip of my tea that I heard a noise from the road outside. A screech of brakes. A car door opening. Then silence for a few moments. Then a car door closing. And finally a car engine roaring away. There was something about the speed with which the car drove away that pulled me away from the kitchen and made me walk over to the front door.
I opened it and immediately saw something lying by the side of the road. There were some slippers by the door. I put them on and walked outside.
The thing lying by the pavement was a cat on its side. It wasn't moving but it was obviously still alive. Its eyes registered my presence. Its red tongue was half sticking out of its mouth. One of its front paws was making rapid, small jerky movements. Its fur was becoming increasingly in dark blood, but I couldn't see an obvious cut anywhere.
I knelt down and looked closely at the animal. It wasn't making a sound, but I could see that its breathing was becoming increasingly shallow and quick. Its eyes kept staring at me, blinking every now and then.
I remember staring at its unmoving body. I looked at its head covered in short, dark fur. I looked at its whiskers, long and thick. I looked at its paws, stretched out stiffly, paralysed. I saw the blood spread wider and further across the fur, making it look darker still.
I found myself reaching out to touch it. As soon as the cat noticed my hand coming towards it, its eyes opened wider and its breathing became more laboured.
"Shhh," I said. "It's all right. Don't worry." It actually took me a moment to realise that I was speaking. For some reason, my voice didn't sound like my own. I'd never had a cat as a child. In fact, I'd never had a pet of any sort. I'd never wanted to have one. But I found myself trying to comfort this animal.
I placed my hand as gently as I could on the top of its head. "You'll be all right," I said. "It's all right. Don't you worry now."
I tried to move my hand as slowly as I could. I lowered it a few inches, until it was lying at the top of the cat's neck. Then I allowed it to go lower still, closer to the growing patch of blood.
The cat's eyes kept staring at me. Its breathing had calmed down again. The jerky movements of its paw had become almost imperceptible.
I moved my hand lower and felt my fingers brush against a few strands of wet fur. A part of me wanted to pull away, but I forced myself to be very still. My hand moved again. I felt the blood begin to spread onto the tips of my fingers. It was hot and thick. Trying to keep my touch as soft as I could, I moved my hand lower and lower, finding a delicate trail through the mottled fur, all the way down to the end of the animal's body.
Then I heard the voice: "Is it dead?"
I jerked my hand away and rubbed it on the front of my clothes. I turned around and saw a man standing right next to me. I hadn't heard him walking towards me. I don't know how long he'd been there. He was quite elderly, probably over seventy. He was wearing a faded blue shirt and grey trousers. I'm fairly sure he had a bag full of groceries with him.
I stood up and took a few paces away from him. "Sorry?"
He pointed at the cat and spoke slowly. "Your cat. Is it all right?"
I turned to look at the bloodied mess lying by the side of the road, its eyes still staring at me. I thought that maybe it had stopped breathing, but I wasn't sure. Then I felt the stickiness on my fingers and I looked down at my right hand. A red thickness was beginning to dry into the lines of my palm. And that was the moment when I realised I was wearing my dressing gown: I looked down and saw a trail of faint crimson where I'd rubbed my hand.
"Sorry?" I said again. "No, it's not mine." I took a few paces backwards, in the direction of my front door.
"Oh dear," the man said. "Well, what's happened to it? Hadn't we better get some help?"
I shook my head and kept walking away, hiding my bloodied hand behind my back. "I don't know... I'm sorry... I've got to... get back inside..." I turned around and quickened my pace.
"But, just one moment." He'd raised his voice. "You could call the RSPCA or something. They'd tell us what to do."
I reached my front door and slammed it shut behind me. The next moment, I was running up the stairs and into my bathroom. I turned on the hot tap, shoved the plug into the hole in the sink and pumped the sink full of soap from the dispenser. I struggled out of my dressing gown and threw it onto the floor. I plunged my hands into the sink and rubbed every shred of the blood off. I pulled out the plug and watched the frothy water drain away.
I picked up the dressing gown and ran downstairs with it, almost throwing myself into the kitchen. I opened the washing machine and threw the dressing gown inside. I filled the tray with washing powder, turned the temperature setting to its maximum and switched on the machine. It was only when I heard the water start to pour into the drum that I felt my shoulders and the back of my neck relax.
And then my ears became aware of some sort of hubbub outside the house, somewhere beyond the front door...
Thursday, 11 January 2007
Telling Martin
There were four hours between my finding out that I was pregnant and telling Martin about it. I expect I don't need to spell out some of the thoughts that went through my head during those four hours. It's amazing the things that come up when you type 'abortion' into Google. Well, no, 'amazing' isn't the right word. But yes, that was one of the things I considered... if 'considered' can be a word used to describe the insane mental processes that were storming through my mind on that day.
At lunch time, I stepped outside the building, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and my mobile phone in the other. It was a sunny day, but very windy, and I remember the wind kept blowing into the phone, making it difficult for me to hear clearly. I was wearing my beige, knee-length raincoat and it kept being blown around me, flapping around my waist. I dialled the number of my local surgery and asked if I could speak to someone confidentially. Eventually, they put me through to a nurse. Her voice made her sound as though she was only about twenty.
"Are you definitely alone?" I asked. "This is to be a confidential conversation. I don't want anyone else listening. Do you understand?"
She sounded distracted. "What? Oh yes, yes, of course." I heard her shuffling some papers. "Is someone else in the room there with you?" My voice was terse and rigid. "Please don't lie to me. I need to discuss something totally private and I don't want anyone else there."
She began to sound a little more interested. "No, there's definitely no-one else in here. Sorry, I was just... just printing off a prescription, that's all. I am listening to you now."
I thought if I squeezed my phone any harder, it would probably collapse into hundreds of shards of plastic. "I'm not interested in talking to you right now if you're busy doing something else," I said. "I'd rather phone someone else at another time. So please tell me if you're not able to give me your full attention right now."
She cleared her throat. "No, no, please. I'm listening to you. Honestly. And there's no-one else in the room." A pause. "How can I help?"
And then my arms began to shake. I tried to keep my voice steady. "I need... I need to ask you a question."
"Okay."
A few seconds passed. "I think I'm pregnant."
She waited for me to say something else, but I didn't. "Okay," she said, her voice slower and more deliberate than it had been before. "Are you wanting some information on pregnancy?"
"No, no. That's not it. I... I mean, I just did this pregnancy test thing a few hours ago, and it said I'm pregnant."
"Okay. You do know that those tests aren't always 100% reliable. I'd suggest going into your local..."
"But I haven't had a period for two weeks."
"Right. I think it might still be a good idea for you..."
"No no, listen, just listen, please." I had to take a deep breath.
"Okay." A few more seconds passed.
"Let's just say I am pregnant, okay? Let's just say the test is right. I don't want information about pregnancy."
"Right."
"I want... I want to know what I can... what I can do... if I'm pregnant..." She let my last few words drift into the silence. And then she gave me a whole load of information - most of which I didn't listen to - and some website addresses and she said that if I'd give her my address - which I didn't - she'd send me some leaflets, but that I could pick them up myself from such and such a place, but at that point I didn't care at all, because I was just thinking, 'Okay, it CAN be done. If I really want to do it, if I really decide that's what I'm gonna do, then I CAN do it.' I think I may have ended the call without saying Goodbye.
I finished my coffee and tried to steady my breathing. Maybe the reason why I felt better about the whole thing was because I thought that somebody had given me some control. I actually thought to myself: 'This thing has happened to me, but if I wanted to, I could kill it.'
God help me, but those were the words that came into my head: 'I could kill it.' Somehow, that made me feel better.
---
I was scheduled to attend a meeting at the end of that day, but I managed to get out of it. I can't remember the excuse I made. At first I thought I'd say I'd double-booked myself, but I knew no-one would believe that. I probably just made something up about being unwell.
All the way during the drive home, I was hoping Martin wouldn't get home before me. I don't know why. I just didn't want him there until I'd entered the house, until I'd checked the post, until I'd put the kettle on, until I'd pulled back the curtains in the front room. The news I had to give him was my news and I wanted to tell it to him in my space. And because our house never really felt like MY space to me, I was determined to score these little victories which would make it easier for me to believe that I was allowing Martin to enter my territory, that I was inviting him into my presence and into my confidence.
When I turned into our road, I saw his car was already parked in the drive. I remember thinking that was so unfair. I parked my car next to his. I sat still for a few moments, holding onto the steering wheel, staring out the windscreen. The thoughts that came into my head! 'Has he seen me pull up?' I wondered. 'Because if he hasn't, I could quickly drive away again and park somewhere up the road. Then I could phone him and say I'm running late and would he mind going to Waitrose to pick up a few things, because I'm really tired. And then he'd go to Waitrose and I'd drive back home and then I'd be able to pretend that I'd got there before he had.'
Looking back I can't believe I thought such things. But I remember very clearly that I did. I decided against the idiotic plan, not because it was idiotic, but because I knew that he'd definitely have put the kettle on by now and he'd definitely have sorted through the post, so I wouldn't have been able to pretend that I'd been first through the door anyway.
I turned off the car, gathered my things and got out. Martin was standing over the kitchen table, flicking through the pages of the evening paper. "All right?" he asked, without looking up.
"Umm... actually, no, not really."
He raised his head. "What's up?"
"Oh, it's nothing, just a migraine. Listen, d'you mind if we just have a takeaway tonight? I really fancy a bath right now."
"No, that's fine. What d'you want? Chinese?"
"I don't really mind."
"Chinese then. Usual?"
"Yeah. Listen, I'm just gonna go upstairs, all right?"
"Yeah, fine. I'll go round and pick it up in half an hour or so, all right?"
"Fine. Thanks." I walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs. Half an hour later, when I was lying in hot, soapy water and I heard the back door open and shut, I thought to myself: 'Well, that's better than nothing.'
---
As soon as Martin left the house, I got out of the bath. I towelled myself dry, put on some clothes and rushed downstairs. I noticed that he hadn't gone through the post after all. I went into the kitchen and saw that he'd laid the table. He'd also left the radio on. I turned it off and then I switched off the lights too, trying to make the room feel less like a place in which two people were about to have a meal. I walked into the lounge and turned on the small lamp on the coffee table. It cast its light on the sofa next to it. I sat on the sofa, which meant that I was facing the door. I wanted me to be first thing Martin saw when he walked into the room.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard Martin's car arrive. The back door opened and shut again. "You out of the bath?" he yelled.
I kept quiet.
I heard him turn on the kitchen light. I heard the rustle of a carrier bag as he took the food out. I heard a drawer being opened. I heard a chair being pulled across the kitchen floor.
"I'm back!" he yelled again. "It's on the table."
Two or three minutes passed. I heard him get up off his chair and walk towards the stairs. "Pauline!" he shouted. "Are you out yet?"
I didn't say a word. I heard him walk up the stairs. A few moments later, he walked back down again, a little faster.
"Pauline?" His voice sounded a little more urgent. I heard his steps approaching the lounge.
The door opened. He saw me sitting on the sofa.
"What're you doing?" he asked. "I've been yelling my head off looking for you. The food's on the table." He took a few steps into the room. His voice became lower. "Pauline?" It was only then that he took in the atmosphere I'd created. "What's wrong?"
I looked away from him. I don't know why, but suddenly tears were pouring down my face again. My cheeks, my chin were drenched. I was sobbing. I couldn't breathe properly.
Martin knelt down beside me and took my hands in his eyes. "Babe, what's happened?" I couldn't gather enough breath to say a single word. "Babe, please, you're scaring me. Has something happened?" He put his arms on my shoulders and eventually, I managed to calm myself down.
"Babe, please," he said, "just tell me what's wrong."
And I think I blurted it all out in under ten seconds. "I haven't had a period for two weeks and I bought a pregnancy test today and I did in the loo at work and I'm pregant it said I'm pregnant the bloody thing came out positive."
Martin immediately let go of me, which made me curl myself into a ball and try to squeeze myself as deeply into the sofa as I possibly could. But I didn't cry any more. I looked away from him and started biting my nails, rubbing my forehead with my hands, rubbing the back of my neck. My body felt like it was on fire and itching at the same time.
I think we sat in silence like that for ages.
In the end, it was Martin who spoke first. "Why didn't you tell me you hadn't had your period?"
I still couldn't bring myself to look at him. I just shrugged my shoulders. Some corner of my mind realised I must have looked like a six year old doing that.
"The tests aren't 100% accurate, are they?" he asked.
I tried to speak, but no sound came out until I cleared my throat. "No... they're pretty accurate these days."
"Well... are you sure? I mean, don't we need to get it verified by a doctor or something?"
That made me angry, which was when I was finally able to turn around and look him in the face. "No, I'm fucking pregnant, okay!"
He raised his hands slightly. "All right, all right. I was just asking."
"No, it's not bloody all right!" I yelled. "Did you hear what I said? I said I'm pregnant, Martin!"
I remember how calm his voice was. "But babe, listen, isn't this what we'd wanted? I really don't want to upset you any more, but... I'm just quite confused. Why... why are you so upset? I thought you'd be pleased."
And there was something about those words that brought the tears streaming back again, only this time I threw myself into his arms and squeezed him so tight I thought I'd never be able to let go of him again.
I don't really remember much else about the rest of the day. I know Martin eventually dragged me up to the bedroom and got me to get into bed. He phoned work the next day and told them I wasn't well and wouldn't be going in. I didn't wake up until about 11.
At lunch time, I stepped outside the building, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and my mobile phone in the other. It was a sunny day, but very windy, and I remember the wind kept blowing into the phone, making it difficult for me to hear clearly. I was wearing my beige, knee-length raincoat and it kept being blown around me, flapping around my waist. I dialled the number of my local surgery and asked if I could speak to someone confidentially. Eventually, they put me through to a nurse. Her voice made her sound as though she was only about twenty.
"Are you definitely alone?" I asked. "This is to be a confidential conversation. I don't want anyone else listening. Do you understand?"
She sounded distracted. "What? Oh yes, yes, of course." I heard her shuffling some papers. "Is someone else in the room there with you?" My voice was terse and rigid. "Please don't lie to me. I need to discuss something totally private and I don't want anyone else there."
She began to sound a little more interested. "No, there's definitely no-one else in here. Sorry, I was just... just printing off a prescription, that's all. I am listening to you now."
I thought if I squeezed my phone any harder, it would probably collapse into hundreds of shards of plastic. "I'm not interested in talking to you right now if you're busy doing something else," I said. "I'd rather phone someone else at another time. So please tell me if you're not able to give me your full attention right now."
She cleared her throat. "No, no, please. I'm listening to you. Honestly. And there's no-one else in the room." A pause. "How can I help?"
And then my arms began to shake. I tried to keep my voice steady. "I need... I need to ask you a question."
"Okay."
A few seconds passed. "I think I'm pregnant."
She waited for me to say something else, but I didn't. "Okay," she said, her voice slower and more deliberate than it had been before. "Are you wanting some information on pregnancy?"
"No, no. That's not it. I... I mean, I just did this pregnancy test thing a few hours ago, and it said I'm pregnant."
"Okay. You do know that those tests aren't always 100% reliable. I'd suggest going into your local..."
"But I haven't had a period for two weeks."
"Right. I think it might still be a good idea for you..."
"No no, listen, just listen, please." I had to take a deep breath.
"Okay." A few more seconds passed.
"Let's just say I am pregnant, okay? Let's just say the test is right. I don't want information about pregnancy."
"Right."
"I want... I want to know what I can... what I can do... if I'm pregnant..." She let my last few words drift into the silence. And then she gave me a whole load of information - most of which I didn't listen to - and some website addresses and she said that if I'd give her my address - which I didn't - she'd send me some leaflets, but that I could pick them up myself from such and such a place, but at that point I didn't care at all, because I was just thinking, 'Okay, it CAN be done. If I really want to do it, if I really decide that's what I'm gonna do, then I CAN do it.' I think I may have ended the call without saying Goodbye.
I finished my coffee and tried to steady my breathing. Maybe the reason why I felt better about the whole thing was because I thought that somebody had given me some control. I actually thought to myself: 'This thing has happened to me, but if I wanted to, I could kill it.'
God help me, but those were the words that came into my head: 'I could kill it.' Somehow, that made me feel better.
---
I was scheduled to attend a meeting at the end of that day, but I managed to get out of it. I can't remember the excuse I made. At first I thought I'd say I'd double-booked myself, but I knew no-one would believe that. I probably just made something up about being unwell.
All the way during the drive home, I was hoping Martin wouldn't get home before me. I don't know why. I just didn't want him there until I'd entered the house, until I'd checked the post, until I'd put the kettle on, until I'd pulled back the curtains in the front room. The news I had to give him was my news and I wanted to tell it to him in my space. And because our house never really felt like MY space to me, I was determined to score these little victories which would make it easier for me to believe that I was allowing Martin to enter my territory, that I was inviting him into my presence and into my confidence.
When I turned into our road, I saw his car was already parked in the drive. I remember thinking that was so unfair. I parked my car next to his. I sat still for a few moments, holding onto the steering wheel, staring out the windscreen. The thoughts that came into my head! 'Has he seen me pull up?' I wondered. 'Because if he hasn't, I could quickly drive away again and park somewhere up the road. Then I could phone him and say I'm running late and would he mind going to Waitrose to pick up a few things, because I'm really tired. And then he'd go to Waitrose and I'd drive back home and then I'd be able to pretend that I'd got there before he had.'
Looking back I can't believe I thought such things. But I remember very clearly that I did. I decided against the idiotic plan, not because it was idiotic, but because I knew that he'd definitely have put the kettle on by now and he'd definitely have sorted through the post, so I wouldn't have been able to pretend that I'd been first through the door anyway.
I turned off the car, gathered my things and got out. Martin was standing over the kitchen table, flicking through the pages of the evening paper. "All right?" he asked, without looking up.
"Umm... actually, no, not really."
He raised his head. "What's up?"
"Oh, it's nothing, just a migraine. Listen, d'you mind if we just have a takeaway tonight? I really fancy a bath right now."
"No, that's fine. What d'you want? Chinese?"
"I don't really mind."
"Chinese then. Usual?"
"Yeah. Listen, I'm just gonna go upstairs, all right?"
"Yeah, fine. I'll go round and pick it up in half an hour or so, all right?"
"Fine. Thanks." I walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs. Half an hour later, when I was lying in hot, soapy water and I heard the back door open and shut, I thought to myself: 'Well, that's better than nothing.'
---
As soon as Martin left the house, I got out of the bath. I towelled myself dry, put on some clothes and rushed downstairs. I noticed that he hadn't gone through the post after all. I went into the kitchen and saw that he'd laid the table. He'd also left the radio on. I turned it off and then I switched off the lights too, trying to make the room feel less like a place in which two people were about to have a meal. I walked into the lounge and turned on the small lamp on the coffee table. It cast its light on the sofa next to it. I sat on the sofa, which meant that I was facing the door. I wanted me to be first thing Martin saw when he walked into the room.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard Martin's car arrive. The back door opened and shut again. "You out of the bath?" he yelled.
I kept quiet.
I heard him turn on the kitchen light. I heard the rustle of a carrier bag as he took the food out. I heard a drawer being opened. I heard a chair being pulled across the kitchen floor.
"I'm back!" he yelled again. "It's on the table."
Two or three minutes passed. I heard him get up off his chair and walk towards the stairs. "Pauline!" he shouted. "Are you out yet?"
I didn't say a word. I heard him walk up the stairs. A few moments later, he walked back down again, a little faster.
"Pauline?" His voice sounded a little more urgent. I heard his steps approaching the lounge.
The door opened. He saw me sitting on the sofa.
"What're you doing?" he asked. "I've been yelling my head off looking for you. The food's on the table." He took a few steps into the room. His voice became lower. "Pauline?" It was only then that he took in the atmosphere I'd created. "What's wrong?"
I looked away from him. I don't know why, but suddenly tears were pouring down my face again. My cheeks, my chin were drenched. I was sobbing. I couldn't breathe properly.
Martin knelt down beside me and took my hands in his eyes. "Babe, what's happened?" I couldn't gather enough breath to say a single word. "Babe, please, you're scaring me. Has something happened?" He put his arms on my shoulders and eventually, I managed to calm myself down.
"Babe, please," he said, "just tell me what's wrong."
And I think I blurted it all out in under ten seconds. "I haven't had a period for two weeks and I bought a pregnancy test today and I did in the loo at work and I'm pregant it said I'm pregnant the bloody thing came out positive."
Martin immediately let go of me, which made me curl myself into a ball and try to squeeze myself as deeply into the sofa as I possibly could. But I didn't cry any more. I looked away from him and started biting my nails, rubbing my forehead with my hands, rubbing the back of my neck. My body felt like it was on fire and itching at the same time.
I think we sat in silence like that for ages.
In the end, it was Martin who spoke first. "Why didn't you tell me you hadn't had your period?"
I still couldn't bring myself to look at him. I just shrugged my shoulders. Some corner of my mind realised I must have looked like a six year old doing that.
"The tests aren't 100% accurate, are they?" he asked.
I tried to speak, but no sound came out until I cleared my throat. "No... they're pretty accurate these days."
"Well... are you sure? I mean, don't we need to get it verified by a doctor or something?"
That made me angry, which was when I was finally able to turn around and look him in the face. "No, I'm fucking pregnant, okay!"
He raised his hands slightly. "All right, all right. I was just asking."
"No, it's not bloody all right!" I yelled. "Did you hear what I said? I said I'm pregnant, Martin!"
I remember how calm his voice was. "But babe, listen, isn't this what we'd wanted? I really don't want to upset you any more, but... I'm just quite confused. Why... why are you so upset? I thought you'd be pleased."
And there was something about those words that brought the tears streaming back again, only this time I threw myself into his arms and squeezed him so tight I thought I'd never be able to let go of him again.
I don't really remember much else about the rest of the day. I know Martin eventually dragged me up to the bedroom and got me to get into bed. He phoned work the next day and told them I wasn't well and wouldn't be going in. I didn't wake up until about 11.
Pregnant
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON 10th JANUARY 2007
---
Now I look back and wonder if everything's been some sort of punishment, because - if I'm being honest - the day I found out I was pregnant with Jessica was the worst day of my life.
That's what it seemed like at the time.
It's something of which I'm reminded so many times a day - every day - that it's turned into an ever-present background thought, the kind of thought that you don't even think about, if that makes sense. For instance, if you're sitting in your car, driving to work or somewhere, naturally, there's a bit of your brain that's constantly thinking, 'I'm in my car at the moment.' I suppose this is a long-winded way of saying that it's a subconscious thought. You become aware of it only when something jolts you out of yourself, or something around you changes.
My constant companion at the moment - my main subconscious thought - appears in the form of a voice - which sounds a lot like my own voice - and all it says is: 'You thought the day you found out that you were pregnant was the worst day of your life.'
Everything about that time was so mixed up, so confusing. At some level, I must've wanted a baby, because I'd come off the pill... so why did I react the way I did when I learned I was pregnant? I hadn't had a period for almost two weeks. I hadn't said a word to Martin. He didn't have a clue about whether I was or wasn't due one. He knew that I'd stopped taking the pill several months before. We'd discussed the whole thing. We were going to have a baby. That's what we wanted. We told ourselves that was one of the reasons why we'd wanted to get married, which came as a surprise to me, if I'm being honest.
I stopped off at Boots on the way to the office and bought a pregnancy test. The person serving me at the till was an elderly woman wearing a thick, green cardigan and heavy glasses. For some reason, I couldn't look at her face when I handed over my Switch card. I could be wrong, but I thought I saw a faint smile on her lips. I threw the test into my bag and drove to work.
I couldn't concentrate on anything that day. Maybe, in the back of my mind, I realised that I didn't need the test at all. I knew I was pregnant. But I wasn't feeling happy. I wasn't feeling excited. In fact, it all felt wrong. Maybe that's why I'd bought the test? Within myself, I had no doubt that I was pregnant, but I guess I saw the test as one last bit of hope that I might turn out to be wrong.
At first, I told myself that I wouldn't use it until I got home. I didn't like the idea of getting the news anywhere other than in the privacy of my personal space. But I kept looking at the clock and at about 9:30, I remember I decided I'd go to the loo at lunch... and then at about ten to ten, I thought, 'Sod it,' picked up my bag and walked straight to the ladies'.
I must've stared at the thing for at least half an hour. My hands were wet from the tears that had dripped onto them. I heard people coming in and out of the cubicles. My mobile rang a few times, but I put it on silent. I sat there and for the first time in my life, I was filled with one thought: 'I don't know what to do.'
It's amazing how your brain can think a million-and-one things at the same time. My friends had often told me about how they'd reached 'crossroads in their lives' when they didn't know what decision to make about this, that or the other. And I'd always found them pathetic, because I'd never shared such feelings. I thought they were attention seeking, or that all they wanted was advice, but were too proud to ask for it directly. Sometimes, I thought they were just plain lying, that this was their way of making themselves sound interesting. 'Oh look at me. The fact that I'm so conflicted (that was one of their favourite words) means that there are so many levels to my personality, it means I'm such a sensitive person, because only a complex, fascinating personality like mine is capable of being so torn.'
But there I was, sitting on the toilet, holding the test in my hand, not knowing what to do. My tears made my vision blur and smudge. I thought that maybe if I cried enough, I'd make the image of the piece of plastic in my hand blur to such an extent that it would really vanish.
And when that thought came into my head, I cried even more. But my crying was absolutely silent. I didn't make a sound. I knew that if I did, someone would've knocked on the door and asked if I was all right, which was the last thing I wanted.
I sat still and rigid for about half an hour. Then I put the test back in my handbag, walked out of the cubicle, fixed my make-up in the mirror and walked back to my desk.
The next thing I had to do was tell Martin.
---
Now I look back and wonder if everything's been some sort of punishment, because - if I'm being honest - the day I found out I was pregnant with Jessica was the worst day of my life.
That's what it seemed like at the time.
It's something of which I'm reminded so many times a day - every day - that it's turned into an ever-present background thought, the kind of thought that you don't even think about, if that makes sense. For instance, if you're sitting in your car, driving to work or somewhere, naturally, there's a bit of your brain that's constantly thinking, 'I'm in my car at the moment.' I suppose this is a long-winded way of saying that it's a subconscious thought. You become aware of it only when something jolts you out of yourself, or something around you changes.
My constant companion at the moment - my main subconscious thought - appears in the form of a voice - which sounds a lot like my own voice - and all it says is: 'You thought the day you found out that you were pregnant was the worst day of your life.'
Everything about that time was so mixed up, so confusing. At some level, I must've wanted a baby, because I'd come off the pill... so why did I react the way I did when I learned I was pregnant? I hadn't had a period for almost two weeks. I hadn't said a word to Martin. He didn't have a clue about whether I was or wasn't due one. He knew that I'd stopped taking the pill several months before. We'd discussed the whole thing. We were going to have a baby. That's what we wanted. We told ourselves that was one of the reasons why we'd wanted to get married, which came as a surprise to me, if I'm being honest.
I stopped off at Boots on the way to the office and bought a pregnancy test. The person serving me at the till was an elderly woman wearing a thick, green cardigan and heavy glasses. For some reason, I couldn't look at her face when I handed over my Switch card. I could be wrong, but I thought I saw a faint smile on her lips. I threw the test into my bag and drove to work.
I couldn't concentrate on anything that day. Maybe, in the back of my mind, I realised that I didn't need the test at all. I knew I was pregnant. But I wasn't feeling happy. I wasn't feeling excited. In fact, it all felt wrong. Maybe that's why I'd bought the test? Within myself, I had no doubt that I was pregnant, but I guess I saw the test as one last bit of hope that I might turn out to be wrong.
At first, I told myself that I wouldn't use it until I got home. I didn't like the idea of getting the news anywhere other than in the privacy of my personal space. But I kept looking at the clock and at about 9:30, I remember I decided I'd go to the loo at lunch... and then at about ten to ten, I thought, 'Sod it,' picked up my bag and walked straight to the ladies'.
I must've stared at the thing for at least half an hour. My hands were wet from the tears that had dripped onto them. I heard people coming in and out of the cubicles. My mobile rang a few times, but I put it on silent. I sat there and for the first time in my life, I was filled with one thought: 'I don't know what to do.'
It's amazing how your brain can think a million-and-one things at the same time. My friends had often told me about how they'd reached 'crossroads in their lives' when they didn't know what decision to make about this, that or the other. And I'd always found them pathetic, because I'd never shared such feelings. I thought they were attention seeking, or that all they wanted was advice, but were too proud to ask for it directly. Sometimes, I thought they were just plain lying, that this was their way of making themselves sound interesting. 'Oh look at me. The fact that I'm so conflicted (that was one of their favourite words) means that there are so many levels to my personality, it means I'm such a sensitive person, because only a complex, fascinating personality like mine is capable of being so torn.'
But there I was, sitting on the toilet, holding the test in my hand, not knowing what to do. My tears made my vision blur and smudge. I thought that maybe if I cried enough, I'd make the image of the piece of plastic in my hand blur to such an extent that it would really vanish.
And when that thought came into my head, I cried even more. But my crying was absolutely silent. I didn't make a sound. I knew that if I did, someone would've knocked on the door and asked if I was all right, which was the last thing I wanted.
I sat still and rigid for about half an hour. Then I put the test back in my handbag, walked out of the cubicle, fixed my make-up in the mirror and walked back to my desk.
The next thing I had to do was tell Martin.
Decoration
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON 7th & 8th JANUARY 2007
---
I woke up this morning, made a cup of coffee and carried it across to the porch. I bent down and as I picked up the Sunday paper, I saw that Mum had forgotten to put away one of the Christmas decorations: my snowman doormat.
It was my favourite Christmas decoration when I was a child. I still remember the day my father brought it home from work. It was a windy November evening. I was seven years old. My Dad walked into the kitchen, where I was helping Mum lay the table. He pulled something out of a carrier bag. "I picked this up on the way home," he said. "Have a look."
He pulled out what I immediately recognised as a doormat. But for some reason I thought the design on it was one of the prettiest things I'd ever seen.
"Oh, that's sweet," my Mum said, laughing and giving Dad a peck on the cheek.
He chuckled. "It is, isn't it? I thought it would be great for Santa to use when he visits us on Christmas Eve."
I smiled. I think even then I knew that my Dad was just being playful. [How old was I when I stopped believing in Father Christmas? But I digress.]
"He's not going to need a doormat," I said. "He uses the chimney, remember?"
My Dad brought his hands to his open mouth in a gesture of mock horror. "Oh my goodness, so he does! Oh dear!" He looked at my Mum. "Well, I suppose I'll have to take it back then, won't I?"
My Mum nodded. "Yes, I suppose you will."
I giggled and hugged the doormat tight to my chest. "Well... maybe we should keep it, just in case he decides to come throught the door this year?"
My father raised his eyebrows. "Father Christmas coming through the door? I've never heard such nonsense." He shook his head. "No, no, there's nothing for it. It'll have to go back, I'm afraid." He began walking towards me.
I squealed and started backing out of the kitchen. "No, please, please let's keep it. I'll use it, even if Santa doesn't it."
My Dad took a few more steps towards me. I squealed even louder and began running away from him.
We kept the doormat, of course. I don't know why, but I was really taken with it. The snowman on it was certainly very sweet. But he stood on this perfect white hill, which I thought was equally pretty. And the sky above him was blue. And there was a bright sun in a corner, with thick yellow beams streaming out of it.
It all sounds so silly to think of now, but this cheap object - what we'd now call an 'impulse buy', I suppose - became the focus of one of my favourite Christmas rituals.
Every year, when my parents got our Christmad decorations down from our attic, I'd pester them with questions about whether they'd found my snowman doormat. Every year my Dad pretended something had happened to it: it had gone mouldy, or a whole side of it had been ruined by mice or a tin of grey paint had tipped over and spilled its contents all over my snowman with his silly smile. Of course, none of these was ever true.
Year after year, the snoman doormat made it safely to our front door. On Christmas Eve, my Mum would bake some mince pies, and she'd always make some tiny ones especially for my Santa trail. I'd put them all on a tray and walk over to the doormat with them. And I'd leave a long trail of them - Hansel And Gretel style - running from the doormat to our Christmas tree. And sure enough, the next day, all the mini-pies would always be gone and underneath our tree there'd be a stash of presents.
Actually, come to think of it, I said "year after year", but like so many childhood rituals which seem to have gone on for ever and a day, I think it may have happened only three or four times. I certainly have no memory of making a Santa trail when I was 12 or 13. But the doormat itself remained a feature of Christmas until I was... well, until forever, actually.
Christmas just didn't seem like Christmas until the snowman on the hill was safely by our back door. Even when I left home to go to University, I'd telephone home before coming back for the Christmas break and ask if they'd brought the doormat down from the attic. And each time, Dad would try to make up some tall tale.
And when Mum found out I was pregnant, one of the first presents she gave me was the doormat. She had tears in her eyes as she handed it over to me. I started sniffling too. We both laughed and asked each other how it was that we'd become so fond of such a silly little thing.
"Never mind," she said, "the point is that we have. We've got our own little family tradition now, and we should keep it going. So now, every Christmas, you must put the doormat out by your back door and when your baby's old enough to do it himself or herself, you'll make some tiny mince pies and you'll both put together a little Santa trail."
And of course, this was going to be the first Christmas with Jessica. So I'd put the doormat by the door, just as I'd done for the last few years.
And now Mum's forgotten to put it away.
Am I right that according to tradition, if you forget to take down a decoration by the 6th, you've got to leave it in place until next Christmas, otherwise you'll have bad luck?
Is that what happened to us this last year, then? Did I forget to take down my decorations before the 6th last Christmas? Or did I leave one behind and then carelessly put it away afterwards without waiting for next Christmas to come around?
Bad luck?
Maybe I will put the mat away, just to see what else gets thrown at me.
---
I woke up this morning, made a cup of coffee and carried it across to the porch. I bent down and as I picked up the Sunday paper, I saw that Mum had forgotten to put away one of the Christmas decorations: my snowman doormat.
It was my favourite Christmas decoration when I was a child. I still remember the day my father brought it home from work. It was a windy November evening. I was seven years old. My Dad walked into the kitchen, where I was helping Mum lay the table. He pulled something out of a carrier bag. "I picked this up on the way home," he said. "Have a look."
He pulled out what I immediately recognised as a doormat. But for some reason I thought the design on it was one of the prettiest things I'd ever seen.
"Oh, that's sweet," my Mum said, laughing and giving Dad a peck on the cheek.
He chuckled. "It is, isn't it? I thought it would be great for Santa to use when he visits us on Christmas Eve."
I smiled. I think even then I knew that my Dad was just being playful. [How old was I when I stopped believing in Father Christmas? But I digress.]
"He's not going to need a doormat," I said. "He uses the chimney, remember?"
My Dad brought his hands to his open mouth in a gesture of mock horror. "Oh my goodness, so he does! Oh dear!" He looked at my Mum. "Well, I suppose I'll have to take it back then, won't I?"
My Mum nodded. "Yes, I suppose you will."
I giggled and hugged the doormat tight to my chest. "Well... maybe we should keep it, just in case he decides to come throught the door this year?"
My father raised his eyebrows. "Father Christmas coming through the door? I've never heard such nonsense." He shook his head. "No, no, there's nothing for it. It'll have to go back, I'm afraid." He began walking towards me.
I squealed and started backing out of the kitchen. "No, please, please let's keep it. I'll use it, even if Santa doesn't it."
My Dad took a few more steps towards me. I squealed even louder and began running away from him.
We kept the doormat, of course. I don't know why, but I was really taken with it. The snowman on it was certainly very sweet. But he stood on this perfect white hill, which I thought was equally pretty. And the sky above him was blue. And there was a bright sun in a corner, with thick yellow beams streaming out of it.
It all sounds so silly to think of now, but this cheap object - what we'd now call an 'impulse buy', I suppose - became the focus of one of my favourite Christmas rituals.
Every year, when my parents got our Christmad decorations down from our attic, I'd pester them with questions about whether they'd found my snowman doormat. Every year my Dad pretended something had happened to it: it had gone mouldy, or a whole side of it had been ruined by mice or a tin of grey paint had tipped over and spilled its contents all over my snowman with his silly smile. Of course, none of these was ever true.
Year after year, the snoman doormat made it safely to our front door. On Christmas Eve, my Mum would bake some mince pies, and she'd always make some tiny ones especially for my Santa trail. I'd put them all on a tray and walk over to the doormat with them. And I'd leave a long trail of them - Hansel And Gretel style - running from the doormat to our Christmas tree. And sure enough, the next day, all the mini-pies would always be gone and underneath our tree there'd be a stash of presents.
Actually, come to think of it, I said "year after year", but like so many childhood rituals which seem to have gone on for ever and a day, I think it may have happened only three or four times. I certainly have no memory of making a Santa trail when I was 12 or 13. But the doormat itself remained a feature of Christmas until I was... well, until forever, actually.
Christmas just didn't seem like Christmas until the snowman on the hill was safely by our back door. Even when I left home to go to University, I'd telephone home before coming back for the Christmas break and ask if they'd brought the doormat down from the attic. And each time, Dad would try to make up some tall tale.
And when Mum found out I was pregnant, one of the first presents she gave me was the doormat. She had tears in her eyes as she handed it over to me. I started sniffling too. We both laughed and asked each other how it was that we'd become so fond of such a silly little thing.
"Never mind," she said, "the point is that we have. We've got our own little family tradition now, and we should keep it going. So now, every Christmas, you must put the doormat out by your back door and when your baby's old enough to do it himself or herself, you'll make some tiny mince pies and you'll both put together a little Santa trail."
And of course, this was going to be the first Christmas with Jessica. So I'd put the doormat by the door, just as I'd done for the last few years.
And now Mum's forgotten to put it away.
Am I right that according to tradition, if you forget to take down a decoration by the 6th, you've got to leave it in place until next Christmas, otherwise you'll have bad luck?
Is that what happened to us this last year, then? Did I forget to take down my decorations before the 6th last Christmas? Or did I leave one behind and then carelessly put it away afterwards without waiting for next Christmas to come around?
Bad luck?
Maybe I will put the mat away, just to see what else gets thrown at me.
We've Just Taken Down The Christmas Decorations
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON 6th JANUARY 2007
---
We've just taken down the Christmas decorations. I say 'we', but actually my mother did all the work. She phoned me last night to ask me whether I wanted a hand with taking them down. I said No. She said she'd be up at around 9. She was here at a quarter to.
I made her and myself a cup of tea. We sat in the kitchen and drank it in silence. Then she said she'd start with the tree. I stayed in the kitchen, staring at the window.
Every now and then, she popped her head into the kitchen to say something like, "Where do you store the crib?" or "Do you want me to leave the tree round the front or the back?" or "Do you think this tinsel's worth keeping for another year?"
Two hours later, after she'd put the hoover away in its cupboard, she came into the kitchen again, made us another cup of tea, drank hers and said she'd better be off.
I was determined not to say Thank you, not to say anything, in fact. I hadn't asked her to put the decorations up, but she had. And I hadn't asked her to take them down either.
At this particular moment in time, I feel so much utter hatred for her.
Will these feelings ever pass?
---
We've just taken down the Christmas decorations. I say 'we', but actually my mother did all the work. She phoned me last night to ask me whether I wanted a hand with taking them down. I said No. She said she'd be up at around 9. She was here at a quarter to.
I made her and myself a cup of tea. We sat in the kitchen and drank it in silence. Then she said she'd start with the tree. I stayed in the kitchen, staring at the window.
Every now and then, she popped her head into the kitchen to say something like, "Where do you store the crib?" or "Do you want me to leave the tree round the front or the back?" or "Do you think this tinsel's worth keeping for another year?"
Two hours later, after she'd put the hoover away in its cupboard, she came into the kitchen again, made us another cup of tea, drank hers and said she'd better be off.
I was determined not to say Thank you, not to say anything, in fact. I hadn't asked her to put the decorations up, but she had. And I hadn't asked her to take them down either.
At this particular moment in time, I feel so much utter hatred for her.
Will these feelings ever pass?
Born
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON 5th JANUARY 2007
---
I've never admitted this to anyone. I didn't actually want to touch Jessica when she was born. I'm not sure I even wanted to look at her.
As far as deliveries go, I suppose mine was fairly normal. I'd asked for a caesarian, but the doctors told me there was no need for one. I remember wondering how come the fact that I wanted one didn't constitute a need for one. I argued the toss for a while, but in the end I realised there was no way I was going to win. Yes, the whole thing was painful and yes, I was terrified all the way through, but that's not what this post is about. I heard the screams of a baby, I heard a nurse saying something like, "Oh, she's lovely," I remember seeing smiles on the faces of the other people in the room. And then this other nurse walked up towards me holding this... this... well, it just looked like a bloodied mess, and she had this massive grin on her face and she said, "Look," and she started bringing this mess towards me.
Isn't it funny (and awful?) how our minds work, because right at that very split second, my memories took me back to a time several years ago - I guess I must've been around 20 or 21 - when I was sitting in my mum's lounge having a conversation with her. We were talking about children: giving birth to them, raising them, all that kind of thing. And I remember going on at some length about the fact that if ever I gave birth to a child, I couldn't possibly hold it in my arms until it had been washed and cleaned and - I still remember these next words - "looked more like a baby." My mum's first reaction was to laugh. "Oh come on. You can't mean that. You just wait until it happens. You'll see that tiny little life, you'll see the tiny face and the tiny feet, and you'll realise that he or she is all yours and there's nothing anyone would be able to do to stop you putting your arms around your baby. Trust me." And I suppose after that the conversation turned more into a contest rather than a serious discussion about child-rearing. Although I didn't want to to admit it to myself at the time, I think all I wanted to do was assert my own position as strongly as possible.
"Yes, well, maybe," I said, "but everyone's different, aren't they? Just the thought of holding something all bloody and horrible and... well, it just makes me feel a bit sick."
She laughed again, which made me even angrier of course. "Yes, but you'll feel completely different about it when it actually happens. You wait and see."
"And anyway," I continued, "I'll probably be under anaesthetic, because I'm going to have a caesarian. So the baby will be all cleaned up by the time I come round anyway."
Lying there on the hospital bed, in the delivery room, I remembered all those words and despite the fact that I was more exhausted than I think I'd ever been in my whole life, despite the fact that I just wanted these smiling people to stop standing around me and to just go away, I realised that during that conversation with my mum, I was more right about myself than I'd realised. I absolutely didn't want to touch my baby. I didn't want to look at it. I think I even felt a voice inside me telling me that this wasn't my baby. My baby wouldn't look like this. My baby wouldn't sound like this. I felt a shooting pain between my legs and I had to close my eyes tight for a moment.
When I opened them, the nurse was still standing there. "Isn't she lovely," she whispered.
I could hear words forming in my head: "No, no, she isn't at all. And please, can you just take her away from me right now."
But of course that's not what I said at all. I'm sure I smiled and nodded and tried to open my mouth to speak, but realised my throat was too dry for any sounds to emerge.
The nurse took a step closer towards me and held the baby out to me, inviting me to make a space for her next to me. That was when I knew I had to do something. There was no way I was going to allow myself to get right next to the baby, not yet, not so soon.
So there and then - amidst all my pain and exhaustion - I found the energy to do some basic play-acting. I nodded my head and I smiled again, but then I gently rolled my eyes to the top of my head and lowered my eyelids, allowing my head to droop to the side slightly.
I heard the nurse say, "Poor thing, she's knackered." And then she walked away, taking the child with her.
I've thought about that moment so many times. I've never told anyone about it. Maybe it's one of those things that many women feel. Maybe if I spoke about it, I'd discover other similar stories. But of course, I'm not going to come out and talk about it amongst friends... especially not now. It's just another thing that makes me think that perhaps something really has been wrong with me all along.
---
I've never admitted this to anyone. I didn't actually want to touch Jessica when she was born. I'm not sure I even wanted to look at her.
As far as deliveries go, I suppose mine was fairly normal. I'd asked for a caesarian, but the doctors told me there was no need for one. I remember wondering how come the fact that I wanted one didn't constitute a need for one. I argued the toss for a while, but in the end I realised there was no way I was going to win. Yes, the whole thing was painful and yes, I was terrified all the way through, but that's not what this post is about. I heard the screams of a baby, I heard a nurse saying something like, "Oh, she's lovely," I remember seeing smiles on the faces of the other people in the room. And then this other nurse walked up towards me holding this... this... well, it just looked like a bloodied mess, and she had this massive grin on her face and she said, "Look," and she started bringing this mess towards me.
Isn't it funny (and awful?) how our minds work, because right at that very split second, my memories took me back to a time several years ago - I guess I must've been around 20 or 21 - when I was sitting in my mum's lounge having a conversation with her. We were talking about children: giving birth to them, raising them, all that kind of thing. And I remember going on at some length about the fact that if ever I gave birth to a child, I couldn't possibly hold it in my arms until it had been washed and cleaned and - I still remember these next words - "looked more like a baby." My mum's first reaction was to laugh. "Oh come on. You can't mean that. You just wait until it happens. You'll see that tiny little life, you'll see the tiny face and the tiny feet, and you'll realise that he or she is all yours and there's nothing anyone would be able to do to stop you putting your arms around your baby. Trust me." And I suppose after that the conversation turned more into a contest rather than a serious discussion about child-rearing. Although I didn't want to to admit it to myself at the time, I think all I wanted to do was assert my own position as strongly as possible.
"Yes, well, maybe," I said, "but everyone's different, aren't they? Just the thought of holding something all bloody and horrible and... well, it just makes me feel a bit sick."
She laughed again, which made me even angrier of course. "Yes, but you'll feel completely different about it when it actually happens. You wait and see."
"And anyway," I continued, "I'll probably be under anaesthetic, because I'm going to have a caesarian. So the baby will be all cleaned up by the time I come round anyway."
Lying there on the hospital bed, in the delivery room, I remembered all those words and despite the fact that I was more exhausted than I think I'd ever been in my whole life, despite the fact that I just wanted these smiling people to stop standing around me and to just go away, I realised that during that conversation with my mum, I was more right about myself than I'd realised. I absolutely didn't want to touch my baby. I didn't want to look at it. I think I even felt a voice inside me telling me that this wasn't my baby. My baby wouldn't look like this. My baby wouldn't sound like this. I felt a shooting pain between my legs and I had to close my eyes tight for a moment.
When I opened them, the nurse was still standing there. "Isn't she lovely," she whispered.
I could hear words forming in my head: "No, no, she isn't at all. And please, can you just take her away from me right now."
But of course that's not what I said at all. I'm sure I smiled and nodded and tried to open my mouth to speak, but realised my throat was too dry for any sounds to emerge.
The nurse took a step closer towards me and held the baby out to me, inviting me to make a space for her next to me. That was when I knew I had to do something. There was no way I was going to allow myself to get right next to the baby, not yet, not so soon.
So there and then - amidst all my pain and exhaustion - I found the energy to do some basic play-acting. I nodded my head and I smiled again, but then I gently rolled my eyes to the top of my head and lowered my eyelids, allowing my head to droop to the side slightly.
I heard the nurse say, "Poor thing, she's knackered." And then she walked away, taking the child with her.
I've thought about that moment so many times. I've never told anyone about it. Maybe it's one of those things that many women feel. Maybe if I spoke about it, I'd discover other similar stories. But of course, I'm not going to come out and talk about it amongst friends... especially not now. It's just another thing that makes me think that perhaps something really has been wrong with me all along.
Marriage
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON 4th JANUARY 2007
---
Right now, sitting at my laptop, typing this post - the first in quite a while - I can't remember why I married Martin. I can remember that I really, really wanted to marry him; I wasn't forced into it in any way whatsoever. And I don't just mean forced externally. My Mum often talks about how she and my father should never have married because my Mum knew from the very start that they weren't right for each other. "Why DID you marry him, then?" I'd ask.
And she'd always sigh and look into the distance and say, "Well... I suppose I just drifted into it. It felt... like the right thing to do."
"Didn't you love him?"
"No... actually, I'm fairly sure that I didn't."
"But you thought that marrying him was the right thing to do?"
And she'd let out a quiet laugh. "Yes... yes, I did. I realise it sounds ridiculous, but there I was: 25 years old, I'd been to University, I'd got my degree, I'd got my job, I was earning money, I was doing the thing I'd always wanted to do... and I'd recently finished with James and I met your Dad... and I suppose I just thought to myself, 'You can't just hang about like this for ever. Get a move on. Do the things you know you're meant to do.' And of course one of those things was getting married and starting a family... which sounds odd now, looking back, considering we're talking about 70s, but that is how it was." Another sigh. "And your father was a very, very good catch, as your Nan used to say... so that's how it happened."
I suppose I'd call that an internal pressure, and the point I'm trying to make is that I didn't feel any of this sort of pressure either when it came to marrying Martin. Did I love Martin, is that all it was about? Yes, I did. I do.
I hesitated just now before typing that, because I don't think I'm actually capable of feeling love at the moment. Anyway, that's not what I want to think about right now. I was trying to think about my marriage. I can't remember the moment at which I'd decided that if ever Martin asked me to marry him, I'd say Yes. I'm sure there was a time when I could remember that moment, so maybe the fact that I can't remember it has something to do with... everything that's going on. But it does worry me... no, it upsets me that I can't remember it.
Aimee once told me that she remembers a definite split-second when she looked at Marco and thought, 'Right, that's it, he's got me now. I'm his. For better or worse.' She said it was a moment of total and utter 'givingness'. She said that when she uttered similar words out loud during her actual wedding ceremony, she didn't say them with half as much conviction as she'd said them to herself during that brief, conclusive moment; she said she was too worried about everything to do with the wedding itself, she was too nervous, too wound up. But she knew in her heart of hearts that she did mean every single word she was saying, because of that one moment.
I don't think it was an obviously 'special' moment in any way at all. Apparently they were sitting in their lounge on a Sunday reading various bits of their Sunday paper. Marco chuckled over something he'd read and asked Aimee if she'd listen to a short passage. And as he read out loud to her, she looked at him sitting opposite her, she looked at his face, at his hands holding the newspaper and that was when she knew, that was when she was absolutely sure. Of course, she didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to what he'd been reading to her.
It's funny, I don't think I was nervous at all during my wedding. I think I just enjoyed it too much. I mean, I really, really enjoyed every minute of it. I loved everything to do with it. The dressing up, the make-up, choosing the clothes, the decorations, the menu for the reception. Martin and I insisted on doing everything ourselves; I'm sure that's why we enjoyed it as much as we did. And on the day itself, I just wanted to soak in every second of every minute. I suppose I was just having too much to feel nervous about anything. Aimee says she's really jealous of me, because she can remember hardly anything about her actual ceremony. She says she remembers her reception, because she was much more relaxed by that stage. But not much of the ceremony. She's watched her video of it hundreds of times and it makes her weep and sop each time she sees it, but she has no real memory of the event. But I keep going off my point.
Why did I marry Martin? I didn't feel I had to do it simply because it 'the right thing to do'. I didn't feel I had to do it because I wanted to have a child with him; I think it's all right to have a child with someone you're not married to. I didn't feel I had to do it for religious reasons. I didn't feel... what? Maybe I shouldn't be putting it in negatives. He asked me and I said Yes. Why did I say Yes? If he'd never asked me, would I have asked him? Would I have dropped hints? [He said I'd dropped plenty, but I didn't want to upset him by telling him that I hadn't consciously dropped a single one! But maybe it's the subconscious ones that matter most?]
Why did I marry Martin? Why do I stay married to Martin? If he said he wants a divorce, would I say Yes?
---
Right now, sitting at my laptop, typing this post - the first in quite a while - I can't remember why I married Martin. I can remember that I really, really wanted to marry him; I wasn't forced into it in any way whatsoever. And I don't just mean forced externally. My Mum often talks about how she and my father should never have married because my Mum knew from the very start that they weren't right for each other. "Why DID you marry him, then?" I'd ask.
And she'd always sigh and look into the distance and say, "Well... I suppose I just drifted into it. It felt... like the right thing to do."
"Didn't you love him?"
"No... actually, I'm fairly sure that I didn't."
"But you thought that marrying him was the right thing to do?"
And she'd let out a quiet laugh. "Yes... yes, I did. I realise it sounds ridiculous, but there I was: 25 years old, I'd been to University, I'd got my degree, I'd got my job, I was earning money, I was doing the thing I'd always wanted to do... and I'd recently finished with James and I met your Dad... and I suppose I just thought to myself, 'You can't just hang about like this for ever. Get a move on. Do the things you know you're meant to do.' And of course one of those things was getting married and starting a family... which sounds odd now, looking back, considering we're talking about 70s, but that is how it was." Another sigh. "And your father was a very, very good catch, as your Nan used to say... so that's how it happened."
I suppose I'd call that an internal pressure, and the point I'm trying to make is that I didn't feel any of this sort of pressure either when it came to marrying Martin. Did I love Martin, is that all it was about? Yes, I did. I do.
I hesitated just now before typing that, because I don't think I'm actually capable of feeling love at the moment. Anyway, that's not what I want to think about right now. I was trying to think about my marriage. I can't remember the moment at which I'd decided that if ever Martin asked me to marry him, I'd say Yes. I'm sure there was a time when I could remember that moment, so maybe the fact that I can't remember it has something to do with... everything that's going on. But it does worry me... no, it upsets me that I can't remember it.
Aimee once told me that she remembers a definite split-second when she looked at Marco and thought, 'Right, that's it, he's got me now. I'm his. For better or worse.' She said it was a moment of total and utter 'givingness'. She said that when she uttered similar words out loud during her actual wedding ceremony, she didn't say them with half as much conviction as she'd said them to herself during that brief, conclusive moment; she said she was too worried about everything to do with the wedding itself, she was too nervous, too wound up. But she knew in her heart of hearts that she did mean every single word she was saying, because of that one moment.
I don't think it was an obviously 'special' moment in any way at all. Apparently they were sitting in their lounge on a Sunday reading various bits of their Sunday paper. Marco chuckled over something he'd read and asked Aimee if she'd listen to a short passage. And as he read out loud to her, she looked at him sitting opposite her, she looked at his face, at his hands holding the newspaper and that was when she knew, that was when she was absolutely sure. Of course, she didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to what he'd been reading to her.
It's funny, I don't think I was nervous at all during my wedding. I think I just enjoyed it too much. I mean, I really, really enjoyed every minute of it. I loved everything to do with it. The dressing up, the make-up, choosing the clothes, the decorations, the menu for the reception. Martin and I insisted on doing everything ourselves; I'm sure that's why we enjoyed it as much as we did. And on the day itself, I just wanted to soak in every second of every minute. I suppose I was just having too much to feel nervous about anything. Aimee says she's really jealous of me, because she can remember hardly anything about her actual ceremony. She says she remembers her reception, because she was much more relaxed by that stage. But not much of the ceremony. She's watched her video of it hundreds of times and it makes her weep and sop each time she sees it, but she has no real memory of the event. But I keep going off my point.
Why did I marry Martin? I didn't feel I had to do it simply because it 'the right thing to do'. I didn't feel I had to do it because I wanted to have a child with him; I think it's all right to have a child with someone you're not married to. I didn't feel I had to do it for religious reasons. I didn't feel... what? Maybe I shouldn't be putting it in negatives. He asked me and I said Yes. Why did I say Yes? If he'd never asked me, would I have asked him? Would I have dropped hints? [He said I'd dropped plenty, but I didn't want to upset him by telling him that I hadn't consciously dropped a single one! But maybe it's the subconscious ones that matter most?]
Why did I marry Martin? Why do I stay married to Martin? If he said he wants a divorce, would I say Yes?
Neighbours
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON 19th OCTOBER 2006
---
Martin and I keep hearing a baby's wails coming from a house nearby. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, just before we fall asleep, we think we can hear it: a quiet sound, but very distinct. A young baby, just crying on and on. One time, I got out of bed and went to the window, to see if I could work out where it was coming from. I'm certain it's the old house on the corner, the one that looks fairly abandoned.
I asked the man at the newsagent's if he knows whether anyone lives there. He laughed and assured me it's inhabited by an elderly couple: the man used to be a dentist and his wife worked as a secretary in his practice for some time. Apparently they like to keep themselves to themselves. No, they don't have any children. No, they never seem to be visited by any grandchildren. I didn't tell the newsagent why I was asking all these questions. He seemed quite happy to keep things at the level of a gossip.
Last night, we heard the wailing again. This time Martin got out of bed too and he agrees with me. The sound's coming from the house on the corner.
---
Martin and I keep hearing a baby's wails coming from a house nearby. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, just before we fall asleep, we think we can hear it: a quiet sound, but very distinct. A young baby, just crying on and on. One time, I got out of bed and went to the window, to see if I could work out where it was coming from. I'm certain it's the old house on the corner, the one that looks fairly abandoned.
I asked the man at the newsagent's if he knows whether anyone lives there. He laughed and assured me it's inhabited by an elderly couple: the man used to be a dentist and his wife worked as a secretary in his practice for some time. Apparently they like to keep themselves to themselves. No, they don't have any children. No, they never seem to be visited by any grandchildren. I didn't tell the newsagent why I was asking all these questions. He seemed quite happy to keep things at the level of a gossip.
Last night, we heard the wailing again. This time Martin got out of bed too and he agrees with me. The sound's coming from the house on the corner.
Begin At The End
ORIGINALLY POSTED ON 6th OCTOBER 2006
---
My Jessica's gone.
She's dead. She died three weeks ago.
I walked into the house. I was coming home from work. I walked up the stairs. I saw a light on in her bedroom, so I went inside. And Martin was standing there. Holding her in his arms. And I just knew straight away. I didn't have to look at his face. I didn't have to touch her. The room told me everything straight away.
And I can't remember what I did next.
She's gone. Jessica.
---
My Jessica's gone.
She's dead. She died three weeks ago.
I walked into the house. I was coming home from work. I walked up the stairs. I saw a light on in her bedroom, so I went inside. And Martin was standing there. Holding her in his arms. And I just knew straight away. I didn't have to look at his face. I didn't have to touch her. The room told me everything straight away.
And I can't remember what I did next.
She's gone. Jessica.
Resume
I don't even want to begin to consider the ironies of all this.
Something's just happened with my blog... and now it doesn't exist any more. Luckily, I'd backed up all my posts, so I shall now sit down and re-post them all.
Something's just happened with my blog... and now it doesn't exist any more. Luckily, I'd backed up all my posts, so I shall now sit down and re-post them all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)