Needles and Pearls (11 page)

‘Yes, it did, with Jack.’

‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about that.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘A nanny share would save us a fortune, right?’

‘Yes, but I like it here, Ellen, you know that, and so do the boys, and I need Gran as my back-up. I don’t think I can do this without her, I really don’t. She makes me feel safe, and I can use as much of that as I can get at the moment.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And anyway, I can’t afford to live in London. Whatever I was earning would just go on the mortgage and childcare and I’d be no further forward – and a lot more stressed out. And so would the boys.’

Archie comes downstairs, looking furious.

‘He spitted on my arm, on purpose.’

‘Look, I’d better go – there’s spitting going on down here. But I’ll call you later.’

‘The minute you’ve finished at the hospital.’

‘Promise.’

‘Good luck, darling.’

‘He did it on purpose. He did, Mum. Tell him.’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose, was it, Jack?’

Jack’s standing in the kitchen looking sheepish while I de-toothpaste his brother.

‘Sorry, Arch.’

‘No, you’re not. I don’t accept. You can say that, when somebody says sorry and you don’t believe them. Mrs Berry said you can.’

‘Right.’

‘Yes, because Harry pushed me, when I was doing painting, and he said sorry, but he didn’t mean it because he was smiling, and he did it on purpose because I was doing such good painting. So I pushed him right back, and he made such a fuss. Like this.’ He starts yelling and clutching his arm. ‘Stupid baby, like I’d really hurt him. But I will do, if he does it again.’

‘Hurting people never works, Archie, you know that. It only makes things worse. What did Mrs Berry say?’

‘She said we were both wrong because pushing is never the answer. But it is, with Harry it is.’

‘No, it isn’t, Archie. If everyone went round pushing, think how horrible it would be.’

‘It wouldn’t be horrible for people who were good at pushing.’

‘But sooner or later they’d meet someone who was bigger than them, and then everyone would get pushed.’

He glares at me.

‘Don’t say it, I know. You have to be nice and kind and la la la. It’s so stupid.’

‘Archie.’

‘All right, keep your hair on.’

‘I’ve told you not to say that, Archie. It’s very rude. And if Harry does it again just find Mrs Berry and ask her to help you. Promise?’

‘Yes, because I’m one of her favourites.’

Jack tuts.

‘I am, I asked her. And she said all her children are her favourites, so I said she was my favourite, in the whole world, of all the teachers, even Mr O’Brien, and he has sweets. And she was very pleased, I could tell.’

‘Into the car now, love.’

‘Mum, can Mrs Berry come to my birthday party?’

‘Yes, but she might be busy.’

I’ve noticed that teachers tend to steer well clear of birthday parties. Not that I blame them: turning up at a series of thirty birthday parties to pass the parcel in the course of an academic year has got to be way beyond the call of duty, even if you have signed up for one of the caring professions.

‘But we can still give her a party bag if she can’t come?’

‘Yes, of course. Now find your book bag, love.’

Damn, that’s something else I’ve forgotten to put on my list for his birthday party: bloody going-home bags. Although at least round here you can get away with a packet of Smarties and a slice of cake, unlike the London versions, which used to get more and more elaborate every year. Archie wants the same sort of bonfire party that we had for Jack last year, when we’d only been here a few months. Only with
Superheroes
fancy dress. But at least he’s forgotten about the fireworks.

‘Mummy.’

‘Yes, Archie.’

‘I want fireworks at my party too, like Jack, only I want more sparkers and I don’t want Elsie to be in charge of them because she’s too bossy.’

‘It’s sparklers, Archie, and I’m not sure you can get them this time of year.’

‘If you try hard I bet you can.’

Bugger.

*   *   *

‘Just pop yourself on the bed and we’ll have a look, shall we?’

The ultrasound woman is wearing too much lipstick and has one of those special Health Professional smiles. Actually, I’m feeling sick so I wonder if she’ll still be smiling when I throw up all over her sensible shoes.

‘It might take me a moment or two to find Baby once we get started, so don’t worry.’

Don’t worry? Why would I be worrying? This is only the vital moment of truth when I get the final proof that this is really happening. I’ve been half pretending to myself that this is some kind of phantom pregnancy dreamt up by my hormones, and half obsessing about where to put a cot and how the boys will react. But after this moment there’ll be no going back. If there’s a baby on this monitor screen in a minute or two I’ll have to say goodbye to my phantom-get-out-of-jail-free card. I sneaked a look at one of my old pregnancy books when I was in the bath last night, and the baby should be around three inches long now, and have fingers and toes. It might even be learning how to suck its thumb. Oh God.

‘Just lift up your T-shirt, dear. The gel is a bit chilly, I’m afraid. Have you been feeling any movements?’

‘I think so.’

Tiny flutterings, which I remember from Archie, like I’ve drunk too much fizzy water too quickly. Although I’ve been trying to cut down on tea and coffee by drinking bottles of San Pellegrino, which I seem to have developed a passion for, so it might be that. Still, at least I’ll be hydrated, even if I’m not actually pregnant.

I’m looking at a flickering screen and there’s nothing. No baby, no flutterings, nothing. Oh God.

‘Now you might feel a slight pressure, and, oh sorry, I haven’t switched the monitor on. Now then, let’s have a look, shall we? This might take a minute … oh, there you are.’

There’s a baby. On the monitor. Who appears to be waving at me.

Christ. A real baby.

I half want to wave back; actually, what I really want is to touch the screen to say hello. There’s a tiny little waving person, just like I remember with Jack and Archie. And it feels like it’s nothing to do with me, like the baby has just been getting on with it, despite having a mother who’s so daft she didn’t even know she was pregnant. Perhaps the waving thing is an attempt to make sure I’ve finally got the message. Hello. I’m here.

I’m crying now, fairly modest quiet weeping rather than donkey-noises sobbing.

‘Sorry.’

‘No need to apologise, dear.’

She hands me a tissue and I lie looking at the screen while she clicks buttons, taking measurements.

‘You must have one of the best jobs in the world.’

‘Most days, yes. Sometimes it can be difficult.’

There’s a silence, and suddenly I feel a wave of guilt: there are so many women out there who long for this moment, just to get to this stage, and I’ve been trying to pretend it’s not really happening. But not any more.

‘I had twins in before you, and that’s always lovely.’

Bloody hell. Twins.

‘There’s no sign of twins though, is there?’

She smiles.

‘Not as far as I can see.’

‘And everything looks OK?’

‘Perfectly fine.’

Perfectly fine. The baby is perfectly fine.

‘Ellen?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s baby, all perfectly fine, the right size and everything, and they’ve done all the tests and the GP will get the results,
but it all looks fine, a bit on the large side for my dates, but all healthy. And my blood pressure and everything else is totally normal, except I keep crying. Isn’t that wonderful?’

‘Well, thank fuck for that. I’ve been feeling pretty tearful myself, all bloody morning.’

‘I got to see the Consultant, which is more than I ever did in London. He was quite nice, actually, no amusing bow ties or anything, and he didn’t treat me like I was an idiot. They think I should go for a C section, like with Archie, but I can have a trial labour if I want one.’

‘Trial labour, Christ – couldn’t they come up with something more depressing-sounding?’

‘They all talk like that. Anyway, I said I’d think about it, but I’m pretty sure I’ll go for the C section. That way I can choose the date and get things organised for the boys. And it’s safer for the baby too, especially with an ancient mother like me.’

‘Hello?’

‘Anything over nineteen is ancient in the wonderful world of pregnancy, don’t worry about it. And under nineteen you’re a teenager breeder and they make you go to special classes, so you can’t win.’

‘Fuckers.’

‘There was one bad moment, when I was booking in with the midwife. She asked me for my husband’s name so I gave it to her, and it was only when she asked me for his work number that I remembered. How daft is that?’

‘Sweetheart.’

‘She had to get a new form out and start all over again, so I felt like a complete idiot. But at least it meant she didn’t ask me for the father’s name. She did ask me if I was going to have a birth partner, though.’

Ellen’s desperate to be the official birth partner and she’s been dropping increasingly unsubtle hints about it.

‘And?’

‘I told them I’d call Mum tonight, see if she’s up for it.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Ellen, I’m pregnant, not insane. Of course I want you, if you’re up for it. Although if a big story breaks and you’re on a flight somewhere I’ll understand. I’ll ask Gran too, as back-up.’

‘Tell her I’m the official birth partner: I don’t want her muscling in. I’m going to put it on my CV.’

‘Britain’s Favourite Broadcaster and part-time birth partner?’

‘Yes.’

By the time I get to the shop it’s nearly half-past twelve, and Elsie races off home to get her washing in because it looks like rain.

‘I think Martin might be home, so I’ll probably stop and make him a bit of lunch.’

‘Of course, I’ll be here until three, there’s no need to rush.’

Actually, a couple of hours in the shop is just what I need. I can’t help thinking everyone must have guessed that I’m pregnant, so it’ll be nice to have a bit of peace.

I’m standing behind the counter looking at my scan picture when Martin comes in, whistling.

‘I got it.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The barn.’

‘Oh Martin, that’s brilliant.’

‘I’ve got the papers from the agent’s, if you’d like to see?’

‘I’d love to.’

The paper is creased and folded, with splatters of mud on the back, so I think he’s probably been out there measuring things. It looks a lot more like a large field with the remnants of a barn collapsing in it than I was expecting, but I’m sure it’ll be stunning when he gets it finished.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I know, I still can’t quite believe it. Normally when I want something it’s a pretty safe bet that it won’t happen.’

‘But not this time.’

‘No.’

He’s beaming.

‘Well, I’m really pleased for you, and if there’s anything I can do, just let me know. Have you told Elsie yet?’

‘No, I’m building up to it.’

‘Well, let me know if you need back-up. Shall I start talking about barns being brilliant investments?’

‘Please, that would be great.’

He leans over the counter and kisses me on the cheek, and I hand him back the papers as Elsie opens the shop door.

Bugger.

I don’t think she saw anything, because I’m pretty sure she’d have slapped me by now if she had, but still.

‘There you are, Martin. I got you a bit of ham for your lunch. I thought you’d be back.’

‘I did say I’d be out, Mum.’

She gives me a furious look.

‘Martin was just talking to me about the website, Elsie. I think it’ll be great for business.’

If she finds out he’s told me about the barn before her, I’ll never hear the end of it.

‘Can’t see the point of it myself. Not many of our customers have got computers, you know.’

‘Yes, but that’s the point, Mum. It’ll help you get new
ones. Anyway, I’d better be off, Jo. I’ll put a few more ideas down on paper for you, and then show you.’

‘Lovely.’

He leans forward and kisses me again, like it’s something he does to everybody, which he doesn’t. People don’t really go in for social kissing round here. But still, you’ve got to admire his nerve. He winks at me.

‘I’ll see you later, Mum. What time will you be back? Only I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.’

‘Oh yes, what’s that then?’

‘It’s private, Mum. Nothing to worry about, just an idea I’ve had I want to talk through with you.’

She smiles, clearly mollified by the idea that it’s not something he wants to talk about in front of me.

‘Well, I’ll be back by quarter to six. I’ve got some lamb chops in for tea.’

He goes off whistling, and Elsie smiles.

‘I’ll just pop the kettle on, shall I, dear?’

‘Lovely.’

Clever old Martin.

I’m sitting in the car outside school looking at my scan picture again. I’m a few minutes early and I don’t want to risk standing in the playground without back-up in case Annabel collars me and sticks me on another one of her bloody lists. Connie’s at home with Mark, wallpapering their spare bedroom, so I’m picking up Nelly and Marco today. She’s really excited about her mum and dad coming over from Italy, and she wants everything perfect for them, so we’ve battled with Gran’s sewing machine and made new curtains in the shop, which took us nearly a whole afternoon with Elsie nipping up with handy hints, and now she’s papering and painting. God, I suppose I’ll have to start on
some of that too now, and turn the spare room into a bedroom for the baby. Still, first things first; I’ll have to work out how I’m going to tell the boys, before I start worrying about bedrooms.

There’s a knock on the car window that makes me jump, and of course it’s bloody Annabel.

‘Hello, you were looking very thoughtful.’

I walk across the road with her.

‘Just running through a few ideas for the shop, Annabel.’

‘It must be such a strain, running your little shop. I don’t know how you do it, you working mums, I really don’t. I never seem to have enough hours in the day as it is. Of course I do have very high standards, I do accept that. But still.’