One Thing Led to Another (24 page)

I turn on the hot tap with my foot, lie back and close my eyes. ‘Cotton wool clouds’? How crap is cotton wool clouds!? And clouds like skinny sheep? Where the hell did he get that from?! I picture us on the beach, wandering down the seafront, the sight of Jim padding down the beach with two ice lollies running down his hands. I picture him next door, caked in goo, enough heat coming off him to cook an egg, and I can’t help but smile.

‘Have you gone to sleep in there Jarvis?’

Shit,
my eyes flick open.

‘No,’ I shout back. ‘I’m getting out now.’

I haul myself out of the bath, wrap a towel around me and open the bathroom door, stepping out in a billow of steam.

‘Right,’ says Jim, easing himself off the bed. ‘Cold shower I think, for me.’

The shower goes on, I hear him yelp and chuckle to myself as I open my case.

It’s a beautiful summer’s evening, I want to dress up, but everything I try on just doesn’t look right. In my head, I am thin with a massive bump. In reality, I am curvy with a small one. I try everything in my case, until all that’s left is a black, strappy knee length dress cut on the bias. I slip it over the thick straps of my maternity bra and stand in front of the full-length mirror. God, how depressing. How come you always looks so much better in your imagination? Saddlebags are spreading, I’m sure my thighs touch down to my knees but it’s all I’ve got, it will have to do.

‘Wow, nice dress.’

Jim emerges from the bathroom in a miasma of Lynx, his sunburnt nose glowing like a beacon.

‘I look like a whale, don’t lie. A fat, dumpy blobby whale.’

‘You do not,’ says Jim

‘I bloody do. Look at this.’

I hold up every item of clothing I have tried on and rejected.

‘This looked shit, this looked shit, this doesn’t even zip up…!’

Jim sits down on the bed and sighs.

‘You’re pregnant you idiot, of course you’re going to get bigger.’

‘I look rubbish.’

‘You look
lovely,’
says Jim
.
‘You look beautiful, actually.’
He looks at me through my reflection in the mirror. ‘You
are
beautiful, actually.’ He says it so quietly I hardly catch it.

I pretend like nothing’s happened, I smooth the dress down and step back a little. ‘Well it’ll have to do,’ I say, smiling at him. But my heart’s beating like a bird.

Did he just say I was beautiful?

The town is heaving, the air thick and sticky. We look in restaurant windows but everywhere looks so cramped, so hot. Then Jim has an ingenius idea.

‘How about The Neptune? The pub on the beach. We could sit outside? Have fish and chips?’

The Old Neptune stands, a run down old house, alone at the end of the main stretch of beach. It’s a local’s favourite and it’s packed tonight, but there are ten or so tables outside on the sand and we manage to bag one, sheltered by the sea wall.

We sit down, me facing outwards. There’s nothing in front of us but an inky calm sea.

‘I had a great day,’ I say. ‘I love it here.’

‘Me too,’ says Jim. ‘I haven’t had such a good day in ages.’

Nostalgia catapults me back in time. Back to that day at the harbour in Whitby when he sat like that, face to the setting sun, and said that too.

‘I just got déjà vu then,’ I say. ‘Of that day in Whitby, remember? After we cleaned my parents’ caravan.’

‘Oh God,’ says Jim, ‘I remember. We sat outside a pub near the sea then, too, only you weren’t preggers so we were drinking.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘and we were snogging.’

‘And
we were shagging,’ Jim says.

We both laugh shyly and look away.

Jim goes to the bar to order the food. I take off my flip-flops, sink my feet in the still-warm sand. It’s almost dark
now and the only source of light is a warm glow from the pub windows and a cloudy moon, leaking across the sky.

Jim comes back and our food arrives in minutes.

‘It’s funny how things have turned out, isn’t it?’ I say, the vinegar from my chips making my eyes smart.

‘Who’d have thought it, eh? That day in Whitby? That we’d be here now, me up the duff, about to have a baby in four months time! It’s all good,’ I say, feeling suddenly warm inside.

‘Do you mean that?’ says Jim.

‘Yes, I do. It may not have seemed like that at times, I know I’ve driven you mad lately, but I don’t regret this Jim, you do know that don’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ smiles Jim. ‘Course I do.’

‘And you know, whatever happens,’ I continue, ‘our baby will never have to deal with its parents getting divorced, since we were never together in the first place. That’s a very good thing.’

‘A very good thing.’

There’s the sound of raucous laughter from the pub, and the constant rush of the sea. On the table opposite, a gang of teenagers, in a uniform of leggings and denim minis are gathering together for a photo.

Jim puts his fork down and smiles at me, a serious smile.

‘You know today,’ he says. ‘When we were on the beach?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know that lad I was telling you about? The one who teaches at my school?’

He’s got a look about him now that I don’t really recognize. He looks kind of vulnerable. He looks down at his plate.

‘Well the thing is, well, you know when I was saying I’d turn out just like him, that maybe I’d…well the thing is…’

The high whine of my mobile suddenly erupts into the night.

‘Oh God.’ I see mum flashing up. ‘I better take this, she starts worrying if I don’t.’

‘Hello.’

I mouth ‘sorry’ to Jim and wander down the beach. Mum sounds agitated and kind of serious. It’s dad. She’s worried about him, he’s very withdrawn and behaving strangely.

‘He’s alright mum,’ I say, ‘just give him some space. You know he gets a bit down sometimes, he’ll be up again in no time.’

The sea laps the shore sleepily.

‘I’m not sure love,’ she says. ‘He’s been like this for weeks. He’s worse this time, I can’t seem to get him to snap out of it.’

I try to reassure her and ask to speak to dad but he’s watching telly and doesn’t want to come to the phone, which I have to admit, isn’t really like him.

‘Is everything OK?’ says Jim when I go back to our seat.

‘Yeah, it’s fine. Dad’s just a bit moody that’s all. Mum gets all stressed about it – he does this sometimes – but I know he’ll snap out of it, she just needs to give him some space. So, um, what were you saying before?’ I say, after we’ve talked about my dad some more. ‘Oh nothing,’ says Jim, taking a sip of his Stella. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

We walk back to the B&B in almost total darkness, the sound of revelling from the pub getting gradually fainter. We watch some telly, then get into bed, both of us almost perched on the side, hyper aware of the space between us. We talk for a bit and then silence, darkness.

‘Jim,’ I say, but from his even breathing I can tell he’s asleep. ‘I think I just felt the baby move.’

‘I was getting too big to hide the bump at work. My GP gave me an address for a Georgian building near Lancaster Castle. The placard on the front read, Ferry Road Moral Welfare. As soon as Lilian was born, I knew I couldn’t give her up. As miracles would have it, three weeks later, I received a telegram from my aunt, offering to take us in.’

Geraldine, 82, Barrow

The night we get back from Whitstable, I have a fitful sleep. The baby flutters, as do thoughts around my head. I felt closer than ever to Jim after this weekend, as if every moment spent in Whitstable was a treasured memory just waiting to happen, a perfect red balloon floating in a clear blue sky. It was like old times when we were carefree and just friends. But these were new times, too, wonderful new times! Times, I realized as I lay, willing sleep, that I don’t want to end in six months or so when I have to move out.

Morning seems to take an age to arrive. When it finally does, I look out of the window onto the greyest, most unlike-July day you’ve ever seen, and I get that feeling – I used to
get it when I was little – did this weekend happen? Or was it just a figment of my imagination?

I am standing on my bed, arms folded now, nose inches from Eminem.

‘So Slim,’ I sigh (I reckon Slim Shady and I are enough acquainted with each other now for me to abbreviate), ‘what do you reckon, dude? Eh? What will become of me at the end of all this?’

Eminem glares right back at me from beneath his baseball cap, his hands down his baggy pants, his feet wide apart.

I sigh, I step down from my bed as gracefully as a baby elephant. ‘Right, OK. I take it there won’t be much in the way of enlightening insights from you, then?’

The house is silent, Jim having gone to work at the crack of dawn to get on top of the end of term reports and I miss his presence and his shuffling about.

I get dressed (Slim and I like to have our little tête-à-têtes in just my pants) and sit cross-legged on the bed, plucking my eyebrows. My eighteen week bump protrudes like a modest little Buddha’s and I notice that the beginnings of a line running from underneath my bra to my belly button is appearing, chestnut-brown and defined, like a henna tattoo.

I dawdle, leaving for work ten minutes late, but weirdly, I couldn’t care less. Rachel’s at the bus stop when I get there, Tilly good as gold in her pram. It crosses my mind that nine fifteen on a Monday morning is pretty early for a woman and her baby to be out and about, but then Rachel strikes me as one of these Super Mums. She’s probably off to some sort of baby yoga group in town.

‘Look at you! How many weeks are we now? It’s definitely grown,’ she says as I approach the bus stop. She’s wearing huge vintage shades today, a bo-ho top and long trousers, and a cream pashmina arranged around her shoulders. She’s back to her usual glamorous self.

‘Eighteen,’ I say. ‘Almost half way!’

‘Wow, how exciting. Try to enjoy it, I wish I’d enjoyed mine more. Pregnancy for me was pretty stressful.’

This surprises me, she looks like the sort who would have revelled in her pregnancy – spent the entirety of it in the Lotus position wearing Isabella Oliver maternity wear.

‘So where are you off to today?’ I say, ‘and where’s Alan? Work I presume. I suppose I’ve only bumped into you at the weekend before.’

‘Well, no, he got made redundant, actually,’ she says. ‘He’s not working at the moment, so, he’s just at home.’

‘Oh, sorry to hear that,’ I say, thinking that’s odd, I’m sure he told me he was a fireman.

‘Yeah, it was terrible timing, just before Tilly was born. It hit him really hard.’

I don’t want to say the wrong thing or something useless like ‘I’m sure something will come along’ so I just change the subject.

‘I felt it move for the first time yesterday.’ I feel sure she’ll be touched I told her something quite momentous, that perhaps by sharing, she’ll share more with me but she doesn’t answer, she’s suddenly not listening. She’s looking nervously up the road, like she’s just seen a ghost.

‘I have to go,’ she says, wrapping her pashmina tighter around her shoulders. ‘I have to go, I’m sorry, I’ll see you, OK?’

‘Sure,’ I say, concerned. ‘Is everything OK? Do you need any help?’

But it’s too late, she’s gone. She’s running up the hill, with Matilda in her pram, towards a black car that’s pulling over.

‘So how exactly does Bruno guide you on your choice of boyfriend?’

Anne-Marie snorts, I put my finger to my mouth to tell her to shut up and move the phone to the other side of my desk so she can’t listen in.

‘Well he wags his tail if he likes ’em, you know.’ The woman on the other end of the phone has got the strongest West Country accent you’ve ever heard. ‘And he bites ’em on the leg when he don’t!’

‘Right.’ I rub my forehead. I was hoping it would be more sophisticated than that. ‘And is there anything else, you know, more specific?’

I come off the phone forty-five minutes later. The only more specific thing I learned was that Bruno sniffs around their crotch if he thinks they look iffy, then barks at the door, till she finally sends them home.

‘That sounded abso-bloody-lutely priceless,’ laughs Anne-Marie, as I flop dramatically back on my swivel chair, groaning with the pain of it all.

‘Painful more like,’ I say. ‘The dog’s totally normal, it’s got as many special powers as you or me!’

‘Oh worry ye not,’ says Anne-Marie, typing manically. ‘Just make it up, the real nutters never notice. And anyway,’ she says, ‘you’ve got far more important things to think about. How is French Fancie anyway?’ I feel the blood rush to my insides. ‘You haven’t mentioned him for ages.’

‘He’s great,’ I say, pretending to fiddle with the batteries on my Dictaphone. ‘Nothing to report, everything going smoothly.’

‘Aahh,’ says Anne-Marie, ‘look at you, all in phase two. Make the most of it because phase three is when the little annoyances creep in and then you start to fucking hate them.’

The red light on my phone flashes.

I pick it up.

‘Hello, Features.’

‘Hello, it’s Becky in reception here, there’s a man downstairs saying he’s here to see you.’

‘Oh, Really? I’m not expecting any man, what’s his name?’

‘He won’t say. He just keeps saying “Do I look like a terrorist to you?” I think you’d better come down.’

To be fair, my dad couldn’t look less like a terrorist if he tried. His shirt is unbuttoned, he’s wearing long Bermuda shorts, sandals with socks and he’s eating a portion of McDonald’s fries. He looks like an overgrown teenager.

‘Dad!? What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to see you of course, aren’t you pleased to see me?’ he says, going to hug me. I hug him back but his embrace is loose, not an embrace at all.

‘Course, yeah but…’

‘Not that I could bloody get in the place for love nor money. These idiots obviously think I’ve got bombs in my shoes.’

‘
Dad!
’ I say, through gritted teeth. ‘They’re just doing their job. It’s standard security, everyone’s got to give their name and get a pass.’

He shrugs moodily and carries on eating his fries.

‘Tony Jarvis,’ I say to Becky the receptionist. I mouth ‘sorry’. She gives me a confused smile back and hands me the pass.

‘Um, do you want to come and sit over here dad?’ Dad trundles behind me as I make towards a big red leather sofa in reception.

Dad smooths the big rubber plants on either side with the palm of his hand.

‘These are flagging,’ he says. ‘Need a bit of a dust and some attention, these do.’

‘Right.’ I frown. ‘I’ll let Becky on reception know. So dad, is everything alright? To what do I owe this lovely surprise?’

‘I just wanted to see you that’s all. I’ve been to that Tate Modern, eh, loads of rubbish in there, isn’t there? I couldn’t find anything decent to look at. They had loads of boxes in the main entrance, looks like they’re packing up the place.’

‘Dad, that’s an art exhibition, a Turner Prize-winning one.’

‘A what?’ He makes an unimpressed grunt. I look at him worried. Dad knows exactly what the Turner Prize is, he’s normally quite interested in culture.

‘So, where’s your office then?’ he says, offering me a chip (I decline).

‘Fifth floor, just above
Gardener’s World
magazine, hey, I could get you a subscription if you like, for your birthday?’

He looks right through me and carries on munching. I wonder if he actually heard.

‘So…is mum OK? Are you and mum OK?’

‘Oh yes, me and your mum are OK, we’re always OK,’ he says, as he always does. I breathe a sigh of relief. My parents divorcing is one of my all-time greatest fears. But all the same, I’m panicking slightly, there’s something seriously not right with my dad.

‘And Ed? Is everything OK with Ed and Joy and the girls?’

‘Mmm,’ says dad with his mouth full, ‘stop asking so many questions, everything’s fine.’

I sigh, we sit in silence for a moment or two then I say.

‘Dad, look, I’m not being funny, but it’s just quite random that you came, on your own, you know, without calling first? I’m just worried that’s all…’

‘I just wanted a change,’ he says, ‘isn’t a man allowed a bit of variety in his life when he wants it?’

‘Course dad. Course you are.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ he says.

Five minutes later, he says he’s off, off to that wheel thing he saw on the river.

‘Now, just don’t tell your mother I came, will you? She’ll only worry. Promise me?’

‘OK,’ I say meekly, ‘I promise.’

I watch my dad’s short stocky legs as they make towards the exit, wandering if I can keep the promise I just made.