The Two Week Wait (32 page)

‘IT’S-POSITIVE-IT’S-POSITIVE-IT’S-POSITIVE!’

‘No!’ He sits bolt upright.

‘Look!’ She waves the stick so close to his face there is not a chance he can read it.

‘Hang about, slow down.’ He grabs her wrist. ‘Let me see.’

She hands it over and he leans on one elbow towards the light. His eyes take a while to adjust but eventually he can make it out. Whereas before there was perhaps, only possibly, the vaguest
hint of a line, this time there is no mistaking it.

‘Fucking . . . hell . . . ’ he says, slowly.

‘I know! Fucking hell, indeed.’

‘Did you do it without me?’ he asks, though the answer is obvious.

She wrinkles her nose. ‘I did, I’m sorry.’

‘Love, this is fantastic!’ He can feel himself grinning.

‘Isn’t it?’

His mind is whirling, he’s so shocked. He needs to ground himself. ‘What time is it?’

She checks the bedside radio alarm. ‘Nearly five thirty.’

‘Ah . . . ’ He flops back on the pillows. No wonder he feels so knackered.

She snuggles up to give him a hug. ‘Do you think it’s too early?’

‘Too early for what?’

‘To ring my mum.’

Dear Cath, honestly. He laughs, shakes his head. ‘Yes, I darn well do. It’s too early in the day for a start. But I think it’s too early to tell her anyway. It’s still
only day fourteen.’

‘Well, I’m not waiting three months!’

He knows he’s onto a loser. ‘At least do another couple of tests. Please?’

*  *  *

‘Mum?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me,’ says Cath.

‘I know it’s you. Is something up?’

‘No, not exactly.’

‘Oh. But it’s pretty early.’

‘It’s gone half eight, Mum.’

‘You don’t normally ring me at this time. Where are you? I can hear children crying.’

Cath is in Morrisons in Headingley. ‘I’m at the supermarket.’ She moves away from a woman trailing a distressed toddler and into the frozen food aisle. ‘It opens at
eight.’

‘I see.’

But Cath can tell she doesn’t. She’d best be direct. ‘I came here to buy something specially.’ She tries to keep the excitement out of her voice. ‘It’s a
fortnight since we did our egg transfer, you realize?’

‘I had worked that out, yes. But I didn’t want to bother you. You seemed to be dealing with it all a bit better this time around.’

Cath ignores the implied criticism. She knows her mother finds her difficult when she gets hyper. ‘Yes. Well, it seems to have worked.’

‘You mean you’re pregnant?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, darling! That’s wonderful!’

‘Thanks,’ Cath purrs. ‘Rich wouldn’t let me tell you till I’d done another test.’

‘So, what? You’ve done more than one, then?’

Cath hesitates. She realizes her actions will undermine the impression she’s played it cool and she really doesn’t want her mother to say anything that might quash her enthusiasm.
Not today. But equally, fibbing to Judy isn’t her way. ‘I did one first thing this morning, and another one just now.’

‘Gosh, darling, you’ve been busy.’

‘I came here to buy another test,’ she says.

‘What . . . So you did it there? In Morrisons?’

‘In the disabled loo,’ Cath confesses.

‘I see.’

Cath can tell her mother considers the concept most unpleasant.

‘So what are you going to do now?’ asks Judy.

‘I’ve got to go to work in a minute,’ says Cath. ‘I’m just buying a sandwich for my lunch.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Well, it’d be good if you could put your feet up for a bit.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Don’t overdo it now, will you? It’s very early days and you get stressed out so easily. You be careful.’

She sounds just like Rich, thinks Cath. They often echo one another. But Cath knows her mum has her best interests at heart, and the welfare of her unborn baby.

‘I had some great news this morning,’ says Lou.

‘Oh yes?’ says Karen.

‘Apparently my egg recipient is pregnant.’

‘That’s great!’ says Anna. They’re in Lou’s flat, waiting for friends. Rod, who after six months is officially Anna’s boyfriend, is with them. ‘How do
you know?’

‘I rang the clinic today just to touch base, tell them my twenty week scan went OK—’

‘Wow, are you twenty weeks already?’

‘I am,’ Lou beams. ‘Well, actually I’m nineteen, but what with Christmas and everything, it was either do one now or not till early January.’

‘So the scan was OK?’ asks Karen.

‘Yup, seems perfectly fine.’

‘Lou,’ interjects Molly. ‘When are you having your baby?’

‘I’m due in May,’ says Lou.

‘But that’s
ages
.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Lou laughs. Just then the buzzer goes. ‘Ah, that’ll be Adam and Howie.’ She presses the intercom. ‘Don’t bother coming up,
we’ll come down and meet you.’ They’re gathering here before going to the seafront – it will be too crowded to hook up easily otherwise.

‘Come along, folks,’ Karen addresses her children. ‘We’d best get a move on if we’re to get a good view.’ She turns to Lou. ‘You can tell us on the
way.’

‘There’s not much more to tell.’ Lou pulls on her parka. It’s getting snug round her middle, but luckily she’s never been one for skin-tight clothing. She crouches
down to fasten the toggles of Molly’s duffle coat – she has to squat, rather than bend. ‘They’re not allowed to say much, so all I know is she had a second go a few weeks
back with a frozen embryo and it was successful.’

‘That’s amazing,’ says Karen.

‘I’m so pleased,’ says Lou. ‘I feel I can really celebrate my own pregnancy now.’

‘It’s still relatively early days for her, though, I guess?’

‘Yes, it must be.’ Lou locks the door to her studio and they troop downstairs. The two men are waiting on the pavement outside; Howie in his familiar woollen hat and donkey jacket,
Adam in the sort of sweeping tweed coat that reminds Lou of her father. The effect on Adam is more geography teacher than matinee idol, whereas her father cut an imposing figure, broad-shouldered
and tall. Howie is stamping his feet to keep warm.

‘It’s freezing,’ moans Anna. She’s hardly dressed for the cold – her jacket barely covers her behind.

‘You can snuggle up to me,’ says Rod, pulling her to him. They walk down the road arm in arm.

At the end of the street they all halt to assess the situation. Across Marine Parade it’s thronging with people packed tight against the balustrade who’ve beaten them to an Upper
Circle view over the beach.

‘The kids will never get to see from here,’ says Karen.

Luke scowls and pouts; Lou picks up his disappointment.

‘Some of your friends are in the procession, aren’t they?’ she says.

‘I can lift you,’ offers Adam. ‘Would that help?’

Luke appears unsure – he’s not met Adam before.

‘And I could give you a piggyback,’ suggests Rod to Molly.

Howie is busy checking his mobile; it seems he’d rather not get involved.

‘I think we should head down to Madeira Drive,’ says Lou. The road runs parallel to the shore much nearer the display.

‘Will you be OK?’ asks Adam.

‘Sure,’ she nods. She’s not spending months encased in bubble wrap like a piece of crockery, and as she’s well into her second trimester she’s feeling positively
healthy – almost every day someone tells her she is glowing.

Adam leads the way down the steps, and pushes his way through the crowds with a cheery smile and a ‘’Scuse me – small children – pregnant lady,’ until they’re
near the front. Lou is impressed by his sheer nerve.

‘Better?’ he says.

‘Better,’ says Karen as Luke wriggles between a couple of grown-ups to a prime spot close to where the procession will pass. She checks he is still in her line of vision.
‘Thanks.’

‘Do you want to go piggyback?’ Adam asks Molly. Rod is cuddling Anna to keep her warm.

‘Yes, please,’ Molly says, and Adam scoops her up.

‘Ooh, listen,’ says Anna. ‘They’re coming!’

In the distance there is the thump of a drum, like a deep protracted heartbeat. Gradually it gets louder and louder, until there is a flicker of light and to the west the procession heaves into
sight, a stately cortege of children and adults brandishing ghostly white lanterns made from willow and tissue paper.

‘So what’s it for?’ asks Rod. ‘I get it’s winter solstice and all that, but why the lanterns and the bonfire?’

‘It’s called the Burning of the Clocks because it’s to summon in the new sun,’ says Lou, watching in awe as a spectral Big Ben and Houses of Parliament are carried right
past by a group of ten schoolchildren. Behind it is a homage to the Pavilion; behind that a woman dressed in a large hoop skirt decorated with minutes and hours.

‘Oh bless her, she’s Mother Time!’ says Howie.

There are simple stars and suns and moons, precarious skyscrapers and flamboyant palaces, ghoulish skulls and comic cartoon characters – no two constructions are alike.

‘Apparently each lantern is supposed to contain the wishes of the maker,’ says Karen, as the procession winds its way towards the shingle, a stream of bright against the dark. The
lanterns are then thrown on a fire, one by one, until flames lick high into the sky.

‘But really it’s just hocus-pocus,’ says Anna.

‘Brighton PC hippies at it again,’ chuckles Rod.

‘Well, it makes a bloody good antidote to the commercialism of Christmas, if you ask me,’ says Karen snippily. Lou remembers what a tricky time this is for her friend, how upset she
was last year, with all the pressures of present-buying and family gatherings without Simon. ‘I had to put on a brave face for the children,’ Karen had said. Lou watches the burning
pyre, symbol of passing seasons, and reflects that a year from now she’ll also be putting someone else’s needs before her own.

Then, as the fire crackles and sparks and reaches its zenith, the drum stops and the music starts, eerie and magical through giant loudspeakers. So what if it’s superstitious claptrap, Lou
thinks. This is something the whole city can participate in regardless of faith or creed. She wishes she could bring the kids from work here. What a shame they’re so far away.

‘This is the best bit.’ She nudges Rod. ‘Watch.’

She turns to look at Adam. He has Molly’s legs held firmly in his arms, a contrast of pink woollen tights and heavy overcoat, small girl and man. A moment later there is a
WHOOSH!
and the fireworks begin.

‘Ooooooooh!’ the two of them gasp in unison, as several whirls shoot overhead at speed and explode in a tumble of green. Then ‘Aaaaaaaaaah!’ as before the sparkles fade
and drop to shore, an even bigger array of fountains bursts white on white. There’s an ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ as rockets go
BANG! BANG! BANG!
like cannons over the water, and an
‘Eeeeeeeeeeeee!’ as an effervescent rainbow shimmers above the black horizon.

Lou wishes she had a camera, but not for the pyrotechnics. She’d like to capture Molly and Adam’s faces lit up by the spectacle, cheeks flushed in excitement, eyes wide with
wonder.

*  *  *

‘If we go I’m not staying long,’ says Cath.

‘We’ve got to, love, don’t be silly.’

‘She’s still not apologized.’ Cath throws the wrapping paper onto the bed.

Rich coughs. ‘But if you don’t mind my saying so . . . ’ He hesitates: can he risk this? For the sake of a happy Christmas, he has to. ‘ . . . Nor have you.’

‘I’ve got nothing to apologize for!’ Cath empties the Toys R Us bags onto the duvet.

She must have spent a fortune, thinks Rich, eyeing the array of presents she has bought for her nephews, but he’ll worry about their finances later. ‘No, I know . . . but sometimes
it can pay to take the higher moral ground.’

‘By saying sorry when I’m not?’ She waves an arm dismissively and pushes past him. ‘Where’s the Sellotape?’ Seconds later she’s back with the roll and
scissors from his office. ‘Bugger that – she’s the one on such a high horse.’

Oh dear, thinks Rich. For the umpteenth time he’s forced to tiptoe round his wife, in the hopes of circumventing a hormonal explosion. To say she’s been moody is an understatement.
She’s been sick not just every morning, but noon and night too, and her emotions seem off the Richter scale. Yet he’s at least a month to go before they’re through the worst of
it, according to Internet forums for dads-to-be. He’s been sneaking contact with others who’ve been through it in a bid to keep sane.

He tries a different tactic. ‘So what about Alfie and Dom?’ he ventures, aware he’s standing like the proverbial lemon while she busies herself around him.

‘What about them?’ She sits down on the bed with a sigh.

‘You wouldn’t want to miss them, would you? It’s been a long while since you’ve seen them.’

‘No . . . of course not.’

‘But if we don’t go to your mum and dad’s on Christmas Day, when are you going to?’

‘I thought Mike could bring them here on Boxing Day.’ She starts slicing the wrapping paper with alarming vehemence. Any minute now she’ll cut through the duvet cover by
mistake, thinks Rich.

‘I’m not sure he’ll be prepared to do that. It’s a big ask.’

‘Is it?’

He has a sense he’s getting to her. ‘It’ll put him in a very awkward situation with Sukey—’

‘I don’t give a fuck about Sukey!’ Cath thumps the roll of paper on the bedding as if it were a truncheon.

‘No . . . but still, it would be a real shame not to have lunch with them all. Your mum always does such a terrific roast—’

He can see her wavering again. Invariably food is a good lure for his wife; even though she’s been nauseous she is as keen to eat as ever.

‘All right, we’ll go,’ she relents. ‘But we’re not staying beyond five, and you’re not to get drunk.’

‘Of course I won’t,’ says Rich. Though it would have been nice if he could have for once; Cath can’t drink anyway and could have driven them home. Still, he learnt long
ago that there are some battles simply not worth fighting.

*  *  *

‘So what are your plans over Christmas?’ asks Karen, coming back into the living room having put Molly and Luke to bed.