Boys Don't Cry (2 page)

The doorbell rang – as if on cue. I was at the door in a heartbeat, throwing it open with eager trepidation.

It wasn’t the postman.

It was Melanie.

I stared at her. It took a couple of seconds to register the fact that she wasn’t alone. I stared down at the contents of the buggy beside her.

‘Hello, Dante.’

I didn’t say a word. The baby in the buggy had all of my attention.

‘C-can I come in?’

‘Er . . . yeah. Of course.’ I stepped to one side. Melanie wheeled the buggy past me. I closed the door behind her, frowning. She stood in the hallway, biting the corner of her bottom lip. She watched me expectantly, like an actress waiting for her cue. But she knew where the sitting room was, she’d been here before.

‘Go through.’ I indicated the open door.

Following her, my thoughts flitted like dancing bees. What was she doing here? I hadn’t seen her in . . . it had to be well over a year and a half. What did she want?

‘Are you babysitting?’ I pointed to the bundle in the buggy.

‘Yeah, you could say that,’ Melanie said, looking at the many family photos Dad had placed on the windowsill, on either side of Mum’s favourite lead-crystal vase, and around the room. Some were of me; more were of Adam; most were of my mum. But there were none of her during that last year before she died. I remember that Dad had wanted to take some – he was always taking photos – but Mum wouldn’t let him. And after she died, Dad hadn’t picked up the camera again. Mel flitted from photo to
photo, studying each intently before moving on. To be honest, I didn’t see what was so fascinating.

Whilst Melanie was looking at the photos, I used the opportunity to eye her. She looked the same as ever, maybe a little slimmer but that was all. She was dressed in black jeans and a dark blue jacket over a light blue T-shirt. Her dark brown hair was shorter than the last time I’d seen her, shorter and spikier. But she was still stunning, with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen framed by the longest, darkest lashes. I glanced down at the bundle in the buggy which was staring up in fascination at the light-fitting in the middle of the ceiling.

‘What’s its name?’

‘
Her
name is Emma.’ Pause. ‘D’you want to hold her?’

‘
No
. I mean, er . . . no, thank you.’ The words came out in a panicked rush. Was Melanie barking mad or what? No way did I want to hold a baby. And she still hadn’t said what she was doing here. Not that I wasn’t pleased to see her. It’d just been a long time, that was all. Melanie had dropped out of school over a year and a half ago and I hadn’t seen or heard from her since. As far as I knew, no one had.

And now she was in my house.

As if reading my mind, Melanie said, ‘I went away to live with my aunt. I’m back for the day visiting a friend and, as I was just passing by, I thought I’d pop in and say hi. I hope you don’t mind.’

I shook my head and dredged up a smile, feeling unexpectedly awkward.

‘I’m going away today actually,’ Melanie continued.

‘Back to your aunt’s,’ I assumed.

‘No. Up north. I’ll be staying with friends for a while.’

‘That’s nice.’

Silence.

‘Can I get you something? A drink?’ I said at last.

‘Er . . . some water? Some water would be good.’

I headed for the kitchen and filled a tumbler from the tap. ‘There you are.’ I handed it to her once I got back to the sitting room.

The glass shook slightly on its way to her lips. Melanie took two or three sips then put it down on the windowsill. She retrieved a box from her jacket pocket and took out a cigarette, pushing it between her lips. ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’ she asked, the flame from her lighter already approaching the cigarette end.

‘Er . . . I don’t, but my dad and Adam will. Especially Adam. He’s an anti-cigarette fascist and they’ll both be back soon.’

‘How soon?’ Melanie asked sharply.

I shrugged. ‘Thirty minutes or so.’

Why the urgent tone to her voice? For a second there she’d looked almost . . . panicky.

‘Oh, OK. Well, the smell will be gone by then,’ said Mel, lighting up anyway.

Damn it. To tell the truth, I wasn’t keen on cigarettes either. Melanie drew on the cigarette like she was trying to suck all the tobacco in it down her throat. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then a rush of swirling grey vapour shot out of her nostrils. Minging. And the smell was already filling the room. I sighed inwardly. Adam was
going to do his nut. Melanie opened her eyes to look at me, but she didn’t say a word. She inhaled from her cigarette again like it was an oxygen tube and her only source of air.

‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I said.

‘I started almost a year ago. It’s one of the few pleasures I have left,’ said Melanie.

We regarded each other. The silence stretched between us like taut elastic. Oh God. What was I supposed to say now?

‘So . . . how are you? What’ve you been up to?’ It wasn’t much but it was all I could find to ask.

‘I’ve been looking after Emma,’ Melanie replied.

‘I mean, apart from that?’ I persisted a little desperately.

A slight smile curved one corner of Melanie’s mouth. She shrugged but didn’t reply. She turned her head to carry on looking around the room.

Silence.

The baby started gurgling.

Some noise to break the scratchy quiet. Thank goodness for that.

‘What about you?’ Melanie asked, removing the baby from the buggy and holding it on the left side of her body as she moved the cigarette to the right side of her lips. ‘What’ve you been up to?’ Her eyes weren’t on me though. She was looking into the face of the thing in her arms. The thing gurgled louder, trying to wriggle closer into her. ‘What are your plans now you’ve done your A levels, Dante?’

For the first time since she’d arrived, she looked directly at me and didn’t immediately turn her gaze away. And the
look in her eyes was startling. Her face hadn’t changed that much since the last time I’d seen her, but her eyes had. They seemed . . . older somehow. And sadder. I shook my head. There went my imagination, running off in all directions again. Melanie had aged by exactly the same amount of time that I had.

‘I’m waiting for my exam results,’ I said. ‘They’re supposed to arrive today.’

‘How do you think you’ve done?’

Crossing my fingers, I held them up. ‘I worked my butt off, but if you tell anyone, I’ll hunt you down!’

‘God forbid that anyone should find out you actually . . . revised. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,’ smiled Melanie.

‘If I’ve passed, I’m off to university to do history.’

‘And after that?’

‘Journalism. I want to be a reporter. I want to write stuff that everyone wants to read.’

‘You want to work for one of those gossip magazines?’ queried Melanie.

‘Hell, no! Not a celebrity reporter. How boring would that be, interviewing talentless airheads who are famous for absolutely nothing except being famous? No, thank you,’ I said, warming to my theme. ‘I want to cover proper news. Wars and politics and stuff like that.’

‘Ah, that sounds more like the Dante I know,’ said Melanie. ‘Why?’

The question took me by surprise. ‘Pardon?’

‘Why does reporting on that kind of stuff appeal to you so much?’

I shrugged. ‘I like the truth, I guess. Someone needs to make sure that the truth gets told.’

‘And that someone is you?’

How pompous must I have sounded? Embarrassed, I smiled. ‘Didn’t you know? Dante Leon Bridgeman is only my Earth name. On my home planet I’m known as Dantel-Eon, fighting for truth, justice and free computer games for all.’

Melanie shook her head, her lips twitching. ‘I’m beginning to remember why I used to like you so much.’

Used to? ‘Past tense?’

She glanced down at the baby in her arms. ‘I’ve had other things on my mind since we split up, Dante.’

‘Like.’

‘Like Emma for one.’

‘Whose baby is she? Is she a relative?’

Just at that moment, the baby started to grizzle. Hell! It sounded like the thing was winding up for a long, loud bawl.

‘Her nappy needs changing,’ said Melanie. ‘Hold her for a second. I need to get rid of my cigarette.’

Melanie thrust the baby at me and was already turning so I had no choice but to take it. She headed out of the room and made her way to the kitchen. Getting rid of her cigarette was now academic. The whole room stank. I held the baby at arm’s length, pulling back my head like a turtle to put maximum distance between myself and the thing. There was the sound of running water from the tap, then the bang of the bin lid snapping shut. My hearing was switched up to maximum as I waited for
the second I could pass back this thing in my hands.

Mel re-entered the room. With a practised hand, she opened the outsized navy-blue bag hanging on the back of the buggy and removed a pale yellow plastic baby mat decorated with multicoloured flowers. She lay it down on the ground, smoothing it out. Next came a disposable nappy, a small orange plastic bag and some baby skin wipes. With a rueful smile, Melanie took the baby from my unresisting hands. My sigh of relief was unintentionally audible. But damn! I didn’t want to do that again in a hurry. I watched as Melanie knelt down on the carpet to lay the baby on the plastic mat. Whilst I opened the windows, Mel started talking a whole heap of rubbish.

Words like: ‘Am I going to change your nappy now? Yes, I am. Oh yes, I am!’

And it was getting worse. Stricken, I watched as Melanie undid the yellow, all-in-one baby-gro, gently extracting the baby’s legs from the outfit. She wasn’t seriously going to change the baby’s nappy on our carpet, was she? It looked like she was. Gross! I wanted to stop her but what could I say? I watched in horror as Melanie unfastened the disposable nappy.

Urgh!

It was filled to overflowing with poo. Sticky, nasty, ultra-smelly baby poo. I was amazed I managed to hold down my breakfast. But I backed up and backed off double fast. I couldn’t have moved faster if the nappy had suddenly sprouted legs and started chasing me round the room.

‘You should watch this,’ Melanie said. ‘You might learn something.’

Yeah, right!

‘It’s quite straightforward,’ Melanie continued. ‘You lift up her legs slightly by the ankles till her bum is off the nappy, then wipe her off till she’s nice and clean.’ Melanie dropped the wipes on the soiled nappy. ‘Then you whip out the old nappy and place a clean one under her. After that you just fasten it like this, making sure it’s not too tight and not too loose. See. It’s so simple even you could do it.’

‘Yes, but why would I want to?’ I asked.

I mean, duh!

After placing the soiled nappy in the orange bag and tying a knot at the top of it, Melanie refastened the baby-gro before holding Emma to her, rocking it gently. The baby’s impossibly long eyelashes fluttered against its cheeks as its eyes closed. Melanie handed me the soiled nappy bag. I recoiled in horror.

‘Could you put that in your bin, please?’ she smiled.

‘Er . . . the kitchen is in the same place. Help yourself.’

‘Would you mind holding Emma then?’

Oh God. Poo or a baby? A baby or poo?

I took the nappy bag out of Mel’s hand, holding it at arm’s length between my thumb and index fingertip. I started off carrying it gingerly but decided that speed would be better. Much better. So I sprinted to the kitchen, dropped it in the pedal bin, then washed my hands in the kitchen sink like I was scrubbing up to perform surgery. I headed back to the sitting room, Mel’s laughter ringing in my ears. Melanie looked at me and smiled, her eyes crinkling with amusement. I didn’t quite see what was so
funny, but Mel’s toothy smile brought back a rush of unbidden memories. Memories of things that I hadn’t exactly forgotten, but memories I’d buried somewhere where they weren’t easily accessible. I sat down, more puzzled than ever. What was Melanie doing here? Just passing by didn’t quite ring true somehow.

‘Mel, why . . . ?’

‘Shush. She’s fallen asleep,’ Melanie whispered. She placed the baby back in its buggy and she was so gentle, the baby didn’t stir once. Melanie straightened up, biting repeatedly on one side of her bottom lip. I remained seated. Abruptly, as if deciding something on the spur of the moment, Melanie dug into her oversized baby bag and withdrew a folded sheet of beige-pink paper.

‘Read this,’ she said, thrusting the paper at me.

I hesitated. ‘What is it?’

‘Read it.’

Frowning, I took it from her unresisting hand and unfolded it.

I stared at her. ‘You . . . you’re the baby’s mother?’

Melanie nodded slowly. ‘Dante, I . . . I don’t know how to say this without . . . well, without just saying it.’

She didn’t have to say anything. The birth certificate explained so much and said so little. Melanie had had a baby. She was a mum. I had trouble taking it in. Melanie was my age. And she had a kid?

‘Dante, I need to tell you something . . .’

Mel wasn’t even nineteen yet. How could she have been stupid enough to have a kid at our age? Hadn’t she ever heard of the pill? Kids were for people in their late thirties who had mortgages and steady jobs and serious savings in the bank. Kids were for those sad people who didn’t have anything else to do with their lives.