Mother's Story (11 page)

I tell them that they don't have to visit. I say it with as much conviction as I can muster. The truth is, I don't want them here, I don't want to associate them with this place, preferring to think of them in the kitchen in Hillcrest Road, pottering and chatting with the radio on. I don't want them to see me like this.

The hour passed slowly, each of us periodically glancing at the clock on the wall, frustrated by how slowly the second hand crept along. My mum reached into her pocket and pulled out an acorn. ‘A present,' she whispered. I took it from her shaking hand and placed it in my pocket. I have it on my bedside table.

When the bell finally rang, Mum looked at me and asked, ‘Do you pray, Jess?' I didn't know if she was saying I should or merely asking out of curiosity. I was thinking of how to respond when a guard came along and, taking me by the elbow, escorted me from the room. I looked back over my shoulder in time to see my dad take my mum's shaking form into his arms and pat her back as she cried into his jumper.

Jessica felt the light touch of her husband's kiss on her forehead as he crept from the room. She smiled. This pregnancy malarkey certainly had its advantages. Instead of nuzzling her awake for speedy sex and then almost insisting on having coffee together before he left for the office, he now left her in bed every morning, encouraging her to sleep for as long as she was able. She was performing the very important task of baby growing, so Matthew had taken over most of the running of the house, not wanting her to hurt herself. Although how she might be injured by a hoover or a duster was beyond her.

Last night before falling asleep he had read aloud from their baby book, again. ‘Oh my God! Our baby has fingerprints! Actual fingerprints, can you believe it? And if it's a girl she has eggs in her ovaries. That is mind-blowing.' He shook his head.

Jessica smiled. She loved that Matt was so involved, so excited about their future and so protective of her. Sometimes he could go a bit too far, like when they had rowed furiously about whether she should take on another illustration commission or not. He had inadvertently mumbled through a mouth full of food that she should relax,
it wasn't as if she had a real job
… She had shouted at him, and he had shouted back. It was one of those rows that had been simmering for some time and brought out into the open something she had long suspected. Matthew had tried to backpedal, but only succeeded in making matters far worse. Stuttering, ‘But my mother was happy not to have the worry of working, she was free to keep the house nice—'

‘You think my job is to keep the house
nice
?' Jessica had squealed.

‘No! Well, a bit. Yes!' Worryingly, he didn't know why this might cause offence.

‘Jesus Christ, Matt, what is this, 1950? Why don't you tell me which way you think I should vote while you're at it!'

‘Don't be like that,' he said. ‘You know what I mean. Just imagine if your mum didn't have to work every day at a job that she doesn't love, she'd have a much more pleasant life.'

‘My mum has an unpleasant life because she is a dinner lady and isn't wealthy enough to stay at home?' This she squealed louder and higher.

‘That's not what I meant!' He pushed at his eye socket with his forefinger and thumb.

‘Well, that's what it sounded like. And for your information, my job, my creativity is a very important part of me!'

Matthew laughed. ‘Oh God! You sound like one of those arty-farty types who carry a book bag and collect vintage teacups.'

He soon stopped laughing when he saw her stricken expression. He apologised straight away, and they had a proper talk about it all. In the end, though, she had agreed it did make sense and she gave up her job nonetheless. She loved her work, but she loved the idea of making him happy even more. Okay, her days were a bit more boring, and she missed the rush of a commission, the sense of promise she derived from a freshly sharpened pencil and a blank sheet of paper. But it was a small price to pay for the enormous amount of sleep she was now allowed.

Jessica buried her face in the pillow and sprawled against the mattress. Despite her initial misgivings, she had to admit that she rather liked the mornings when she was all alone. She could sleep like a starfish and snore with her mouth open, knowing she could wake naturally. No employment meant no boss to answer to. It had always been her definition of success and luxury to wake without an alarm clock. She was renowned for her sleeping ability. Her sixth-form report had stated: ‘If sleeping anywhere at a moment's notice, such as in church, at assembly or during the fourth form production of
The Caretaker
, were a valid subject or sport, Jessica would be heading for a straight A.' She had meant to photocopy this and put it up in their loo.

A loud hammering on the front door woke her suddenly. Lifting her head and pushing back the thick curtain of hair that obscured her view, she tried to focus on Matthew's bedside clock. It was eleven o'clock. Surely she hadn't slept until eleven? But she had.

Grabbing her tartan dressing gown, Jessica thrust her arms into the holes and opened the front door. At first she thought someone had knocked and run away, a favourite prank of the schoolboys on whose route to school she happened to live. She was about to shut the door again when a hand waving from the ground to her right alerted her; it was accompanied by a trickling sound.

‘What in God's name are you doing?' Jessica looked on horrified as she spotted her friend squatting on the small paved area where the wheelie bins lived, beneath the front bay window.

Polly looked up and smiled. ‘I'm having a wee.'

‘Christ, Polly! Why are you weeing in the front garden? Can't you just use the loo like a normal human?'

Polly snorted her laughter. ‘I was absolutely, completely desperate! I got off the train and ran. I don't know how I hung on, I really don't. I only just made it to here. I banged on the door but couldn't wait a second longer. I'm nearly done. Don't watch.' She shooed at her friend with her hand.

Jessica drew breath and was about to respond when she heard Mrs Pleasant's door bang shut.

‘Ah, morning!' Jessica waved at her over the shrubs and miniature wall.

‘Mor—' Mrs Pleasant didn't quite manage to get her words out: the girl on the ground with her jeans bunched down around her knees fixated her.

‘Sorry about my friend,' Jessica mumbled. ‘She has an illness and has to go when the need takes her and… I'm just glad she managed to get behind the hedge in time.' She nodded apologetically.

‘We are both glad about that!' Polly snorted again.

Mrs Pleasant fastened her mackintosh and hitched her shopping bag over her shoulder before making her way down Merton Avenue without uttering a word.

Jessica smiled widely at a mum with a pushchair that passed by, trying to look as if she had been awake for an age.

Polly came bounding into the hallway. ‘Jesus Christ, you lazy cow! Come on, get up, get dressed.'

‘I am up, just not dressed. I hope you are going to wash your hands!' Jessica shouted.

‘Of course! Don't you have work to do?' Polly asked, who was herself between roles, having just finished her latest temping assignment, and considering training as a florist.

Jessica shook her head. ‘No. I've kind of given up my illustrations for the time being. Matt thinks it's better I just concentrate on the baby and the house, y'know…'

‘Actually, I
don't
know. You mean he just said “stop working” and you said “okay then”?' Polly asked with incredulity.

‘Kind of.' Jessica looked at the floor.

‘There you go again with the
kind of
! But you love drawing! And you haven't had the baby yet.'

‘I know. But he's right, it does make life easier.'

‘Bloody hell, mate, he'll be taking over the hoovering next and making you sit with your feet up!' Polly tutted.

Jessica smiled. ‘Perish the thought.'

‘I need some lunch!' Polly snapped her fingers and pushed past her friend, heading for the kitchen and no doubt the fridge. Jessica's food had always for some reason been more attractive to Polly than anything she might find in her own kitchen a mere seven miles across town.

‘Don't they have supermarkets or cafés in SW4? I'm pretty sure they do.' Jessica yawned and stretched, raising her arms. Her T-shirt lifted to reveal the tiniest hint of a baby bump.

‘Don't be sarcastic, your unborn child hears everything.' Polly nodded sagely and tapped her ears. ‘We need to catch up,' she said as she ferreted in the cupboard and then the fridge, taking her haul over to the table. ‘I have a target identified and need advice and assistance if I am going to proceed.'

This was how they had always referred to any new love-interest. ‘Poor bloke.' Jessica yawned again. ‘Does he know his days are numbered?'

‘Yes and no.' Polly shoved a cracker in her mouth, followed by a lump of cheese. ‘Yes, he knows I exist, and no, he doesn't know he is my potential future husband.'

‘Where did you meet him?' Jessica filled the kettle and smiled, now fully compos mentis after her deep sleep.

‘Well, here's the thing. I got chatting to him at the farmers' market and apparently he runs a pregnancy yoga class in a hall just off High Street Ken and I, like the best mate in the whole wide world that I am…' She placed her hand at her breast. ‘Am willing to take you along for the good of your pelvis and the blob.' She pointed at Jessica's tum.

‘You want me to schlep up to High Street Kensington for a yoga class because you fancy the instructor?' Jessica bunched her thick hair into a ponytail and fastened it with a band she had been storing on her wrist.

‘Two words, Jess!' Polly shouted as she held up two fingers, looking like a forceful but less portly Winston Churchill.

‘Oh no, don't say them!' Jessica stuffed her fingers in her ears.

Polly grabbed her friend's hands and pulled them onto the tabletop. ‘Yes! I am going to say them!'

‘Please, NO!' Polly yelled.

‘Too late, Jess. I am saying them now. Conor Barrington!'

‘No! Please don't pull the Conor Barrington card – again!' Jessica slumped down at the dining table, cradling her head in her hands.

‘Yes, Conor Barrington! A promise is a promise.' Polly sat opposite her friend and smiled as she piled crackers high with strong cheddar, smeared them with Matthew's favourite spicy tomato chutney and crammed them into her mouth.

‘I was fourteen!' Jessica banged the table with her flattened palm.

‘So? What's that got to do with anything? You said if I double-dated with you and Rich, the Charlie from Busted lookalike, you would, quote, “Whenever you need me to, at any point in the future until we are old and grey, help you land the man…”'

‘…of your dreams.' Jessica finished the sentence that was indelibly engraved on her mind and had haunted her ever since. ‘I know, but what I hadn't banked on, Polly, was that you would need help landing the man of your dreams every bloody year since!'

‘It was the worst Sunday of my
life
! Do I need to remind you of Conor's cheese-and-onion breath? His octopus hands? His sweaty palms that hovered dangerously close to my right tit? His constant sniffing? His boring conversation? It was torture, it was worse than torture!'

Jessica shook her head. ‘No, you don't need to remind me. You have told me many, many times before. Don't forget he also told the whole of junior choir that you let him go under jumper over bra.'

‘I HAD forgotten that! Right, you definitely owe me.' Polly grinned.

‘What's your yoga man called?' Jessica picked up a cracker and snapped it in half, crunching it loudly.

‘His name?' Polly kept her eyes on her cheese.

‘Yes, what's he called?'

Polly sighed. ‘His name is Topaz.'

Jessica sprayed her laughter and cracker crumbs over her best friend. ‘Topaz?' she shrieked. ‘Oh my God! Are you making this up? I am so coming to a class; I
have
to meet a man called Topaz! Are you kidding me? I can just see you taking him home to Romford: “Mum, Dad, this is… Topaz.” Your dad would wet himself, literally. Your mum would draw the curtains in case any of the neighbours saw him. Does he wear those really baggy pants that hang down to his knees and carry a healing crystal?' Jessica laughed again.

‘Yes and yes. But when you see the bod that sits inside those baggy MC-Hammer-style strides, you won't be laughing.'

‘I think I might be, actually.'

‘Look on the bright side, you can get a discount on baby yoga for the blob.'

‘Poll, you have to stop referring to my baby as the blob.'

‘Do I? Why?'

‘Because…' Jessica tried to explain her feelings without sounding too mumsy, knowing this would only invite ridicule from her best friend. ‘Because it is far from a blob. I'm just over thirteen weeks and this blob has a strong beating heart, it can move its arms and legs and it has fingernails!' Jessica felt a flutter of happiness ripple through her body. She placed her hand on her tummy and beamed. ‘It's incredible, isn't it? We've got our scan tomorrow! I can't wait!' she clapped.

Polly placed her cheese cracker on the table. ‘Do you mind if we stop talking about it?'

Jessica placed her hand over the back of her friend's. ‘Aww, sure. Does it make you feel broody?'

Polly shook her head. ‘Actually, no. It makes me feel sick!'

‘How can it make you feel sick? God, Polly!' Jessica shook her head.

Her friend shrugged her shoulders. ‘Just does. I mean, don't you think it's a bit yucky, all that stuff going on inside your body? Growing another human! It's not natural.'