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I sat down on the bare floor and rested my back against the wall. ‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you? Where was I when you were plotting away with a calendar in your hand?’
‘Don’t be daft. But I do think it’s something we should be thinking about now, and talking about. Maybe even doing something about …’ He lay the paintbrush down on top of the tin and sat down next to me, throwing an arm around my shoulders and planting a kiss on my forehead before moving his lips down to cover mine.
‘What? Now?’ I laughed, pushing him away.
‘Why not? Don’t you think it’s time we added a little heir to the Campbell empire? What’s the point of having three bedrooms if we don’t fill them up? Come on, Kate, at least think about it. We’re not getting any younger, are we?’
‘But, what about my job?’
‘Women do it every day, and so can you. Work, bring up babies, find help …’
‘Women give up work too. Look after their own babies, and stay at home getting fat.’
‘Well, if that’s what you want, I’m sure it’s a possibility. We’ll manage somehow, money-wise. For a while, anyway. But don’t get fat. Please don’t get fat.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t think I could cope with that!’
We sat for a few minutes, saying nothing, his fingers playing with my hair, a jumble of images suddenly flashing through my mind. The blood on my dress, the pain, the awful empty feeling when it was over. Did I really want to risk all that again? But there really was no reason to think anything would go wrong again. Just one of those things, the doctor had said. Everything in working order, ready to try again. And this time we could do things properly, couldn’t we? Actually try. Not just let it happen. We could plan things. Get excited instead of scared. We had a nice home now. We’d be good parents. And I’d know for sure this time that Dan wasn’t just saying he wanted it. That he really did. As much as, or maybe even more than, I did.
‘Hold back on the magnolia, then.’ I looked around the room, slowly, the morning light flooding in through the window and throwing a long bright beam across the floor at our feet, tiny dust motes dancing in the air, a thin strand of lacy cobweb dangling high up in the corner. ‘Maybe lemon, so it will work for a boy or a girl. And, actually, I do quite like Pooh Bear …’
‘You mean it?’ Dan turned my face to his and gazed into my eyes, a look of sheer joy on his face as I nodded.
And that’s how we did it, just like that, made a momentous life-changing decision in minutes, over a big tin of emulsion that never did get opened.
***
I knew getting pregnant could take time. There was nothing unusual in having to wait a few months, maybe a year, before things clicked. I’d read enough magazine articles and agony aunt problem pages to know that. Not many couples get lucky in the first month they try. But I’d been there before, managed it without even trying at all, and while taking the pill as well. What did that say about my fertility levels? And Dan’s? So, I half expected a quick result.
‘What are you grinning at?’ Linda said at work one morning. ‘You look like the cat that got the cream. The whole jug, in fact!’
I was a day late. Only one, but I was normally pretty regular, so I had already convinced myself this was it.
‘You’ll know soon enough,’ I said, refusing to explain.
‘Ooh, now I’m intrigued.’
We were opening up our adjacent tills, ready for the onslaught of customers that always greeted us first thing on a Monday, so there was no more time to talk, or for her to start guessing. If she did, I knew it wouldn’t take her long. There are only so many happy secrets it’s possible for a woman to have.
By the time we stopped for lunch, it was too late. There was no secret, and no baby. I was bleeding.
‘Never mind,’ said Dan, when I got home and told him the news. ‘It’s early days. Put your feet up and I’ll cook tonight. And if you’re really good I might even make you a hot water bottle.’
‘If I’m good?’
‘Well, you know what I mean. No crying, or worrying about it. We’ve got plenty of time, and having a few more practice goes at it could actually be quite fun. Practice makes perfect, after all! Now, what do you fancy to eat? Fish fingers or chicken pie? I think there’s one in the freezer somewhere.’
‘Fish please. It’s good for baby-making. I’m sure I read that somewhere.’
‘Really? Maybe it’s time we read up on all this stuff, eh? Get our facts straight. You know, loose underpants and cold showers, and timing things with a thermometer and all that. Give ourselves the best chance. We’ll get a book out of the library.’
Typical Dan. Methodical, organised, a planner through and through. I suppose that was the accountant in him. Left to me, we’d be taking things as they came, letting nature take its unpredictable course, leaping into an early bed a bit more often and just enjoying the ride.
‘Okay. No harm in that, I suppose. And can I have carrots with my fish fingers?’
‘Carrots? I thought they were for helping you to see in the dark.’
‘Well, I’m going to need to do that too, aren’t I? If we’re planning on doing a lot of under- the-covers baby-factory stuff, I would like to see what it is I’m getting hold of!’
‘How about we just leave the light on?’
‘Or get a torch? I used to have one to read in bed when I was a kid. You know, all sneaky, under the blankets when I was meant to be asleep. Dad used to do his nut when he caught me. ‘You’ve got school in the morning,’ he’d say. He even took the batteries away once!’
‘Ah, but we don’t have to be sneaky, do we? We’re in our own home now and we can leave the lights on all night if we want to. In fact, we can do whatever we like. Even things that involve batteries, if you fancy it! And, besides, I don’t want to be the one holding the torch. I rather like having both hands free for …’I giggled as he grabbed me, one jumper-covered breast neatly cupped in each of his open palms.
‘Not tonight, Josephine! I’m bleeding, remember?’ I pushed him off, pulling his face down towards me for a kiss. ‘Now, go on, get out in that kitchen and make me that hot water bottle you promised me. Oh, and chips. Got to have chips with fish fingers.’
‘Yes, your Majesty. Whatever you say, your Majesty.’ He backed away, bowing and laughing at the same time. ‘Your wish is my command.’
***
Dan looked funny in boxer shorts, his legs pale and spindly. I’d bought him some plain white ones, a pack of six, and deliberately a size too big, to be on the safe side, and he’d come home with a bright-red pair with little Mickey Mouse faces all over them, which he was now modelling in front of the bedroom mirror. I marvelled at how our tastes could be so different at times.
‘How can I take this whole thing seriously if I have to look at those monstrosities every time you take your trousers off?’ I said, bundling up all his old bottom-hugging clingy y-fronts and chucking them in the bin.
‘I won’t be wearing them every time, will I? In fact, if you don’t like them, I’ll keep them for my day off.’
‘Day off?’
‘You’ve bought six pairs. Monday to Saturday, right? I’ll wear the Mickeys on Sundays. So, no sex on Sundays, okay? My day of rest.’
‘Dan, that’s not how it’s done. We’re not supposed to make love every night. Not even six out of seven. We’re not machines. It still needs to be fun, not some sort of chore. And sperm has to build up its strength a bit, over a few days, if you want it at its best.’
‘I know how it feels!’
‘Dan, we’ve hardly started. Anyway, it’s quality that counts, not quantity.’
‘You’ve been reading the book.’
‘Of course I have.’
‘You’d better draw up a timetable, then. Make sure I don’t accidentally get an erection on the wrong day!’
‘Now you’re just being stupid. But I am going to start taking my temperature every day, and when that tells us the time’s right, you’d better be ready. All guns blazing.’
‘I’ve only got one gun, sweetheart.’
‘One’s all we need. So long as the bullets you’re firing aren’t blanks.’
‘Not likely, is it? We’ve made a baby once, so things must be in working order.’
‘True. So, do you fancy a trial run?’
‘Now, you mean?’
‘Well, not if you have something better to do. Like mow the lawn or clean the oven, or something.’
‘Well, come to think of it, there was that silver tankard I’ve been promising myself I’d polish …’
‘Dan!’
‘Oh, all right then. Seeing as you’ve asked so nicely. I dare say the silverware can wait.’
‘But you’re still wearing the Mickeys. Didn’t you say no sex when you’re …’
‘Oh, don’t you worry. That’s easily solved. I’ll take them off. Let’s be honest, it’s a lot easier naked, isn’t it?’ And, with that, he pushed me down onto the bed and wriggled me out of my jeans, and we tried really, really hard to make a baby.
Chapter 12
Ollie, 2017
A teacher who drinks. Is that what he was turning into? Was that the kind of example he was setting the kids he worked with? Not that they knew. But he knew. And, if he carried on this way, it would only be a matter of time before someone smelt it on his breath or he got caught swigging from a hip flask in the games cupboard, and then what? Career over. Reputation in tatters.
Ollie peered at his face in the mirror above the bathroom sink. He looked tired. When he bared his teeth they had taken on a dull yellowish tinge, and his tongue was coated in a layer of white gunk that tasted like old socks, or the way he imagined old socks to taste, having never actually tried any. He spent longer than usual scrubbing away with his toothbrush, until he tasted blood and knew it was time to stop. Not only to stop brushing, but to stop drinking too, and feeling sorry for himself, and moping over a woman who was very clearly never coming back.
His first class of the day was athletics. The field stuff, not the track. Okay, so it was September, but there were only so many more chances to enjoy being outside before the kids were confined to using the shoddy gym equipment in the hall or out battling the elements with their hands and faces turning blue with cold on the hockey field come winter. And it could be fun. Ten and eleven year olds, having their first go at holding the javelin (the school only owned one), learning to carry it, launch it safely, aim it in a graceful arc (some hope of that happening!) through the air with only a small chance of it landing where it was supposed to. Like Cupid’s arrow, he thought, flying wildly about and finding its own spot, no matter how hard you tried to tell it where you wanted it to go. But now he was being fanciful. They were no cherubs, they were just kids, kitted out in baggy shorts and school polo shirts, half of them out for a lark and enjoying the freedom of escaping their desks, and the rest – mainly the girls – wishing they could be somewhere else entirely. And, amongst the lot of them, maybe one, just one if he was lucky, who might have some shred of athletic talent and ambition. He couldn’t help wondering sometimes why he bothered wasting his time, why he hadn’t opted to teach secondary school kids, where he might have at least run into a spark or two of enthusiasm.
He pulled on his jacket, checked the pockets for stray cans, and threw his finished cereal bowl into the sink to join all the plates and cutlery and pans that had been accumulating there over the weekend. He’d wash up later. But then, that’s what he always said, and later there was usually something else more pressing or enticing, or more than likely liquid, vying for his attention, and that meant he never quite got around to it.
He closed the door behind him and stood for a few seconds, breathing in big gulps of cool, clean morning air. The school was only a twenty-minute walk away. That’s why they’d chosen this flat, to save on fares and petrol, and if a games teacher wasn’t fit and healthy enough, barring the asthma that had hung around since childhood and still reared its ugly head from time to time, to manage a brisk walk to and from work every day, then, as he’d jokingly said many times, there was something wrong with the world.
The trouble now was that he was living in the flat all alone, so something very definitely was wrong with the world, or his small part of it at least. Whatever the advantages of its location, Ollie wasn’t good at being alone. From as far back as he could remember, he had never had to be alone. They say that twins have a special bond, having started out side by side from day one, their tiny growing bodies curled together in the cramped space of their mother’s womb, being pushed out into the world within minutes of each other, sharing all of childhood’s little milestones and miracles. But this, this connection he felt with his sisters, was something else. Something bigger, greater and even more infuriating. It was something so few people had, or understood.
He quickened his pace, glancing at his watch. He was going to be late again, and it was starting to rain. Little rivulets ran over his collar and trickled down his neck. Year six, taking on the javelin in the rain. Was that the only highlight his day had to offer? Oh, what joy!
For a moment he thought about turning back, going home and hiding under the crumpled duvet cover he hadn’t washed in a while. Or even going back to Mum’s for a few days and letting her look after him, the way she had when he was small and feeling under the weather, smothering him in blankets and sympathy and soup. But it was only the third week of term. Time off mid-term was frowned upon, unless he said he was sick. Lied. The thought of it was certainly appealing, going back to bed, or the sofa, losing himself in sleep, waiting for the rain to stop. Waiting for something, anything, to happen that would shake him out of this hole he’d been sliding into ever since Laura had left. The hole with such slippery sides that escape just got harder and harder to envisage. But they’d find him and pull him back, however deep he fell. His mum and his sisters. They always did. Because they knew. When he was in trouble, when he was in pain, they just knew. And that was exactly why he was avoiding them.
***
‘I know it seems early to be thinking about Christmas …’
Ollie stood in front of the head teacher’s vast and surprisingly empty desk. He had half expected his summons might have something to do with his drinking, that he’d been rumbled somehow and was about to be given his marching orders. During the short walk from the staff room, he had been bricking it, his mind whirling about, trying to come up with answers before he even knew what the questions might be. But Christmas?
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ he said, lamely, with no idea what was coming next. It was only the end of September, for heaven’s sake, and they’d hardly seen the back of summer yet. The kids’ holiday memories, in all their poetic and artistic glory, were still pinned to the walls in the library. Christmas remained a distant nightmare he was nowhere near ready to contemplate.
‘But if we want to do something well, I do think it’s important to give ourselves plenty of time to plan, don’t you, Oliver?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And now you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here this morning? To be honest, it’s to ask a favour. I would normally have felt able to count on Mrs Carter as usual, but, as you know, she’ll be on maternity leave over the Christmas period, so I need someone else to step in. I was hoping that someone might be you. It’s a job that calls for great enthusiasm, organisational skills, and a certain amount of … well, stamina, for want of a better word.’
‘Now I’m intrigued.’
‘The nativity play, Oliver. Staff, children, a few willing parents, all working together, you know? We’ve done nativity plays for as long as I can remember. Tea-towel head dresses, the girls squabbling over who’s going to be Mary, the boys desperate to avoid being in it at all, not to mention the plastic baby Jesus. Let’s just say I have visions of something a little different this year. More lively. Costumes, music, perhaps bringing a more modern twist to it. Mrs Carter will be missed, of course, but her absence does give us an opportunity for change, do you see?’
Ollie nodded, not entirely sure that he did see at all, but it usually paid to agree with the boss. ‘And, er, how do I fit into this exactly?’
‘I want you to lead, Oliver. Plan, produce, put a team together, casting, rehearsals, all of that. Organise the whole thing. You know, from a different perspective, the whole thing seen through fresh eyes …’
‘Me?’ Ollie pulled a chair over from a corner, deciding this was as good a time as any to sit down. He could be here for some time. ‘But I have absolutely no experience of anything like that. I don’t go to church, so the religious side of a nativity is … well, not really my thing. I can’t act, I can’t sing, and I haven’t been inside a theatre since I was at school myself. Hamlet, I think it was. I can still see him holding that mouldy old skull. Gave me nightmares for weeks afterwards.’
‘Hardly the same thing. And I said organise it, Oliver. I’m not asking you to lead a church service, or to get up on stage and perform. Unless you want to, of course. Sometimes you don’t know where your talents lie until you try. Now, take your class earlier this morning, for instance. I was watching through the window, and little Victoria Bennett threw an almost perfect javelin, didn’t she? Never touched one before, I bet. We could even have a future champion on our hands.’
‘Lucky fluke, more like.’
‘That may be so, but she tried something new, and look what happened. So, my request stands. Go away and think about it if you like, but I would like to get the ball rolling sooner rather than later. Perhaps I could have your answer after lunch?’
***
He left it until the bell rang for the end of the school day. Well, half-past three still counted as after lunch, didn’t it? The Head was busy with a mound of paperwork, a cup of coffee gone cold beside him, and Ollie knew better than to linger too long. They both knew he didn’t want to do it, but neither of them seemed surprised when he said he would.
As he left he ran into Victoria Bennett and her mother, dithering about at the school gates, two younger kids clutching not quite dry paintings and clinging to the handle of a pram, which was occupied by presumably yet another Bennett, one that Ollie hadn’t even known had been expected, let alone born. The mother was fishing about in an enormous shopping bag, pulling out various bits and pieces, including a brown mushy banana and a roll of nappy sacks, until she managed to locate and extricate a bright-green plastic purse. ‘Now, only get the cheap stuff, you hear me?’ she said, pushing a pound coin into her daughter’s hand. ‘And no dawdling on the way home.’
‘Bread …’ she said, by way of explanation, standing aside to make room for Ollie to pass as Victoria ran off in the direction of the corner shop. ‘She’s a good girl, really. Just a bit scatty sometimes.’ She laughed. ‘But then, you’d know that, wouldn’t you, sir?’
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