Dylan opened his car door for Cariad, something else which set Effin off twittering with pleasure, like one of the birds he watched finding a worm. Cariad couldn’t wait to get home. And that was telling, considering she shared her house with flatmates who were the biggest bitches on the planet.
‘They’re lovely, your uncle and auntie,’ said Dylan, waving at Effin and Angharad.
Cariad made a non-committal sound and then said, ‘My auntie is a proper sweetie.’ She wasn’t going to say what she thought about Effin.
‘Not very subtle though, are they?’ Dylan said.
‘Oh, spotted that did you?’ Cariad huffed.
‘Look, Cariad, I’ll be happy to take you to the pictures but I don’t want you to have been forced into it,’ said Dylan. ‘We could go as friends. I’m not that bothered about any romance. I had my heart broke not so long ago and I’m in no rush to repeat the experience.’
Cariad sighed and two lungfuls of built-up pressure found their way to the outside world.
‘Thank you for that, Dylan, because I don’t want any romance either. It’s the last thing on my mind.’
‘Good, then we are in agreement,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Dylan.’ Cariad gave him a genuine smile. At least her Uncle Effin was right about one thing – Dylan Evans really was a very nice young man.
Chapter 16
The next morning, Palma rang Clint. He was round within the half-hour. She put her coat on as soon as he rang the doorbell and said he couldn’t stay long because she had to go out for a check-up at the doctor’s. Clint was delighted that he’d got all his money up front. She was treated to the sight of his yellow grin and wondered how she could ever have ended up in bed with him four years ago. It was within months of Grace dying, the floor had fallen out of her world and she was living in a foul bedsit no bigger than a postage stamp. She’d felt out of her depth, alone, unanchored and without hope. Add alcohol to a period of depression – though she had never touched drugs – and the result was all sorts of stupid mistakes. Clint was, at least, the low point that galvanised her into making some key decisions and to start getting her shit together.
‘How come the posh wanker paid the whole lot?’
‘Because they split up and neither of them wants it,’ she replied.
Clint laughed at that then spread the twenty-pound notes into a fan and kissed it. He grinned again and Palma wished he would stop because his smile was more sinister than his resting psycho face. He stank as well, of weed and stale sweat. He could stain the air where he stood.
‘Well, that was easy.’ He didn’t ask Palma what she intended to do about the baby. It wasn’t any of his business; besides he was too excited about going off to do some spending. Investing, as he called it. Drugs, obviously. Even if he had asked, she couldn’t have given him an answer. She was trying not to think about the predicament she was now in until her brain had some decent space for it.
For once, Clint couldn’t wait to be off and as soon as he had gone, Palma set her laptop on the table. It was so old now it took a full five minutes to power up and it badly needed a service but it was reliable enough because she looked after her things. She searched for rented accommodation in Pogley, Maltstone (fat chance), Dodley. Somewhere quiet, preferably on the edge of the countryside. She didn’t need a garden or more than one bedroom, just a front door that she didn’t share with anyone else and a bath to lounge in and read.
There was a house in Dodley Bottom, which was a new listing because it hadn’t been there when she last searched and there was no photo yet. Rainbow Lane. She looked on a map and saw that it was off the High Street. Two up, two down, small garden and the rent was doable. On paper it was perfect. She was searching for a pen when her doorbell buzzed. A single long sound, not Clint then. She looked through the window and saw the top of a bleached-blonde head, roots showing. It hadn’t taken long for the news to filter out that she might have some spare money. It had been months since she last saw Nicole, her one-time best friend at school. The prettiest in the year, if not the brainiest. Predicted – unofficially – by their teachers to be the girl most likely to break free of her background. They’d been so wrong; Nicole was a skank. Like one of those little fish that hung around big sharks, that was what Nicole had become – Clint’s bitch. What Palma could have been had she not woken up next to him that morning and realised she’d reached a never-to-be-repeated nadir.
Periodically Nicole showed up at the bedsit, thinner and scruffier than the time before, with a once-stunning smile now ruined by chapped lips and discoloured teeth. She’d make small talk for a while before asking for a couple of quid, a fiver, a tenner – anything – to tide her over. She’d pay it back, promise. She never did. And somehow, between walking in and walking out, she’d manage to nick something. A new tube of toothpaste once, a cheap bracelet another time, a toilet roll, a lipstick.
Palma moved away from the window and rang the estate agent, ignoring the repeated sound of the buzzer. Yes, she was available for a viewing that day. It wasn’t soon enough.
Chapter 17
The Daily Trumpet would like to apologise to Mrs Freda Falworth of Wath for the report in last week’s Gardening Special supplement. She was pictured with her prize Azaleas on show and not Areolas, as per the wording underneath. The Daily Trumpet has made a donation to the Wath Lady Garden Luncheon Club which Mrs Falworth attends.
Eve giggled. Surely that should be Lady Gardeners Luncheon Club, she thought. Another apology would have to be issued. The last garden supplement featured a woman who’d had her ‘private bush’ shaped into a crocodile and not her privet bush. The apology had appeared in record time, leading Eve to think she must have been quite influential. She took a glug from her coffee and made a face. Firms were always messing around with recipes and formulas when they’d got them perfect. There was an acrid taste to the brew that wasn’t usually present. A dodgy bean harvest this year?
She turned the page and saw that Dr Gilhooley’s son had started up a club for newly pregnant women and was calling it the Christmas Pudding Club. How would it feel, she wondered, to have a baby growing inside her. She couldn’t imagine. Her friend Alison said that it was beyond weird when they started moving but it was what she’d missed most after Phoebe was born.
She and Jonathan were going to have children, which is why they’d bought a monster of a house to renovate over the years. He was on her mind a lot recently for reasons she couldn’t fathom. He’d have made a good dad: strict but fair, but he wouldn’t have crawled on the grass wearing camouflage make-up whilst hunting for dinosaurs the way Jacques would.
It was no good though, she could read no more. She’d hoped that two ibuprofen would have knocked this migraine on the head but she’d had four tablets in as many hours and it was still throbbing like a tireless tom tom in her temple. She hadn’t had a migraine this severe for years. Not since Jonathan died; she’d had a chain of them then.
She closed her eyes and rested her head on her hands. There were over five hours until the end of her working day. If she was employed by someone else, she’d have picked up her keys and said she had to go home and lie down, but she was a hard taskmaster to herself. She’d made herself a chart, ticking off the days until the massive midsummer ‘Half Christmas’ relaunch event – forty days of full-on stress to go. Stress was a horrible thing. It wasn’t only making her tired and giving her headaches but she felt on the edge of tears all the time. Stress was like an agricultural machine ploughing through her brain, disturbing all sorts of bad memories that she’d thought were calm in their beds: Jonathan’s horrible parents, the crippling loneliness that isolated her from the rest of the world after he’d gone; and even further back to growing up with a mother who was to maternal care what King Herod was to running a nursery. Stress that starved her of sleep at night yet threw bucketloads of it at her during the day. Stress that toyed with her appetite and turned up the volume on her sense of smell to max.
; It never occurred to Eve that all these symptoms had less to do with tensions about a bathing lake and more to do with the fact that, with so much on her mind, she’d been rather careless with her birth control pills over the past few months.
*
The midwife chuckled as Annie apologised for twittering like a sparrow on speed. The woman had only asked her how her general health was and instead received a full rundown of Annie’s previous attempts to have children and why they’d all failed. She stopped short of talking about the adoption attempt.
‘I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I’m not a natural babbler but . . .’
‘It’s fine,’ said the midwife, who had introduced herself as Chloe Donovan. ‘It’s lovely to see.’
‘I thought I was either going through the menopause or dying,’ said Annie. ‘It’s a miracle for us. There’s no chance there could be a mistake is there? I’ve had these dreams and—’
Chloe the midwife cut her off. ‘Oh, the dreams. I had some beauties when I was pregnant with my twins. Ugly baby dreams are quite common and are very disturbing. You’re pregnant, there’s no mistaking, Mrs Pandoro, so get ready for the ride of your life. Have you joined the Christmas Pudding Club?’
‘Yes, I shall be going to the meetings. It’ll be nice to meet other mums, though I expect they’ll be a lot younger than I am.’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve all got quite a lot in common.’ Chloe started rolling up Annie’s sleeve so she could take her blood pressure. ‘I’ll be running them along with Sharon, the midwife at Dr Gilhooley’s other practice, and we’re really looking forward to it. I happen to think it’s a great idea. You’re Dr Gilhooley’s guinea pigs, did he tell you? If it works, he’s going to have a Summer Pudding Club and then lord knows where it will end. Rice Pudding Club, knowing him. He’s keen, I’ll give him that. Have you been taking folic acid?’
‘Yes. Well, multivitamins with folic acid added.’
‘Blood pressure is good,’ said Chloe, sliding the collar from Annie’s arm. ‘Any morning sickness? Which came at every time of the day but the morning for me.’
‘Awful sickness,’ said Annie. ‘But now I know what it is, I don’t mind it as much, if that doesn’t sound daft.’
‘I get it,’ said Chloe. ‘It makes it all the more real.’
‘In a nutshell.’
‘You eating properly? It’s important to keep up your liquids.’
‘Yes and yes. Totally lost the taste for coffee, which can only be a good thing, I suppose,’ said Annie.
‘You’ll get it back,’ said Chloe. ‘Had any spotting? It’s usual to lose a bit of blood in the beginning.’
‘None,’ said Annie.
‘Lots of pregnant ladies don’t realise how many symptoms there might be. You might think your brain has been swapped for a turnip for instance. Some lucky beggars hardly get anything.’
‘I think I’ve signed up for the lot,’ said Annie. ‘I haven’t been able to retain a thing in my brain recently. I’ve had to become the queen of list-making so I don’t forget things.’
‘Let’s take your height and weight.’
Chloe recorded Annie’s height at five foot six, which was an inch shorter than she thought she was. Was she at the age to start shrinking already? Her weight was out too because she was half a stone lighter than she’d guessed at, which was a nice little bonus. Not that it would last. And not that she cared either. She wanted to be gloriously fat and full of baby.
‘Now I’m writing all this information in your notebook and its very important you remember to bring it with you to all your appointments with me, with the doctor, when you go for your scan, everything,’ said Chloe. ‘If in doubt, bring it.’
‘Message received and understood,’ said Annie, watching Chloe put the A4 green book into a blue zipper bag. She felt a fizz inside her at the thought that she – Annie Pandoro – had pregnancy notes.
‘You’ll get an appointment for your first scan through the post,’ said Chloe at the end of the session. ‘If your dates are right, your baby is the size of a cherry, in case you’re interested,’ she went on. ‘You’ll probably start to show in the next couple of weeks. It’s about the only time in her life that a woman enjoys parading a bulging stomach.’
Annie left the doctor’s, her feet almost floating above the ground with happiness and, before going back to the car, headed off to the nearby Co-op supermarket.
She had a sudden and urgent craving for cherries and needed them now.
*
Palma’s head was spinning. She’d known as soon as the owner invited her over the threshold into the little house on Rainbow Lane that she wanted to live there. It was tiny but cosy and on a quiet street with a square of garden at the back and – joy of joys – a bath. She’d paid the two-hundred-pound bond and the month’s rent in advance there and then and spun the owner a yarn that she’d only recently set up in business as a copyeditor and didn’t have three years’ books to show as proof of employment. The landlady said it was fine, not to worry and Palma had felt immediately guilty for lying. She had once read that confidence tricksters were so successful because most people were predisposed to believe that others were telling the truth. She wasn’t intending to rip anyone off but it didn’t sit well with her that she could fool someone so easily; nor that she’d be living in this house because lies and blackmail had made it possible.
She arranged to move in on Saturday because there was no point in hanging about. The sooner she was out of Ketherwood, the sooner she could sort her life out. She went straight from the house to the local doctor’s up the road to register herself as a patient.
The receptionist made her an appointment for Wednesday afternoon. That gave her nearly a week to sort out what to do about her ‘passenger’; the life she had made happen, the mass of cells that was developing at a rate of knots inside her. Whatever that decision turned out to be, she’d need to make it quick – and final.
Chapter 18
The next day signalled Gill’s last day at work and Joe cracked open a bottle of champagne instead of filling up a teapot. Luckily neither Iris nor Gill were driving home because they were plastered by three o’clock. Not a lot of cracker stuffing got done that afternoon. But a lot of baby talk was covered. And it wasn’t the good stuff.
Gill slipped into a warm pool of reminiscence. ‘I remember having our Viv. Contractions, they told me, build up slowly – well these buggers didn’t. I felt like a bloke with hob-nailed boots on was kicking me in the back for ten hours.’
‘Our Linda got stuck. They had to cut me a smile underneath,’ Iris laughed fondly, determined not to be outdone. ‘I couldn’t sit down properly for weeks. A rubber ring was my best friend. My Dennis used to cut holes in the cushions for me. His thoughtfulness rekindled our relationship because, I tell you, I wasn’t going to have him near me in the bedroom ever again. And we loved sex.’ She threw another half glass of champagne down her neck and then made a long ‘eeee’ sound. ‘He threw me around the bedroom so much on our wedding night they could only identify me by my dental records the next morning.’
Joe was bent double, laughing so much that his stomach hurt.
‘It’s all right you scoffing, Joe Pandoro,’ Iris went on, ‘but it’s not you men that have to try and get a camel through the eye of a bloody needle. Linda was a huge baby. We’ve had smaller turkeys for Christmas dinner.’
Up for a competition, Gill launched in with details of her second daughter’s birth.
‘Oh, and they said to me that if you’ve had a difficult birth the first time, the next one will be like shelling peas. They were wrong about that an’ all. She was worse. Breech. They had to shove her back up and pull her out the right way round.’
‘Never,’ said Joe, enthralled, thinking Stephen King should be listening to this. He could make a book out of such gore and horror.
‘Joe Pandoro, would I lie to you? And I did it all on a puff of gas and air and our Ted’s hand to chew on. Th
ese days they cut them open for a laugh. And give them a tummy tuck at the same time. Some of those “too push to posh” celebrities must have more scar tissue than skin,’ replied Gill, who hiccupped then giggled. Those two glasses of champagne had zoomed to her head.
‘I’m still trying to get rid of my baby weight,’ said Iris, jiggling her none-too-small stomach. ‘Mind you, so is our Linda. She was probably at her thinnest when she was nine months pregnant. Now when she gave birth to my son Handy, I mean her grand— . . . MY grandson Andy, she had to have an emergency slezarian. It was like an explosion in a butcher’s shop.’
Annie made a strange gurgle in her throat and when the others turned to her, they found that her face looked slapped with terror.
‘Oh, Annie, lass, however bad it is, however much pain you’re in, when they put that little baby in your arms, you forget it all,’ Iris said with a wide soppy smile. ‘It’s a moment that stays with you forever. When they said “Mrs Caswell, you’ve got a daughter”, I thought my heart was going to burst with joy. And I’d have been the same with a son. I just wanted it out and healthy – nothing else mattered. And she was: ten pound foursworth of healthy.’
‘Santo cielo, I bet she was walking before you were, Iris,’ said Joe, crying now. His laughter infected them all and they couldn’t stop even though their cheeks ached from it.
‘Oh, I’m going to miss you all so much,’ said Gill, wiping away the tears leaking out of her eyes. Tears of mirth and sadness, all intermingled.
‘ ’Ere, have some cake, that’ll stop you weeping,’ said Iris, picking up the plate full of sponge.
Gill selected a slice. ‘It’s lovely this,’ she said. ‘I’ll remember today all my life. I’ve had some wonderful years here. Wonderful.’
‘Let’s wrap it up for today,’ said Joe. ‘Two of my workforce are drunk and I’m going to take the third out for an early-bird special at the Royal. It’s Chinese night on Fridays.’
The Mother of All Christmases Page 9