‘She was wearing a wedding ring,’ Eve went on. ‘She was with a man and she was pushing a pram.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? She’s moved on. People do move on. Look at me – perfect example.’ Then Violet shuddered because her own old life was something that she didn’t want her mind to wander to.
‘It was a shock, that’s all. Seeing her after all this time.’
‘It was definitely her?’
Eve nodded. She couldn’t mistake that face. Even when Marie smiled, her nose wrinkled slightly, giving it a lick of a scowl. She’d plumped out and her hair had grown, but it was unmistakably her.
Eve lifted the cup of coffee to her lips and the smell brought a shock wave of nausea that she only just managed to battle back, a nausea that felt different to any nausea she’d had before. Tired, tearful, food aversions, heightened sense of smell . . . sick. It was like the final piece of a jigsaw settling into its space, the one holding the key to the whole picture. Oh my flipping heck. Could she be pregnant after all? The realisation hit her like a brick.
Eve managed to sneak off in Boots and buy a pregnancy testing kit whilst Violet was caught up with choosing a nail varnish. She stuck on a smile and tried to be jolly and not spoil the day, but she wanted to be at home as soon as she could to do that test and was relieved when Violet had said she’d had enough by three o’clock.
Jacques was out when Violet dropped her off, which she was glad about. He’d left a note saying he’d be home about five. She had half an hour to do the test. She pulled one of the wands out of the packet and scanned the instructions, which were straightforward enough.
The test was positive without any doubt. She sat stunned, looking at the two strong lines that couldn’t have been clearer. International shocker day. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Jacques would go absolutely bonkers. He’d be an amazing father. But what sort of mother would she be? Her own had been useless; a fey, selfish individual more suited to satisfying her own needs before anyone else’s. What if Eve had the same lack of maternal feelings towards the baby? Her mother’s mother – Granny Ferrell – was an Olympic gold medallist at being a crap parent. How on earth her elder daughter Susan – Violet’s mum – had grown up to be such a loving individual after the upbringing she’d had was anyone’s guess.
Brain overload. Too much to think about. Today felt too big for Eve’s head.
Then she heard Jacques’ car pull up and quickly stuffed the pregnancy test into her handbag.
‘Hello, ma cherie,’ he greeted her, and opened his giant arms wide for her to walk into. ‘Good day?’
‘Lovely,’ replied Eve, trying to hold on to her plastic smile because she could feel yet another headache start to pulse in her temple.
‘I’m glad someone has,’ Jacques said and slumped onto a chair at the table. The chair she’d vacated seconds ago after watching her pregnancy test result develop. ‘You name it and it’s gone wrong.’ He looked beat and he never moaned, so that indicated to Eve how bad things might have been.
When prompted, he reeled off a long list of the day’s disasters: orders that should have arrived being missing in transit, a bad leak in one of the holiday cabins, an owl with an eye problem . . . it went on and on and Eve knew that now would not be a good time to break her news to him. He’d need headspace for it. She needed headspace for it.
The grand reopening of the park was Jacques’ baby for now and she wanted him to have his moment of glory without anything else getting in the way of it. Three and a half more weeks and then she’d tell him. Wrong or right – it was how she felt, so she went with it.
Chapter 23
Palma had really tried hard not to feel a thrill when Tommy texted whilst he was away at camp. His spelling and his grammar left a bit to be desired, but what did that matter. He was a rough lad and what you saw was what you got and she liked what she saw very much. Every thought of him that visited her brain brought a sweet warmth with it, and there were a lot of them which was dangerous because she hadn’t told him the truth about herself and it would be a game-changer. From the tone of his messages, she could tell that he was feeling the same and it wasn’t fair to lead him on. She promised herself that the next time she saw him face to face, she’d have to let him know about her pregnancy. She had no idea what words she would use but they’d be the last she’d say to him, that much was definite. He’d said he didn’t want any complications in his life at the moment and she was just one big walking complication – well, two. She couldn’t be more of an antithesis of what he wanted – needed – in his life at the moment.
It wasn’t the baby’s fault. None of this was her fault, because Palma felt it was a girl. It was Palma who had made the bed and now had to lie in it. The baby was innocent of all charges of denying her the chance of having something special with the first decent man who’d made a play for her. None of it could be laid at the foot of the child growing inside her, of that she had no doubt.
She’d had an interview for an office job in a unit on an out-of-town trading estate that morning. It wasn’t exciting or well-paid but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The office was freezing and the body odour of the man who interviewed her was making her feel even more nauseous than the bus journey there had done. When she checked her face in her handbag mirror before she announced her presence, she saw that she looked rough, pale and puffy-eyed as if she were hungover. The first thing he’d said to her when they sat down at either side of his desk was, ‘I’m not allowed to ask this legally but I’m going to anyway: are you planning to go off and have kids because we’re only a small company and so I’m not training someone up only for them to bugger off and bleed me for maternity payments.’ She’d lied and said no, but ten minutes after the interview was over, before she’d even reached the bus stop, she had an email from him thanking her for her interest but her application had been unsuccessful. She couldn’t really blame him.
On the bus Palma rested her hand on her stomach.
‘I think you saved me there. I’m not sure he would have been very nice to work for,’ she ‘thought’ to the baby. She couldn’t remember when she first started doing it but she often sent silent messages or questions such as, ‘What shall we have for tea tonight, baby? Do we fancy a baked potato?’ They’d connected. Palma cared for her. She wanted to give her the very best of what she had to offer and that included good food and some lovely music to listen to, a soothing, calm voice, warm baths. It didn’t cost money to give the baby a peaceful place to grow in but, still, she needed to get some. It would have been nice for the little girl to be told one day that ‘the lady who gave birth to you worked in a bakery,’ or in an office, a shop, anything but ‘she lived off benefits.’
As she was waiting in the station for the Dodley bus, a text from Tommy came through.
Ar you at home. Can I call up to see you. Missed you x
Something heavy landed with a thud in the pit of her stomach.
Out. Will be in three quarts x
Palma knew that sometime in the next hour, Tommy would be out of her life. She wasn’t easily moved to tears but she felt a pain behind her eyes where they were gathering now. Even though it was all ending before it had barely begun.
He was there forty-five minutes later. His knock was a jolly der-dum-der, a non-threatening postman sort of knock. She opened the door and found him standing there smiling, wearing a look on his face that spoke volumes about how pleased he was to see her.
‘Come in.’ She stepped back, killing the moment when he might have hugged her. She lowered her eyes to his hands and saw he was carrying a long box of chocolates.
‘Bought you a pressie,’ he said. ‘Didn’t want to turn up empty-handed so . . . here you go.’ He put the chocolates down on her coffee table. ‘Did you say you were putting the kettle on? Tea, plenty of milk but no sugar please.’ Then he sat down squarely on her sofa.
‘Thank you for the chocolates,’ she said, though the thought
of them wasn’t doing much for her. Another strange symptom of pregnancy, going off certain foodstuffs like chocolate; tea tasted strange and the idea of pastry was enough to make her gag. ‘Had a nice time?’
‘Oh absolutely brilliant. I love working wiv ’em. How’ve you been? Anything exciting happening?’ he called to her as she brewed the tea. It was a good job he couldn’t see her face because he would have read a lot into her expression.
‘Want a biscuit?’ asked Palma, avoiding the question. For now at least, although it was stupid prolonging the illusion that all was as it appeared on the surface. And unfair on him.
‘No. I’m counting the calories. I’m determined to hang onto that title. What are you drinking?’ he asked, pointing at her cup as she set it down on the coffee table with his.
‘Hot water. I’ve gone off tea and coffee.’
‘Not pregnant, are you?’ Tommy laughed.
‘What makes you say that?’ Her answer was too quick, too snappy.
‘Because . . . that’s . . . what happens . . . ’ His smile was waning before her eyes. ‘Sorry, it was a joke.’
But the cat was out of the bag and had grown instantly to a size which would not permit it to go back in again. So what was the point in even trying?
‘Yes, I am pregnant.’ said Palma, sitting down firmly in her armchair.
‘Right,’ said Tommy. Just a word, just a sound – anything to puncture the air, also pregnant, but with shock. Palma thought she saw him swallow. He picked up the cup, took a sip from it, as if he needed to momentarily switch his focus to something simpler.
‘I didn’t know how to tell you. It’s not mine,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I mean, I was acting as a surrogate.’
‘Right.’ He wasn’t looking at her, but intently down into his cup. Then he blew out his cheeks and gave another small laugh that had no amusement in it at all. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
‘It’s for a couple who couldn’t . . .’ shouldn’t ‘. . . who couldn’t have kids . . .’
‘They paying you?’
‘Well . . . expenses.’ Another lie because she couldn’t tell him that she’d blackmailed the father out of five thousand pounds so she could start a decent life – the irony of that wasn’t lost on her.
‘And how many months are you gone?’ His voice was breathy and his smile had been wiped off.
‘Two.’
‘Two months.’ He made an audible outward breath again, as if he’d been winded.
She didn’t know whether to go on, tell him that it had all fallen through and now she was giving the baby up for adoption. It sounded worse in words than the mess it was. He saved her the trouble by standing up abruptly, an action that said he was going, that he didn’t want to hear any more.
‘Thanks for the tea. I better leave you in peace.’
He hadn’t drunk above a mouthful of it.
‘Oh, right. Well, just leave it on the table, I’ll . . .’
But Tommy was already walking into her kitchen. Palma heard the tap as he swilled the cup out, the noise of him putting it down on the metal draining board.
‘Look after yourself, Palma. I wish you a lot of luck, I really do,’ Tommy said, warmth in his voice and something else she couldn’t quite fathom. Whatever it was, it made her feel like shit.
‘Thanks, Tommy. I hope you get on all right in your boxing.’
By the time she had stood he had opened the door. He turned there, gave her a flash of a smile and then shut the door behind him. It was a goodbye smile if ever there was one.
THE SECOND
TRIMESTER
The Daily Trumpet would like to point out an error in the article headed ‘Local Doctor’s Daughter’s Wedding’ in last Friday’s issue. Dr and Mrs Biden’s present to the couple was a holiday to the Maldives and a silver cafetière, not a silver catheter as stated. Deepest apologies to Dr and Mrs Bidet.
Chapter 24
Eve felt incredibly guilty being at the doctor’s. The first person she told about the pregnancy should have been Jacques, not Dr Chan. Twice she had come close to telling her husband the news since she had done the test the previous week and twice she had chickened out. Fourteen more days and then the pressure would stop weighing down on his shoulders and interrupting his sleep and she would break the news and it wouldn’t have to contend with caterers and security arrangements and press and everything else that went with lake-centred projects that featured A-list Hollywood stars.
‘And what wonderful timing, because Dr Gilhooley has a new incentive for ladies like you,’ said Dr Chan when he had finished taking some details from Eve. ‘It’s called the Christmas Pudding Club.’
‘The what?’ Though it sounded vaguely familiar.
Dr Chan laughed. He was a merry person, a smile always dancing on his lips.
‘It’s a club for pregnant women. The first one is tomorrow, six for six-thirty in the evening. They’re every three weeks at the start, then every fortnight as you get nearer to the birth. It’s to give new mums a little bit more support and time with other women in the same position. Are you interested? You don’t have to book, just turn up and it doesn’t cost anything.’
Eve thought; Jacques and Davy would be at a charity football match tomorrow evening. It would be easy for her to slip out without any questions being asked.
‘That would be lovely,’ she replied, as Dr Chan handed her over a pack of information with the leaflet about the club on top. ‘Yes, I’ll be there.’
*
Gill was very much present in The Crackers Yard via FaceTime on Iris’s iPad. And delighting in telling them how fantastic the weather was in Spain at the moment whilst it was raining cats and dogs in Yorkshire.
‘It’s so difficult watching you all working so hard,’ she said, sitting at the table on her new patio and sipping from a glass of something which had a small harvest festival resting on the rim.
‘You’re looking sunburnt on your shoulders, Gill. You watch to want yourself,’ said Iris.
‘Jealousy will get you nowhere, Iris Caswell,’ chuckled Gill.
‘Excuse me,’ said Annie, walking quickly away towards the loo.
‘There she goes again,’ said Gill. ‘What is she now – twelve, thirteen weeks? She should be stopping all that sicky rubbish soon.’
‘I hope so,’ said Joe, opening up a box of newly arrived novelties. ‘I hate to see her like this.’
‘It’s the best bit, the second trimester,’ said Gill. ‘She’ll feel smashing, with any luck, and her hair will be all glossy and if she’s anything like I was, you won’t be safe in the bedroom, Joe.’ She gave him her best wink.
‘Really?’ said Joe with a pair of raised, interested eyebrows.
‘Yes, Joseph. I felt very sexy when I was pregnant. Both times. I’m surprised my girls weren’t born with their eyes poked out.’
Joe chuckled softly and Iris feigned disgust. She was a lot more prudish when the smut wasn’t coming from her own lips.
‘I’ll be switching you off in a minute, Gill Johnson,’ she said.
‘I’ll have to go in a minute anyway. We’re going to a barbecue down the road with Barbara and Alan. They’re very posh.’ Gill leaned forward as if to speak into Iris’s ear in confidence. ‘She has her bras made by Penn and Teller.’
‘Ooh,’ said Iris, impressed.
Joe hooted with a loud burst of laughter.
‘What’s up with him?’ asked Gill, screwing up her face.
‘Too much coffee. It’s addled his brain,’ said Iris. ‘The queen goes to Penn and Teller.’
‘I know,’ replied Gill. ‘Well, that’s not strictly true because they go to the queen, Iris. Give Annie my love. Ted’s waving at me, I’d better get off.’
As her face disappeared from the screen, Annie came from the bathroom looking as if she hadn’t had any sleep for a fortnight and no blood was allowed upwards past her neck. She really should be at home resting, thought Joe. And Iris, though she never complained,
shouldn’t be doing five full days a week at her age. He had no idea what they were going to do to survive. In this age when people were supposedly crying out for jobs, why couldn’t he get anyone to work for them? With the best will in the world and with all of them working 24/7, all the orders on their books were not going to get made. He smiled at Annie as she retook her seat but inside he was on the verge of despair.
Chapter 25
The first Christmas Pudding Club meeting was held the following day at St Gerard’s church hall next to the Royal pub in Dartley. The leaflet said that it was ‘an opportunity for mums-to-be to mix and partners would be invited along in later sessions’. Palma thought she might miss those sessions. There was no way she was turning up as Billy-no-mates.
She’d hoped Tommy might have texted to say hello, but he didn’t. She wasn’t the type to dissolve into self-pity so she took a deep breath and blocked his number, then she deleted it. That way, she would kill off the stubborn part of her that held out some hope he’d want to talk it through with her, see if there was any chance there was a path through the mess she was in, because there wasn’t. He had his career to think about and he couldn’t afford to let anything get in the way of it, she understood that. She knew how passionate he was about his boxing and she would never have forgiven herself for diverting his focus anyway, so it was a no-brainer. For the next seven months, the baby would be her priority and she’d have to muddle through any which way she could. Palma would make sure that she did her duty by her and delivered her to two pairs of loving hands that could give her the best of everything. Maybe even a private school and then university; a car, a big house with one of those Arctic cabins in the garden, a kitten and a puppy, a playroom full of toys, holidays in the sun, a pile of presents under the Christmas tree and lots of love.
She wasn’t sure she would make the first session because she had spent hours that day, or so it felt, heaving into the toilet bowl. ‘Come on, baby, enough now. Make it stop. I know you can hear me so play fair, no need for this,’ she’d said. She’d almost worn out the flushing handle. Her jeans were hanging looser on her than they were this time last week. She thought pregnant women put on loads of weight, not lost it. Luckily she felt better in the late afternoon, and on the bus to the class, she had a brainwave: to look up jobs suitable for pregnant women. Someone somewhere was bound to have written an article about it on the net.
The Mother of All Christmases Page 12