Dreams Before the Start of Time

by Anne Charnock

  Personally, I wouldn’t choose Rudy as a name, and I’m sure my wife wouldn’t either. If Kas had suggested Rudy as a name, I’d have applied the veto. She applied the veto on my suggestion of Hermione. That’s what I like about these reunions. Well, reunion isn’t the right word, is it? Let me put it this way: I like the surprises—not simply the oddity of their names, but their accents, their religions, their manners, how they dress. And their jobs, of course. I’ve been caught off-guard a couple of times. I wasn’t prepared for the tattooed girl. Nor the lad with extreme views on healthy lifestyles—a bit too keen to convert me.

  Perhaps Rudy will be the child I truly click with. I’m curious—it’s only natural—to see if they look like me or have a mannerism that I recognize. The health-fanatic guy had exactly the same laugh. That was strange. But I’ve yet to meet a son who’s a younger version of me. I might even have a daughter who’s a female version of a younger me—she’s out there in the world, not knowing that I’m her father. Over the years, I’ve spoken with other sperm donors who say they’ve encountered such offspring, chips off the old block. Out of so many children, you’d think I’d find one, but it hasn’t happened yet, and maybe it won’t now. My next-door neighbour’s children favour their mother; they seem to spring from her side of the family—looks and personality—as though her husband has one hundred per cent recessive genes. Are my genes mostly recessive?

  From my official donations—I don’t know how many babies were conceived in total—I’ve met five of my children, and I remain in contact with four of them; the fifth was satisfied to meet me the once, to check my medical history. She said, quite correctly, that the prescreening can’t identify all the genetic faults. Fortunately, I’ve remained healthy, and I’ve looked after myself. No medical surprises—that’s what they all want to know. I sometimes feel bad about my unofficial donations because I can’t tell the recipients that I’m still fighting fit. I could place myself on an informal donor register for the sake of those women and their kids, but Kas doesn’t know about my unofficials, so it’s best to keep a low profile.

  When Kas and I were getting serious—that is, when we planned our first holiday together—I told her about the official donations. She wasn’t too concerned, most likely because she wasn’t sure we’d last; she wasn’t completely invested in me at that point. I think she was impressed that I waived the donor fee. She said, “At least you know you’re not firing blanks.” That’s Kas for you. She’s keen on action films, reads up on survivalism, the post-apocalypse. That’s why she was keen I took the posting outside London. She wanted to live in a rural area, without being too rural. Apparently, that’s one of the ground rules for surviving Armageddon. Well, there’s no harm in it, I suppose, and I admit I enjoy being more self-sufficient. The vegetable garden is my responsibility, and it’s remarkably good for stress relief.

  Initially, I was taken aback when Kas chose remote gestation for our baby. I’d assumed she’d embrace the earth-mother thing—back to nature, self-sufficiency, etcetera. But she wanted to ensure our child had the best start, had the best chance of surviving. In her eyes, that meant tidying up his or her genome by going for IVF and an artificial womb. I was all for it! A robust child. Why carry forward the full load of genetic mutations if you can avoid it?

  Kas hasn’t told her family about my other children.

  I didn’t risk telling her the full story about my unofficials. She’d accepted the concept, so what did it matter? My intentions were honourable. But I don’t think she’d want to know that I donated to sixty-three more women over a three-year period. It was roughly one a month initially, but as word got around, it escalated so that I was doing a handover almost weekly. That became a bit crazy, so I stopped.

  I learned much later that these unofficials could have claimed child support from me—being off-piste, without contracts. I told each of these women it was best to apportion fatherhood to a one-night stand, someone she’d never see again. We had these conversations over cappuccinos, always out of town so no one would recognize me. You know, with a strange woman. Towards the end, I had to ask for travel expenses because it was making quite a dent in my beer money. Truth is, they’d have met me anywhere—I suppose the Darwin Centre café would have been the most appropriate—because I had what they all wanted. Fully compliant, medically approved sperm. I showed them the approval form from the clinic, verifying the quality of my sperm, and my latest STD certificate.

  The alternative, for my cappuccino women, was an unscreened supply—a plastic pot and a syringe, from some guy who’d probably made hundreds of donations for fifty quid a shot—handed over outside the toilets on a railway platform or in a multi-storey car park. I saved them from that grim scenario.

  So today, I’m meeting Rudy, my sixth official donor-sperm-conceived child. Probably my last such encounter. I’ve looked closely at the statistical evidence, and I reckon I’ve several other children out there, but most likely they’re entirely unaware of the circumstances surrounding their conception.

  Here goes. This looks like Rudy, approaching the outdoor seating at the café. He’s looking around, but he’s cool about it. I’ve come to recognize when people are meeting for first dates, which is what this is in essence. They’ve seen photographs of one another, but photographs can give the wrong impression—some people look taller, or shorter, in real life. Or it’s immediately obvious they’re stoic, shy types. Or excitable, fidgety types—you don’t often see that in a photograph.

  My God, he walks like me—a swagger without looking tough. Just confident. I stand because it’s not appropriate for me to act cool. I wave him over, and as he approaches, I smile and offer a handshake. I’m reminded: the only wealth in this world is children. He seems hesitant. I might be smiling too much. He grips my hand and says, “I didn’t expect a Mafioso don.” We both laugh, and I know this is going to go well. “It’s the white shirt and black suit,” he says. He sits down before I do.

  “Ah, yes.” I look down at my clothes. “I’ve come straight from a conference.” I wonder if he’s slighted; I’m killing two birds with one stone in visiting London. “It’s a coincidence, Rudy. After we arranged to meet, I noticed an old friend would be speaking at the conference. So . . .” I shrug. “It’s good to meet you.”

  A waiter comes across. Rudy orders a double espresso.

  We sit quietly. I wait for him to speak. We’ve covered the basics in our messages—where we live, our work, the people we share our lives with. We already know we have some similarities; we both have an engineering bent, but whereas I went into flood defences—he’s suitably impressed I worked on the Second Thames Barrier—he went into aeronautics.

  Often I start by asking why my offspring wanted to make contact, but it doesn’t feel right with this guy. As though reading my mind, he says, “You see, my mother raised me on her own. My mother’s older sister, who lived with us, has died. Her brother too. And my wife is estranged from her parents and siblings. We’ve no other family. It feels . . . lacking, you know?”

  “I can see that. But I’m not sure I can offer you a bigger family.”

  We sit in silence again. I have to be careful not to raise his expectations. I certainly won’t take him home! But I can offer a consolation prize. “I can put you in touch with some of my other donor-conceived children. They’re in contact with one another, and I believe they meet regularly. Two men, two women. They’ll welcome you along if you’re interested.”

  The waiter returns with the coffee. Rudy pays, and when the waiter’s out of earshot, he asks, “How many kids do you have? Do you even know?”

  “I have a rough idea. I had to stop donating—that was the law—when I’d created ten families, sometimes more than one child in a family. I guess I’ve fathered up to fifteen children.”

  “But it could be more?”

  “I’m not privy to the information. Six of my children, including you, Rudy, have come forward to contact me—and I’ve met them all. And ac
cording to the studies I’ve read, more than half of donor-conceived offspring never make contact.”

  “And you only ever donated through the clinic?”

  “Hey, look. The sun’s out. Drink up and let’s take a walk.”

  We head towards the footbridge, and I make small talk about how many years I’ve been coming to this park, how I’ve seen the park in snow just once. When we reach the middle of the bridge, I stop and say, “Tell me, Rudy. Why have you waited so many years to meet me? I suspect you’ll be the last one. This is a very special day for me.”

  “I’ve always known. I can’t remember any specific moment as the moment my mother told me.”

  “That’s how it should be. I’m pleased to hear it.”

  “I held back because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and I’d never go behind her back. As I said, there’s me and her.” He leans on the bridge railing. “Actually that’s not quite true. I’m close to my godfather, Aiden, and I talked it over with him before I told my mother.”

  I’m relieved to hear this. I like to know there’s someone standing in for me in my children’s lives. I’m not saying my stand-in should be a man, but I’m relieved when there’s someone who acts as a mentor, or at least acts as a listening post. That’s how I like to act in my own family, as the type of father who makes time for his children, who listens, and who offers advice but only when it’s asked for. A father should show reticence because his advice could be entirely wrong. Because your children aren’t you, are they?

  I’m already warming to Rudy, and I have to admit I feel a pang. I wish he’d contacted me at a younger age.

  Rudy says, “I don’t look anything like my mother. She has loads of framed photographs of her relatives—dead before I was born, most of them—and I don’t look like any of them either. I’m here partly out of curiosity.” He looks me up and down, stares hard into my eyes as though he’s trying to scrape the inside of my skull. I’ve seen that look before. He cocks his head and says, “But now I see the similarity, it doesn’t seem such a big deal.”

  “That’s a healthy attitude, Rudy.”

  “I wanted to meet you, mainly, because I’ll want to tell my daughter about my donor conception. At some point. She’s a baby. But when she’s older, when I tell her, she’ll want to know if I ever met you. So I’m doing this so I can answer her questions. If you won’t take offence, my main hope is that she’ll see her own conception as preferable to mine. She’s my solo daughter—all her DNA is mine. I want her to feel that being a solo child is better than being a donor-conceived child.”

  Well, I could take offence, but it’s my responsibility to rise above that. “Your mother must have longed for a child, Rudy. You’ve brought a lot of happiness to her, and after all, you’re here in the world, aren’t you? That’s got to be a good thing. You seem like a fine person—”

  He cuts me off. “You didn’t answer my question: Did you make donations to any women other than at the clinic?”

  “Look, that’s not why we’re meeting.” I’m calm, but my back is prickling. “Your godfather—tell me about him.”

  He takes a deep breath, releases it suddenly. “That’s another mess. My mother doesn’t know I’m aware of it, but Aiden told me—my mother wanted him to be the donor.”

  “Why didn’t he? He’s clearly a big part of your life, and your mother’s life I’d guess.”

  “They were in a relationship. He said he was young for his age, immature, and couldn’t understand why my mother was in such a rush. He didn’t even object when she went for treatment at the clinic. But when she announced she was pregnant, it seems he went into a tailspin. Realized he’d been stupid. He put on a brave face, he said, but he didn’t stick around—couldn’t bear to see her belly expanding. He took off travelling. When, eventually, he came back, my mother asked him to be my godfather. She isn’t one to bear a grudge, and I think she missed him.”

  “Godfather rather than father. And he’s still filled with regrets?”

  “I don’t think so. Not any more. He takes the view that donor conception was a bad phase we went through—that the whole idea was flawed, from the children’s point of view.”

  He turns and sneers. Sneers at me. I can’t believe it. Here he is, a big handsome guy, like I used to be. He says, “I have to agree with my godfather. It’s a total existential fuck-up.”

  I can’t help it—my shoulders twitch. Rudy should be mad at this Aiden, or his mother, not with me.

  Reading my thoughts again, he says, “I’m not angry, exactly. I’m sad, because Aiden’s explanation made a barrier between me and my mother. She couldn’t see past her own needs—what she wanted.” Rudy reaches across and places a hand on my shoulder. He’s two or three inches taller than me. “Well? Did you donate to other women?”

  “Once or twice.”

  His hand grips my shoulder. “You can surely remember if it was once or twice? Don’t bullshit me, man. You’ve done hundreds, haven’t you? And they’ll be my age, and they’ve had children, and those children are spread all over the place. What if my Julia meets one of them in later life, and they seem to have a lot in common? Damned likely if they’re related. What happens if they fall for one another?”

  “No, no! Not hundreds. I helped a few women who couldn’t afford the official route, and they had the peace of mind that I’d been vetted. I never did it for the money. You’ve got to believe me—it felt the right thing to do at the time.”

  He walks away from me. I have to decide if I should end it here or if I should follow him. I follow. He takes the path leading into a woodland walk, and I suddenly feel belittled—by this younger version of myself. I mean, he’s not being fair, or practical, at all. I want him to see that. I’m a pace behind him when I say, “You’re different to the others, Rudy. I can feel it. You’re so much like me.”

  He stops dead in his tracks, twists around. “It’s all about you, isn’t it? So fucking arrogant.”

  I reach out to him. He brushes my arm away and steps back. He says, “You know, I’m so happy to have one child. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to impregnate hundreds of women.”

  “It wasn’t like that, Rudy. Give me the benefit of the doubt. The fact is . . . if Aiden had agreed to father a child with your mother, then you wouldn’t be here.”

  Rudy half turns. His body twists, and a fist swings at me. My jaw cracks—Jesus! I’m on my back. Blood filling my mouth. I try to haul myself up on one elbow. Rudy! I look for him, desperately. He is the one.

  PART THREE

  2120

  BABY BERTRAND HOUSE

  March

  Staring at the word Gerard, piped in pale blue icing on a chocolate-coated cake—cook had given him a choice of chocolate or buttercream—he said, “I hate my name. It’s too serious.”

  Mrs. Bourne-Boyd, his caregiver at the Bertrand House boarding academy, replied that his mother didn’t choose his name. “She’s not to blame,” she said emphatically. “Sadly, dear, your mother died before she’d decided what to call you. But when I went to collect you from the gestation clinic, one of the technicians had written Gerard on your crib.” Apparently, there’d been a delay with the insurance papers, and the technician couldn’t bear to see the orphan labelled Baby Bertrand House.

  This revelation came on the occasion of his ninth birthday. Gerard can still feel the weight of Mrs. Bourne-Boyd’s hand on his shoulder as she added, brightly but unhelpfully, “You could always call yourself Gerry.”

  Oh, sure. Gerry Rossi, sounds like a bare-knuckle fighter.

  He has since learned that Gerard is the patron saint of expectant mothers. This seems a doubly inappropriate name in his own case; his mother outsourced her pregnancy, and no saint saved her from her cycling accident. He imagines the hospital technician as a white-haired, confused religious zealot. Anyway, why would a male saint take the mantle of protection over expectant mothers?

  As a reaction to his dull name—Gerard—he’s
careful about his appearance: he’s a sharp dresser. Checking himself in the bedroom mirror, he decides he should open the neck flaps of his perfectly moulded top. That’s all it takes. Smart, just short of too neat, and as ever, no brand labels. He’s a brand consultant, and he doesn’t want anyone to judge him based merely on his shopping preferences. He knows how easily people are swayed. His wife, Scarlett, has often teased him over this yen for anonymity. She suggests it’s an affectation, verging on phobic. For all that, she willingly adopts the same no-brand policy for their son. They spell it out for Louis in terms a bright five-year-old can understand: it isn’t polite to be a show-off. Just because they can afford nice clothes, nice stuff, they shouldn’t rub it in anyone’s face. It’s what you do in life, how you treat others, that makes you an attractive person.

  Gerard leaves their family home, nestled in affluent Belsize Park in north London, and sets out on his annual half-day pilgrimage. For the past decade at least, on his birthday, he has strolled southwards, picking his route through as many parks as possible to Bertrand House. He sits in the grounds of his childhood home, takes stock of the past year and considers the year forthcoming. He goes alone; it’s not a family outing—it’s too long a walk for Louis.

  Scarlett understands that Gerard needs this quiet time. She once said: “It’s your day. You should do as you please.” In any case, he doesn’t want his annual stroll to be one more commitment in her permanently squeezed schedule. He wouldn’t want her fretting, if she were to accompany him, about jobs piling up. This is his birthday ritual—tracing, in reverse, the journey he made from his parentless upbringing to his middle-class success.

  He doesn’t look back on his childhood as an unhappy one—in some ways it was the best time of his life. However, he’s aware he could use his upbringing as an easy excuse for fucking up. Until this year, he hasn’t needed one.