Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell

by Debbie Carbin

  It’s ten thirty and Mum and Dad are in the kitchen in a fog of heat and steam and alcohol fumes. They’re both wearing paper hats pulled down low over their foreheads and they’re giggling loudly as they read each other the lame cracker jokes. They’re clearly both pissed.

  ‘Hi, Mum: hi, Dad,’ I say, coming in to the room. They turn in unison to face me, then exclaim, ‘Rachel!’ also simultaneously, their red, grinning faces beaming at me like something off a cheap Christmas card. I am twenty-three weeks’ pregnant now, and there is a definite bump, but neither of them mentions it, which is weird. OK, I think to myself, I’ll make an announcement over dinner.

  But that’s easier said than done. You can’t just bring this thing up spontaneously, you need some kind of opening. Well, even before an opening, I need there to be a break in the conversation. My granny is here too and she’s a tenacious conversationalist. Once she’s started, she absolutely will not stop until she’s finished, no matter how long that takes and regardless of how many interruptions there are.

  ‘So, Rachel, you’re looking very well. How’s that boyfriend of yours? Tom, was it? What a lovely young man he was. He was here last year, wasn’t he, Clare? He reminded me so much of a lad who lived over the road from Grandad and me when your mum was still a girl. Before she had her childhood stolen from her.’ She stares fiercely at my dad, who raises his glass at her. ‘Do you remember him, Clare? I think he was called William. You were sweet on him for a long time.’

  ‘No, I don’t remember a William, Mum. Who wants custard and who wants ice cream?’

  ‘Haven’t we got brandy butter?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t William, that was the boy that lived next door to me when I was a girl. This one was called something else.’

  ‘You know we haven’t got brandy butter. We never have brandy butter. It’s custard or ice cream.’

  ‘It was one of those traditional names, though, like maybe Philip or Albert. You must remember him, Clare. He had acne and a budgie.’

  ‘Can I have both, Mum?’

  ‘Ugh, James, custard and ice cream in the same bowl?’

  ‘Or was it the budgie that was called William?’

  Mum still stuffs the pudding with pound coins, I suspect just as much for my benefit as for James’s, so you really have to have your wits about you while you eat it. The table falls silent for five minutes as everyone concentrates furiously on not breaking their teeth, or swallowing any money. At the end, I’ve got six pounds out of mine, James has got seven and even Granny has done well and found five. Mum and Dad put any they find straight back into the pudding so the last portion is always particularly dangerous.

  The table is cleared, plates scraped and coffee made. We all sit down in the living room for a film or a snooze, or a bit of both. James gets his new remote-control tank and heads out into the street to liaise with the neighbours’ kids and compare presents. It feels like the moment is coming and I’ve got butterflies, although I’m not sure if it’s dread or excitement at the prospect of telling my parents.

  ‘So, Rachel, how are things with you?’ Dad says, leaning back and sipping his coffee. ‘How’s your life?’

  It’s perfect. I look at him and Mum, smile and say, ‘Much better than I thought I would be six months ago.’

  ‘Why’s that, love?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got some really good news. For all of you. Mum, Dad, Granny, I’m going to have a baby.’

  Mum’s mouth goes into a wide, open-mouthed grin and she looks immediately at Dad, to see what his reaction is. He’s smiling too, and also looking at Mum. Then they both turn back in unison to me.

  Dad says, ‘Oh Rachel, love, that’s fantastic!’

  Mum says, ‘I’m going to be a granny, I can’t believe it!’

  Granny says, ‘I mean, it’s a ridiculous name for a bird.’

  ‘When then? When does it all happen? August? July?’

  ‘Ah. No, actually it’s the twentieth of April.’

  ‘Twentieth of . . .? But that means you must be about five months’ gone already. Have you only just found out, then?’

  I predicted this would happen and I decided in the car on the way over that I’m going to tell a teensy-weensy little white lie to save their feelings. ‘Yeah, just about a week ago.’ Well, they’ll never know, will they? No need to tell them I found out back in August and told a perfect stranger the news minutes later. ‘I didn’t suspect a thing and then finally went to the doctor last week because of a slight pain in my tummy and he tells me I’m five months’ gone. Can you believe it?’

  Granny is looking at me shrewdly, her eyes narrowed. ‘No, no, I’m completely wrong. The bird was called Cyril. The lad was called Henry. Henry Bateman. Last I heard of him, he was in prison, I think. Your Tom reminded me so much of him.’

  Everyone looks at Granny, as if she’s just made a valuable contribution to the conversation.

  ‘Yes, of course, where is Tom, Rachel? He should be here with us while you break the news. Or is he telling his parents?’

  I’ve predicted this, too. But this time, I decide to go with the truth. Well, part of it, anyway. ‘Actually, Tom’s not the father. We broke up.’

  ‘Oh that’s a shame. He was lovely.’ She’s so wrong about Tom. He had big curly hair and bit the skin around his fingers the whole time. ‘So who is the father then? And when can we meet him? Is he coming round for a drink later or something, after you’ve had a chance to break the news?’

  ‘Er, no. We broke up too.’ No need to mention that he’s blissfully ignorant of his imminent offspring. Or that he’s spending Christmas with his wife.

  Mum’s disappointed. ‘Oh, no. But he’s going to be involved, is he?’

  ‘Oh, I should think so. We haven’t really discussed it yet. But there’s plenty of time to work out all the details later, isn’t there?’

  ‘You need to make sure you get some money off him,’ says Granny suddenly. ‘Because you won’t be able to work, will you? Or you’ll have to have a nanny or something to look after it during the day. And those things cost money.’

  This is not something I’ve given any thought to at all. I don’t know how I’m going to manage financially but I hadn’t considered asking Nick for money. I’ll store that away for consideration after it’s born. I guess his wife is going to have to find out after all.

  So here I am later that night, back home and slumped on the sofa in front of Sleepless in Seattle. I love this film: it’s so simple you can follow it while you worry about being a single parent with not enough money to keep the baby alive. There aren’t many films I like that don’t demand my full attention.

  Remember those little worry lines that flitted on and off my face on a certain hot night in July? Well, they’re back, and I think they’re permanent now. I have made the decision to have the baby and I’m not going to change my mind, but telling Mum and Dad, and my three friends, has set that decision into stone somehow. All the while it was just Hector who knew, it felt as if it was happening in some secret, unseen part of my life and could therefore be kept completely separate. It didn’t encroach on or affect my life at all, really. Apart from my clothes not fitting me any more. But now it’s like I’ve brought the baby into the world already. It’s out there now, real, solid, causing changes, making differences, altering the way people think, the way they behave. Mum and Dad were different after I’d told them. They sobered up really quickly and the topic of conversation didn’t move on from the subject for the whole of the rest of the afternoon. What we will all be doing different next Christmas. What it will be called. Whether it’s a boy or girl. They spent hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds on it, thinking about birthday parties and Christmas presents to come – things they’ve seen on telly and would love to buy for it. Dad was actually talking about teaching it to join wood. It was all ridiculous.

  The film’s finished so I’ve made myself a hot chocolate and am flicking through Parenting. There are those photos again. Red face,
eyes screwed tight, legs akimbo. Christ, is that one of her internal organs coming out? I slam it shut and fling it on to the floor, and my eyes land on the blue velvet box that held my earrings. I pick it up and hold it in both hands and at that moment – did you notice? – those little worry lines smooth out again. I’m going to ring him. I need to thank him for the gift and I should wish him a Merry Christmas, seeing as how I didn’t get him a present or card. Bloody hell, why didn’t I?

  There’s no reply at his home number. He’s probably round at Sarah’s, having a few drinks with his family. It’s eight thirty; I’ll try his work number, just in case, and if I don’t get hold of him there, I’ll try Sarah’s – just to wish her a Merry Christmas – and see if I can prise out of her who she’s got round. I could even do a sob story about being on my own and see if she’ll invite me.

  It’s answered on the second ring. ‘McCarthy Systems, Hector McCarthy.’ His voice is dull and flat.

  ‘Hey, Hector. It’s Rachel. Merry Christmas.’

  Sitting at his desk, Hector closes his eyes and a smile appears for the first time that day. ‘Hello, Rachel. Merry Christmas to you, too. God, it’s good to hear your voice.’ He closes the folder he’s reading and drops it carelessly on to the desk.

  Wow. Did you hear the difference in his voice then, once he knew it was me? He sounds like he’s smiling now.

  ‘I just wanted to say thank you so much for the earrings. They’re absolutely beautiful.’ I touch them absently as I speak.

  ‘Well, they had to be beautiful. It’s what . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘Are you having a good day?’

  ‘Not bad. Been to my mum and dad’s. What about you?’

  ‘Well, I’ve pretty much been here all day.’

  ‘Oh Hector, why? You shouldn’t be sitting there all on your own on Christmas Day.’

  He sighs deeply. ‘I couldn’t bear to be in the house today. I would have just been sitting there alone, thinking about things, remembering. No thanks.’

  ‘But what about Glenn and Sarah? Why didn’t you go round there?’

  ‘Nah. They’ve got a houseful today. Lots of friends of theirs . . .’ He trails off and I’m sitting here thinking that for all he knew, I might have been there. Is that why he didn’t go? Then he says, really quietly, ‘Did you go?’

  ‘No.’ I didn’t even know about it.

  Hector lets out a long breath and I have the feeling he’s been holding it for a while. ‘Oh. Oh, well.’

  On impulse, I blab out, ‘Look, Hector, don’t sit there on your own for the rest of the night. I’m here on my own – why don’t you come round for a Christmas drink? We could keep each other company. I’ve got a large Yule log.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says with a smiley voice. Then there’s a protracted silence during which I start imagining all sorts of things like he’s married, he’s got a long-term girlfriend, he’s embarrassed by my obvious interest or the worst one, he’s irritated by my refusal to leave him alone. I’m picturing his face, lips pressed together, brow furrowed, wondering how best he can let me down without hurting me. Then there’s a long exhalation of breath, and he says, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, Rachel.’

  Looks like my imagination was spot on. But the fact is, although I was imagining all those things, I didn’t really expect any of them to be real. Deep down – well, not all that deep, actually – I was still convinced that he does like me, does want to be with me. It’s so new, so unprecedented, that a bloke would say no to me. He sounds regretful though.

  ‘No? But why? What . . .?’

  ‘I’m sorry, truly, but I’d just feel uncomfortable. You know, what with you and—’ He stops. What I can’t see is how he’s dropped his head down to rest his forehead on his hand, but I can hear that his voice is dull and flat again. ‘It’s too . . .’ He shakes his head, then straightens up in his seat. ‘I should never have . . . I’m sorry, Rachel.’

  ‘Why are you sorry?’

  ‘I just wish . . .’ He’s whispering now.

  ‘What do you wish?’ I whisper, tears pricking my eyes.

  ‘I wish . . . you a very Merry Christmas, Rachel Covington. Take very good care of yourself and that baby, won’t you? And I truly hope that your new year is everything you want it to be. Bye.’

  The phone clicks and goes silent. And I’m left sitting here alone on Christmas Night, knowing that he meant that goodbye to mean for ever, and I’m never going to hear from him again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE REST OF the Christmas break passes quickly. Mum, Dad, Granny and James have been round to the flat on Boxing Day with a whole load of food and a pram catalogue. God knows where they got that from on Boxing Day.

  ‘Oh, all the shops are open today for the January sales,’ Mum said. ‘You should try and get most of your stuff now, while it’s all reduced.’

  I can’t face shops. Only a short while ago, I would have thought, Oh, Hector will come pram shopping with me, and I’d’ve rung him without hesitating. I had thought that he was almost as excited about this baby as me. But why would he be, for God’s sake? I’m no one to him, and this is not his baby. He’s shown an interest out of politeness, in the same way you would when you bump into the sister of someone you used to work with, and she tells you she’s pregnant. You smile and say, ‘Congratulations. When’s it due?’ and then you switch off. Who cares? It’s nothing to do with you. You’ll probably never even see the thing once it’s out.

  Back at work on the twenty-seventh and the news about my condition is hissing round the office. My baby is out there now and I can’t take it back. Suddenly everyone’s an expert with advice on how I should stand, how I should sit, what I should eat and what I should avoid. They’ve got ideas on birthing plans, nursery furniture, nipple cream and sterilizers. People who have done it want me to do it their way, and people who never will do it but once knew someone who lived next door to someone whose sister’s friend was pregnant once want me to do it their way.

  ‘Oh, Rachel, you should definitely have a water birth,’ one of the Ms says to me one morning. ‘My friend’s cousin did that and she enjoyed every minute of it.’

  ‘You obviously haven’t seen the photos.’

  ‘You what? Well, anyway, she had music playing, she was warm and comfortable, really relaxed. She says that she’d do it again tomorrow if she could.’

  ‘But then her plans for tomorrow involve having her toenails extracted with pliers?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Nothing. OK, right, thanks for that. I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Well, yes, but she says you need to reserve the pool well in advance, all right?’

  ‘Thanks. Can you tell your friend’s cousin from me to fuck off and die, please? That’s great.’

  I didn’t really say that. I’m keeping my temper, more for Plum’s sake than anything else, but I’m keeping it.

  I haven’t seen or heard from Nick since the office party. Paris has been smiling smugly at me though. Either she believed him when he said I was lying about him being married or she’s happy to continue their fling anyway. Or maybe she’s going to shag him until she makes up her mind.

  ‘It’s no good, Nick, I’ve decided that I can’t continue with this relationship knowing that you’re married.’

  ‘And you think my retirement party is a good time to tell me?’

  Obviously she hasn’t worked out that this bump is her boyfriend’s baby and therefore likely to get in the way for the next twenty years or so. Silly girl. They’re not too bright, are they, that pair? Apparently the fact that I announced it so long after our little fling must have been enough to confuse them. They’ve only got to look at me to know that it probably occurred around the end of July. Maybe they’re in denial. Well, let them. Plum and I certainly do not want any more input from Nick Maxwell. It was his input that put me here in the first place.

  I haven’t heard from Hector either. I suspected that I wouldn’t but it’s
on my mind constantly. Every time the phone rings at home, I rush to answer it. Every time my turret beeps with an incoming call, I wonder if it’s going to be him. It’s torture and I’ve got to get over it. He was like a guardian angel who helped me when I was at the lowest point in my life and set me back on my feet. And now he’s gone to help someone else who needs him. That’s that.

  But that’s not that. I can’t stop thinking about him. Everything reminds me of him – Plum squirms inside me and I think of Hector, gazing at me in Pizza Hut. I see the midwife again and I think of him and our drive in the country straight after the first appointment. I sit on my sofa and think of him trying to sleep here the night of my accident. Oh God, that’s the hardest one, imagining him lying here, within yards of where I was sleeping, watching over me. Just a guardian angel, that’s all.

  I’m ringing Sarah. Yes, another outgoing call, but I couldn’t care less. I’m not going to probe about Hector but I just want to make sure he’s all right. Sarah doesn’t even know that I know him so if he’s ill or dead she wouldn’t think to let me know.

  ‘Hi, Sarah, it’s Rachel.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Rach. You all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Sarah, is it all right if I pop round tonight? I’d appreciate a chat about babies and all the stuff I’m going to need. You can fill me in on everything I need to know.’ She’s bound to jump at this – a chance for her to demonstrate her superior knowledge. And this is her favourite topic of conversation so it’s win win for Sarah.

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose so. I’ve got a few bits and pieces that I’ve got . . . but I suppose it’s OK. What time?’

  I’m staggered. It seems she’s really not bothered. In fact, I’d even go as far as to say that she’s a bit fed up with me for asking.

  ‘Sarah, is everything all right? You sound a bit down.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah fine. I’ll see you later then, shall I?’

  I decide to go round about eight, thinking that Jake will probably be in bed by then. On the way there, I’ve stopped at the garage and got a box of Quality Street for Sarah and a slab of cheddar for me, which I open in the car and bite into with a squeak. God, delicious. I just love its rubbery texture, its smooth saltiness that lodges thickly between my teeth and leaves a nutty aftertaste coating my tongue.