The Last Laugh

by Tracy Bloom

  ‘Bring him. He might enjoy it. And it will give you both a chance to look around Shady Grove. See if he’s comfortable there, ready for his stay over Christmas.’

  ‘There is that, I suppose. Shall we see how he is? See if we are both up to it on the day? You don’t mind, do you, if we decide it’s just too much for us?’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ I’d sighed.

  We’d stared at each other over cooling cups of tea. An awkward silence descended. We were actually getting quite good at sitting in silence at the kitchen table. It almost felt comfortable. Almost, but not quite.

  ‘Margaret is going to take me to Meadowhall to buy clothes for my holiday,’ she finally said. ‘As she quite rightly says, we need to go soon whilst it’s still warm because there won’t be any summer clothes in the shops before Christmas, will there?’

  ‘No,’ I replied and counted to ten.

  ‘Will you come and look after your father whilst we go next Tuesday?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Silence again.

  ‘Can you tell me about when I was born?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I was born. What happened?’

  ‘What do you mean, what happened?’

  ‘You know, when you had me. Was Dad there? Did I come quickly? Was it an easy birth?’

  ‘What on earth do you want to know about all that for?’

  ‘Because you’ve never told me. Because I’d like to know how I arrived on this planet.’

  ‘Well, erm…’ She nervously sipped her tea. ‘Well, it’s a very long time ago now.’

  ‘I know it is but there must be some things you can remember.’

  ‘I remember your dad was at work and I rang and they said he was on the counter, you know, serving customers in the bank. They said his break wasn’t until eleven and could I ring back then.’

  ‘Did you tell them you were in labour?’

  ‘No. I thought I could last another half hour so I put the phone down.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Well, yes. I didn’t really want to disturb him. He took his job so seriously. For some reason I thought he might be cross with me. I called back just after eleven to give him time in case he was tied up with someone. He was still cross with me. Cross I hadn’t said I was in labour when I rang earlier.’

  ‘Did he come straight away?’

  ‘Oh yes, must have broken the speed limit. I had a go at him about that. He held my hand the whole way there apart from when he had to change gear. We got stuck behind an ice-cream van for a while. I’ve never heard your dad swear like it. Then we got to the maternity hospital and the next thing I know I’m hustled away to the delivery room. In hindsight I should have made your dad leave work earlier perhaps. You only took half an hour. Obviously your dad wasn’t there, it wasn’t the thing then, like it is now. I could hear him chatting to a new mum in the waiting room the whole time. He was trying to explain interest rates to her. I kept thinking that I would rather be in labour than listening to your dad explain interest rates.’

  I laughed.

  ‘And when you first saw me?’ I asked.

  ‘You looked like a baby,’ she said nonchalantly.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You screamed like a hyena. You were so noisy the minute you got into the world, even the midwife said so. Screaming and bawling. It was if you had been storing it up and once you were out, you wanted everyone to know about it. The whole hospital must have heard you arrive.’

  I don’t know why but this makes me happy. I didn’t whimper apologetically, I arrived in a fanfare of my own making. That feels good to know. I needed to know that.

  ‘Not at all like Antony,’ continued my mother. ‘He was much calmer when he was born. He looked thoughtful right from day one.’

  ‘By the way, he’s coming to my party,’ I told her. ‘And Lucas.’

  ‘Really?’ said my mum incredulously. ‘Coming to a party of yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Does he have the time?’

  ‘Perhaps he made the time.’

  ‘Well, if Antony can make the time then I’m sure me and your dad can make the effort. Count us in. Maybe I can get a new outfit with Margaret next week at Meadowhall.’

  * * *

  Maybe it’s all the talk of babies and maternity wards that makes me do it. Or maybe it’s the fact I just can’t bear to head into hospital and have to take the left turn towards the Death Clinic. My feet won’t do it. I turn right, despite the fact I’m due to go and give some blood samples in twenty minutes. I turn right and let my feet do the walking until I find myself at the door of the maternity unit.

  I can’t stop myself. I wander in and, before I know it, I’m sitting on the back row of seats, picking up a magazine surrounded by parents in the various stages of pregnancy glow. I’m submerged in a sea of hand-holding and bump-swiping. Perhaps that’s why the younger generation comes out of the womb so tablet-friendly? We are swiping them practically from conception.

  ‘I’m so ready to sit down,’ says a woman, easing herself into the chair next to me. ‘My ankles are the size of life rings – no, scratch that, several life rings. You here for your first scan?’

  I stare at her, not knowing what to say. My instinct is to grab her face and kiss her in gratitude for her assumption I’m still young enough to be pregnant. I nod mutely.

  ‘Nothing to be worried about,’ she says. ‘It’s just a bit messy, all that goo on your belly. Looks like… you know, what got you knocked up in the first place.’ She lets out a raucous laugh. The hand-holders and bump-swipers turn to glare.

  ‘You on your own too?’ she asks.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  ‘This is my fourth,’ she says, nodding down to the mound sitting on her knee. ‘He asked me if I wanted him to come and I said I rather he stopped at home and defrosted the freezer. So he has, imagine that?’ She lets out a rip roar of a laugh again. ‘He hasn’t a clue what he’s let himself in for. There are peas from the Ark in there, I reckon.’ She laughs again, good and hard.

  She grabs my arm. ‘Thank goodness for TENA Lady, eh?’ she says, winking at me. ‘Or I’d have to do all my laughing on the toilet.’

  She laughs again so hard the nurse on reception pauses her phone conversation to look round and see what the disturbance is.

  ‘Your first?’ she asks again, nodding down at my non-existent bump. I look down and notice I have a sweater bundled on my knee. There could be a bump under there in its early days, I suppose.

  ‘Yes,’ I say steadily. ‘We, er, left it quite late.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she declares. ‘You’re never too old, is what I say. Have you been having trouble conceiving or has it taken you this long to find the right guy?’

  I look round nervously. Someone is going to find me out any minute. Several women look away quickly as I look up. All the men are staring into the distance, clearly not interested in any kind of eavesdropping. The women are.

  ‘Both,’ I say.

  ‘Aaah, bad luck! That’s tough. Still, you managed it eventually, eh? So where’s the lucky chap?’

  ‘Oh, he’s, er, he had to work. Next time.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame. A real shame. Look, if you want, I can come in with you. You know, hold your hand and all that. It’s a bit scary the first time you do it.’

  ‘Oh no, no, no, that’s perfectly all right,’ I say. It’s time to leave now. Enough of this masquerading as a pregnant woman. What am I doing sitting here? I’m going to get myself arrested any minute if I’m not careful.

  ‘Delilah Hannigan,’ a woman in blue and flat shoes announces at a door to the left of the reception desk.

  ‘Ooh, that’ll be me,’ says my neighbour, starting to pull herself up out of the chair. ‘It had better bloody be a girl this time or else I might just kill myself! Four boys in the house, can you imagine? Utter carnage.’

  I nod as if I understand completely. />
  ‘If you want, you can come with me,’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘As you’ve not done it before. See what you’re up against. I don’t mind. I’ve had that many doctors and nurses roaming around my bits and pieces they practically have National Park status. Come on. Might just settle your nerves a bit, eh? You look ever so pale, love.’

  Somehow following her into the ultrasound room is easier than arguing. I hover at the door, not quite knowing whether to make a run for it or take a seat.

  ‘This is my friend,’ Delilah says, before screwing her face up when she realises she doesn’t even know my name. She beckons me over to take the seat at her head and grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze.

  The next few minutes are as surreal as you can imagine. I wonder if I’m asleep, dreaming of babies and birth in a desperate effort to keep the death wolf from the door. I watch, mesmerised, as the technician squirts on the liquid and rolls the scanner around her belly. I hold my breath then suddenly the sound of the heartbeat fills the room. I’m so happy I could cry. New life is coming. There is new life all around us. Life does go on.

  The circus mirror image of a baby emerges on the screen, floating around in blissful limbo. Safe, secure, at the very beginning of everything.

  ‘It looks to me as though you are having a girl,’ announces the technician as he goes on to point out indistinguishable shifting shapes that indicate the sex of the baby. Delilah instantly bursts into tears. I can’t help but join her.

  ‘Princess dresses and French plaits,’ she sobs with joy.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, gripping her hand tightly. ‘That’s what it’s all about. Princess dresses and French plaits. Thank God for daughters!’

  * * *

  Outside we hug. Thankfully Delilah doesn’t offer to exchange numbers. Doesn’t offer to become my birth buddy for my non-existent child.

  I wave her off and perch briefly on a seat at the back. When an adequate amount of time has passed I get up and walk out, trying not to catch the eye of any of the women who have seen me walk in, sit down, attend a scan with a stranger and walk out again. Leave them to ponder that conundrum. Though I do find myself looking up as I go through the door to check for CCTV cameras. I can just imagine my blurred image appearing on the next episode of Crimewatch. Thankfully it appears that Big Brother has not been watching this particular mini-drama.

  I scurry along back to the Death Unit feeling lighter. Seeing new life on its way has lifted me and given my brain an alternative fixture for a while, keeping the implications of my hospital visit at bay.

  * * *

  ‘I love your hair,’ says the young woman, stabbing my finger with what feels like a blunt needle. She looks about twelve.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, grimacing.

  ‘Very cool,’ she adds.

  I nod.

  ‘Do you mind me asking where you got it?’

  ‘Got what?’

  ‘Your wig?’

  ‘Actually, it’s not a wig, it’s my real hair.’ I say this slowly, reeling at the assumption. Only in the Death Clinic would this be happening. I’m back in reality.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ gasps the girl. She looks nervously over her shoulder as though concerned someone might have overheard her monumental lack of tact. ‘I was… it’s just… people ask all the time in here about where to get a decent wig and yours is the best I’ve seen so I thought I’d ask…’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say.

  I’d like to be able to reassure her that it happens all the time. Only it doesn’t, does it, because hardly anyone knows I have cancer so the chances of anyone complimenting my wig are virtually zero. See, I knew it was the right decision not to have chemo. Who wants the most complimentary thing that someone can say about your appearance to be that you have a good wig?

  ‘I’m really very sorry,’ she babbles on. ‘I won’t make that mistake again,’ she says to herself, walking away to file my blood samples.

  I sit and listen to her fumbling over equipment with her back to me. She’s rattled. I feel for her. Working on the Death Unit must be a minefield of difficult conversations and opportunities to put one’s foot in it. You have got to respect anyone who puts themselves through that every day.

  Eventually she turns around, looking a bit paler than before, and walks back towards me.

  ‘I need to take some blood from your arm,’ she says, a slight tremble in her voice. I watch in horror as she aims a wobbling needle towards a vein in the crook of my arm that I have offered up to her. Just as she’s about to stab me, I whip my arm away. She’s in no fit state to be putting anything into my body.

  She looks at me, distraught. She’s so young, I think. She shouldn’t have to be doing this. Being polite to the dying.

  ‘Princess dresses and French plaits,’ I murmur.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Princess dresses and French plaits,’ I repeat. ‘That’s what it’s all about. Will you give me a French plait?’ I ask her.

  Her mouth drops open.

  ‘I’m not sure I…’

  ‘Go on,’ I say. ‘It will make me feel better.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  And it does.

  Thirty-Eight

  By the time it gets to Friday I’m a nervous wreck. When the doorbell rings at twenty minutes past seven I nearly faint. The night is so not how I had imagined. But how could it be when you’ve invited your husband’s former best friend over for dinner who he hasn’t seen in ages and you’re trying to gloss over the fact that said husband has had an affair and might have walked out on your marriage?

  Mark arrived home just half an hour earlier and went straight into his office. At least, I hope it’s him; either that or we have a very confident burglar currently stripping our assets whilst we sit next door.

  I arrive at the front door at the same time as Mark. We nod. I open my mouth, about to thank him for coming, but stop myself. Why should I do that? It’s his old mates I’ve invited over, he should be thanking me. In any case, the only thing I should be thanking him for is having an affair and ruining the end of my life. Still, I must shelve that until later.

  ‘Hi,’ I say as I pull the door open. Fixed grins on our faces.

  ‘Good to see ya, good to see ya,’ says Tim, stepping in and grasping Mark by the hand. His face glows red from a recent hot shower, contrasting against the glowing white of his shirt collar. He embraces Mark in a bear hug before stepping back and taking in his surroundings.

  ‘So good to see you,’ I say, stepping forward and embracing Julie. ‘It’s been too long.’

  ‘It so has,’ she replies. ‘We brought you these,’ she adds, offering up a bag with bottles clinking inside. ‘Not sure what you like so we brought a bit of everything.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t need to bring anything at all. That’s really kind of you. Thank you.’

  ‘Yes, well, yes, well, we couldn’t come empty-handed,’ says Tim, glancing nervously at Mark. He hasn’t uttered a word yet. Just nodded and looked awkward.

  ‘So, you had a good day, mate?’ asks Tim.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ says Mark, glancing sideways at me. ‘Brilliant. Actually spent all day going through the contract with lawyers on the sale of Brancotec. We’re about to change ownership to a private equity firm. Charstone actually. Making sure we screw as much money out of them as we can.’

  Twat, I think.

  Twat, I see flash through Tim’s eyes. This night could be a disaster.

  ‘Right, right,’ replies Tim. ‘Well, I’ve been up to my elbows in shit all day. Literally. Blocked drains in Calver Street. Fucking nightmare.’

  ‘It’s all right, I made him have two showers,’ says Julie. ‘Christ, he stank!’

  There’s another awkward silence.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here then,’ says Tim eventually.

  ‘Have you never been here?’ I gasp.

  ‘No,’ he replies, shaking his head. ‘I assumed there were str
ict entry laws. I was beginning to think the only way to get into Oakenthorpe if you were from Checkston was to sneak in on the back of an Ocado van.’

  I laugh nervously. There had been much ribbing from Mark’s friends when we put our previous house up for sale in order to move to one in the right area that would guarantee entry into a decent secondary school. Mark was determined to get the best education for his children, which involved moving to an expensive suburb and into an overpriced house. In fact I can remember Tim quoting how many extra bedrooms we would be able to buy if we’d stayed in the area where they all grew up. He could understand sinking money into bricks and mortar, but he held no truck with spending over the odds for a house just because it came with a couple of extra GCSEs.

  ‘Well, you’re here now,’ I say quickly. ‘Why don’t you give them the tour, Mark, and I’ll go and check on dinner?’

  He gives me daggers. I turn to head to the kitchen. Off you go, I think. Off you go and show your oldest mate around the house that you said was your dream. I can remember your face when we got the keys: you were as proud as punch. Detached, double-fronted, five-bedroom, on an exclusive estate in the highly sought-after neighbourhood of Oakenthorpe in the catchment area for the renowned Grayspark School. Ofsted reports attached. It was a big moment for you. So show it off to your oldest friend then. The house you were so proud of and never invited him to. The house you are contemplating walking away from.

  I nearly burst into tears when I seek sanctuary in the kitchen. It has never looked more beautiful. George is trying out his party menu on us tonight and to get us in the mood he has placed dozens of candles around the room and a blue and white checked tablecloth sits on the kitchen table, taverna style. I’m transported back to 1996 when I’d least expected it. The damn boy has even found some Greek music that tinkles out of a speaker sitting on the dresser. It’s too much. I want to be in Greece right now, sitting outside, eating, drinking and being merry. How simple happiness was then and how I took it for granted. I was in heaven and I never even realised it. I walk up behind my son and put my hand on his shoulder.