Olive

by Emma Gannon

  “Did you girls watch that Good Morning Britain this mornin’ with what’s-his-chops?” he asks, face bobbing around trying to make eye contact in the rearview mirror.

  “Er, no, what was the topic?” I ask, looking at my phone.

  “Gender-fluid kids,” he says.

  “Oh right,” Bea says. We glance sideways at each other.

  “It’s properly ridiculous, isn’t it? Gender-fluid this, gender-binary this, nonbinary that.”

  We make a sort of neutral “mmmm” noise.

  He goes on: “You know, they had a seven-year-old boy on there. Said he was a girl! Ridiculous. He’s not a bloody girl! I wore pink dresses and all when I was younger! My cousin Donald, he liked dolls! World’s gone mad. Just cos you are playing with girly toys doesn’t mean you should write down ‘gender fluid’ on your school forms. Am I right?” He starts laughing to himself, snorting through his nose.

  We both know to just nod and smile. I want to challenge this idiot. But late at night, in a busy city, it probably isn’t worth it. It is aggravating having to hold your tongue in so many ways. You don’t want to run the risk of being chucked out of a taxi late at night, or getting verbally abused, or you know, murdered and chopped up into little pieces and put in someone’s freezer.

  “Honestly,” he continues, “I think it’s dangerous. Making these young’uns think they know themselves and what they want at such an insignificant age. I wanted to be a vet at seven! And an astronaut. Doesn’t mean nothing. I mean, look at me now!” He laughs.

  “Huh!” I grunt.

  “Moral of the story is, you don’t know what you want at seven. And you definitely aren’t gender bloody fluid.” He takes a sharp left down a small narrow street, and Bea and I swerve to one side.

  “I wouldn’t mind if my kids wanted to put that on their form,” Bea says. “I don’t think it’s that important as long as they feel they’re being heard, to be honest.”

  “Fucking hell, really?” he says, staring at Bea through the rearview mirror and spouting off again.

  We stay quiet after that. The onslaught goes on and on, until (thank god) we eventually pull up next to The Book Club bar-side entrance and hop out, utterly relieved that the journey is over. Bea slams the car door.

  “Good riddance. Jeez, is it possible to go anywhere in peace in this city? Everywhere you go, someone is there, waiting, ready to make you feel awkward with their opinions. So. Many. Opinions.”

  “Agreed . . . Anyway, remember, you are Child-Free tonight. You have no kids! No mention of them, okay?” I prod her arm.

  Colin is waiting, leaning on the brick wall outside the club in a leather jacket, sucking on his vape. He thinks he is James Dean.

  “Hey, bitches!” Colin says before air-kissing us.

  “Excited?” I ask, linking arms with him and Bea. They both nod, although they look a bit uneasy too.

  “I mean, excited to see you guys, not sure what this whole shebang is gonna be like,” says Bea.

  “God, I know . . . I’m glad you’re here with me,” I say, shrugging but feeling a tug of excitement in my stomach.

  We knock on a big black door. A tall woman lets us in, crouching slightly, and says the main doors will open in five minutes. She tells us we can wait in the central bar. We walk down the carpeted staircase and order three wines and a packet of nuts.

  When the main doors finally open, a woman with a clipboard ticks our names off and ushers us quickly down some more stairs. The basement room looks pretty, with thin draped reddish curtains. It is dimly lit with fairy lights, smells slightly of stale beer, and has chairs laid out in a horseshoe shape, with a lone microphone standing in the middle. It just looks like another innocent open-mic night. Eventually people start to trickle in, and the room starts to fill up. I look around as more and more women of all different ages pile into the room one after another, laughing all around us. It’s mainly women, and only a handful of men.

  “If I pick up a date or take someone home from this night, it’ll be the weirdest fucking thing,” Colin whispers to me. Trust Colin to be eyeing up the dating pool in the room. “But then again, at least we’d both know where we stand on the whole kids thing!”

  In the corner of the room we spot a tray of ice-cold G&Ts on the side of the bar with edible flowers floating in them, next to a little sign that says: “Take one and pass one to a new friend!” We neck our wines and grab a floral G&T. Everyone here seems to know each other, and it is slightly intimidating to be the only visible newbies in the room. I then notice the host, Iris, walking down the stairs wearing a turquoise kaftan. I recognize her from the website, her stylized portrait photos. I notice books are on sale on a table by the door, including signed copies of Selfish, Shallow and Self-Absorbed: Sixteen Writers on the Decision Not to Have Kids by the author Meghan Daum on special discount.

  “We should probably muck in,” I whisper, nudging Bea. “Else they might be suspicious that I’m a journalist, you’re a nutty mum of three, and you’re just here for the free gin,” I say, elbowing Colin.

  I look across the room and notice tons of Post-it notes covering a cork board. Each note seems to describe something that relates to or celebrates child-free life. I look more closely, and one Post-it note reads:

  “Maternal urges drop by 25 percent with every extra 15 IQ points”—Satoshi Kanazawa.

  Another one:

  “By the time you finish reading this sentence, the number of people on Earth will have increased by three hundred. Don’t add to overpopulation.”

  “Brutal!” Bea mutters, laughing heartily.

  It suddenly hits me that everyone in the room has something in common: they have actively chosen to not be parents, whatever their reason or backstory. It’s starting to feel a little “culty,” putting me slightly on edge, but I have to admit there is something powerful in the shared outlook.

  The laughter and chatter increase in volume around us, and there’s a loud tapping of the mic. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s Iris, in the middle of the room, next to a standing microphone. There is a collective shuffle, and people strain their necks to see over each other’s heads. Iris’s bracelets and long necklaces are hanging over her kaftan, making a loud clanging and clinking against the microphone.

  “Welcome, everyone. Welcome! Can you hear me okay?”

  There is a generic “woop!” sound.

  Iris holds her clipboard in front of her and runs her finger down the list. “Right, first things first, everybody! Oi, please, sshh at the back there! Right, some ground rules before I introduce the amazing speakers we have for tonight. And, of course, if you have something that you’d like to say there’ll be time for any volunteer speakers at the end. Just put a piece of paper in the hat that’s on the bar at the back! So, a quick intro about me, in case you’re new to us: I’m Iris, the founder of CFBC. We went from a small supper club meetup with a few child-free friends to, well, a global community for hundreds of inspiring women—and some men!—such as yourselves. I started this group because I felt like it was needed. It’s been quite the whirlwind. I’m so glad you are here, that you have spread the word and reached out to friends who might feel the same. A reminder that this is a safe space! We don’t stream anything online! We don’t judge each other! Our prerogative is to support and encourage and share and say whatever we want. Some women here tonight will be articulating their thoughts for the very first time. We must listen to each other. All phones must be off. And not just airplane mode, please, off! I have made some incredible friends through the group, and we hope you do too. We want people out there to know that it is perfectly normal to be child-free, and more than that: a fantastic lifestyle choice! Right, let’s begin. First up, we have Miranda, a radio DJ who has traveled all the way from Wales. Up you come, my darling, the mic is yours.”

  Miranda shuffles towards the center of the room and takes awhile to place h
er feet in a comfortable position, before adjusting the microphone in line with her mouth:

  “Hi, everybody. Yes, I’m Miranda. Bit nervous about kicking things off. . . . This is my first time doing anything like this, so bear with me. . . . I’m only going to speak for a few minutes about my story. I feel enormously privileged to be able to actively choose my life’s path, to be alive right now, in this year, in this version of the world. My mother wasn’t really taught about contraception, and her family was crazily religious, so me and my brothers weren’t planned. She never had a choice; she never once sat down and thought, ‘What do I want?’ So, my twin brother and I, we weren’t necessarily ‘wanted.’ I don’t think my parents were ready for kids. They would go off and leave us to fend for ourselves quite a lot, when we weren’t really old enough to look after ourselves. I suppose what I’m saying is, I am not my mother. I don’t have to be in a situation I don’t want to be in. So, I’m going to feel empowered by my choice. I don’t want children, and I feel lucky that I know how to manage and maintain that decision. Thank you for listening to the shortened version of my story.” Miranda bows and leaves the stage.

  Everyone claps loudly. That was strangely confessional, so personal—which, I suppose, is the point. I don’t know what to think.

  “Thank you, Miranda! Up next, Marie!” Iris bellows from the mic.

  Another woman, wearing a dark-red silk top, walks onto the makeshift stage and does a big nervous cough into the mic. There is a piercing screech of feedback.

  “Hi, I’m Marie McDonald. A children’s nurse working in London. I am pretty sure I don’t want kids. I don’t get any maternal urges, but I feel like I should because I work with children and I love my job. I care for ill children every single day, and I get extremely close to them. But I don’t want to have a child of my own. I hate the fact that people assume I’m ‘less of a woman’ or ‘less of a human’ because I cannot commit to motherhood itself. Even though my job is so giving, I feel like I’m seen as selfish by the outside world. This is what my friends hint at, anyway. I feel like whatever I do, however much I give, I’m still not enough to some people. Thanks for listening.”

  The audience claps, and lots of people hug her as she comes off stage.

  Bea nudges me and whispers: “Where’s she getting that from, do you think, that people would think she’s selfish?”

  My stomach tightens because I understand what Marie is saying. The small reminders every day that people think you’re different, living outside the lines.

  Before I can properly answer, Iris’s voice is booming through the mic, and the next woman is ushered onto the stage. She has short red hair, hoop earrings, and is beaming into the crowd.

  “Hello. I’m Dee. I think that the internet as it is—and how it is evolving—is fucking terrifying. Sorry, Iris—I’m allowed to swear, aren’t I?”

  Iris hollers back from the crowd: “Yes—please do!” Colin puts his hands up too and shouts, “Woop!”

  “So, yeah, social media. Do I really want my kid growing up in a world where kids are exposed to porn before they even go to secondary school and have the dangers of privacy issues and information leaks before they even hit puberty? The environment that kids are forced to grow up in today is absolutely despicable. I don’t want to bring someone into this horrible shallow world, with all this data hacking, privacy issues, trolls, robots!”

  “I’m going to get another drink,” Bea whispers loudly to me. “Want another gin?”

  Colin and I nod and hand over our empty glasses. A night like tonight certainly demands a good amount of social lubricant to get us through.

  Bea waits at the bar, and a woman with shoulder-length blond hair, arm tattoos, a nose-piercing, and a bandana around her neck perches on the barstool next to her.

  “Omg, look, Bea’s getting chatted up,” Colin says. We both giggle and sidestep towards them in unison so we can listen in on their conversation.

  “First time here?” the blond woman asks, looking Bea up and down.

  “Yes, actually, enjoying it so far, though,” Bea says politely.

  “I’m Koko,” the blond woman says and puts out her hand.

  “Bea.” They shake hands.

  “Nice to meet you, Bea. What brings you here, then?” Koko asks, swigging on her bottle of Corona.

  “Oh, you know . . . wanting to be around some like-minded women! Feels like it’s become increasingly hard to find that,” Bea says.

  “Oh man, same.”

  “So, no kids for you then, ever?”

  “Nope. I cannot stand the idea of having anyone running around depending on me twenty-four/seven. Imagine!”

  “God, same,” Bea rolls her eyes. The barwoman slides three gins across the bar towards Bea. “Thanks.”

  “When did you know, really know, that you didn’t want to be a mother?” Koko asks, leaning in.

  Bea nearly chokes, swallowing her drink too quickly. “Oh, immediately! From birth! Never felt the urge, to be honest.” Bea scrunches her face up into a ball. She is clearly hoping that Koko can’t magically see into her brain and realize that she has birthed three children who she absolutely loves more than anything else in the world.

  “I find most mothers to be rather irritating. Very holier-than-thou,” Koko says, making intense eye contact with Bea.

  “Oh, agreed.” Bea brushes her bangs out of her eyes awkwardly.

  “The worst. Like, who cares about your little bundle of joy? Mothers become so self-absorbed once they have kids. They turn their back on everything else. Their friends, their own health, their own dreams. It’s so, so sad,” Koko says, picking at her beaded bracelet on her tattooed wrist.

  “So sad!” Bea agrees, glancing over at Colin and me.

  “Like, we get it, you pushed something out of your vagina, but there are a lot of women out there, making scientific breakthroughs or launching things into space—you know? It’s not actually life’s biggest achievement.” Koko rolls her eyes, shaking her head.

  “Well . . . some women are able to launch a rocket into space and have a baby at the same time.” Bea forces a laugh, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly.

  “You wanna know another reason I don’t want a kid?” Bea knows she doesn’t need to consent to an answer; Koko is going to tell her anyway. “You see, I have a lot of money. . . . I really don’t want to sound like I’m showing off about it, but you know, I live in a really nice part of London, and I’ve worked for it. Born to working-class parents, I have toiled away, and my artwork has been selling, and I’ve managed to make my first mill. And you know, I’m worried that my kid would grow up to be spoiled and awful.”

  “Oh, you can’t think like that!” Bea says.

  “Do you know what I mean, though? Rich people’s kids end up being really terrible. Like that famous chef. You know the one. Have you seen his son? Tattoos, drugs, the lot. Really, if you have money, your kids will most likely be awful human beings.”

  Colin bursts out laughing. Bea glares at him. We can’t blow our cover.

  “It’s a very interesting . . . observation,” Bea says diplomatically. What she means to say is: you are generalizing, and you also sound totally mad. “But I think that kids can totally transform a life—they can actually pull you out of the depths of your own issues and give you a whole new perspective. They are cute as babies, and then they can grow up to be your best mates.” Bea’s eyes glaze over with love.

  Koko slowly backs away. “Right. It was, er, nice meeting you. Must dash to the bathroom.” She practically legs it. Bea turns to Colin and me, smirking.

  Iris starts tapping the mic then. “Right, everyone! Attention, please! Next speaker!”

  A woman with a beautiful multicolored scarf ’round her head and shimmering, flawless makeup steps onto the stage.

  “I am here because I have chosen not to bring
a baby into the world for many reasons—the main one of them being that I don’t want my relationship to suffer. I love my husband; we have a fantastic life together. We truly believe that with children in the mix our lives would change too much and that it could impact negatively on our very loving and happy relationship. I know that might sound bleak, but I think it’s important to protect a good relationship when you have one. My husband and I, we want to prioritize each other. I hear all these horror stories of people no longer having time for their partner, or they just don’t feel like they can love each other and love their kids. I don’t know, maybe these stories have got to me a bit! But I’d rather not risk it. My relationship with him is too important to me. Thanks for listening.”

  More clapping and murmuring. I feel a tightness in my chest. A sharp, immediate sadness that almost takes my breath away, as if I’ve jumped into an icy lake. I suppose that’s what I wanted with Jacob—I wanted him. I wanted a long fulfilled life with him. Time and space for us to focus on each other and grow old together. But, ultimately, that was not what he wanted.

  The clapping subsides, and Iris asks the crowd if anyone has a question, reminding the audience that they have to be safe, welcoming, and kind. A woman stands up in the back row. She has a strong presence; she is older, probably midseventies, with a sour, frowny face. She clears her throat, and someone hands her the sweaty mic:

  “I have a question, but really it’s more of a comment.” Everyone lets out a groan. “The overarching themes seem to be that one should remain childless—sorry, child-free—in order to dedicate time to be a creative, or an academic, or a writer, or to have better relationships, or to travel the world. Why are you justifying yourselves? Yes, maybe you’d be bad parents. But nobody here is identifying the truth. Parenthood is a bad idea because children are annoying and parenthood is boring. Tonight would have been more stimulating if it hadn’t been so monotonous and repetitive. Be honest. Stop making excuses! It’s fine to just say: I don’t want kids. End of conversation.”