by Adele Parks
‘Libby’s here,’ shouts Penny from the kitchen. Curiosity gets the better of me and I lean out of the window to watch the new guest get out of her car.
Libby is quite a surprise. I was expecting a Penny clone, plump and mumsy, but Libby is anything but. She’s about five foot eight, slim, with long mid-blonde hair, which is only just visible as she is wearing a large hat with flaps tied under her chin. She looks young, probably still in her twenties. She’s wearing a knee-length sheepskin coat and a long multicoloured scarf – I’d put money on it that she knitted the scarf herself or found it in a trendy little vintage-clothes store in Brighton. The effect is extraordinarily chic. Libby’s look announces to the world that she is a unique combination of artisan meets trendsetter; yet, whilst she looks as though she’s just stepped out of the pages of a style magazine, the whole outfit probably only cost a few quid. Just as I’m beginning to be quite hopeful that Libby’s presence will tip the balance of the weekend away from conversations about jam-making and towards something a little more exhilarating, I notice another kid. A sticky girl, aged about seven, climbs out of the back of the car; the scales have just plummeted back down on the jam-making side. The young girl is tall, slim and blonde. She’s wearing hipster jeans from GAP kids and, despite the fact that you can see your breath, she’s wearing a cropped top, emblazoned with pictures of Westlife. However, her sophisticated look is ruined because she is also sporting a milkshake moustache and she is sucking her thumb. Naturally, because she is a child, she’s sulking about some disaster or other – I think it has something to do with the number of sweets she was allowed on the journey. She must be Libby’s kid sister.
Penny does the introductions. ‘This is Hugh, Henry’s brother. This is Libby and her daughter, Millie.’
‘Daughter?’ I ask, not bothering to hide my amazement.
‘Yes, daughter,’ says Penny, as though she were talking to an idiot.
‘Millie’s your daughter?’ I ask Libby, just to be sure.
‘Yes.’ She smiles pleasantly.
Libby is oblivious to the fact that she has just ruined my theory. Since I’ve become pregnant I’ve separated all women into two distinct categories. Non-mothers are easy to recognize. No baby sick dripping down their shoulders or clinging to their calves; they wear a jaunty, celebratory, carefree look, as distinguishable as the morning-after glow; in fact, interchangeable with that look, because this lot are the only ones getting the type of sex that makes you smile the morning after. Mothers, on the other hand, look harassed, defeated and traumatized. Their faces are set with grim determination as they battle with the will of a minor and the indignity of doing so. Weary with self-sacrifice, they walk a thin line between arbitrator, disciplinarian and comforter. They walk it in snagged tights and ugly clothes. They smell of sick and wee.
Except Libby smells of a Calvin Klein perfume. I’m stunned.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’ says Libby. That’s because Penny didn’t give it.
‘Georgina, but call me George.’ I smile.
‘Hugh’s partner,’ chips in Henry for clarity, rather ruining Penny’s chances of labelling me as the local whore. Henry pats Millie on the head, obviously mistaking her for a pet dog: she rolls her eyes and snorts her derision, but doesn’t get the chance to say anything rude as Penny ushers us through to the dining room.
Throughout lunch (a generous and elaborate Ploughman’s, with apple pie and cream for pudding) the conversation, rather tediously, revolves around what I should avoid eating. Whilst I can’t complain that being pregnant means everyone ignores me, I’m still not happy. I’ve read the books. I know what I should avoid.
‘Raw eggs,’ says Penny.
‘Peanuts,’ adds Henry.
‘Pâté,’ adds Hugh.
‘Goat’s and sheep’s milk,’ adds Penny.
‘Caffeine,’ adds Henry.
‘Saccharin,’ adds Hugh.
Pregnancy comes with lots of problems; varicose veins, swollen ankles and unwanted advice are but a few. I glare at them around the table and defiantly dip my finger into the melting Brie. I don’t actually want to eat it as I’m aware of the dangers of listeria, but the bloody food-fascists have riled me into defiance. I don’t like receiving unsolicited advice at the best of times; I’ve never bought into the theory that it’s well intentioned, I consider it impertinent. Throughout my relationship with Hugh ‘well-meaning’ friends have offered advice, which nine times out of ten could be boiled down to ‘forget it, he’ll never leave his wife’ – now, it’s a good job I ignored that advice, isn’t it? If you ask for direction you must roll with it, take it or leave it, but roll with it. If it’s uninvited I feel almost duty-bound to be uncivil. Without doubt the most irritating counsel comes from women who haven’t had children and men whose wives have.
‘What are you doing?’ demands Henry, when he sees the dollop of Brie resting on my finger, hovering between my plate and palate.
‘You haven’t even had a baby, Henry. What makes you think you’re qualified?’ I snipe.
‘Yes, I have. I’ve had three.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ I insist. I would have elaborated but, luckily for him, long before the steaming apple pie is placed on the table I have to dash to the loo to accommodate the pickle’s second appearance of the day.
By the time I emerge from the bathroom, lunch has been cleared away and everyone is settled in the living room. There’s nowhere for me to sit, and the after-lunch cigarettes (and in Henry’s case cigar) make me feel queasy again. I’d rather hoped that we would go for a walk and get a bit of fresh air. But when I say this, mutters go up about arctic climes. I point out that Sam and Gilbert are out walking, but I know my reasoning is falling on deaf ears. From the number of beer cans and wine bottles on the coffee table it’s obviously been agreed that the only march we are making this afternoon is the one towards alcoholic oblivion. Even Penny has a glass of wine.
I feel like a leper.
Even here, the arse end of nowhere, I don’t fit in. I look out of the window.
It is a very pretty arse end. Maybe I should just go for a walk on my own, do my own thing.
But then that would appear churlish.
The children seem to recognize that I’m the only sober adult and pester me constantly.
‘Why does water freeze?’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘Where is my comfy cloth? Have you seen it, Georgina?’
I ignore most requests and demands and eventually the children turn their appeals to Penny and Libby. I wonder if kids have a radar system that identifies mums as being the people who are the most likely to replenish the cup of Ribena or wipe bottoms, noses and faces. If so, it’s a pretty primitive system, it doesn’t seem to identify fathers; neither Hugh nor Henry are much help. Hugh’s effort to explain how water freezes is far too complex; it bores and confuses the children. Whilst Henry does offer to make some sandwiches, his attempts are ham-fisted. Rather than shout out a constant stream of instructions – ‘the butter’s out’, ‘there’s some chicken or jam’, ‘the knives are in the top drawer on the right-hand side’ – Penny, in the end, gets up to make the snacks. The snacks don’t appease them and the children quickly start to snipe at one another. The adults are all a bit tipsy and so they start to snipe at one another as well. There’s nothing on TV except an old black and white musical. Penny and Libby want to watch it, but Henry is the king of the remote and irritates everyone by constantly flicking between channels.
‘We can’t even look forward to Brookside.’ comments Libby.
‘Why not?’
‘Get this! Wales doesn’t receive Channel 4.’
I notice Millie emptying the entire contents of my make-up bag on to the tiled kitchen floor. I watch helplessly as a twenty-quid mascara rolls into the black hole that is the space under the fridge and as she liberally applies my foundation to Kate’s face, hands and T-shirt.
The initial holiday mood is fading f
ast. I fear that I’ll suffocate in the dull domesticity that abounds.
Luckily, Sam, Gilbert and Gilbert’s brother, James arrive on the scene. I haven’t seen Sam for nearly a month, we still talk on the telephone, but as I’m not a florist or a dressmaker it’s nearly impossible to actually get to see her. Even before they’ve taken off their hiking boots, I notice that Sam has never looked more radiant. I’m not sure if it is the day’s hiking or the stop off at the pub that has put the glow in her cheeks but she looks fabulous. I hug her, greet Gilbert and then turn my attention to James.
I’m immediately pleased that he’s joined our party; James is instantly identifiable as a good laugh. He’s obviously a bit of a flirt and immediately sets to charming Libby. Sam will be thrilled.
I’m not.
I can’t help but notice that neither his face nor his trousers flickered with appreciation on greeting me. Not that I fancy James. I don’t, not in the least. I’m with Hugh and there’s never been anyone else for me.
But.
But when did I become invisible? Historically men have not been impervious. Even with the most decent man – who is absolutely besotted with one of my friends, who would never think of trying it on, who has no real interest at all – his eyes would always sparkle in appreciation for a fraction of a millisecond. And the majority of men make it clear they’d like to peel my knickers off with their teeth.
Something’s changed.
Who am I kidding? Everything’s changed.
I take consolation in the fact that James’s eyes and smile do betray that he is bright, easy-going and entertaining. His insistence that we ‘get off our arses and get outside to play a game of rounders’ confirms it.
‘In this weather?’ protests Penny.
‘“You can keep your hat on”,’ sings Gilbert, giving a reasonable impersonation of Tom Jones.
I actually agree with Penny that it’s far too cold for a ball game, but I’d rather pull out my fingernails than say so. I don’t want to appear as miserable as she is, so I rush to the door.
The rounders game turns out to have been a brainwave. It involves everyone, kids and adults alike (except for Penny who excuses herself by insisting that she has potatoes to peel), and it blows away the cobwebs of an afternoon sat in front of the box, drinking and eating too much. We split into teams naturally. Libby, Hugh, Henry and I play against Sam, James and Gilbert (my presence is obviously seen as a handicap; once again I’m eleven years old and the last to be picked for the netball team). The gaggle of kids who are old enough to run stay involved by randomly fielding the ball for both sides. They are too young to be genuinely useful but at least they hamper each team equally.
Hugh and Henry immediately revert to their teen selves. Even though they are on the same team they jostle competitively with one another, often risking dropping a ball altogether rather than allowing the other the glory of a clean catch. Gilbert and James’s approach is entirely different. They work with each other. Gilbert allows James to field a catch. James raucously cheers Gilbert throughout the game and Gilbert does move surprisingly quickly, for an older man.
We play until it is dark, and then we put on all the lights in the house and play a bit more. Eventually we have to give up because the electric light is proving inadequate and, anyway, none of us can stand Penny’s constant harping about the waste of electricity. Sam checks her watch – it is 8 p.m. exactly. Her team are a single point ahead, so she throws her arms around James’s neck and declares that the match is over and that they are the winners. If it’s true that, ‘it’s not the winning but the taking part that counts’, why does she look so smug? Gilbert takes up the cheer and they are so noisy that it is impossible for our team to argue that we are each owed another bat. Instead we concede defeat gracefully, well, quite gracefully – Hugh keeps insisting that my performance was sub-standard due to my pregnancy, and whilst he’s probably right I’m not sure it needs saying.
23
Libby and Sam bath the kids, and James proves to be as good a sport off the rounders pitch as on by offering to read a bedtime story. By the time he re-emerges Penny is just putting an enormous fish pie on the table.
‘I put six kids to bed, is that right?’
Everyone falls silent and does the maths. Kate, Tom, Millie plus Penny and Henry’s three, yup, six in total. Bloody hell, so many. They’re everywhere, and yet we still had fun, despite Millie cheating on the scores and Kate biting Josh. A lot of fun.
How odd.
Another oddity is that staying sober turns out to be OK, quite interesting in fact; it gives me the opportunity to people-watch. Everyone else is drinking copious amounts and as a consequence becoming increasingly odious, flirtatious, argumentative or charming. By the time the pregnancy is over I’ll have several months of embarrassing stories about my nearest and dearest. I could blackmail them for large sums of money and give up my day job.
Sam has obviously forgiven James for being held in high esteem by Gilbert and is making a huge effort to put him at ease amongst so many strangers. Not that he seems to require any particular care or attention. He’s one of those blokes who quickly makes himself at home and he obviously expects to be popular, which he is, so fair play to him. He entertains Sam, Hugh and me with stories about safaris in Africa. The stories excite Hugh so much that he starts to make plans for us to visit Namibia or Botswana.
Sam points out that I can’t take malaria tablets at the moment and that by the time I can take them again we’ll have a baby. ‘Africa is hardly the place to take babies.’
Her comment is accurate, but I can’t see Hugh at Butlins. Henry and Libby are chatting merrily about music. Most people have Henry down as a Mr All-work-and-no-play, and it’s true his clubbing and gigging days are behind him but, rather sweetly, he still buys NME and therefore does have a reasonable knowledge of what’s pop and what’s not. They are exchanging views on who was the main influence on the Aloof. Turns out that both of them prefer the radio edit of Groove Armada’s ‘At the River’ (as opposed to what, I don’t know, the non-radio edit?). I wish Henry wouldn’t monopolize Libby; the more I watch her the more I want to get to know her. All day her conversation has interested me. A unique mix of high(ish) brow topics and a healthy interest in the tawdry goings-on of the rich and famous as reported in OK and Hello! She seems good fun; I want to know more. Is she married? Who is Millie’s father? Where did she buy those jeans?
I notice that Gilbert is spending most of his evening talking to Penny, which is noble of him but can’t be much of a laugh.
‘Supper was marvellous, Penny,’ comments Gilbert.
‘Oh, it was nothing, very easy, anyone could have done it.’
‘Ahh, but you did,’ he smiles.
‘Really, it was nothing. In fact, I think it could have done with a hint of basil and perhaps a touch more salt.’
‘It was delicious.’
‘No, not at all. My friend Becca gave me the recipe.’ Penny glances in my direction. I affect to be fascinated by the candle wax melting down the sides of the wine bottles. I consider assuring her that I know how perfect Becca is. I’ve known since 1987, which is why my life has been one long struggle. But I stay silent and remind myself that Hugh is mine now.
‘Now, when she bakes fish pie it really is something to write home about. I thought mine was a bit bland.’
Gilbert sighs and gives up on the compliment. I don’t blame him. For God’s sake, why can’t Penny simply say thank you and leave it at that?
Penny’s next conversation non-starter is, ‘I know other people’s dreams are the most boring things on earth, but I had the strangest dream last night.’ She’s right, for once, other people’s dreams are the dullest things on earth, but she starts to relay hers anyway. The story, something about a train and a fish, is lacking in humour, exoticism and eroticism; it doesn’t even have an ending. Gilbert nods and smiles throughout, not betraying for a moment that he’s so bored that his blood has ceased circulatin
g to his brain. I can’t decide if I admire his politeness or find him wet.
At a quarter to ten Gilbert suggests a game of cards. I’ve fallen prey to his tedious competitiveness as far as bridge is concerned before, so I decline the offer, as does Libby. Sam, Gilbert, Hugh and James make up a four, Henry looks on and Penny starts to wash up, despite everyone’s entreaties to leave it until the morning (she really does know how to break up a party). So, finally, I get to chat to Libby.
‘Is it too smoky for you in here?’ she asks thoughtfully.
‘To be honest, I am beginning to feel a bit queasy,’ I admit.
‘Come on, let’s go and have a walk outside.’
I don’t mind giving up the open fire, even though it’s an outrageously cold night. I grab my coat, scarf and gloves and follow Libby up the garden path. The air bites at my skin and makes me doubt that spring will ever arrive.
‘It’s a shocker of a year weather-wise, isn’t it?’ I comment.
‘Yeah, but you don’t want a hot summer anyway, it will only make you feel more uncomfortable.’
I could kiss her. It’s not that I’ve suddenly developed lesbian tendencies, it’s just that that comment is the first I’ve heard from anyone that suggests they know how difficult pregnancy can be. I was beginning to think that there’s only ever been me, in the entire history of mankind (or, to be technically accurate, womankind) who has struggled with this pregnancy thing. Everyone else seems to imply that it’s as easy as a lady of the night, as natural as the waves coming in. Libby hasn’t said much about the pregnancy but, notably, she hasn’t said that I must be ‘excited’ or ‘delighted’. She hasn’t offered any advice on what to eat, nor has she asked me how much weight I’ve put on. I’m very, very grateful.
‘You work in advertising, right?’
‘Yeah, I’m a New Business Director at an agency called Q&A.’ I briefly tell her what I do. In my experience, people don’t much care or understand what other people do for a living – it’s just one of those questions we feel under some obligation to ask – but surprisingly Libby seems genuinely interested.