by Tim Lott
Suddenly shaky, he drops his wallet on the floor. The credit cards scatter and mix with cash, notes and coins. He notices, as he picks up the notes, that the floor is in fact grimy, not as clean as he had previously believed. There is a dirty wad of chewing gum stuck under the desk. One of the coins rolls over to Veronica and she picks it up and holds it out to him without looking at him. As he rises and takes it from her, the coin feels icy in his hand.
Can I help, Mr Blue . . . ?
The receptionist rises but Frankie gestures her back to her desk.
Beer and food and clothes and furniture. Products and services.
He gathers up his wallet and the contents, neatly restores the credit cards and cash.
The receptionist has picked up the bill again. Her pen, presumably poising to inscribe the word ‘Paid’, hovers above the expensive yellow paper. Her expression, welcoming, granting permission, demanding completion, is unchanged.
He gives a slight shake of the head to the receptionist, turns and holds out his hand to Veronica. She takes it, puzzled. He pulls her to her feet.
What are you doing? says Veronica.
We can’t afford it.
You’re worrying about money? At a time like this?
Sir? says the receptionist, confused, sensing some obscure failure on her part.
I mean you and me. We can’t afford to do this. The price is too high.
Is it high?
We’ll never stop paying it. Will we?
But . . . what about your new agency? What about FLB Estates?
We’ll work something out. Somehow. We have to. If I can get it set up and running before the baby comes . . . I mean the first six months of a business is the hardest . . . after that I will have some time to help at home . . . if you can let me off the leash until then.
For the first time since she has been in that waiting room, Veronica smiles.
She kisses her husband, full on the lips. Feels the weight of the golden key on her breastbone.
Sir? says the receptionist again, flushing slightly now.
But Frankie is lost in Veronica’s kiss and ignores her.
The receptionist gives up, crumples the paper with her hand.
* * *
Frankie is sweating even before Veronica walks into the overheated Mothercare flagship shop in Marble Arch. It is their first time shopping for the gewgaws and sanctified clutter – the word reliquary drifts obscurely into Frankie’s mind – that is insisted on both by custom and practicality. It feels a strange universe to both of them, a place in which they are aliens or zombies, bodies waiting to be snatched.
Frankie feels swindled, baffled, tricked, resentful, excited, confused. They are not here to actually buy much – it is still too early for that – but, as it were, to become acclimatized to a new way of being. Veronica wanted to come. Frankie doesn’t see the harm.
Veronica takes his hand, which is sweaty and slippery. Frankie’s eyes jerk to the source of a sound in front of them.
What the fuck is that? he says more loudly than he had intended.
A heavily pregnant woman, holding the hand of a sullen-looking boy who is perhaps five years old and violently kicking his own shoe, stares at him angrily.
Language, she mutters.
Sorry, mouths Veronica to the woman, who simply looks away at nothing in particular. She glares at Frankie.
What the fuck is it, though? he says more quietly, taking into account now the other shoppers, many of them trailing children, most of them women.
In front of them is a large plastic representation of a tree, eight feet high, crowned with a corona of green artificial leaves. What is unusual about the tree – apart from the fact that it is in the middle of a shop and made of lurid plastic – is that it is singing, and it has a face, a grotesque mug from what might have been a German expressionist’s night horrors. As it sings, its whorls turn into great sagging wrinkles, surrounding the face, which appears to be wearing green eye shadow and purple lipstick. It is bordered by a brown plastic fence as if it were dangerous. The tree is smiling uncertainly and rolling its vast eyes as if trying to lure children to their doom, but conscience-stricken over the act. It has rouged cheeks.
It’s a fucking tranny tree, whispers Frankie. And it’s singing! What is it singing, Vronky? What? What?
They stop and listen and try and pick out the words of the tree-song.
‘Mothercare, Mothercare . . . happy children everywhere.’
Calm down, Frankie.
I urgently need to get away from this creature.
They have decided to look for a cot, although it is many months before the birth. The crib, at this point, is purely symbolic. They have come to the shop to try and bolt down the reality of the unfolding situation they find themselves in. For, ever since they left the abortion clinic together, a sense of unreality and distance has taken hold of Frankie.
Veronica, who already feels her body changing, can allow herself no such luxury. Reality is hardening, closing in with its implacable clamps. But she wants to help Frankie understand. Only she is not sure what it is she wants him to understand. Perhaps that things have changed utterly and forever. This is un-rescindable.
They walk silently past an array of dummies, baby carriers, Tommee Tippee mugs, electric breast milk extractors and Avent feeding bottles. Veronica stops frequently to examine the merchandise while Frankie pretends to take an interest for her sake. In the background, the tree can still be heard singing. Over and over and over again, unstoppable, grinding out the sticky melody, backed by an electronic glockenspiel.
They find the cot department – just past pushchairs and bibs. Frankie stops to examine a few pushchairs.
That one’s five hundred sovs! What a racket!
Veronica, who has barely spoken since they entered the store, looks at him with pale, watery eyes.
There’s hundreds of the bloody things, says Frankie, trying to take in the range on offer. How many kinds of pushchair can there be?
He kicks one of the wheels of a £400 model. Veronica stops and holds his hands, halts him in his tracks and seeks his gaze.
Can you imagine? she says. A child. Our child.
The price of these things, says Frankie, his eyes still darting. They’ve got to be fucking joking. Look, that one’s a grand. I could get a car for that.
Stop panicking, says Veronica.
Mothercare, Mothercare. Happy children everywhere, the tree sings.
There are other pregnant women in the shop. Dozens of them. Scores, teeming. Children’s screams and laughter penetrate the air-conditioned, muzak-dipped air.
Frankie finally accepts Veronica’s gaze.
I’m sorry, he says. I’m being weird, aren’t I?
It will be alright, Frankie. Calm down.
He turns and stares resentfully again at the tree in the middle distance.
I know it will, he says. Only . . .
Only? says Veronica.
I’m afraid, he thinks. But does not, in the end, say. And then he allows that moment where it might be said to pass.
They reach the cot department.
What about that one? he says, pointing to a hi-tech model constructed in what looks like some kind of black melamine.
That’s literally the first one you’ve seen.
What about this one, then? says Frankie, waving towards an adjacent model. He checks the tag. Decent price. Solid pine. Or possibly veneer. But convincing.
Veronica checks the side panel, to see how it unclips.
It’s fiddly. You could catch your finger in that.
Frankie points to the next one in the line of around twenty cots.
This is a good price.
Why don’t you have a proper look at it?
Frankie checks the side panel and picks up the mattress inside and drops it, then prods the surface with his finger, leaving a small indent.
Seems okay.
I don’t want a white painted one. It’s boring.
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Well, why did you . . . ?
He checks himself, the brittleness of his tone. He tries to soften his voice, but ends up only lowering it.
Which one do you want, then?
This is meant to be a shared experience.
It is. I’m here. You’re here. Therefore, it’s shared.
Have you thought about what else we’re going to need?
Of course.
What?
Frankie feels his Adam’s apple bob.
You know. A buggy. Dummies. Nappies.
You want our child to have a dummy?
Not if you don’t.
He pauses.
But they do shut them up sometimes.
Veronica rubs her swelling belly. She does this so often now she has become unconscious of it.
Are you really on board with this?
Of course I am. How can you say that? I had a get-out, didn’t I? I didn’t take it.
You do know what it’s going to involve, don’t you?
I have a general idea. It’s just that – this place weirds me out.
What are you looking forward to most about having a baby?
Frankie considers this for a moment.
Taking him to the zoo. My mum and dad never took me to the zoo.
Why do you think it’s going to be a him?
I don’t.
Do you want a boy, then?
It would be nice to have someone to take to the football.
Girls can like football.
Yeh.
Frankie pauses.
They usually don’t though. In my experience.
In your extensive experience of children.
Frankie checks his watch.
It’s going to be a lot of hard work. For both of us, says Veronica.
Well, yes. But I mean . . .
Frankie tries to drop it. He’s not ready for this conversation.
What?
It doesn’t matter.
What, Frankie? Say what you think.
Obviously I’m going to have things cut out for me at the office while I get the new agency up and running.
I’m going to have things cut out for me looking after the baby. And you said you’d get the worst of the slog out of the way before the baby actually arrives.
Of course. Yes. But we are going to need money. And I’ll be the only one making the money. Until you go back to work. I wish it wasn’t that way. But it is.
We have to be equal.
Equality is a relative concept.
What’s that meant to mean?
Are you going to make an equal amount of money? Are you going to have to put in an equal number of hours at the office?
Don’t do this, Frankie. Just support me. Please.
I’m just saying, aren’t I?
Frankie?
Yes, Veronica.
Veronica tries to hold the words back, but for reasons she doesn’t understand she blurts them out, even though it seems the worst possible moment.
What if I don’t want to go back to the pathology lab?
Frankie is now idly inspecting a bottle sterilizer.
What do you mean?
What if I don’t want to go back to work at the hospital after maternity leave?
The words finally sink in. Frankie turns, still holding the sterilizer, a totem against gathering devils.
Why would you even ask that?
I’m not saying that I will feel that way. I don’t know how I feel.
What are you saying?
You can’t understand.
Try me.
Having a child growing inside you. It starts to change the way you think.
Now Frankie slams the sterilizer back on the shelf.
You can’t drop that on me out of thin air!
I’m asking you to consider the possibility. That’s all.
Just considered it. Sounds mental.
I’m mental now, am I?
I mean, you know. Impractical. What would you do instead?
Apart from spending my days up to my neck in shit and baby food?
Yes. Apart from that.
Veronica pauses. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thinks.
I want to retrain. As a therapist.
Frankie clenches both fists, feels his face drain of blood.
You’re having a giraffe, aren’t you?
Am I?
Veronica. No. It’s not going to happen. Absolutely not. No chance.
Hark at you. The prime minister.
What?
You’re not all-powerful, Frankie. Stop issuing edicts.
Other shoppers now are beginning to stare at them. Frankie drops his voice and brings his face closer to Veronica’s.
Look. I didn’t mean to throw my weight around. I’m sorry. But I can’t see how it’s going to work. How are we going to survive financially?
I would start to make money again soon enough. I could train while I was being a mother. By the time the baby was in nursery, I would be pretty much ready to go back to work.
That’s, like, three years away. At least. We’ve got a mortgage. A brand-new, great big mortgage. And I’ve got to find the money to fund the new agency.
What if you can’t find the money?
I will.
What if you can’t?
Then I’ll go back to Ratchett and beg for my job back. Or join another agency.
You promise?
Yes. I promise.
It’ll only be for a while.
I said ‘I promise’, didn’t I?
* * *
After thirty more minutes of consideration, they choose a gunmetal grey crib with the decal of a small yellow duck on the side of it. They also choose a mattress, decorated with blank-eyed Miffys. It is the fourth most expensive crib in the store, but Frankie, sensing already that he has let Veronica down, feels unable to argue the case for something a little cheaper.
Frankie produces their joint bank card – they set up an account together as soon as they were married – and hands it to the glum, perspiring shop assistant.
Don’t you find listening to that bloody tree all day a little annoying? he says to the shop assistant. He’d drive me right up the wall.
She. It’s a female tree, says the assistant flatly. Jenny the Tree.
Jenny the Tree?
Frankie stares at the figure on the till display, and hesitates.
Don’t you want our baby to have the best? says Veronica.
Yes, says Frankie. Yes, I do.
The transaction is cleared.
For the mattress, there are no refunds or returns I’m afraid, says the assistant, mechanically.
You said it, thinks Frankie.
* * *
Frankie has six months to set up his new business before the baby arrives. If he can find the capital. And he has to. That or go crawling to Ratchett for his job back.
He waits furtively outside the FR&G office – or F&R as it is now – until he is sure it is otherwise empty and he can catch Victor Strudwick, the mortgage broker, on his own. When he is sure, he enters and sits down on the opposite side of Victor’s bog-standard office desk. Strudwick, as ever, is sucking on a roll-up made with liquorice paper.
Hello, Frankie.
Victor.
You look like you mean business.
Why would you think that?
You’ve obviously waited until the office is empty to talk to me. I’ve seen you hovering.
No pulling the wool over your eyes, is there?
Why don’t you just come straight to the point? Because I’ve got a fair amount to do before Ratchett comes back. He’s being such a shit at the moment. Even by his standards. You leaving has left a big hole, I can tell you.
You won’t get me contradicting you.
So what do you want, Frankie? How can I help?
Look, Victor. I’ll just come out and say it.
Go on then.
Is there any chance of getting a remortgage on the ne
w house?
Strudwick pulls his head slightly down into his shoulders, a gesture Frankie has seen before when Strudwick is feeling obdurate. He firmly stubs his stub out into the ashtray and hits the stick button on the swivel mechanism to dispose of it.
The new house? The one you just bought in North Ken?
I need fifty K at least.
For what?
Never mind that. Can you get it for me?
Victor leans back, stretches and sighs.
Frankie. When I got you the loan I stretched it to the limit, like you told me to. There’s no chance they’re going to give you any more. Not at the moment. Not right away. Give it a year, maybe the property’s gone up by ten per cent, who knows? Then you’re in with a chance. But not now. Not for a while, mate. Not even for you.
Can’t you make a few phone calls? You know who to speak to.
Frankie. I’ve always been fond of you. And if there was anything I could do to help I would. I would. But . . .
Can I talk honestly?
Isn’t that what we’re doing?
Victor, are you happy here?
Now he has Strudwick’s attention. He leans forward across the table and lowers his voice, even though there is no one else in the room.
You know how I feel about Ratchett, obviously.
Victor. I need the money to set up my own agency.
Yeh. We all sort of guessed that might be your plan.
And if you can get the loan top-up for me, you can come in. On a percentage. Honestly, I would make it worth your while. And I would enjoy wiping the smile off of Ratchett’s smug face. Wouldn’t you?
I knew you wouldn’t put up with Ratchett and the way he treats you. You’ve got too much pride. Old Gwynne knew that – that you had pride.
So. Can you help me?
Strudwick seems to deflate slightly. He exhales, then starts to roll another cigarette.
Look, Frankie. If you ever do set up on your own – well, I’ll tell you here and now, I would come with you. I’d support you all the way. But I’m not bullshitting you. There’s no way I can get a top-up on the loan, not at the moment. No way.
Come on, Victor.
Give me a year. That’s all. A year.
I don’t have a year.
Then – I’m sorry, Frankie. I truly am. But I can’t help.
Frankie sits silently for such a long time that Strudwick is worried that he’s too angry to speak. But when he does talk again it is calmly, and with purpose.