by Lucy Hay
“Hi,” He said to me. He’d done his hair, he was wearing aftershave. Perhaps he’d even been looking forward to seeing me? I pushed another wave of guilt aside. He leant down next to Daisy. “Hey you, come to play at Daddy’s?” Daisy grinned and nodded, thumb in her mouth.
“All her stuff is in here – nappies, her cup, spare clothes.” I said, business-like, handing over a pink rucksack. Mike took it, his face a picture of utter bewilderment. Strike two.
“Are you not coming in?” He enquired.
“No, I don’t think so.” I replied.
“Shopping, or something…?” Mike said hopefully. “Maybe we can talk later.” We both knew what he meant: no talking would be involved, only sex. And afterwards everything would drag on, the way it always had. Now was the time to make the break. I took a deep breath.
“No.” I said. Strike three.
Mike looked as if I’d hit him in the face, but as ever, said little else. I gave Daisy a quick kiss, told Mike I’d be back for her in a few hours and was on my way again, down the street. I could feel Mike’s puzzled stare boring into the back of my head, but I did not turn around again. My heart thumped in my chest: had I done the right thing? I felt sure I had, yet there was sorrow there too. Why couldn’t Mike have done what he was supposed to and either walked away, or stepped up to the mark? Why had he left me dangling so long? Why had I let him? But there was something else there too now: relief. I felt free, for the first time.
As I turned the corner, my phone rang in my pocket. Wondering if it might be Mike, I took it out, yet it wasn’t his name on the LCD screen …
ME
… A burst of white noise brought me to my senses. Pain lanced itself through my head and body at the sudden onslaught and with it came another noise, this time a shrill ringing. Confused, I lurched to one side, grabbing hold of the old paper towel dispenser to steady myself. Heat seemed to envelop me and I realised I was holding my breath, but even when I tried to gulp in air, my chest felt restricted as if some great weight was sitting on it. What was wrong with me?
I attempted to stand up straight: in my hand, the positive pregnancy test. I felt panic and despair hit me, yet I wasn’t allowed the distraction of either, for the ringing was ongoing. I grabbed at my bag, but it spilled its contents across the grimy tiles. A book of poems; a pencil tin; some random leaflets, one emblazoned BABIES ARE PEOPLE TOO – and finally, my phone!
I noticed on the screen there were icons telling me I had text messages and voicemails; a ridiculous amount. The LCD flashed, multiple times: Sal was calling me, right now. What did she want? I thought of my younger sister and how she only ever contacted me when she wanted something. On any other day, I would have accommodated her and fetched whatever it was she needed from town, though there would be little thanks in it for me. But I couldn’t talk to her. Not today. I pressed the red button and cancelled the call.
But just as I’d cancelled Sal’s call, there was another, this time reading MUM. What did I do now? Part of me wanted to answer the phone and spill my guts to her, but another part of me warned me not to. Why? I wasn’t sure. And what was it Mum always said, anyway? Trust your gut instinct. It was kind of ironic I was following her advice in not talking to her, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I had other things to deal with; bigger things. I pressed the red button and cancelled the call.
Immediately, the phone started ringing again in my hand. I regarded it incredulously. To have two phone calls, one immediately after the other was strange, but not unheard of. Perhaps Mum and Sal were even in the same room, both trying to track me down for some reason. It was an old strategy of Mum’s when one of us went walkabout: perhaps Amanda was being instructed to call me, too… But it wasn’t Amanda. Instead, on the LCD, read MIKE. There was no way he was with my Mum and sisters; I could count the amount of times they had all met on one hand. I never liked to take him back to the house: Sal was always making snide remarks and Hannah hung around him like a puppy dog. Besides, Mike was always expected to sleep on the settee downstairs and even if he hadn’t been, I shared a room with Amanda. That’s why we always went to his.
My thumb hovered over the green button. I always thought the language used on phone handsets so utilitarian when it came to screening calls: “accept” or “reject”. I knew that with pressing the green button, certain things would be set in motion. I had accepted the situation was happening; I knew I had to tell someone and I knew I had other people who needed to be involved. But did that very first person have to be Mike? In the rings that followed – microseconds, really – I considered our relationship, how I saw him, how I thought he saw me and what I thought his reaction would be to the words, “I’m pregnant”. So I pressed the red button.
But the phone started ringing again. Agog, I regarded the LCD as Shona’s name flashed up. Now this was weird. What were the odds of my Mum, sister, Mike and Shona all calling me around the same time on any normal day, never mind the day I’d just taken a pregnancy test and found it to be positive? My mind whirled. Perhaps this was a sign I was meant to answer? But I’d never really believed in signs, fates or omens: as far as I was concerned, things happened or they didn’t. And how useful could Shona be, anyway? Like me, she had had unprotected sex before, but unlike me she had done so several times and got away with it. Irritation and jealousy coursed through me at the thought of her (imagined) reaction and I pressed the red button, cutting her off.
But then it rang again – Sal was back again. I cancelled her immediately this time. More ringing: Mum again. I cut her off again. Mike’s name flashed up again; I cut him off again. Then Shona again! This was ridiculous. The phone kept ringing, I kept cutting them off, but again and again…
SAL…
MUM…
MIKE…
SHONA…
… With a shriek of rage and without thinking, I hurled the phone away from me and across the room. It hit the dirty tiled wall and broke in two before falling into the water on the floor near the sinks and hand dryer. Cursing, I rescued the phone from the stagnant puddle. The LCD was waterlogged, the lights on the keypad were off. I hurriedly attempted to dry it on my jumper, then under the noisy hand dryer, believing I could resurrect it. I refitted the battery, pressed the on button – but nothing. Curiously, I felt relief. No one could reach me.
I didn’t have to talk to anyone.
I shovelled my belongings back into my bag, even the broken phone and the positive pregnancy tester. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the swing door back out into the marketplace and real life resumed once again all around me. The market was moderately busy, with people milling about in a non-urgent fashion, examining various artefacts and bits of tat on trestle tables before them. Mildewed second hand clothes on rails, dull copper and silver pots, homemade jewellery and jam. I marvelled at the calm faces around me: how could normal life be going on, whilst my world fell apart? Almost in tandem and for the first time that afternoon, I felt my thoughts clear and my fear lift.
So, I was pregnant. This was unexpected, but not an entirely unusual situation: there must be thousands of girls and woman who found themselves in my shoes every single day. I was not going to accept more than half the blame for the pregnancy though. Why should I? Whilst it was true I shouldn’t have drunk so much alcohol and I should have remembered the condoms in Mike’s wallet that fateful night, but the same should be said of Mike, too. We both should have talked about the possibility of pregnancy, instead of ignoring what we had done and hoping for the best. This was not just my mess, but his too. Whether he would accept that of course was another matter. Deep down, I guessed not. Far more committed couples than us had found their plans and hopes fallen by the wayside thanks to unexpected pregnancy and we had little to fall back on, not even love or respect. He was who he was; I was who I was. We were barely compatible in real terms.
I broke away from the small crowd in the marketplace and wandered into the high street. I was unsure how long I’d been in the toi
lets, but now it was mid afternoon: the shadow cast from Winby town hall had moved ominously across the small independent retailers, the odd chain store in-between them, their neon fascias wildly out of place, the clifftops behind them. So many windows were boarded up or smeared with whitewash; it was depressing. I had so been looking forward to getting out of this place: despite everything, it had been good to me in so many ways, but I felt ready for the change; I had outgrown my rural roots, I needed something more. Now I was being faced with an entirely different change, one I had never considered before. Did I want it? Could I handle it? What was “for the best”?
I wondered what Mum and Dad would say. They hadn’t been much older than I was now when they had me and just eighteen months later had come Amanda. Though my parents had an unusual and even dysfunctional relationship – who didn’t? – I could see what was between them: us girls; a sense of shared history; mutual trust. My mother never worried where my father was or what he was doing or thinking. Even when he had been gone for months, she was always confident of not only his return, but his fidelity. And return he did, never thinking my mother would turn him away again. This used to anger me as a younger teen: I had seen my mother as a doormat, accepting whatever my father threw at her. In recent years I had grown to appreciate the complicated nature of their relationship, instead. My father was a wandererer; he always had been and always would be. His sacrifice actually came in coming back to us, again and again; perhaps without us he would have wandered the entire world, instead of the few hundred miles around the county and back. My mother’s sacrifice was much harder and more involved: supporting us all, being there even when my father was not. But crucially, this was the path she had chosen. She hadn’t had to stay with my Dad; like so many of my school friends’ parents, she could have finished the relationship, become a true single Mum or even set up home with someone else. She had not. Instead our curious family had thrived and continued in a way many other more traditional families I had known had withered and died. If growing up had taught me anything, it was there was no “right” way when it came to family, relationships… or anything.
“Whatever works.” My Mum would say.
I’d heard her say that phrase so many times over the years: usually it was in relation to bringing up children, since Mum’s friends often came seeking her Yoda-style advice. Endless questions: “What do I do when he won’t go to bed at night?”; “What do I do when she won’t eat?”; “What do I do when they backchat me?” Yet the answer was always the same: “Whatever works”. I had seen frustration and a lack of understanding in Mum’s friends’ eyes and at the time; I’d even privately thought Mum was copping out of getting involved. But I knew now what she meant: try to do things the “right” way… and you’re destined for failure, for there is none. “Whatever works” did not mean copping out, going for the easy way or withdrawing altogether either; sometimes it’s easiest to go with the flow and listen to other people’s version of the “right” thing! Instead, considering what works – for you, for those around you, for the situation in hand, not some “idea” of it - is the hardest thing of all.
Whatever Mum and Dad said or felt about the situation, I felt confident I could count on their moral support. I was lucky. I’d read lots of stories detailing the unfortunate exploits of pregnant teens and single Mums, shown the door by their families. That would not happen to me. My parents might have no money, but they stood by their family no matter what. To throw me out just for being pregnant would make a nonsense of their belief system; it just didn’t make sense. There would be disappointment and worry, though. I had had big plans: I was going to university in a matter of weeks; I’d wanted to have a career, move away, become independent. If I kept the baby, could I still have the future I’d planned for? If I chose not to have the baby, could I accept that and move on?
As I turned a street corner, with a pang of guilt I realised I was just two streets away from Mike’s. In a matter of seconds, I could go and tell him my news, right now. He was the child’s father. Yet knowing Mike as I did, I knew he would not welcome the situation and part of me feared his reaction, not only because I felt sure it would be unpleasant, either. Could he unwittingly influence me? Perhaps if he were to say he didn’t want the child, I would say I did – and I would live to regret my defiance. Alternatively, if Mike was to go against my expectations and support me in my choice or even welcome the news (as unlikely as that would surely be), would that mean he and I would unwisely soldier on with our relationship? I knew, deep down, as soon as I had seen the line and dot on the positive tester stick, there was one decision made for me, right there: Mike and I were over. He and I had coasted along for too many months, treating sex like a game without consequences. Well there were consequences. The game was over. I felt a sense of sorrow at this realisation: there must be other teenage couples who could have shared the burden of this difficult decision together? I grieved that Mike and I could not do the same, but the way things stood between us dictated I make the decision without his involvement. So I made a promise to Mike in my head: he deserved to know the outcome of my decision when I had made it. I would tell him and stand by that.
From the labyrinthine streets I stared up at the clifftops, the extravagant redbrick estate on top where Shona lived. Though I couldn’t see her actual house, I fancied she could see me too, ant-like, below. That was the way it had always been between us: Shona was the savvy one; the spoilt one; the one with all the answers, no matter how facile. Just a few short months ago I would have run to her straight away, seeking advice but really wanting her to tell me what to do. And she would have been glad to give it; perhaps she still would? Maybe she would even surprise me with her maturity and insight, like she had when she was just eleven on that very first sleepover. Yet still, I knew I could not go to her now. There had been too many moments when I had deferred to Shona or let myself be swept along by her whims. Over the years, we’d spent too many hours standing outside classrooms and the headmaster’s office and once, a whole night in a police cell when an underage Shona outside a pub had lightly pushed a policeman with nothing else better to do than lock young girls up who were cheeking him. But worse had been all the instances when I had known what Shona was doing was wrong, even if she hadn’t, but gone along with what she wanted, anyway. So this was my decision to make; no one else could stand in for me and make it instead – not even my oldest friend.
I found myself at the seafront in the blink of an eye, as if teleported there. I leant on the railings. My sisters and I had spent so many afternoons on the beach here. Now, I could see a lone runner race, single-mindedly, across the shale. I recognised her from college; she was in the year below me. Hers was the kind of sporty physique, all angular and lithe, her auburn hair tied up in a careless knot on top of her head. Unaware of me watching her, the girl made it to the steps, clearing them with a hop, skip and jump before jumping over the sea wall, past the still-boarded-up Grange and up the cliff path, to the smaller terraced houses of Winby, past the marketplace.
Back below on the beach, a boy and a girl of similar ages – twins perhaps – were searching the shoreline with a bucket. They were pulling various things from the tangled knots of seaweed the tide had left behind, the water far off in the distance. Shells, bits of rock smoothed by the waves, even a glass fishing buoy. I recalled doing the same with my sisters and wondered when we stopped; I couldn’t remember. Their mother sat on the shale reading a book, her jeans rolled up, her feet dangling in a rock pool – yet wearing a woolly cardigan on top, a strange contrast. Despite it being high season, the donkeys were not tethered to the railings; their keeper must have taken them home early, there were hardly any tourists were about. As if to confirm my thought, the ice cream stall on the beach steps was deserted, its shutters down with CLOSED in bright red letters. Over by the tangle of seaweed, an argument broke out between the boy and girl over something; their mother looked up briefly, but didn’t intervene.
“I hate
you!” The little girl said.
I saw the pain in the little boy’s eyes, the trembling of his lip. I wondered if the little girl knew what she had said or the effect it could have. I remembered all the moments Sal had said the same to me; how much I had stewed and hated her back, yet never said it. Maybe I should have? Perhaps it was just a phrase to Sal and the little girl in front of me now: they didn’t mean it?
“I hate you, too!” The little boy screeched.
“That’s enough!” An adult voice cut through the air, silencing them immediately. Their Mum sighed; her gaze settled on me and caught me looking. She smiled self-consciously. “Kids, hey?” She said.
Embarrassed, I averted my eyes and moved on from the railings, towards the closed mini golf centre, The Foc’s’le, The Penguin Fish Bar and Flossie’s, that sold beach paraphernalia. I meandered past the flashing lights of the open-fronted arcades. Inside, teenagers and the odd tourist were slotting money into penny falls machines and various video games. A grinning boy of about seventeen managed to hook a teddy bear with a crane from another machine for his pale, much-younger girlfriend, then swore copiously as it dropped back down, just inches from the chute. “Rip off!” He yelled, smacking the glass with an open palm. An alarm went off. Within seconds a security guard appeared from nowhere, escorting the still-arguing teen and the pale girlfriend from the premises.