I stare at him. People do not knock on doors and introduce themselves around here. I glance over his shoulder down the deserted hallway and begin to close the door, but I don’t quite shut it.
‘And also ask if I can borrow a bit of milk? I tried the other neighbours, but, ah …’ He raises wide hands palm out. He must be over six foot, broad-shouldered but skinny, with round geeky glasses.
Does he think I’m going to invite him in or something? I give him my best stare.
‘I’m Robin,’ he says, and holds out his hand like he’s planning to shake mine, eyes up the size of the gap I’m peering through, then wipes his hand on his trousers instead.
I think about slamming the door or telling him to get lost, but I suddenly realise he must be the flower owner and, for some stupid reason, it makes me hesitate.
‘Hedda,’ I say back, then make my face frosty, so he doesn’t come out with some comment about what an ‘unusual’ name I have, when really we’d both be thinking the word is more like ‘stupid’.
To his credit, he doesn’t blink.
‘I just need a cup of tea. Can’t drink it black,’ he says, and there’s an edge in his voice you only get when you’re on your own and desperate for someone to talk to. He doesn’t look like the usual type you get round here.
‘Have you got a cup?’ I say.
‘Ummm,’ he says.
We look at each other.
‘I’ll go and get one,’ he says.
I shut the door and put the chain on, then go to the fridge, and a moment later he’s back. I peer at him through the gap in the door and realise two things. First, he’s much younger than I thought – at a guess I’d put him at nineteen maybe. Second, I don’t think his cup is going to fit through the gap. He sees me looking and follows my train of thought.
‘I’m totally nice, I promise,’ he says.
‘That’s what they all say.’
Yep, all of the approximately three men I’ve had conversations with recently, including the bald bloke in the corner shop who calls me ‘love’ and looks at my (until recently) non-existent boobs.
Robin sets the cup down and backs up until he’s a few paces away.
‘You could sort of slosh it in?’ he says.
‘OK.’ I take the chain off the door and crouch to pour milk into his cup.
I realise he’s staring at the pen lines I measured out on the bottle. I don’t actually know how much he needs, so I pour about half a pint in, in the end. When I straighten up, two things happen: I wince as my back twangs from where I fell backwards from the window, and then I have to hold on to the door frame because I came up stupidly fast and the dots are doing their funky chicken across my vision.
I tip my head forward and wait, and when everything clears and I look up, he’s taken a couple of paces towards me and is hovering with an expression that suggests he’s getting ready to make a grab for me if I go down. Which is sort of sweet. As long as he’s not a psycho or something.
‘There you go,’ I say and, though my voice is firm, I can’t find it in me to keep the hard edge to it.
‘Thanks,’ he says. I wait for him to say something else, check if I’m OK or prolong the conversation, but he only adds, ‘I’ll pay you back.’
I’m about to say ‘no need’, when I realise he’s disappearing back into his flat.
I have a strong urge to call out, ‘Wait!’ I want to ask him about the flowers. I want to grab hold of him and say, ‘How old are you? Are you on your own? Why are you on your own? Are you lonely? Did you notice I’m pregnant? Do I look thin to you? How thin, exactly? Because, you know, I don’t usually look like this …’
But I don’t. I might have spent my formative years in the care of the NHS’s finest psychiatric institutions, but I’m not a total loony yet.
At least, I don’t think I am. How the hell would I know anyway?
Perhaps I could knock on his door, but I already know I can’t. I sit back down and push the last chunk of chicken and slimy green broccoli on to my fork and force it down, sloshing a load of water after, like a chaser. Then I dump the plate in the sink and spend an age washing it up, drying and putting it away. It helps to shut out the Nia voice, which would normally be telling me things like Fat, gross, greedy pig. It’s only partly successful. I can feel her there, brushing the back of my neck, our truce the most fragile of bubbles. Breakable.
Baby, I counter, and the little thing inside me gives a half-hearted jerk, then a larger one, like it’s turning a slow somersault inside.
I’m twenty-four weeks pregnant today.
I guess it’s time I told the parents.
Crap Things about the Unit, Number Five:
Family Therapy
I don’t even know how to start with the crappiness of this one. We had years of it, on and off. My parents tried to start with, and maybe even I did too, but by the time I’d hit my last admission it had all settled into a familiar pattern: Mum and Dad sitting there like two mannequins, so tired, so sick of trying to work out what was wrong with me. And Tammy, my thirteen-year-old sister, dragged along to the last few sessions under protest, furiously silent, her eyes too old for her body, just like her brain was – is. Me wishing I could disappear, preferably for good. Because I never knew what was wrong with me, not really.
And the Silence.
The Silence.
Silence.
But I guess I had something to do with that. Silence is the best weapon, I always say.
Chapter 8
15 WEEKS TO GO
‘Hedda! This is a … surprise. Come in.’ Mum opens the door wider and steps back to let me through, then casts a glance up over her shoulder, towards the stairs.
I’ve deliberately picked a time when Tammy is in school and Dad should be at work, but perhaps someone is home ill, or there’s a teacher-training day or something.
‘Just you home, is it?’ I say, and I see Mum stiffen, try not to wince. I think I dumb down my accent to annoy her. It’s childish, yeah. Sue me. It’s also kind of funny. Plus, I need anything I can to put me on the front foot here, because it’s not going to be pretty when I give her the news.
‘Oh yes, Tamara won’t be home until late. She has orchestra. She’s doing a cello solo. Bach.’ Mum’s cheeks take on an extra pink flush of pride underneath the layers of organic day cream, foundation and blusher. ‘So you probably won’t be able to see her today,’ she adds, and there is a tiny hardening around her eyes (blue eyeshadow and eyeliner – not the best combo for her skin, truth be told).
‘That’s OK, it’s you I wanted to talk to,’ I say.
‘Oh?’ Mum’s tone of polite interest also holds a little flutter of fear.
There’s such a big space between us. Was it always there? I try to remember what it was like when I was little, before Nia started, but I can’t, not really. Nia makes everything blurry. Maybe that’s the point.
I follow Mum into the dining room, which has a different carpet, I see. It has that new carpet smell and hoover lines all over it. Mum owns a battalion of Hoovers: upright for main rooms, little Henry or Henrietta or whatever for the stairs, and a dustbusting handheld thingy for whipping away crumbs after meals.
I sit down at the table and run my fingers over the familiar wooden surface. It’s the one thing in the house that never gets upgraded. When I look at it, I see the place where we’d have birthday teas and cake, friends from school gathered round to sing Happy Birthday, back before Nia. But overlaying those memories, like the slides you get in a microscope, are the years of sitting here for hours, mashing food down, while Mum sat with her arms folded, telling me I couldn’t get up until I’d finished. And the times that followed, when I realised I could get up without finishing, so I just did. That last morning, before I fell down the stairs at college, when I never even bothered to sit opposite Tammy, in her usual place behind the cornflakes box, and pretend to eat. I remember how I told Mum I’d grab something at college, and the way she nodded and sank
into one of the chairs; how she hadn’t done her make-up that morning, like she was too tired to bother. Me walking out, smug and triumphant because I’d got away with missing breakfast again. It’s all here, at this table, and I can’t work out if the heaviness in my chest is homesickness or just memories reaching back towards me.
Mum is bustling about making coffee. She hands a cup to me, black, and I’m sort of touched, until I remember I probably shouldn’t be drinking caffeine.
‘So … how are you?’ she says, and I can see she’s bracing herself.
She darts a glance over me, trying to work out how much I weigh. I can’t tell from her expression what the conclusion is, apart from that she doesn’t look more worried than normal – and that worries me in turn. How big do I look through her eyes?
I lean back, my head resting on the top of one of the stupid high-backed dining-room chairs. They look like they should be in a sixty-foot banqueting hall or something, not a five-bed semi in Illester.
‘Ah, good, thanks. I’m good. I’m pregnant, actually.’
Well, that’s one way to do it. I didn’t mean to blurt it out, but suddenly I realised I couldn’t do the small-talk thing. Mum’s expression is almost funny, like her brain is going way too fast, then spinning around on itself and finally stopping altogether.
‘What?’ she says eventually, and I know I’ve really shocked her this time because she always insists on ‘pardon’, like the wannabe middle-class person she is.
Come off it, Hedda.
I straighten my face. This isn’t funny.
‘I’m twenty-five weeks pregnant,’ I say, making sure my voice is low and slower than usual.
A great flush suffuses Mum’s face, reaching past her pencilled eyebrows and all the way into her highlights.
‘You. Are. Joking.’ Each word takes her a long time to get out.
‘Nuh-uh,’ I say. Then I spread my arms out, cock my head to one side and say, ‘Surprise, Grandma!’
Mum’s face goes redder still, and even I know I’ve gone too far this time.
Eventually, she pushes a hand against each cheek and says, ‘I suppose it’s too late to … ?’
‘Yes, it’s too late, and anyway, I don’t want to,’ I say, tipping my chin up.
Mum looks to the ceiling for a moment, then speaks, her voice bitter. ‘Want. Yes, that’s an appropriate word, coming from you. What you want. It is always what you want, or don’t want, isn’t it? I don’t suppose there’s a father involved at all?’
‘One-night stand.’ I give a defiant shrug. ‘No idea what his name was.’ I squeeze my hands together under the table as I speak, pushing fingertips down hard in the spaces between the tendons, straining to hang on to my ‘I don’t give a crap’ face, until Mum closes her eyes.
‘This … this is … I knew you were selfish before, but even I never thought …’ She puts her head into her hands and I wonder whether she’s crying.
I reach one hand towards her and let it fall on to the table. ‘Come on, Mum,’ I say, but then don’t know what else to add.
She snaps her head back up. ‘Do you have any idea – any idea at all – what you’ve done? How on earth do you think you can look after a baby? Just look at you!’ She circles my wrist with her fingers, then lets it drop.
I make my face a mask.
Mum’s eyes narrow. ‘You could damage it, you know. What right do you have to do that to an innocent child?’
‘I won’t. I’m eating. The scans say it’s fine. I have a meal plan,’ I say, and I can hear my voice, high and defensive.
‘And what about afterwards? You’re going to raise a baby on your own in that grotty flat? You’re nothing but a child yourself!’
I think about saying the grotty flat wasn’t entirely my choice, seeing as she refused to have me home six months ago, owing to my Corrupting Influence on Tammy – sorry, Tamara – and all that. And that me being a ‘child’ never stopped her kicking me out. But I don’t want a fight.
‘I don’t know. I thought … I’d get it adopted,’ I say. She starts to say something but I cut over her. ‘I can eat for it … I am eating for it. It will be fine.’
This seems to enrage her so much, she’s lost the power of speech.
I sense that now may be the time to make my escape. I go to stand, but before I can, she jumps up herself and begins tearing through a cupboard. A moment later she slaps down a bar of chocolate on the table. I almost slam my chair back, like it’s a giant tarantula, but aware of Mum watching me, I keep still.
‘You’re eating, are you? For the baby,’ she says. ‘Well, fine. Show me.’
She rips open the wrapper, breaks off four squares and pushes them towards me. ‘Go ahead.’
We both stare. The squares seem to morph into something huge and ugly, taking up way more of the tablecloth than they actually do. I break one off and hold it between finger and thumb. Its texture is smooth, impossible. I bring it to my mouth and look Mum right in the eyes as I push it between my lips.
I don’t let myself feel the way it begins to ooze in my mouth. It’s in my teeth, under my tongue. I swallow a few times, to get it down, suddenly smacked in the gut with memories of gorging on Christmas chocolate, my stomach bulging, food pushing up past my chest.
I’m breathing hard, heart pounding. Another square is in my hand, but I can’t do it. Nia won’t let me. She punches through the truce wall, her shrieks like the strongest of winds howling around my head. I drop the chocolate, but it’s already started to melt. How long was I holding it for, under Mum’s gaze? It’s coating my fingers, tacky and brown. I can’t get it off.
I run for the bathroom and sluice my hand over and over, then, without meaning to, retch, noisily. Chocolate-streaked spit splats into the sink. I stay in there for a while.
When I emerge, Mum is on the other side of the door. She looks so sad.
‘Hedda, please –’
‘Don’t,’ I say.
I go for the front door and Mum’s voice follows me out on to the street.
‘You can’t be selfish about this.’
I turn. ‘I know that! It’s not just my life any more, I get it. OK?’
Mum slumps against the door frame as I leave. ‘It was never just your life you were affecting.’
So that went well.
I’m trying to get angry, to tell myself it’s useless – of course she wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t be supportive. What did I expect? But I’m crying as I stumble back up the stairs to my flat. Not even silent tears. I fumble about with the keys but my eyes won’t stop streaming, and I keep swiping at them with the back of my hand and making stupid little yelping noises as I try and keep the sobs in. Then I drop the keys and swear and suddenly I’m so tired, more exhausted than I can ever remember feeling – although that can’t be true, surely? And the keys seem a million miles away, lying on the floor, the shiny heart keyring Molly gave me face down. There’s a big scratch in the back of it that’s going in and out of focus. The next thing, a large brown fist closes around them and I wipe my eyes again before looking up into Robin’s face.
His look is a little concerned, a lot wary. He reaches across me and pushes the keys into the lock, then opens my door for me.
‘Here you go. I suppose it’s pointless to ask if you’re all right?’ he says.
I have no idea why I start laughing, but I do. Well, sob-laughing, the nasty heaving kind. I have to put my hands against the wall, I’m shaking so much.
Robin looks more than wary now – he looks positively alarmed, casting glances up and down the corridor. Eventually, he turns back to me and says, ‘Come on.’
He pushes my door open a little more and steers me with a very light touch on the shoulder to the sofa, then pours a glass of water and hands it to me. ‘You’d better drink this.’
I take it, spill some on the way to my mouth and wipe my chin with my sleeve.
The laughing has stopped now, thank God, but in its place is a deep mortification.
‘Tissues?’ he asks.
‘Bathroom,’ I manage to get out.
He comes back with a bog roll and drops it into my lap.
I give my nose a good blow, then take a few deep breaths and wonder for about the millionth time how in the world I’ve got myself into this situation.
‘Right then,’ he says, as though we’ve just had a long conversation. ‘I’ll be off.’
I blink a couple of times and it isn’t until he’s almost out of my flat that I manage to say, ‘Hang on! I mean … do you want a cup of tea or something?’
‘No, thanks. You take it steady.’
‘Thank you,’ I call after him.
I replay the conversation with Mum several times over dinner (more chicken). I’m with her on most points really. It’s true – I am selfish. I don’t know whether the selfish part is Nia or me or if that’s even a distinction worth making. I feel the urge to cry welling up yet again, which is ridiculous. I don’t do crying, haven’t for ages. It’s a talent of mine, to switch everything off – at least, it usually is. Maybe all the tears are some sort of pregnancy-related weirdness.
After I’ve forced my dinner down, I feel little rhythmic twitches coming above my hip bone: hiccups. Perhaps the baby likes chicken. Someone has to, surely. Then I start to wonder if the flavour crosses into the amniotic fluid and if the baby literally can taste it, which sets off a whole train of thoughts centred on bits of chicken fat congealing inside me, sticking there and never quite coming out. I think about my stomach getting bigger and bigger, blowing up, the rest of me following suit, and it fills me with horror.
Suddenly, I want this baby gone. I want Nia back. I want a world of white. Safe, silent, clean.
But it’s too late now.
I take a while to calm down, but once I do, I give Mary the midwife a call.
‘I want to know more about adoption,’ I say.
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