Can't Live Without

by Joanne Phillips

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ Well done, Lipsy – you handled that so well. ‘I’m having a baby. Rob’s baby. And we’re definitely going ahead with it so don’t even try to talk me out of it. OK? Don’t even try.’

  ***

  Don’t even try to talk me out of it, she said. As if I was going to march her down to the abortion clinic right there and then. Did she not realise who she was talking to? That the person sitting in front of her, although pretty old and wrinkly now by her standards, had once been in almost exactly the same situation and had felt exactly the same about it?

  I may have had a couple of years on her when I fell pregnant, but I had the very same conversation with my own mother – although maybe it was even worse for me because I also had to face my father at the same time. Their disappointment was the worst thing. I could see it washing over their faces like dirty water – our daughter, our unmarried daughter, our unmarried daughter who is going out with a feckless no-hoper, pregnant at nineteen. Career ruined. Prospects slashed. Future mapped out ahead of her like the plot line of a tacky soap.

  They were crushed, both of them. At first, my dad was angry, but it didn’t last long. He wasn’t really angry with me anyway, although I took as much responsibility for the accident as John Dean; actually I took all the responsibility because he refused to take any. When he started to mess me about, not long into the pregnancy, my parents begged me to leave him and move back home. Those were the really big rows, the ones we hadn’t had at the start because they were too shell-shocked, or too kind, to make me feel as bad about it as I maybe should have.

  What goes around comes around, hey?

  Now here I am, faced with an even younger pregnant daughter with even fewer prospects and even more obstacles to overcome. At least I’d already left home, and I had a modicum of an idea about how to look after myself and someone else. My boyfriend wasn’t old enough to be my father, although with hindsight he may have behaved more responsibly if he had been.

  I know Robert isn’t the problem here. The way Lipsy tells it he is being the perfect gentleman about it all, getting down on one knee to ask her to marry him (she laughed a bit too hysterically about this), looking around for a small starter home for the three of them, and putting in for a promotion at work. You have to give him credit for not running a mile – in my experience that is the norm.

  No. The problem here is my sincere belief that my daughter is simply too young, physically and emotionally, to cope with having a child of her own. I have to think clearly about this and not panic. I have to be calm and sensible so I can guide her through the minefield which lies ahead. I must not panic.

  Pregnant at sixteen.

  Oh my God. Her life is completely ruined!

  Her future’s mapped out now: by twenty she’ll have three children by three different fathers and be living as a single mother on the Lakes Estate, stealing formula milk from the local Co-op. And probably eking out a meagre living offering phone sex to middle-aged men in the evenings while the kids are in bed.

  No. I won’t let that happen.

  ‘But you’re too young to have a baby!’ I screeched in despair while Lipsy sat serenely taking it all in.

  She took my shaking fist in hers. ‘Evidently not, as I am actually having a baby and there really is nothing anybody can do about it.’ She tilted her face and I noticed that her cheekbones had lost some of their hollow, gothic look, and her skin was glowing. She looked radiant. How long was it since I had properly looked at my daughter, I wondered?

  ‘How pregnant are you, exactly?’

  Lipsy sat back in her chair and picked up her coffee, which was quite clearly stone cold. She shrugged.

  ‘How long,’ I said again, ‘have you been pregnant?’

  My daughter met my eye. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, don’t you think we’d better find out?’

  ‘I guess,’ she answered sulkily.

  ‘You’re going to have to deal with it a bit more grown-up than that, young lady,’ I snapped back at her.

  I cringe now to remember how much I’d sounded like my own mother. I should have handled it better – I was the one who needed to grow up. We all say we won’t turn into our mothers, but of course we do. It’s not that it’s in our genes, it’s just that we grow up hearing all that stuff, all those little sayings and tellings-off and clever come-backs. Then when we find ourselves in similar circumstances it’s all there in our brains, a vocabulary ready to go.

  If the day before someone had asked me how I would handle it if my daughter became pregnant, I would have told them that I would sit down with her and discuss it calmly and maturely. I would respect her feelings. I wouldn’t make any jibes or criticisms. I would be, of course, the perfect mother.

  ‘Did you bother to think about protection at all?’ I asked my daughter bluntly, not flinching when she cringed as though she’d like to disappear into her chair.

  ‘Well, did you?’

  Lipsy sank into herself even more. She looked so small, so frail. I was a pretty strapping teenager myself, although I still provoked this same protective response in my own parents.

  ‘I’ll take that as a “no” then, shall I?’ I said a little pompously. ‘And this Robert bloke? I don’t suppose you’ve told him yet, have you?’

  She became quite animated after I said this, not really defensive, merely practical, going through the options they’d discussed, filling me in on how “amazing” he was being about it. I resisted the urge to tell her so he should be. I resisted the urge to tell her I was actually quite proud of how she was handling it. But I didn’t manage to resist the urge to ask my daughter just what the hell she saw in this man in the first place. At least the master of my downfall had been devastatingly handsome.

  Lipsy stared at me like I was a crazy person. ‘But Rob’s gorgeous. Everybody thinks so.’

  Well, that told me. But I can’t help but wonder why she chose an older man when my daughter could have had any boy in her year at school – or anyone else’s year for that matter. Why him? I don’t even know how they met.

  And then it hits me. How can I have been so blind? I’ve bandied the phrase “father figure” about enough times, but the truth of it hadn’t hit me until now.

  How can I have missed such a classic and predictable basis for a relationship? My daughter had needed a father figure for most of her life and in Robert she’d clearly found one – a man with whom she can act out the perfect relationship, who can look after her and repair all the damage inflicted by her own lack of a father. It even explains the baby – she needs to feel needed, needs to have something that relies totally upon her. Maybe there is no question over the contraception issue, maybe this “accident” wasn’t so accidental after all.

  Coming to this ground-breaking conclusion does nothing to alter the facts, however. My daughter is still pregnant and she’s still only sixteen. The clock on my mobile phone tells me it’s half past two in the morning. Monday morning. I have to get up for work in a few hours. I have to face Paul after my drunken ramblings the other night, face my job and my life and this wreck of a house I call home, with this new fact inside me.

  I would rather crawl under the bed and stay there for a week, or maybe a year.

  There is one person I must talk to as soon as possible, not least because I promised Lipsy that I’d be the one to tell him. I want John Dean to know exactly what he’s done and what he’s responsible for, however indirectly. Can I help it if the thought of seeing him – despite the amount of sheer hatred I feel for the man – fills my body with a tiny (but very exciting) electrical charge?

  Chapter 15

  After work on Monday I visit my mother to let her know Lipsy’s news – another traumatic activity I stupidly agreed to take on. I also plan to tell her that I have in fact decided to go and see my father. I figure that one will take the sting out of the other. I’m half right. She doesn’t seem too angry about Lipsy, or disappointed even. The woman, I am amazed to see, bla
mes herself.

  ‘First you and now little Lipsy,’ she wails as I try to hustle her into her favourite seat and ply her with calming camomile tea. ‘And while she was under my own roof as well. It’s all my fault. I’ve let you all down.’

  Now, I blame my mother for a lot of things. It can’t have escaped your notice that relations are sometimes a bit strained between us. But I have never blamed my mother for my own mistakes, and I certainly won’t be blaming her for Lipsy’s. That’s why I prepare her camomile tea now with just a little bit more care than usual, and then I sit opposite her and take both her hands in mine. I squeeze them together, telling her with as much sincerity as I can, ‘Mum, it definitely isn’t in any way your fault.’ And then I tell her that I love her. Because, in lots of ways, I do.

  It turns out that she was worried that I would think she’d encouraged it. I laugh at this – she may be more lenient as a grandma than she was as a mother, but I know for a fact she couldn’t relax that much.

  We talk about Lipsy for a while, planning her future for her the way adults do when their kids aren’t around to speak up for what they want.

  ‘I’m going to ask Lipsy to move back home,’ I tell my mum. ‘Not because of anything you’ve done,’ I add as she starts wailing again. ‘You’ve been fantastic and we’re both really grateful. And, if you don’t mind, I could still do with using your washing machine facilities, just until I can afford one of my own.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a washing machine,’ my mother says between sniffs. ‘I’d love to help out with the house.’

  ‘I know you would, Mum. But you don’t have any money, do you? You’d put it on a credit card. And then what would happen?’ I really don’t want to be having this conversation again but why won’t the woman just give it up with the buying things all the time? What is wrong with her? It’s like she only gets her self-worth from spending money, from having “stuff”.

  Lipsy’s words from yesterday come back to me, almost obliterated by everything else that came after. What had she said exactly? It’s just stuff, Mum. There are more important things in life than that. Something along those lines. The words niggle at me but I’m not sure why. My mother could do with hearing them, though. If she wasn’t feeling so vulnerable right now I might tell her.

  The front door opens and slams, and my mother stiffens. ‘It’s Alistair,’ she hisses.

  Well, duh. Unless she’s given a key to someone else.

  He comes into the kitchen, calling, ‘Hi Mags,’ and then follows it with, ‘Oh, Stella. You’re here.’ Charming.

  ‘Actually, Alistair,’ she says, ‘we’re in the middle of something right now. If you don’t mind?’

  I’m in shock – this is the first time I’ve seen my mother be anything other than simpering around her lodger. Alistair looks shocked too, and I watch with delight as he hovers by the doorway, clearly unwilling to be dismissed like that, especially in front of me.

  I can’t resist a little dig of my own. ‘Run along now, there’s a good boy. I’m sure you’ve got some games to play or something.’

  He gives me a look that promises retribution and I laugh at him openly.

  When he’s gone I turn to my mother. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘He’s been making a bit of a nuisance of himself, I’m afraid.’ She starts twirling her hair furiously. I know I should back off now but I’m hooked.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t paid his rent again. That’s two months now. I know it can’t go on like this, Stella. I can’t have a lodger who doesn’t pay any rent. So anyway, I tackled him about it a few nights ago.’

  ‘Well done, Mum. I’m proud of you.’ Atta girl.

  ‘Mmm. It didn’t go as well as I’d have liked.’

  ‘In what way?’

  My mother shifts uncomfortably in her favourite – comfy – chair. ‘He, erm, he said he would pay me in kind.’

  I stare at her blankly. ‘Pay you in what?’

  ‘In kind.’

  In kind, I repeat internally. And then I realise what that means. ‘Urghh! That’s disgusting. I hope you told him where to go?’

  ‘I most certainly did,’ she says indignantly.

  ‘Thank God for that.’ I look closely at my mother’s face. Just a little bit too uncomfortable. ‘This isn’t the first time it’s happened, is it?’

  ‘Actually, now you come to mention it, no, it’s not.’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’

  ‘But I told him where to go then as well. I thought he was joking. I’m so much older than he is. I told him, I said, “You’ve got to be joking.” But he said he wasn’t and then the other night he said it again.’

  ‘You weren’t flattered, were you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she says, more than a little defensively. ‘A bit, perhaps. But not really. He was just trying to get out of paying the rent, wasn’t he? He doesn’t really fancy me. I don’t suppose anyone would anymore.’ She sighs, looking forlornly out of the window to the untamed wilderness beyond. I know that right now I’m supposed to bolster her ego and tell her that dad will still fancy her, but I just can’t bring myself to talk about him. Not yet.

  ‘You have to kick him out,’ I tell her firmly. ‘Right now. Tonight. Tell him to pack his bags and do one.’

  ‘But I need the money, Stella. I can’t manage on my own.’

  Don’t I bloody well know it. ‘But you’re not getting any money from him, Mum. That’s the point. You might as well look for another lodger, give his room to someone who will actually pay you. And won’t proposition you instead.’

  She smiles wryly at this. ‘I know, I know. You’re right. I need to curb my spending and stand on my own two feet, don’t I?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say, the one feeling uncomfortable now. ‘You do really. I wish I could help you out but I can’t even afford to run my own life at the moment. I’ve got two jobs as it is, and I’m still struggling to do up the house. And now there’s a baby on the way things are only going to get harder. Still, when…’ I stop suddenly. I was about to say, ‘When dad comes out,’ but the words catch in my throat.

  My mother pats my hand. ‘I know, I know.’ Her attention wanders to the overgrown garden again and she purses her lips. ‘I don’t suppose you know anyone who might be up for a bit of gardening do you?’

  ***

  Thursday 12th July

  I can’t believe it’s been four whole days since I last wrote in my diary. Sorry, diary, I’ll make up for it now.

  After telling my mother about the baby on Sunday things started to get a bit weird. First of all there was her reaction. I expected her to go ballistic – totally mental, like ground me for a century and send me away to a remedial school or something. But she was kind of cool about it. She made a few comments, about Rob mostly, and about me being too young. But she took it well, so well it completely freaked me out. When she asked me on Monday to move back into the house of horrors with her I just kind of said yes. Just like that. I think she was as shocked as I was.

  I’m glad to be out of Gran’s, though. She was weird about it, too. Crying a lot and asking me strange questions like, Where was the baby conceived? I mean – what does that matter, for God’s sake?

  So here I am, back in Crownhill, in my old room which still smells of mildew and looks like the set of a horror film. Mum’s got me a new bed and we went out together to choose paint for the walls. We’re going to paint it together, she says. She says it will be fun. I think she thinks it will be “bonding”. At least, that’s what Rosie thinks. Her mum made her take her belly ring out as soon as she’d had it done and grounded her for a month. My mum laughed when she saw mine. ‘Make the most of having a nice flat belly while you can,’ she said. I took it out that night.

  The absolutely weirdest thing, though, is that my dad – my actual dad – is round at the house most nights now doing odd jobs and bringing fish and chips and bottles of wine and diet coke for me. It’s just freaky. Like, are they
doing this for my benefit or what?

  If they are I wish they wouldn’t. Mum acts weird around him, sort of giggly and girly one minute and pissed off the next.

  God! I’ve just had the weirdest thought. You don’t think they’ll get back together, do you? My mum and my dad? That would just be too weird.

  She doesn’t need to have him do everything for her anyway. I’ve told her –Rob is more than willing to help us do up the house. He really, really wants to make a good impression, he’s so lovely like that. And he’s good at DIY – OK, he’s not a tiler like my dad, or a plumber or anything, but he can fix stuff and make shelves and cupboards and things. He says he’s going to make a crib for the baby. Mum said she’d buy us one from John Lewis but I said no. I want our baby to have Rob’s crib not some posh shop-bought one. She looked at me like I was from another planet when I said this. I don’t know where she gets the idea that I want loads of things buying for me – I may have been like that at one time but I was a kid then. I’m an adult now. I’m having a baby of my own.

  Yesterday I saw the doctor. She was nice, didn’t make me feel stupid or ignorant. She asked for dates and stuff and then told me I was six weeks’ pregnant and that the baby is due at the end of February. Rob cried when I told him. He said he couldn’t believe it, an actual baby in seven and a half months’ time. Then he had to go back to work so I went to look around Mothercare. Kids’ stuff is really expensive. Maybe I should get a job – will anyone employ you if you’re pregnant?

  Trouble is, I totally have no idea what I could do. I am absolutely not working in McDonald’s. Rosie’s going to work at her dad’s office for the summer, lucky cow. Maybe I could work for Paul at Smart Homes. With my mum. Maybe not. I suppose the only option for me is to get a job in a café like her, but I think I’ll just hang on a bit longer and see what turns up. I’m not that desperate yet.

  ***

  As I pull out of the services (second toilet stop – anyone would think I was nervous), and back into the flow of traffic, the sun beams at me kindly, all golden light and happiness. On a sultry summer’s day like this, the last place you want to be is on one of the busiest stretches of motorway in the UK.