by Adele Parks
The bus journey was relatively successful. No one threw up or got lost and so the adults felt a sense of achievement. Neil had adopted a rather irritating faux joviality that didn’t convince anyone that he was truly enjoying himself. Nat knew what he was doing, she wasn’t a fool. She grudgingly admired his determination. He must really want her to see his point of view if he was prepared to give up a Saturday morning playing football and a Saturday afternoon watching football just to prove that he could be a good dad.
On the other hand, she hated him.
Seriously. How was this going to help? How could he think spending a day with these leaky children would make her change her mind? Any rational human being would surmise that a day playing clown, nurse, umpire, teacher, cleaner, disciplinarian and librarian was overkill and likely to unearth new reasons to object to motherhood. Neil would have been wiser to limit their visit to an hour, tops. What was he thinking? Did he imagine she had stage fright about being a mother and needed a dress rehearsal? Did he hope they’d charm her? It wasn’t as though she was oblivious to the allure that children could, no doubt, display. She’d felt her heart flutter when Sophia planted the smallest ‘phut’ of a kiss on her cheeks and breathily declared, ‘You’re beautiful, Auntie Nattie, like a princess.’ She was not made of stone. None of this was the point. Neil’s blatant strategy was naive and patronising. Nat sighed and admitted it was also understandable. No doubt she was a puzzle to Neil.
Hamleys was hell. Hell in reverse, actually; the higher you traveled, the hotter and more agonising the experience became. One of the cheery staff told Nat that Hamleys welcomed five million guests per year; Nat thought they were probably all here today. On entering, she was confronted with an overwhelming glut of soft toys. The remarkably diverse array of stuffed animals included everything from regular teddy bears to more exotic plushes, such as turtles and dolphins and enormous life-sized giraffes and elephants. The stuffed menagerie had spooky glass eyes that gave Nat the willies. She’d never been the sort of girl that boys gave soft toys to, not even ones they might have won at a fair.
‘Look at this, Nat!’ yelled Neil, who was pitching his tone somewhere between that of Father Christmas and Willy Wonka. ‘Isn’t it cute?’ he asked, waving a purple bear in the air.
‘No, it’s not cute, it’s weird.’
Unperturbed, Neil insisted, ‘Isn’t this adorable?’
‘No, because I’m not three years old.’
‘This is a must-have.’
‘It’s a duck in a hat with a rainbow splattered across its backside, how can that be described as a must-have?’ snapped Nat who was clearly alone in thinking that the cuddly toys looked menacing, Neil and the three kids spent an eternity oh-ing and ah-ing.
There were games on the first floor, the traditional type that Nat remembered from her own childhood, Monopoly and Cluedo etc., but she was disgruntled that many of the games had received a commercial makeover. Monopoly now came in a million versions: Spongebob Monopoly, Chelsea Monopoly, Tottenham Hotspur Monopoly, I Love Lucy Monolopy, an electronic one, a Spiderman version, even a Make Your Own Monopoly. Nat hated it. Why couldn’t things stay as they were? Why so much change and choice? And Cluedo was no better. In her day the only vaguely sexy character had been Miss Scarlet who, while depicted as a coiffured blonde lollipop head stuck on the end of a plastic blob, had still managed to ooze mystique and allure. Now, all the female characters (even Mrs White) were depicted with plunging necklines and scarlet lips, there was no mystery or innocence. Nat felt old.
The second floor was full of whirling, flashing, squeaking plastic stuff and small children who were crawling on the floor, on shelves, down stairs and swinging from light fittings. This must have been where Matt Groening got the inspiration for the fearless, intrepid Maggie in The Simpsons, as the place was full of dummy-sucking plucky types. The third floor was pink. Entirely so. Rosy, cherry, cerise, crimson, fluffy, feathery, sparkly, shiny and shimmering pink. The fourth floor was the boy equivalent and was full of monsters, gore, blood, guts, war, aliens, spears, swords, gun-wielding plastic figures and the odd train. There was something else on a fifth floor but Nat failed to notice exactly what as she scrabbled to install herself in the café. She forgave it for having yellow tables and purple and red seats and gulped down sweet, scalding tea and crammed large gobfuls of chocolate cake into her mouth. She was in shock. Neil tried to pretend the whole experience was something approaching fun but she was not convinced. Maybe for him a toy shop was interesting; he was a boy and he’d never grow up.
Just a few minutes’ walk from the hell that is Hamleys, there is Liberty’s, which was one of Nat’s favourite stores. It’s a serene haven of splendid adulthood. Liberty’s had an air of unadulterated sophistication and security which Nat wished could stretch to every part of her life, big or small. The polished wooden floors had been worn and bruised by endless generations of elegant, well-heeled women, all of whom would have ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over exquisite fabrics, funky furniture and sparkling jewellery. The store offered a wonderful and unique blend of appreciation of the past and a promise of a dazzling future. Nat wasn’t sure what it was about the rows of cosmetics, the charming tea room and the glossy handbags that made that promise exactly, but she was sure that she wanted to go there right now. She wanted to snoop around the amazing stationery and drift through the clouds of perfume, but she knew it was an impossible desire. While there wasn’t actually a sign pinned to the wooden doors that said ‘No Children’, it was somehow implicit in the very plasterwork of the sumptuous Tudor revival, Grade II listed building that suggested driving Giles’s buggy through the elegant merchandise was tantamount to a criminal offence.
Instead, when they finally left Hamleys (several pounds lighter and several bags heavier), they pushed their way through Carnaby Street. Soon exhausted by the feeling that they were salmon swimming upstream, they headed towards the quieter, smaller side streets, without a particular plan in mind (other than the one of avoiding being trampled to death). Nat couldn’t bring herself to look at Neil. His desperation was upsetting, but then her frustration was throbbing.
Giles had fallen asleep in his buggy which Natalie pushed. It was insufferably heavy because besides the weight of the baby and the bags, a sleepy Sophia who stood on the buggy board had collapsed across the hood of the stroller. Neil carried exhausted Angus on his shoulders. They needed to find somewhere to slump, even if that meant buying their second round of drinks and cakes in less than an hour. They collapsed into seats outside a coffee bar and spent a trust fund on lemonade and ginger tea. With the children dozing, Natalie thought she could risk talking to Neil.
‘Why are we here, Neil?’
Neil stared at Natalie. ‘That’s a silly question. We’re here because the kids wanted to come to Hamleys and then you wanted to get out of Hamleys and we all needed a sit-down and—’
‘No, Neil. You know what I mean. What did you hope to achieve by arranging this day trip?’
Neil could have said that his only motivation for arranging this trip was to give Ben and Fi some free time, Natalie herself had said how disappointed Fi was that they hadn’t managed a night out on Wednesday, but he decided not to hide.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Yes.’ Natalie sighed. It was scarily obvious.
Neil looked as though he was in pain. His breath was shallow and laboured and his smile was awkward and artificial. He wanted this so much. He mustn’t fuck up this negotiation. It wasn’t like trying to persuade your other half to visit your parents for Christmas or to head for the mountains rather than the beach for a holiday. This was vital. Imperative. Crucial. He glanced up and down the pretty street. The late summer sunlight was fading and the street looked blue. Sharp. The dozing children looked pink and rosy cosy by comparison, their sweet button noses and bud mouths peeking out from under sun hats; his chest hurt. ‘I don’t get it, Natalie. You’re so good at dealing with kids.’
‘I ha
ve quite a way with dealing with dust mites too but it doesn’t mean I want to nurture them,’ replied Nat steadily.
‘How can you make jokes?’
‘How can I do anything else?’ Natalie reached out and put her hand on top of Neil’s, she patted him. It didn’t create the effect she wanted; the gesture seemed like one that should pass between an aged aunt and petulant nephew. She wanted to connect but she couldn’t find the words he needed. Or rather, wouldn’t say the words he wanted to hear, not ever.
‘What shall we do when we are old?’ Neil asked with a sad sigh.
‘Lawn bowls probably,’ she offered. No response. ‘Look, we can travel the world, visit galleries, read all the books we don’t have time to read now.’ Natalie wanted to sound excited, she feared she sounded desperate.
‘I don’t like reading much.’
‘Well, I do.’ Neil shot her a cold look. She knew she sounded strident and harsh, fear did that to her voice. Natalie was frustrated. He was so unfair. He had no right to change his mind. They’d agreed. They’d discussed it. She took a deep breath and tried a deliberately softer approach. ‘Look, we can be good to our nieces and nephews and godchildren. We can offer them a bolt hole when they decide they loathe their parents. There are a million things we can do.’
‘I feel incomplete.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ she said firmly, without giving the idea a chance to germinate. ‘Conversation over.’
‘No, it’s not, Nat. You can’t decide that.’ Neil banged his hand down on the small, rickety table and the glasses and cups shuddered. Nat wasn’t sure whether the drama was to emphasise his resolve or as a vent for his frustration. Either way, it was distressing; this sort of tension between them was unprecedented. She threw a wary glance at the snoozing children but they hadn’t been disturbed by Neil’s sudden and unusual display of temper. She then threw an accusatory look at Neil, the type of look she’d often seen slide between parents when children were in the vicinity. A look that challenged something that one or the other had said or done, without having to turn up the volume. She’d always thought it was a low and depressing expression, so sanctimonious, and she immediately wished she hadn’t used it.
‘I see that it’s really inconvenient to you that I’ve changed my mind about this,’ muttered Neil. Nat didn’t like his choice of the word ‘inconvenient’, it somehow belittled her position, but she let it go without comment as she was all too aware that they were heading for a big row anyway; there was no sense in pouring fuel on the fire at this early stage. ‘It was daft of me to suggest you give up work. That’s not necessary at all,’ Neil pointed out. He was using a more conciliatory tone but Nat could tell it was strained. ‘We can get a nanny or the baby can go to nursery. There are loads near where we live.’
Nat played with the idea of saying she didn’t think it was right to have a baby only to allow someone else to bring it up, but this wasn’t really her point of view, just something she’d heard a friend of hers (who was a stay-at-home mum) spit out when she’d had a particularly trying day with her kids. It seemed dishonest to use the argument when she didn’t even believe it.
So instead she said, ‘Haven’t you been listening to our friends who are parents? Every single one of them started to panic about which nursery they could squeeze their kid into pretty much the moment after conception. There might be loads of nurseries in Chiswick but they are all full until about twenty thirty. Getting a nursery place is not straightforward and nannies are prohibitively expensive.’
‘Well, I could look after it, at least part-time,’ offered Neil.
‘You couldn’t give birth to it. That can’t be done on a part-time basis,’ snapped Nat.
Neil couldn’t believe his desire for a baby, a family, was going to be thwarted because Nat was worried about getting a spare roll around her midriff. No, that couldn’t be right, could it? She wasn’t at all superficial, was she? He’d never thought of her as such but then he’d never thought of her as unreasonable, until now. Did he know her as well as he thought? Just in case his greatest need, his most fearsome longing was hinged around something as trivial as Nat’s dress size, he chose to be reassuring.
‘You’d get your figure back in no time.’
Nat shook her head sadly but didn’t comment. She wondered whether she ought to take refuge in the usual excuses. Babies cramp your style, steal your sleep, your time and even your identity. They’re expensive. Your home becomes a mausoleum to all things plastic and ugly. For at least five years, you never again have the opportunity to finish a sentence, after which time you have little of interest to say anyhow. Going unaccompanied to the supermarket, or even the loo, becomes the ultimate in ‘Me time’. And the birth . . . Before Nat decided whether she wanted to articulate any of this, Neil chose to change tack.
‘OK, if you won’t tell me why you don’t want a baby, will you at least hear me out while I tell you the reasons I do?’
Nat gave a stilted nod, although truthfully she’d rather have stuck sharp pencils in her eyes.
Neil took a deep breath. He started resolutely upbeat. ‘We’ve got a good life, Nat. A beautiful home, wonderful family and fun friends, plus we’ve jobs that we love.’ He confidently counted off their blessings in a way that Nat knew was definitely going to culminate in a ‘but’. ‘We’re so lucky. But I want to share our good life. More than that, I need to share it to make sense of it. To . . . to . . . justify it. To . . . honour it.’ Neil blanched a fraction. No one, other than Nat, would ever have perceived his paling. But she understood; it was difficult to discuss honour in a busy London street in broad daylight. It demanded a special sort of courage. Or desperation. ‘If we had a family, we’d pass on all that good fortune and happiness. Without a baby I’m not sure if it makes that much sense to me.’ The upbeat tone had completely disappeared and a more earnest anguished one had replaced it.
‘Nat, I’ve sky-dived and bungee-jumped. I love waterskiing and riding really fast motorcycles. You know I love extreme sports – the scarier the better. And do you know why?’ No, Nat didn’t know why. Her husband’s thrill-seeking was complete anathema to her; she sought safety. It was complicated. While she found it sexy and exciting that he accomplished these daredevil antics with such style and gusto, a part of her was eternally terrified by his endeavours. ‘Because I want to feel alive while I am alive. I want it to matter. I want every damn moment to count. I want to matter. I want to count.’
Neil paused and picked up a Giles teething ring which had fallen on the ground. He appeared to be carefully scrutinising the chewed piece of plastic but Nat knew he was struggling to find the right words in order to continue. If she interrupted him now – cut him off – he’d lose his thread for ever and she’d be protected from the pain of hearing the full extent of his longing. But she could not do that. However sickening it was for her to listen to him ask for something she just couldn’t agree to, she owed him the audience.
‘You see, I think,’ he corrected himself, ‘I know that becoming a dad would blow all those other experiences out of the water. I realise now that the scary stuff I’ve done in the past, they were time-fillers, rehearsals for the real deal. Having a child would be the one thing that would show I counted. I’m certain that becoming a dad would be the most overwhelming experience I’ve ever had.’ Neil dragged his eyes away from the gaudy teething ring and stared at Nat. She wanted to look away because his gaze was torture but she was frozen and her body seemed incapable of following her brain’s instructions. ‘A baby is the future.’ Neil looked as though he wanted to swallow back the words. They were perhaps not accurate enough for what he wanted to say, not big enough or special enough. The words had become hackneyed and traumatised by a naff pop song but still he bravely pushed on. ‘Aren’t they? Children? And I’d be so proud to have a baby with you.’
His words scalded her ears and tore at her heart. Nat ached. Every fibre of her body revolted as pain bounced from her All Star trainers up to the
tips of her Aveda salon trimmed hair.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Neil asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And does any of that matter to you?’
‘Of course,’ replied Nat hastily. She realised there was a danger that Neil would interpret her stunned silence as indifference. What a bloody, bloody catastrophe. She had ferociously hoped her husband’s change of viewpoint was just a whim. That hope was now stone dead. It was clear Neil was resolute. Nat felt panic surge through her body; dread pounded through her veins and poisoned her bloodstream, horror tightened around her heart. This was not fair! She had been so careful in her choice. She’d been upfront about her position on children long before she married Neil. She’d never wanted to inflict her point of view on anyone who didn’t agree with it. She’d been so sure that Neil was her soul mate because of countless big and small, fun and grave reasons, but most importantly they’d agreed on this fundamental issue.
‘So then why, why, why don’t you want a baby? Can you at least explain that?’ asked Neil.
‘No, Neil. No, I can’t,’ replied Nat, distraught. She wished she could.
9
Summer disappeared and autumn took hold. The season’s bony, clasping fingers grabbed hold of fleshy green leaves and turned them darker and more brittle. The long, careless, boozy outdoor evenings vanished as Londoners scuttled off the streets and took up camp in front of their TVs. There was a distinct chill in the air and the constant threat of rain. Natalie felt the season reflected her mood.
She knew that she needed some space and perspective. Last night Neil had sung ‘Twinkle twinkle, little star’ in his sleep while she lay awake and worried about how the hell this stalemate was going to be resolved. For nearly a month now he’d mooned over every stroller and toddler in west London. Mothers had started to look nervous when they saw him walk into Starbucks; Natalie feared it might only be a matter of time before the police were involved. Last week he’d bought a small knitted monkey and sat it on the kitchen window sill. When Nat had asked what it was for, Neil had replied, ‘A gift.’