Forever Is Over

by Wade, Calvin

  I stuck my hand under the top table and pulled out a man sized nappy , with a massive safety pin in the front. I threw it across to Richie. I also took out a golfing umbrella and threw that across to Jemma.

  “Richie, you know how I promised I would not mention the bedwetting? I LIED!”

  There was a general good humoured murmuring. I let it die down and then continued,

  “OK, Richie will be pleased to know that’s the bedwetting done. Well, at twenty six, I hope it is! The next childhood thing I need to cover off is Richie’s early interest in women and one, in particular, a certain Rachel Cookson.

  Rachel wasn’t the greatest looking girl at Town Green, was she Richie? Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t ugly either, but at an age when certain bits of a girl’s body were capturing Richie’s attention for the very first time, Rachel Cookson had two major attributes! He was a shrewd boy! So much so, guess where he took Rachel on his first date?”

  Some heckler shouted out, ‘A Dairy Farm!’

  “No, not a dairy farm, but I like your thinking! Richie took her to Park Pool swimming baths. He wanted to see those boobs bobbing on the water like ‘weebles!’ There were a few flaws in his devious plan though, weren’t there, Richie?! Tell everyone the main one!”

  “She couldn’t swim!” Richie reluctantly admitted. The guests smiled or laughed. Jemma bowed her head and shook it in mock displeasure.

  “That’s right! Rachel could not swim! So, Rachel dragged her armbands and her brother, Barry on the date and Richie dragged me. Did the date go swimmingly, Richie?”

  “No!” was Richie’s curt response.

  “Tell everyone why!”

  “Jim and I got kicked out the baths before Rachel got there!”

  “And tell them all why that was!”

  “If I remember rightly, you were going to tell Rachel that I was a bedwetter, so I punched you!”

  “That’s right! We ended up fighting in the deep end during the disco swim, so some burly lifeguard chucked us out! So, seeing you missed out, I’ve brought something else for you….”

  Once again, I delved under the table, this time I dug out the skimpiest pair of adult Speedos I could find in the shops and a pair of armbands.

  “Jemma, Richie, if you want to have any dates at the swimming baths, you may need these. Richie, would you like to try these Speedos on, now?”

  “No!” Richie replied, “but it’d make my day if you put them on!”

  “Swiftly moving on! Richie and I got over the altercation at Park Pool, I had the reconstructive surgery on my nose and we gradually started getting on better. Not well, I might add, just better! Then, one day when we were in our late teens, something major happened in both our lives and completely changed how I saw my big brother. Richie, as I am sure you all know, was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Up until that point in our lives, I had always taken Richie for granted. He was just the slightly older brother, who I would try and wind up every day. Richie was a constant in my life though and once he became ill, all be it for a short period of time, I recognised for the first time really, how important he was to me. I stopped focusing on the negative side of his character like the vanity, the fact that he was a lot better looking than me and the fact that I always felt that Mum and Dad and our sisters, Helen and Caroline liked him more than they liked me. I stopped focusing on that and started to notice the good points like his bravery and his ability to be respectful towards women, which I only really learnt once I started dating Amy. Anyway, thankfully, after an operation, the cancer was removed and our family learnt an important lesson about the fragility of life and how much we loved our brother. These days, as adults, Richie and I are the best of friends. It probably helped that our wives are best friends too, so we have spent a lot of time as a foursome. Richie is a brilliant guy and I know Amy and I will miss Richie and Jemma enormously when they move to Nottingham. To ensure he fits in, I bought him a couple of things….”

  For the final time, I rummaged under the table, this time dragging out a Brian Clough mask and Robin Hood and Maid Marian outfits.

  “Put the mask on, Richie! You can save the Robin Hood and Maid Marian outfits for whenever it takes your fancy!”

  Richie did as instructed. Several mates and members of the family took the opportuntity to take a photo. I took a sip of water.

  “One final story. Richie deals in mortgages these days and most of his customers come into the branch but he also has to do the odd call to customers houses. Last year, he pulled up outside a smart, four bedroomed property in Lydiate and was greeted at the door by a very pleasant but ugly man who welcomed him and showed him through to the lounge. Above the fireplace, was a big, framed photo of someone in their robes, receiving their degree. Richie decided it would be good to make pleasant chit chat.

  ‘Is that your brother?’ Richie asked.

  ‘No’ replied the man, ‘ that’s my wife!’

  Then trying to make good out of a cringeful situation, Richie continued digging his hole,

  ‘Oh, it’s just that she looks like you!’

  Fantastic!

  Well, that’s it from me. I am really proud and delighted to be Best Man today for Richie and Jemma. It is an honour. I wish them a long and happy life together. Could everyone please be upstanding for one final time and raise your glasses to the bride and groom. ‘Jemma and Richie’!

  “JEMMA AND RICHIE!”

  I sat down to loud cheers! I took two minutes to take everything in and then set about getting absolutely battered! The wedding was on the Saturday, my hangover was so bad, by Monday morning, I still couldn’t open my eyes!

  Richie

  Like every man, I am a flawed human being. My biggest flaw in adult life, has been that my happiness has been dictated by the amount of sex I manage to have. Around the time of my wedding and honeymoon, I was happier than Imelda Marcos in a shoe shop. Before my marriage, married male friends had dampened my sexual expectations. Several, including Jim and Dogger had warned me that their brides were too emotionally overcome, too tired and too drunk to make love on their wedding night.

  “I couldn’t even play with the little fella myself, as it felt like cheating.” Jim moaned.

  I had no such issues. Jemma’s sexual appetite had always been as strong as mine, but from our wedding night onwards, for the next couple of years, I was the one who went to bed of an evening sometimes just hoping to sleep. Don’t get me wrong, most times I would eagerly encourage any remote signs of foreplay, but if my body had shed its reproductive load on several consecutive nights, and sometimes the following morning too, my aching ball would cry enough. Being kicked in the scrotum and being asked to go to work on an empty sack, create an uncannily similar reaction from your non-electric organ.

  On our wedding night, I was blissfully unaware that this problem would arise. We stayed at Briars Hall Hotel on the night of our wedding, but as Jemma was fearful that some of our exuberant friends would trash our room, as an act of bizarre amusement, we had to leave an hour before the end in a taxi, circle around a little, park up, change from our wedding clobber into hooded tracksuits and then sneak back into the hotel.

  As soon as I put Jemma down from carrying her over the invisible threshold, our sexual adventures began. By the time we arrived back from Sorrento, I felt like an Olympic gold medal winning marathon runner, exhausted but elated. Funnily enough, the day that sticks in my mind most from our honeymoon, was our sole day off! We woke late, had coffee on our sunlit balcony as housemartins travelled busily back and forth to feed their young in the nest above, then decided that as the Bay of Naples looked like a mill pond, we should take a boat trip over to the isle of Capri. We were in the hills a mile or two up the cliffs from Sorrento so we took a taxi down to the harbour and I remember pointing Vesuvius out to Jemma on the way down.

  That day was one of those perfect cloudless days ideal for a slapping on the sun lotion, putting a cap on your head and heading out on the Tyrrhenian Sea. The vi
ews back to Sorrento as we departed and arrived back were breathtaking, as were the views of Capri as we arrived at the Marina Grande. We had a full day on the island from mid-morning to early evening, but the highlight of the whole holiday for me was going into ‘La Grotta Azzurra’ (‘The Blue Grotto’) in a little rowing boat. This is a small cave that you have to get into by hiring out a boat and then ducking down to avoid having your head taken off at its entrance point. The cave itself is not much bigger than a very large swimming pool, but the water colour in there, is just the most intense blue that you will ever see. It reminded me of one of those Radox baths I used to have as a kid, around at my Nan’s. It was like my Nan had been there and tipped a few million boxes of the stuff into the sea! As it was such a sunny day, the sun poured in through the entrance like a torch. Whilst the boatman circled around, Jemma held me tightly with one hand and dipped her other into the water.

  “This is just a fairytale!” she said and started to cry with tears of joy.

  It was just the high point of a brilliant honeymoon. An unforgettable moment.

  Eighteen months, almost to the day later, I arrived home in Hucknall, to our semi-detached house, after a mortgage filled day of cavity wall ties and retentions in Nottingham city centre. As soon as I arrived on our bumpy drive, which had a small, scattering of snow on it, Jemma opened the front door clutching a white, plastic contraption, which at first glance, I thought was a toothbrush minus its head. It was unusual for Jemma to greet me as soon as I arrived. When I had been ‘going out’ with Kelly, at the end of the day, she would often stand at her doorway and watch me until I disappeared from view, but making a big fuss at arrival or departure was just romantic schmaltz to Jemma, so it immediately struck me as odd that she had been awaiting my arrival. As I stepped out my Peugeot 306, in my long winter coat, the snow flakes circled around me like midges. It was mid-December.

  “Had a good day?” Jemma asked not really managing to feign an interest.

  “A day underwriting mortgages is not quite the same as storming an embassy for the SAS, but it pays the bills.”

  “Right, right,” Jemma replied in a manner that indicated that if I’d said I’d spent the day trying to milk a zebra she would not have batted an eyelid.

  “Come and sit down, honey, I’ve made you a cup of tea!”

  “How did you know when I’d be home?” I asked.

  I normally left the office when I was comfortable that I had a clear desk, I could arrive home at any time between half five and seven. That night, it was probably nearer the latter.

  “I didn’t! This is the second cup! The first one went cold and I had to throw it away!”

  “Right!”

  If I’d been more in tune to women’s things and the workings of the female body, I’m sure I would have twigged what was coming, but I’m a man, selfish by design and all I deduced was that Jemma was acting differently and more attentively than usual. Normally it was, “Richie, you’re home! Stick the kettle on!”

  That evening though, my arrival had been prepared for in advance! Something was definitely up! Our credit card balance sprang to mind!

  We headed inside. I took a seat on our sofa, an old one of my Mum and Dad’s that they had passed on to us. Jemma passed me my tea, let me take one sip and then blurted out,

  “Do you not have any idea what this piece of plastic is in my hand, Richie?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” I said, “it looks like a miniature spirit level!”

  On closer inspection, I had concluded it was not a toothbrush.

  “No, it’s a home pregnancy kit!”

  I felt my bottom twitch and my shoulders sag, weighed down by a responsibility that I was not sure I could cope with.

  “Do you think you might be pregnant, Jemma?”

  I tried to look excited but Jemma has said since I just looked petrified.

  “No, no!” Jemma said, a tide of relief swept over me momentarily. “I know I’m pregnant!”

  Jemma sprang up and did some weird celebratory dance as if she was Eve.

  “Look,” she said pointing at the plastic thing, “two blue lines! I rang Amy, she said the tests can give a false negative, but they can’t give a false positive! I’m pregnant, Richie! Can you believe it, I’m pregnant?”

  “Brilliant!” I said, sipping my tea again, actions speaking louder than words.

  “You don’t look like you think it’s brilliant, Richie! Where’s my hug?”

  I realised I was not reacting how I should be reacting. I was in the perfect marriage and my wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous wife was going to have a child. My child. I stood up and hugged her. In fact, I stood up and gripped her like she was my mother, I was ten years old and she had just announced she was leaving me and from this day forth, I would have to fend for myself.

  “What’s the matter?” Jemma asked.

  “It’s my childhood,” I said, “it’s just ended!”

  “You’re twenty eight years old, Richie!”

  “But I’ve only ever been responsible for me, Jemma. What if I don’t turn out to be the Dad I have always hoped I’ll be?”

  Jemma looked at me intently. There was love and trust in her eyes.

  “If you’re half as good a father as you are a husband, you’ll be an amazing, Daddy!” she re-assured me.

  Jemma didn’t understand though. How could she? I didn’t even try to explain. I was not spontaneously questioning my parental abilities, I was questioning my mortality. I had had testicular cancer. I had had an orchidectomy. What if I died? How good a father would I be then?

  Jemma

  There are a lot of myths about pregnancy, one of which is that pregnant women “glow”! I found out first hand that you do not “glow”, most of the time you just look and feel crap. Sympathetic people tell you that you look “fantastic” and that “you are glowing”, because they know you have enough on your plate, so it would be heartless for them

  to be honest and tell you that you look bloody awful! I felt a bit like the local freak show, Hucknall’s version of the ‘Bearded Lady’, when I was pregnant, as random people would ask if they could feel my belly. One day, some bloke who I didn’t know asked if he could feel my belly and

  I said,

  “Only if I can feel your dick!”

  It was a reaction meant to indicate that he was being plain rude and crossing a line, but he just said,

  “Sounds like a good deal to me!”

  Women who enjoy being pregnant are normally women who have a vacuum for a personality and enjoy being centre of attention for once in their sorry lives. They normally have a dozen kids so they can develop a fan base, as the rest of the world, outside of their gene pool, just don’t like them! The whole science of pregnancy and childbirth is amazing, but for me anyway, the nine months I went through, culminating in the agony that is childbirth itself, is purely an unpleasant means to a very pleasant end, when you are passed the newly born child. I am a Christian, but I do sometimes think, if there is a God, why did he not create women with more expandable vaginas and a less painful process of delivery!

  The first two weeks of “known” pregnancy were exciting and pain free and it all even seemed beneficial at that point, as I skipped one of the heavy periods I usually have. My periods had always been, from my late teens onwards, in perfect twenty eight day cycles, so as soon as I was a couple of days late, I nipped into Boots and bought myself a pregnancy test. I was so excited and so convinced that I would be pregnant, that I also bought a “Week by Week” guide to pregnancy, even before I peed on the stick! I started reading it on the bus back to Hucknall from Nottingham and the first thing I discovered was that you mark your pregnancy from the first day of your last period, so as far as the books are concerned, you are classed as two weeks pregnant by the time you conceive! No idea who came up with that one!

  Morning sickness kicked in about Week Seven. Once again, I don’t know which genius decided to call it “morning” sickness, but I
had a twenty four hour a day ability to throw up. The nausea was the worst bit, I used to speak to Amy on the phone every night, as she was three months further along her pregnancy than I was and was also one half of the only couple who actually knew before twelve weeks that I was expecting. Amy was, having been through it herself, brilliantly sympathetic and had the ability to relate to everything I was going through. When I was worried about my almost constant nausea and daily vomiting, Amy told me not to worry as her midwife had told her that morning sickness was just a sign that her placenta was developing in a healthy way.

  Work wise, during my pregnancy, I was doing a cleaning job at a small hotel on the outskirts of Nottingham, right on the banks of the River Trent. I worked 8am to 2pm, six days a week. I made and changed beds, tidied rooms from top to bottom and cleaned the bathrooms. Working in the hotel persuaded me that I wanted a baby girl rather than a baby boy! Women would have make-up and clothing strewn around their bedrooms, but it was the untidy toilet habits of men that put me off them! Richie would often wee kneeling down, poo with the taps running so I could not hear the plops, go in the garden to break wind and clean any toilet mess up after him, but I learnt that this was by no means the norm. A lot of businessmen who stayed at our hotel, would look at the mess and just leave an apologetic note and a tip.

  One day, I saw a pale faced, businessman in his forties leave his room, kitted out in his suit and carrying a briefcase and when I went in there, it absolutely stank. The bath was an inch deep in thick vomit which he had tried unsuccessfully to wash down the plughole, the toilet was smeared in faeces that he had barely managed to get below the seat and in the bedroom, the bed had been stripped and it smelt like he had been dunking the sheet in a bucket of urine. There was a note left on the sideboard that simply said,