We'll Always Have Paris

by Sue Watson

  I talk through the parts he doesn’t know and some of the parts he does and take him back to the day the course of my life was altered for ever.

  I was too scared to tell Margaret my period was late. I wanted to wait until Peter was back from Italy so he could be with me when we told her. We’d hold hands and stand before her, defiant in our love, nothing and no one coming between us and our baby. She’d complain that she’d never be able to hold her head up on Nightingale Road ever again, but Peter and I would move away and get married before the baby was born. We were going to live abroad anyway, so she didn’t have to worry about her precious neighbours.

  Peter’s parents would have to accept me because I was carrying their grandchild and Peter and I could be married as soon as he got back from Italy. I wouldn’t give up my art, I wouldn’t need to – we’d just carry on with our lives, we’d be a family, something I now realised I’d always wanted for us. Even more than Paris.

  I’d think about his face when I told him our news and those days would be soft, pastel pink, edged in lace. But other days I’d worry that his parents might try to keep us apart, and mine would be so racked with shame they’d throw me out. And the more I thought about this little seed growing inside me the more attached I became. I’d disappear upstairs in secret to look at myself sideways in the full-length mirror in Mum and Dad’s room. I was sure I could see a slight bump, and my tummy felt hard as I caressed the new life inside me. I couldn’t wait to share it with him.

  The day after Peter was due back was the local carnival, a big event in the Salford calendar and Peter had suggested we meet at the fair. I was excited and nervous and I couldn’t sleep the night before, knowing he must be back in the country, just a few miles down the road. I lay awake for hours in my little single bed, imagining our reunion, desperate to see him and tell him my news.

  I didn’t feel well the following morning when I dragged myself out of bed, and after my bath I had to sit down on the bathroom floor. I was so excited about seeing him I felt dizzy and a fleeting twinge in my stomach told me his child felt the same way. ‘Yes, you’re excited to see Daddy, aren’t you?’ I whispered. I wore my new dress that day, I’d saved it specially for him. It was sprigged with tiny forget-me-nots, a little tight around the waist and bust, but I hoped my new curvier figure would please him. I finally felt grown up, a mother-to-be, my secret still safe under the forget-me-nots. For the first time in my life I belonged, I had a defined place in the world. There was a name for me – mother. I didn’t think too much about the fact I wasn’t married, I just thought about the loveliness of it all – well you do at seventeen, don’t you? And wandering to the fair to meet him I felt as beautiful and blooming as the blowsy pink roses in gardens along the way. I couldn’t help smiling openly at passers-by, longing to announce to complete strangers that ‘my boyfriend’s home and we’re having a baby’.

  Arriving at the funfair, my heart danced on ahead of me, my eyes darting everywhere looking for his dark, curly hair, those piercing, twinkly blue eyes. I knew if I looked long enough he would appear above the heads of the clowns and the kids and the trombone players. As I waited I suddenly had a dark feeling, one of those passing clouds, an inexplicable sensation that sweeps through, like a ghost. It was then I began to worry he was late, or wouldn’t turn up and that he might not be as pleased as I was about the baby. I suddenly felt very alone in the swirling crowds, clowns dancing by me and children with balloons running past, screaming. I discreetly put my hand to my belly to protect her as a brass band appeared, moving loudly in my direction, hurting my head with its noise. I was standing in its path as the cacophony grew louder, like thunder as the players enveloped me. And I stood there in my lovely new dress, in the middle of the carnival madness, holding a sudden despair in the pit of my stomach.

  Then I saw him and the clouds parted, the sun came streaming through and I ran, my arms open, throwing him my heart to catch. I pushed my face into his neck, wanting to breathe him in. He smelt deliciously summery: salty sea air, sunshine and sandalwood.

  ‘I love you,’ I whispered in his ear as he held me tight. I pulled away to look into his face, I’d forgotten how beautiful he was, and his Italian tan made his eyes seem bluer, his teeth whiter. His forearms looked golden, strong and weather-beaten and I just drank him in, unable to take my eyes from him, or the smile off my face.

  The air was still thick with crazy. Music was playing, kids screaming, people laughing as clowns with huge feet slapped by, but for me there was only us and eternity, the rest of the world dissolved like candy floss on my tongue.

  ‘I missed you so much,’ I said, touching the plaited leather bracelets he was wearing on his wrists. I ran my fingers around them, suddenly feeling a little shy. ‘You look like a hippie artist who just left the beach,’ I laughed.

  ‘That’s how I feel.’ He smiled. ‘Like a hippie! Being in a different country changes your whole perspective. I was so much more creative, took a million photographs.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see them . . . I’ve been drawing too . . . ’

  ‘I just feel so free, like anything’s possible, you know?’

  I nodded vigorously, vaguely disappointed that he hadn’t asked me about my drawings. Mike said they were the best I’d ever done, but Peter was the only one who could validate my talent back then.

  I took his hand and we wandered towards the big field surrounding the site. It was so busy with shouting children, dogs without leads rampaging over picnic rugs as mothers handed round sandwiches to their kids. That’ll be us soon, I thought, watching a young mum holding her baby close to her chest, rocking and smiling amid the madness, her husband’s arm around her, the picture of contentment.

  We sat down on the grass and I spread the skirt of my dress out so he could see it. I was waiting for him to say how pretty it was, he always complimented me on what I was wearing, but he was too busy laughing at a fluffy little dog that was running around in circles. I couldn’t help but notice he seemed closed off, and I wondered fleetingly, instinctively, if something had changed for him.

  He took out a cigarette and lit it, blowing the smoke high.

  ‘It sounds like you all had a great time in Italy.’

  ‘Amazing . . . just amazing, an incredible experience,’ and it occurred to me that he might not be talking about just the weather or the pasta.

  ‘I mean, it’s our house, I’ve been there before and everything, but I never really appreciated it when I was younger. It was different this time, and now it feels strange to be back here. You get used to swimming every day and being in the sun. I’m not used to grey old Salford.’

  I smiled. He’d soon cheer up when I told him our news; he’d leap up and kiss me and twirl me round and we’d talk about where we’d live. If he wanted to leave grey old Salford, that was fine by me.

  ‘Peter, I’ve got wonderful news,’ I said. And before he could ask or I could tease him I heard myself blurting it out, too excited to wait. ‘We’re going to have a baby.’

  He turned to look at me, and I waited for the penny to drop, the lazy smile to go from his eyes to his lips and the million kisses to follow. But I couldn’t see any twinkle, just the blood draining from his face as he held his cigarette mid-air before putting it to his mouth.

  His face darkened. ‘Is this a joke?’ he said, stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette.

  I was still smiling inanely, waiting for the joy. But he was looking at me with such intensity, such horror, I began to realise he wasn’t sharing my happiness.

  ‘I think I’m about two months, maybe more. Look,’ I said, gesturing to my abdomen. Surely when he saw my tummy, touched it with his lovely gentle hands, he’d feel it too? But he didn’t move, just looked down at my stomach with no expression on his face.

  ‘Just feel,’ I said quietly. ‘Peter, our baby’s in there.’ I took his hand and gently guided it to my stomach, but before it reached me he pulled his hand away.

  ‘Don’t. Thi
s isn’t real. We can’t . . . ’

  ‘But you said we were getting married anyway and it didn’t matter if I got pregnant. It’s why we didn’t wait.’ I couldn’t believe his reaction, I’d worried he might be surprised, it wasn’t like we planned it. But this? I never expected this, not from Peter, not from this wonderful artistic boy who was loving and gentle and had asked me to marry him. This was going to be our beginning, the start of our life together, I thought we’d be wrapped around each other by now, making plans for the future. Not this . . .

  ‘Rosie – I’m not ready to be a dad . . . ’

  I started to cry. Did he not love me after all? Had I been stupid believing in him? This wasn’t the boy I loved, the one I’d have given everything up for – this was a stranger.

  ‘Oh, Rosie, don’t do this. You know it’s the last thing we need.’

  I was still in shock. ‘But we’re going to live in Paris. We can still do all the things we talked about, we’ll just have our baby with us,’ I said, blindly hoping that if I kept reminding him of what we’d said he would see this the way I did – as a blessing. ‘Peter, this doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘Rosie, it changes everything.’ He said this slowly, clearly, as though he was explaining maths to an impatient child. ‘I don’t have any money, we’ve nowhere to live and I’m not staying round here . . . ’

  Tears were streaming down my face by now and I’d never felt more alone in my life. How had I got this so wrong?

  ‘I know we’re not staying around here, but . . . ’

  ‘I mean I’m leaving Salford . . . I’m going back to Italy. I’m sorry, I can’t take you with me.’

  I felt the ground move under me, I saw children laughing, dogs barking, but I couldn’t hear them, just sensed vague movement around me.

  ‘I made some friends on holiday, and they just travel around Europe and they’re working in a vineyard in Italy. It’s a wonderful place, with a beautiful lake, surrounded by mountains, I stayed a few nights there . . . ’

  I sat, open-mouthed listening to this. While I’d been home crying myself to sleep each night he was out with new friends having fun.

  ‘But you can’t . . . ’ was all I could say. And I thought of my mother’s warning about ‘loose foreign women’ and ‘dark-skinned señoritas’ and I just knew.

  ‘Is it a girl?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be jealous, it’s not like you. They are friends and yes, a couple of them are girls, but they’re just friends.’

  I didn’t believe him, I just knew when he was lying.

  ‘Rosie, I’ve got my plane ticket back there next week. I thought you’d understand.’

  ‘Understand? You thought I’d understand that after promising marriage and a life together you go away for three weeks and everything’s changed? What is there to understand about that?’

  I had just spent the longest three weeks of my life waiting for him. I was carrying his child, I’d kept our secret safe, nurtured it, protected it, and now he was abandoning me and our unborn child ro run away to Italy?

  ‘It’s only for a few months. I’ll be in touch when I get back.’

  ‘In touch?! But you can’t leave me now . . . not now.’

  I’d stupidly hoped if I talked to him long enough he’d come back to me, but looking at his eyes, he was already gone.

  ‘My dad’s paid my air fare, thinks it’ll be good for me, you know, “You have to stand on your own two feet, my boy” and all that . . . ’

  Even then, in the thick mist of confusion and disillusion, it didn’t escape me that he’d found enough money for his air fare. He never had to try too hard at anything.

  ‘We could go together . . . ’ I was now desperate. In a few seconds I’d contemplated the awfulness of life without him, and the bleakness filled me up like dirty water in a glass. I couldn’t bear the prospect of the physical pain of being apart.

  ‘Rosie, I only have one ticket and your parents wouldn’t let you go to Italy anyway. Imagine your mother’s face.’

  Thinking about this comment now angers me – how dare he blame my mother for me not being on that plane to Italy with him – but back then I was just so fraught I couldn’t think straight. I just kept hoping that any second now he’d change his mind, that it wasn’t too late.

  ‘I don’t care. She can’t stop me, I’m seventeen now, I can do what I like. I can come with you to Italy and you can pick grapes and I can sell my drawings, I’ll meet your friends. I don’t mind if some of them are girls. We can move to Paris once the baby’s born.’ Even as I said it I knew it was a fading dream, but I was so desperate to keep him I was in denial of what was happening, refusing to take on what he was saying to me. I would have done anything, gone anywhere, and even though I knew he had someone else I was so sure of our love I thought it would burn out any other feelings he might think he had for someone else. ‘This is our chance, Peter, we can run away.’

  ‘No, you can’t go anywhere at the moment. But we’ll still see each other when I’m home. When you’ve sorted things out.’

  ‘Sorted things out?’

  ‘Yes. You have to get rid of it, Rosie.’

  Now I felt like I was in a boxing ring, being punched to the floor, staggering back up and being punched again. An abortion? I couldn’t even say the word out loud. In all my daydreams and even in my worst fears I’d never contemplated this. It had never occurred to me that he would suggest something so cruel, and in that moment, when I realised he wanted to destroy our baby, a little light went out in my heart.

  ‘It’s for the best, I won’t be here and if we’re not together it would be foolish to try and bring up a baby on your own.’

  ‘On my own? You’re breaking up with me.’

  My shock and hurt was slowly being overcome by a wave of anger. I was horrified to think that I’d spent the best part of a year listening to this boy, giving everything only for him to sweep me away like dust under the carpet.

  ‘You can’t, you can’t do this . . . it’s your baby, Peter. You can’t just walk away.’

  ‘I’ll help you, I’ll pay for it . . . It’s not you, Rosie – we’ve had a great time, but I need to go and do things with my life . . . on my own. I can’t be a husband to you. And I can’t be a dad.’

  I was rocking and crying and holding my stomach and Peter was now cautiously putting his arm round me, not knowing how to deal with this. Gone was the lazy, easy physical contact we’d enjoyed before. He was now polite, already distancing himself from me and the ‘problem’.

  ‘Let’s just get this sorted and we can both get on with our lives, eh?’ He was touching me under the chin like I was a fond sister and I wanted to smack his face, shake him and scream that he’d let me down. I was distraught, not just because of his reaction to what had happened, but because he wasn’t who I thought he was. It made me question myself and every moment of our relationship and wonder if he’d ever loved me. I’d loved him, but perhaps I’d just loved who I thought he was.

  I looked into his eyes, still waiting for a flicker of the boy I hoped was there, but nothing. He looked through me, which was the most painful thing of all. And I was reminded of something his father had said a few months before. Our Peter’s like a bloody magpie, sees something glitter and he’s off chasing it.

  ‘So that’s it then,’ he said, brushing dry bits of grass off his jeans, keen to seal the deal and fly away to his better, brighter glittery life.

  I just nodded. What more was there to say?

  ‘I’ll “sort it”,’ I said through my tears and grabbing my handbag I stood up and marched through the grass. I heard him call my name and I began to run, tearing through the carnival crowds. Better to never see him again than have our next ‘date’ at an abortion clinic with him handing over money and telling me it was for the best so he could walk away from the mess he’d made.

  I fought my way back through the laughing kids, the candy floss, and round the carousel. The smell of burnt sugar and hot
dogs permeated the air and I felt sick, staggering like a drunk, blinded by the pain and the tears. All I could think was ‘I will never get over this’ – and I realise that a small part of me never has.

  Lying here together now, so many years later, I’m still struggling with the past, but I’m beginning to feel strangely lighter.

  ‘My heart breaks just hearing you talk about that day,’ he says. ‘I don’t recognise that boy and I would give my life to turn back the clock and change everything.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ I say. ‘Yes, it was devastating, it broke me and it took me such a long time to move on from losing you. But the baby . . . it’s not something you can ever move on from, you hold them in your heart.’

  He puts his hand on my stomach and I feel the years rush through me.

  ‘I got to Italy and realised I’d made a huge mistake. I could only think of you. I kept imagining the clinic, the surgery, the awful operation . . . and you alone and scared, then I thought of the baby and it suddenly all meant so much.’

  ‘I didn’t have the abortion,’ I say. ‘I’m afraid fate took care of that for us.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The night of the fair the blood came. I lay in bed in agony, knowing what was happening, feeling the loss as the little life ebbed away and left my body. I cried for my mum and she came running. Her baby was losing her own baby and I could see she was hurting almost as much as me. She held me through the night, mopping my brow, telling me not to cry as she wept with me. ‘It’s okay, love, everything’s going to be all right, Mum’s here.’ Sometimes I can still hear her saying the words softly in the night.

  After the miscarriage I lost myself for a while. I could think of nothing but the baby and Peter – grieving for him, our child and our future. And for a while I felt I had nothing.

  I’d switch from being heartbroken to furious, imagining Peter living his life, still fulfilling those amazing dreams without me while I was left with the dust. And I’d lie on my bed imagining him in a vineyard, a beautiful waterfront, gazing at the mountains with someone else. And the more I conjured up these images to torture myself, the more angry I became until all I could see when I thought of him was a burning rage. It was this, along with Mike, that ultimately made me stronger.