The Would-Begetter

by Maggie Makepeace

  ‘But won’t the new job be very tiring?’

  ‘Probably, but I’ll have four months or so before the baby’s born, to get settled in. I don’t foresee any major problems.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jess was unconvinced. ‘Good.’

  ‘You’re shocked,’ Caroline said. ‘I’m sorry. I should have led up to it more gradually; not been so abrupt.’

  ‘No… no I’m not. I’m just… surprised. But I’m so happy for you. It’s wonderful news.’

  ‘It does take a bit of getting used to,’ Caroline admitted. ‘That’s why I’ve been rather antisocial of late. But once it sinks in – it’s heaven. Just don’t let me get like those other mothers I used to complain about so vehemently, will you? You must stop me if I rabbit on and on about wonderbabe.’

  Jess managed a nod and a smile. ‘Somehow,’ she said, ‘I very much doubt you’ll have time for all those theatre visits and things. You’ll be far too busy.’

  ‘Never!’ Caroline retorted cheerfully. ‘More cider? No, if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that this baby is not going to take over my life.’

  In the absence of Zillah Hector found himself, more and more often these days, thrown back on to Wendy. As he thought this, he acknowledged that it was an unfortunate way of putting it, but accurate nevertheless. The first time he had been back to see her after Christmas – the day he’d taken Zillah home – Wendy had been almost shirty with him! He had hoped that she would have been sensitive to his mood; would have noticed that he was feeling low. Eventually though it did sink in, and she’d cooked him a tasty meal and had soothed his hurt feelings the best way known to man, in bed. Hector, his self-esteem restored, had even remembered the following morning that Wendy was due an explanation for his apparent inhospitality at Christmas.

  As he ate the two delicious soft-boiled eggs Wendy had cooked him for breakfast, he dipped the fingers of toast into each perfect runny yolk, and began: ‘I believe I owe you an apology for saying the wrong thing on Christmas day.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. You remember, when you arrived at my door at the same time as that slob, Clive? I’m afraid I wasn’t at my best. I’d had a simply frantic morning.’

  ‘Really?’ Wendy looked wary but interested.

  ‘Yes, really. Zillah – the woman and her son who were made homeless by the flood, you know? Well, she couldn’t cook! Can you believe that? And I’m no earthly good in the kitchen. I’ve never had to be, you see. So I’d kind of taken it for granted that she would help out while she was staying with me. That’s not unreasonable, is it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Wendy said. ‘It’s the least she could have done.’

  ‘Exactly. Well to cut a long story short, she didn’t, and I was lumbered with cooking the lot; roast goose, veg, Christmas pudding, everything. So when you arrived, you can understand that I was at my wits’ end; not myself at all. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you properly. I must have seemed very rude. I just didn’t know whether I was coming or going. Talk about culinary harassment!’ Hector waited for Wendy to acknowledge this heroic effort, but she was clearly hoping for more. ‘So when you suddenly left,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘naturally I should have run straight after you. I can see that now. I would have, but I didn’t dare leave the kitchen in case the whole place caught fire or exploded or something.’ He spread both hands in a charming gesture of male incompetence in the face of superior female expertise.

  ‘Oh,’ Wendy said. ‘I thought you were just trying to get rid of me.’

  ‘Good heavens, no!’

  ‘You said I was your decorator.’

  ‘No, surely not?’

  ‘Yes you did.’

  ‘How ridiculous of me.’ He patted her hand on the table. ‘I’m so sorry. What can I have been thinking of?’

  ‘I thought you were ashamed of you and me… you know…’

  ‘Of our going to bed together?’

  ‘Yes.’ Wendy flushed and stared down at her plate.

  ‘You old silly,’ Hector said, picking up her hand and squeezing it. ‘I was trying to be gallant; to protect your honour… I mean I didn’t know whether you wanted to acknowledge our relationship so early on, did I? I mean, if I’d said, “This is Wendy, my current lover,” you would have been well and truly put on the spot, wouldn’t you? I couldn’t have risked that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded. You could have said I was your girlfriend. You see, I thought that you and… that woman…’

  ‘Oh no,’ Hector said breezily. ‘I just felt sorry for her and the boy. That was all.’

  ‘I’m really glad, Hector.’ She squeezed his hand in return. ‘I was so miserable.’ She looked up at him shyly.

  ‘Well,’ Hector said, breathing deeply, ‘all right now, eh?’

  It’s not that I really want Wendy in place of Zillah, he told himself; certainly not. It’s just that Wendy seems to have the capacity to restore my morale, and as she clearly fancies me rotten, it seems to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. Of course, I’ll have to make certain she understands the imper-manence of it, but since we’re both clearly in need of a bit of nookey…

  From then on, and without really meaning to commit himself, Hector allowed Wendy to nudge him into a whole series of regular habits. When Hector wasn’t on duty, they spent the weekends together in alternate houses. They went out for a meal one night a week, usually Wednesdays. Wendy began to do some of Hector’s washing, and ironed his shirts. She even darned a pair of his socks. She’s a sweet thing, Hector thought, and she means well, but I have to admit that she isn’t exactly challenging.

  In view of this crucial deficit, Hector was careful to hang on to his own independence and be alone whenever he felt like it. He also made sure that he didn’t have to account for his movements to Wendy. He’d had more than enough of that with Megan. But he did allow her to freshen up the walls of his flat with a lick of paint, and a length or two of wallpaper, being careful, of course, to do all the choosing of colours and styles himself.

  Then, when Wendy wasn’t around, and when he could wangle a trip out on Chronicle business, he would drive to his destination the pretty way, via Zillah’s cottage, in the hope of seeing her. The first time he went, he had been lucky. He had caught her by the front gate and had actually spoken to her.

  ‘Look Hector,’ she’d said. ‘I’m grateful to you for helping us, but that’s it. That’s as far as it goes. We’re fine now. End of story. OK?’

  ‘But Zillah, what about the great times we had in bed. Don’t they mean anything to you?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Mean something,’ Zillah said. ‘In a word: rent.’

  After that, Hector didn’t try to speak to her any more, but he cruised past regularly, hoping to catch a glimpse, trying to see whether she perhaps looked a little plumper or had taken to wearing smock tops. After all, he reminded himself, they had made love eight times, so it was remotely possible… and if it were to turn out to be true, then it would naturally put an entirely new complexion on things. But he didn’t see her. The cottage windows looked blank, and grass now sprouted from the abandoned chairs in the front garden.

  Daft sod! Hector admonished himself. Fat chance!

  Jess was more often than not out at lunchtime, so she packed a few sandwiches each morning as a matter of course and scoffed them in the Jeep during spare moments. But if she happened to be in, she ate them in the Chronicle’s coffee area with whoever else was around. This Thursday the small lobby was full, too full, of the ten or so people who made up the weekly inserter crew, who came in to assemble the paper from its three separately printed sections. The press was thundering away in the basement below them, shaking the whole building. Jess could feel the vibrations on the soles of her feet as she stood by the drinks machine and felt in her pocket for some change. Do I really want to put up with all this cigarette smoke, she wondered, or…?

  ‘Jess?’ Hector said, at her elbow. ‘
Got a moment?’

  ‘Sure.’ She followed him into the corridor outside.

  ‘Come over to the pub,’ he said. ‘I need a break from everyone, particularly Nige. He’s off for two weeks from Monday and he’s getting more like a headless chicken as each day passes. “You won’t forget this?” and “Be sure to do that” and “Make a point of not…” and so on. Anyone would think I’d never deputised for him before! I don’t think he’s the ideal News Ed. anyway; far too nervy. I told him – if you can’t take the heat, get out of the stable.’

  ‘I’m sure he will have found that most reassuring,’ Jess said. ‘I’ll come, but only for a soft drink or I’ll be useless all afternoon.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Hector said. ‘You’re the least useless person I know.’

  Jess walked with a spring in her step down the steep stairs, and out through Reception, smiling at the new girl on the desk (whose name she hadn’t caught) and over the road to the George and Pilgrim. There, she and Hector ensconced themselves in a corner by the window, and she unwrapped her sandwiches surreptitiously so that the management wouldn’t notice and take offence.

  Jess wondered if Hector lunched here most days with his fellow reporters and Nigel, or whether she was being particularly favoured. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to him properly since the last time they’d been here, way back in January, and she was curious to know how the hunt for Morgan’s mother might be going. If I had a son, she thought, I certainly wouldn’t call him Morgan! Then she thought, I must be careful. If I asked impertinent questions he’ll probably go all defensive on me, and then I won’t discover anything at all.

  ‘D’you come here often?’ she asked him.

  ‘Now there’s a leading question,’ Hector teased her.

  ‘So what’s the answer?’

  ‘The answer is no, hardly ever. No time, usually. Today I just felt in need of some undemanding but intelligent company.’

  Jess considered a moment and then decided this was a compliment. ‘Well, thanks,’ she said.

  Hector raised half a pint to his lips and sipped it reflectively. Then he put the glass down with a sigh. ‘Do you ever think about genetic death?’

  ‘Not a lot, no.’

  ‘Course not. You’re young. Why should you? I’ve been weighing up the pros and cons of fatherhood, you see; trying to analyse it dispassionately, and it still seems to me that wanting children is entirely justifiable. It’s selfish, yes, but let’s face it there are no unselfish reasons for wanting kids, are there? I suppose I’ve been trying to understand my own motives. It’s not that I’m afraid of a lonely old age, or worried about a lack of potency… Somehow it’s the idea of being the end of the line that depresses me. But in any case, being keen to be a dad can only be a good thing, can’t it?’

  ‘I suppose we’re all victims of the great assumption when rather than if,’ Jess said carefully. ‘But it won’t be too late for you for years yet? After all, men can go on siring children well into their dotage.’

  ‘True.’ Hector looked unconvinced.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Jess said. ‘Guess who’s having a baby – someone you’ve met.’

  ‘Give up,’ Hector said, without trying.

  ‘Caroline Moffat. You remember, my friend from school? You could have knocked me down with a polystyrene rock when she told me! She used to be so anti, and now she’s bloody radiant. It’s due in September apparently.’

  ‘Really?’ Hector said, frowning. ‘Have a drink? Go on Jess. I’m having another half. Have a shandy or something innocuous if you must. It’s on me.’

  ‘Oh, well all right then. Low alcohol cider, thanks.’ Hmmm, Jess thought to herself as she watched Hector going up to the bar. It looks as though poor Hector hasn’t got anywhere with the Brakespear woman. He doesn’t seem to be having much luck, does he? She wasn’t his type anyway. Actually, I can’t really think of anyone who would be…

  When Jess looked up again, Hector was walking back towards her holding the two drinks. He looked preoccupied, as though he were doing mental arithmetic.

  Wendy started her afternoon shift early, so that she could overlap with the new girl and keep an eye on her. She didn’t altogether trust that Jackie (or whatever her name was). She didn’t reckon she’d got a proper grip on the job as yet. Wendy inspected the desks on the far wall, where the public composed their advertisements, to check they had their proper compliment of pens and forms. They hadn’t. Jess’s file of contact prints was, however, back on the reception desk where it should be, so things were looking up. Last time someone had come in wanting to buy a photo Wendy hadn’t been able to find it, and had looked a right charlie.

  ‘Two pens short,’ she said, lifting the bar to get behind the counter.

  ‘I dunno,’ the new girl said. ‘What do they do with them, eat the frigging things? You’re in early, aren’t you?’

  At that moment, Hector and Jess came in together through the swing doors. Hector had his hand resting on Jess’s shoulder, where it had naturally fallen as he had ushered her in ahead of him. Jess was laughing, and Hector looked pretty cheerful too until he saw Wendy, when he merely looked surprised.

  ‘You’re in early,’ he said in passing, and without giving her the secret wink she had come to count on.

  ‘Yes,’ Wendy said, ‘I…’ but they were already disappearing upstairs.

  ‘That’s the Senior Reporter and the Photographer, right?’ asked Jackie. ‘Hector and Jane?’

  ‘Hector and Jess,’ Wendy said rather shortly.

  ‘Oh, right. It takes a while to work out who’s who around here, doesn’t it? Are they an item then?’

  ‘What?’ Wendy turned on her irritably.

  ‘You know – going out together?’

  ‘No of course they aren’t!’

  ‘Oooh, I’m sorry. Touched a nerve there, have I? I only wond…’

  ‘Well stop wondering,’ Wendy said. ‘You can go now. I can manage.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  The girl made a big production of collecting up her things and putting on her coat, and then finally she was gone and Wendy was alone. Stupid cow! she thought. What does she know? But the remark had unsettled her. She wished she knew where she was with Hector. Of course she understood his wish that their affair should be kept under wraps at work. It was well known that business and pleasure didn’t mix. She didn’t mind that so much (although it would be nice to have a ring to flash around), but she still wondered whether Hector was ashamed of his association with her.

  It made her feel insecure, and he did nothing to reassure her. He never discussed their future. He never said ‘One day we must…’ or ‘Remind me to take you to…’ or ‘That’s something I’d love to share with you…’ He also, puzzlingly, never mentioned children. Wendy couldn’t understand that. If, as everyone knew, he was desperate for kids, then why did he never bring them into the conversation? It would be the most natural thing to do after all. Perhaps the gossip about him wasn’t true, Wendy wondered, but then again, if not, why did he go and get his sperm tested? And while I’m on that subject, she thought idly, something that’s always bothered me – if there’s really that many millions of them, then how on earth do they know which ones they’ve already counted?

  Wendy pulled herself together. I’m being silly, she told herself. Of course he wants children. He’s probably only waiting for the right moment to bring the subject up. I hope he doesn’t wait too long though – I mean, I may be wrong, it’s early days, but I’ve never been late before…

  She didn’t know if she was excited or scared at the possibility. If only Hector had given her some idea of his feelings on the subject. She really didn’t know whether he’d be delighted or furious. And how would she break the news to him? Would she say ‘the pill’ had let her down, or would she confess?

  ‘Can I get some service here?’ a sudden man’s voice said, making her jump.

  ‘Oh…! I didn’t see you come in.’

  ‘W
ell that much is obvious. Now look here… What’s your name?’

  ‘Miss Bing.’

  ‘Bing? That’s not a name, that’s a slag-heap! Anyway, never mind all that. What I want to know, Miss Heap, is what you intend doing about this?’ he slapped a copy of the previous week’s Chronicle down on the counter and jabbed a finger at one of the front page stories.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Wendy asked coldly.

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. It’s all lies, that’s what!’

  Oh no! Wendy thought wearily, furtively pressing the alarm button under her counter. A fully paid-up member of the awkward squad. That’s all I need!

  Chapter 9

  The Somerset Levels are magical towards the end of May, Jess thought, as she walked slowly along one of the moor’s rough drove roads. The early morning mist was burning off in the sun and lengthening her view along the rhynes on either side of her, revealing high blue patches of sky above the bare knuckles of pollarded willows. It’s worth getting up at six, she thought, just to have the place to myself and to see the flowers of cow-parsley and comfrey and water crowfoot, and the reflections of yellow flags at the water’s edge.

  A displaying snipe was drumming overhead in a falling arc, making a strange bleating wuther-wuther sort of noise. A grey heron, startled at her approach, took off and flapped deliberately away. Skylarks rose straight up from the ground, singing. A sedge warbler only a few feet away erupted briefly from cover in the reeds in a burst of scratchy song, before diving back again.

  Jess stopped at a gateway where a perfect spider’s web, beaded with dew, glinted in the sunlight. The landscape looked green and fecund. A purposeful group of black and white cows a field away waited beside their corrugated-iron milking bail. She could hear the putt-putt of the tractor-driven engine and see a man in white overalls bending down to wash udders or slip on the clusters. A cuckoo called. Swallows swooped and twittered. The air was cool and sweet. Jess inhaled deeply; an addict getting her fix. I ought to come for a walk every day, she thought. Just being here lifts my spirits so wonderfully.