The Would-Begetter

by Maggie Makepeace

  So the summer went by, and August was all but over before Jess managed to take Caroline up on her offer of a weekend in London. Caroline’s house was one of a terrace on three floors plus a basement with railings. It looked much like any other town house outside, but was both elegant and welcoming within. Jess saw her own photograph on the wall almost at once, and was pleased. She discovered her friend to be huge and uncomfortable, but still serene.

  ‘How did your new boss take the news?’ Jess asked her that evening.

  ‘She was a bit miffed at first,’ Caroline admitted, ‘but fine now. I’m off work for this last month thank goodness. Just as well; I feel like a tank!’

  ‘What about getting a nanny?’

  ‘That’s all sorted out, luckily. It hasn’t been easy. As well as letting her have the basement flat downstairs, I’m even having to buy a car for her.’

  ‘Goodness!’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it, Jess. I’m beginning to realise that I’m going to have to plan my life like a military operation. It’s going to cost me a small fortune too.’

  ‘Is… the father… going to be able to help?’ Jess asked, choosing her words carefully.

  Caroline laughed. ‘You really mean, “who is the father?” don’t you?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘He’s been ringing me up every week since the end of May – making a perfect nuisance of himself. He even arrived on my doorstep a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘What, to ask you to marry him?’

  ‘No, he didn’t go quite that far.’ Caroline said drily.

  ‘But… do I know him?’

  ‘You gave him my address!’

  ‘OH NO!’ Jess coloured deeply. ‘Oh my God! I’m… so sorry… I even joked about it, but I never imagined for one moment…!’

  ‘No problem,’ Caroline said. ‘I’m more than a match for Hector. Don’t tell him he definitely is the father though, will you? I reckon that by tricking me into the pregnancy in the first place, he’s well and truly forfeited any rights he might have had to this baby, and anyway I have absolutely no intention of being beholden to him.’

  ‘You wouldn’t marry him then?’

  ‘Heavens, no! Sorry Jess, I know he’s a friend of yours.’

  ‘There’s something else I think I ought to tell you,’ Jess said slowly. ‘I didn’t tell you the whole story earlier because… well, because you said you and Hector hadn’t been to bed together…’

  ‘Sorry,’ Caroline said. ‘Stupid pride. Great mistake. It only happened the once, you see. Wonderful isn’t it! So what’s the big secret then?’

  Jess told her, ending with: ‘So I suppose Hector must be waiting until all three babies are born, and then I imagine he plans to choose one of you and propose marriage.’

  ‘Cold-blooded bastard!’ Caroline was incredulous. ‘Real life just doesn’t work like that. Has the man no feelings?’

  Jess felt obliged to try to explain. ‘Well you see, he felt totally betrayed by Megan, his wife; it really devastated him. So maybe he’s just been trying to make absolutely sure it couldn’t happen again? Underneath, I’m sure he’s convinced he’s being logical and scientific, and that science is a justification in itself. I know that sounds awful, but he is a decent chap really, honestly…’

  ‘Well, you know him far better than I do,’ Caroline said. ‘The whole idea sounds grotesque to me.’

  ‘He’s just desperate for a son to inherit the family title,’ Jess said. ‘But I’m sure he would never knowingly have fathered three at once. It’s just a bizarre fluke.’

  Caroline laughed shortly. ‘A son, huh? Well according to the tests,’ she said, rubbing her bulge complacently, ‘mine’s a girl, so tough luck!’

  ‘Really?’ Jess felt quite light-headed. ‘Perhaps they’ll all be girls?’ she said, giggling. ‘Three daughters! Then what on earth will Hector do?’

  Chapter 11

  On 25 September, after a long and difficult labour, Caroline produced her daughter and vowed she would never ever again have another baby. Hector turned up at the maternity hospital on the 26th, and assured her that dislocating one’s shoulder was far more painful than childbirth. ‘How the hell would you know?’ Caroline asked. ‘I read it somewhere,’ Hector told her. He stood by the see-through cot where the baby was sleeping, and peered at it intently. ‘He looks a little yellow?’ he said in tones of concern.

  ‘Neonatal jaundice,’ Caroline said crisply, ‘and nothing whatever to worry about. She’ll be fine.’

  ‘She?’ Hector looked up sharply.

  ‘Yes, “she”. There are two kinds of human beings, Hector, or had you forgotten that? So I’m afraid I can’t really call her Morgan. Although I suppose I could name her after King Arthur’s fairy sister?’

  ‘What?’ Hector looked blank.

  ‘You know, Morgan le Fay.’

  Hector ignored this. He sat down heavily on the bed and massaged his mouth agitatedly with one hand. He looked shattered. ‘This will sound ridiculous,’ he said eventually, ‘but somehow I never anticipated this. I’ve been concentrating so much on having a son, you see, I’ve been… so focused…’

  Caroline almost felt sorry for him. ‘Well, never mind,’ she said. ‘It’s not a problem. I’m absolutely thrilled she’s a girl. I couldn’t be happier.’

  ‘Oh… good.’

  ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes…’ Hector pulled himself together. ‘What are you going to call her?’

  ‘Hannah Moffat.’

  ‘You couldn’t be persuaded to change your mind and call her Gwladys, my great-grandmother’s name, I suppose?’

  ‘I think not,’ Caroline said quite gently.

  ‘I could register her for you?’ Hector offered. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Well… should I contribute to her maintenance… a monthly cheque?’

  ‘NO,’ Caroline was firm. ‘Look, I’m sorry Hector. This baby is nothing whatever to do with you and I won’t accept any money. I’ve a good job and plenty of support. I didn’t plan that things should be like this, but that’s how they’ve turned out, and I shall cope in my own way. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but it has to be said.’

  ‘So you’ll be all right?’

  Caroline saw the beginnings of relief start to creep over Hector’s face. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Ah,’ Hector had rallied himself by now, and stood up to go, smiling bravely. ‘No hard feelings then?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘By the way,’ Hector said, suddenly remembering, ‘How did you know about my wanting to call my son Morgan?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Can’t trust anyone these days,’ Hector snorted with disgust. ‘Just wait until the next time I see young Hazelrigg!’ He moved towards the door.

  ‘Good luck then,’ Caroline said.

  ‘And you.’ Hector stopped and turned. ‘Good luck with what?’

  ‘Well, the next two babies of course.’

  Hector turned an unlovely shade of red, opened his mouth to reply, closed it again, raised a hand in a half-hearted valedictory salute, made a dash for the door and was gone.

  ‘Say goodbye to Daddy, Hannah,’ Caroline crooned to the sleeping infant. Then she stood Hector’s greeting card beside all the rest, called for a nurse to find a vase for his flowers, and settled herself back comfortably on her pillows for a contented nap.

  ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Jess,’ Hector said as soon as he had made sure that the Distribution Manager (who shared her office) was safely in a meeting and unlikely to disturb them. There are some very personal things I unwisely told you in confidence, and now I find you’Ve been blabbing them to all and sundry. It isn’t good enough. I’m disappointed in you.’

  ‘I haven’t been “blabbing” anything to anyone,’ Jess countered, stung. ‘But if you mean Caroline, then I thought she had a right to know.’

  ‘Well that’s where you’re wrong,’ Hector said.
‘Let’s get this straight once and for all, shall we? Caroline’s baby is not mine. She and I have no “relationship” and it’s very unlikely that we shall be seeing each other again. Right? Have you got that?’

  ‘That still leaves Zillah and Wendy,’ Jess retorted. ‘Particularly poor Wendy!’

  ‘That’s none of your bloody business!’

  ‘Perhaps not, but you can’t censor my thoughts, and in my opinion it’s high time you had some kind of an ethics transplant.’

  ‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘You know perfectly well! Examine your conscience, Hector, if you’ve got one! Now I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’m late already.’ Jess picked up her camera bag and walked out. Hector was left standing in the centre of the room.

  Flaming cheek! he thought. Who the hell does she think she is?

  But later that evening, he reluctantly allowed the niggling feelings at the back of his mind to emerge and display themselves. It was true, he hadn’t been behaving well. Jess was right, blast her! His whole crusade for a son might well have been logical, but it had also been obsessive, and it certainly wasn’t ethical. Maybe it had been just as well that Caroline’s baby had turned out to be a girl? What a fool he’d been. He might have landed himself with a wife he didn’t even like! He was lucky to have got off so lightly. And another thing, her baby clearly wasn’t his; if it had been, he was sure he would have known at first sight. So now he didn’t have to see, or worry about either of them again. Well thank God for that.

  But, as Jess had so rudely remarked, that left Zillah and Wendy. I could be in deep trouble here, Hector thought. It’s not the sort of thing one can easily buy one’s way out of. If only Wendy hadn’t tricked me.

  Then he felt obliged to acknowledge that she had only done what he himself had also been doing, but probably for love, which put him firmly to shame. There was no escaping the facts; he had been well and truly shafted by his own arrow!

  Barry was assiduous in his courtship of the gently swelling Wendy. He bought her flowers, carried her heavy shopping, and even took her out for meals when Hector failed to honour his unwritten weekly commitment to her. He tried to persuade her to finish working early, take an extra amount of maternity leave and look after herself properly, but she was surprisingly stubborn and refused to stop until the very last moment. Barry suspected she was afraid, if she disappeared from view, that Hector would simply forget about her. He reckoned she had a point there, so he kept pressing her, but only gently.

  Above all, Barry displayed enthusiasm for every aspect of parenthood. ‘What’ll you call it?’ he asked, one evening in October.

  ‘I thought Zara, if it’s a girl,’ Wendy said. ‘Hector wants Gwladys, but I’ve put my foot down. Imagine the poor little thing going through life as Gwladys with a w! ‘Course, if it’s a boy, it’ll be Morgan.’

  ‘Don’t you know which it is already?’

  ‘No. I said I didn’t want to. I think it should be a surprise. Knowing in advance would spoil it.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’

  ‘Well,’ Wendy admitted, ‘not quite the only one. You see if it’s a girl, then Hector probably wouldn’t marry me, out of disappointment. But if it’s a boy, he might marry me just for a son. So either way, I lose out, you see? I just can’t risk it. I want him to marry me because he loves me…’ Her lower lip quivered.

  ‘But why Morgan?’ Barry asked hurriedly. ‘Sounds more like a sports car?’

  ‘It was Hector’s father’s father’s name; my baby’s greatgrandfather, and Hector says…’

  ‘Morgan Bing, eh?’ Barry tried it out. ‘He’d get teased rotten at school.’

  ‘No, Morgan Mudgeley,’ Wendy said, with a defiant lift of her chin.

  ‘How can you be so confident?’ Barry asked. ‘There’s only a couple of months to go before it’s born.’

  ‘Shut up, Barry. It’s none of your business.’

  ‘But it is, Wendy, it IS. Tell you what, let’s make a bargain. If Hector (the bastard) Mudgeley hasn’t proposed and got your wedding all arranged by the end of October, right? Then you’ll marry me in early December. Yes?’

  ‘But I don’t love you, Barry.’

  ‘It’ll grow,’ Barry assured her. ‘Do things my way, and you’ll be a proper married woman before the baby’s born. I’d even let you call it Morgan if it’s a boy. Morgan Poole – can’t say fairer than that now, can I?’ He felt about in his pocket and held the resulting packet up for inspection. ‘Ah, smokey bacon.’

  ‘You’d have to promise not to feed it on crisps?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  Wendy laughed. ‘You’re daft, you.’

  ‘Make you smile sometimes though, don’t I? Which is a damn sight more than handsome-is-as-Hector does.’

  ‘You’re a nice boy, Barry.’

  ‘I’d rather be a nice man.’

  ‘All right then, you’re a nice man. Let’s just wait and see, shall we?’

  On 9 October Zillah’s second son was born. Hector, who had been telephoning the hospital daily for news on the pretext that he was her brother in New Zealand, finally learned to his joy that the baby had arrived and that he and his mother were both well. HE!

  Hector was beside himself with excitement. He rushed out during his lunch hour and bought four blue sleep-suits in assorted sizes, a huge bunch of purple chrysanthemums and a congratulatory card with a stork on the front. He had to force himself to wait until visiting time, dreaming all the while of himself and Zillah in a little, white private room (like the one Caroline had had) surrounded by flowers, holding hands and gazing at their baby boy in mutual joy.

  The reality was somewhat different. Zillah was in a large NHS maternity ward, crowded with visitors and loud with babies. Hector couldn’t see her at all at first, and then at the far end he noticed, with a sinking heart, Clive’s ginger hair. He was clearly not abroad on business this time, but here, sitting by her bed.

  ‘Hell!’ Hector muttered, backing out again in order to consider his options. He decided to postpone the flowers and sleep-suits until a more private occasion, so he put them down carefully on a trolley in the corridor and entered the ward once more. This time he held the card in front of him like a passport, and walked the length of the room pretending to be another delighted dad, like all the others.

  Zillah looked wonderful. She was sitting up in bed in a lacy nightdress with her long hair hanging down over her bare shoulders, holding the baby which was well wrapped in a small white cellular blanket. She was looking down at it, and she and Clive didn’t appear to be talking. Then Clive looked up and saw him.

  ‘Wotcher,’ Clive said, ‘if it isn’t the Good Samaritan! What brings you here then, as if I couldn’t guess?’

  ‘I’ve brought a card,’ Hector said. ‘Hello Zillah, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Zillah said. ‘You open it Clive.’

  ‘Oh, another one of these,’ Clive said, tearing the envelope and pulling the card out. ‘That makes four so far. Must be the most popular design.’ He plonked it on the locker by the bed.

  ‘Thanks, Hector,’ Zillah said.

  ‘So,’ Hector said, craning to see, ‘how’s the little chap then?’

  ‘He’s terrific,’ Zillah said, smiling. She pulled the blanket aside a little, so that Hector could get a proper look at the baby. It was quite the ugliest infant that Hector had ever seen, and what hair it had, although wispy, was plainly and undeniably red.

  ‘Brill, eh?’ Clive demanded, leaning over and stroking the baby’s head with a huge hand. ‘Looks the image of my old Mum!’ and he grinned cheerfully at Hector and Zillah in turn.

  Hector’s first reaction was one of wild disappointment, which he struggled manfully to conceal. He smiled gamely at the pink prune in the white blanket, and then turned away.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘best be off then. Just wanted to give you my good wishes. Glad you’re OK, Zillah. ‘Bye.’

/>   ‘Goodbye Hector,’ Zillah called after him, ‘and thanks.’

  Hector was so upset that he quite forgot to retrieve his flowers and baby clothes from the trolley in the corridor, and by the time he had got to the front door, remembered them, and gone back again, they had disappeared. He walked slowly back down the stairs, and out into the car park. The weather was bright and sunny and unseasonably warm for October. Hector would have preferred it to be grey, with a chill nip in the air, in tune with his mood. He felt as though his greatest dream had been hopelessly blighted.

  It wasn’t until he was more than halfway home, that he suddenly remembered something vitally important. According to his father’s family lore, Hector’s great-aunt (the second Gwladys, sister of Sir Morgan Caradoc), who had died tragically very young, had had beautiful, curly, flaming red hair!

  After a week or so, this long-disregarded fact began to encourage Hector anew. Zillah’s baby wasn’t necessarily Clive’s. It could be his. It was undoubtedly off-putting that the baby was so ugly, but Hector had recently forced himself to watch a TV programme about childbirth (although he had been obliged to go and make a cup of coffee a couple of times, when it had got a bit much…) so he now understood that newborn babies were sometimes all red and wrinkled, and that it didn’t last.

  Accordingly he decided to wait until Zillah was home from hospital, and then visit her again. He drove past the cottage a few times, only to discover, by the oversized presence of the lorry, that Clive seemed to be taking an unnecessarily long paternity leave. Hadn’t he got a job to do; money to earn? Hector was impatient to see the baby again and, if it were his, to bond with it as soon as possible, but it wasn’t until a couple of weeks had passed, that a chance presented itself.

  He walked up the path and rang the bell. He could hear the baby crying, and the sound got louder and louder as Zillah came to the door with it in her arms. Its face was screwed up, mouth wide, gums bared, dribbling and bawling its head off. Zillah looked tired and harassed.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Not now Hector. Bad moment.’

  ‘What?’ Hector couldn’t hear a word she was saying.