The Would-Begetter

by Maggie Makepeace

  ‘I’m just about to feed him,’ Zillah shouted, beginning to shut the door in his face.

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ Hector said, putting a foot firmly over the threshold.

  Zillah sighed and gave up, walking back into her scruffy living room and sitting herself down crossly amongst a litter of dirty mugs, crumpled clothes and cat hairs. Hector brushed off a chair with a fastidious hand and sat down opposite her, watching in fascination as she hitched a breast from under her jersey and popped the enlarged nipple into the child’s furious mouth. The ghastly noise ceased abruptly, and contented suckling began.

  ‘Phew!’ Hector said. ‘That’s better. I wonder how many decibels that was?’ Zillah didn’t answer. ‘Where’s Christian?’

  ‘At school.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. How is this little chap then, apart from being hungry?’ It didn’t look any less ugly this time, Hector was dismayed to see.

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Has he been christened yet?’

  ‘No, and he won’t be.’

  ‘So there’s still time to call him Morgan?’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking! His name is Florian.’

  ‘Oh come on…’ Hector chuckled, ‘you’re not serious?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Zillah said coldly.

  ‘Hasn’t he got wonderful little fingernails?’ Hector said, changing the subject quickly. ‘Perfect miniatures; quite extraordinary’ The dust on the coffee table, he noticed, was thick enough to be aggregating into matted grey caterpillars.

  ‘So what d’you want?’ Zillah demanded.

  ‘We still haven’t established who’s baby he is,’ Hector explained. ‘My great-aunt had bright red…’

  ‘He’s Clive’s,’ Zillah said. ‘Any fool can see that!’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Hector insisted. ‘Now if you and I and the baby were to get some tests done

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘But you suggested it in the first place!’

  ‘Well I’ve changed my mind. Clive’s been terrific with this baby. He wouldn’t hear of tests.’

  ‘Exactly, that’s the whole idea. If Clive doesn’t hear of them, then he won’t worry, will he?’

  ‘No,’ Zillah said flatly.

  ‘And you categorically refuse to call him Morgan?’

  ‘I most certainly do.’

  ‘Well that’s a great pity,’ Hector said, forgetting his recent resolutions all over again in his desire to win against Clive at all costs, ‘because I came over here especially to arrange to pay you regular maintenance for my son, but more than that, to ask you again to marry me.’

  ‘Oh well, we can always do with financial help,’ Zillah said, softening. ‘It’s very kind of…’

  ‘No marriage; then no money,’ Hector said firmly.

  Zillah shifted the baby round to the other breast before answering. ‘Well that’s that then.’

  ‘Please Zillah?’ Hector pleaded.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Oh well, get lost!’ Hector jumped angrily to his feet and flounced out.

  Driving back to work, still furious and disillusioned, Hector tried to count his blessings:

  1) The baby most probably wasn’t his anyway.

  2) Zillah, as well as being no cook, was clearly a slattern.

  3) He hadn’t fancied the prospect of a showdown with Clive.

  Ergo, it was all for the best. Oh Lord, he thought, Two down and only one to go. It seems only a moment ago when I had the choice of three! What if Wendy’s baby turns out to be another girl? He parked the car beside the Chronicle building and walked round to the front, and in through the swing doors.

  Wendy was sitting behind the reception desk, and Barry was in front, leaning against it on one elbow. Their faces were close together and they were laughing. They stopped abruptly as he came in. Barry straightened up, smiling triumphantly, and said, ‘Ah Hector, I’d like you to be the first person to hear the good news. Wendy and I are getting married.’

  Chapter 12

  Jess finally decided that Hector had made his bed and could therefore damn well lie in it. She moved the framed photograph which had stood on her mantlepiece ever since their photo session in Megan’s turret house nearly a year before, and looked about for somewhere less conspicuous to keep it. It showed Hector outside the big front door, head and shoulders only, one eyebrow raised ironically with the polished brass knocker gleaming behind his head like a halo. It was one of her best portraits yet. Jess put it into a drawer beside her bed and slid it sadly out of sight. Why is it, she thought, that whenever I get a really good photo of a man, it always seems to be a bad omen?

  That reminded her. I’m twenty-four, she thought, and what sort of a love life have I had so far? One shortlived affair when I was twenty-three with a tennis player called Mike, to whom I lost my virginity, of whom I got the ultimate sporting-action shot, but with whom I shared nothing important. The best years of my life are galloping by, and leaving me behind. I should be doing something about it. Here I am at home at a loose end on a Saturday afternoon. I should be at a football match with some bloke, or hill-walking, or sharing DIY with him, birdwatching, talking, anything. I might be a good photographer, but as a human being I’m a total failure.

  The telephone rang, and Jess went into her sitting room to answer it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jess? This is Vivian Powderham, Caroline’s friend, if you remember…?

  ‘Oh Vivian, yes of course I do. How are you?’

  ‘I’m well. I wondered whether you’d care to come out to dinner with me tonight?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Well… yes…’

  ‘Are you easy to find? Caroline gave me your phone number but not your address.’ Jess told him how to get to her flat. ‘Lovely. See you at seven thirty?’

  ‘Fine,’ Jess said. ‘Great. ‘Bye.’ She put the phone down and glanced at herself in the mirror above it. She saw a thin, untidy, androgenous sort of person with large glasses and a worried expression. Somehow, she thought, I’ve got to transform that scarecrow into the ideal dinner-date – feminine without being girly, elegant without being ostentatious, and sexy without being too explicit… God! If only it were that easy.

  Vivian called for her at exactly half-past seven. He looked, Jess thought, understated but stylish. He was not handsome. His face was too thin, his nose too beaky and his hair too wavy, but he was scrupulously polite and attentive.

  ‘Lovely to see you again,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me, so I had this potted description of myself all ready in case.’

  ‘Tell me anyway,’ Jess said.

  ‘Friend of Caroline’s who looks like a cross between Bertrand Russell and Jeremy Paxman,’ he said. Jess laughed.

  As the evening progressed Vivian displayed an attractively wry outlook on life. Jess barely noticed what she was eating; the conversation never flagged long enough. Vivian told her about his art gallery in Bath and the exhibition of portraits which he had mounted recently. He was flattering about those of her photographs he had seen and knowledgeable about the uncertainties of the freelance life, which he nevertheless encouraged her to consider.

  ‘You’re wasted on your little provincial newspaper,’ he said. ‘What do you mostly take pictures of in an average week: Women’s Institutes, flower shows, schoolchildren, amateur dramatics?’

  ‘That sort of thing, yes,’ Jess agreed, ‘and fundraising efforts for charity, local government and parish stuff, accidents, floods, crime, you name it.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound very challenging.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Jess said. ‘Every day is different. Suits me anyway.’

  ‘You must come to the gallery next month,’ Vivian said. ‘I’m having a specialist photographic exhibition on marine wildlife in all its forms. Quite fascinating; I’ve learned such a lot of biology.’ He leant forward to top up her wine glass and smiled at her. ‘But you know, y
ou ought to exhibit some of your stuff. I’m sure it would sell. Caroline thinks so too.’

  ‘Nice idea,’ Jess said, smiling back. ‘By the way, how is Caroline? I haven’t had a chance to go up and see her and baby Hannah yet.’

  ‘I’ve been once,’ Vivian said, ‘but to be honest, I find that sort of hands-on parental stuff rather daunting. I’m sure she’s a lovely child, as babies go, and Caroline herself is absolutely transformed.’ He sipped his wine and looked thoughtful. ‘In fact, if I may use a zoological metaphor, it’s as though she’s metamorphosed into a different life-form altogether. I felt rather out of place as a matter of fact, as though I were still in some kind of irresponsible free-floating larval stage, when she’s suddenly become a fully formed adult limpet and stuck herself firmly to a high class rock. Her horizons seem to have shrunk so! We seem to have nothing in common any more.’

  ‘But you’ll still be seeing each other?’ Jess asked.

  ‘Oh I expect we’ll see each other once or twice a year, yes, but somehow I think that will be all.’ He seemed entirely philosophical about it.

  ‘So is that why you’ve asked me out? As a sort of Caroline substitute?’

  ‘Certainly not! Don’t underestimate yourself, or me, for that matter.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jess said. ‘Good.’

  But when Vivian dropped her back at her flat later that evening, he made no attempt to ‘come in for coffee’ or even to kiss her. Jess was disappointed at first but later, lying in bed, decided that she wouldn’t have wanted to kiss him anyway. He was good company, but too inoffensive, too refined. It’s no good, she thought, he’s not for me. I need red-blooded enthusiasm, zest, drive, passion!

  Hector congratulated himself on not having made a scene in front of Barry when so gleefully informed of his forthcoming marriage to Wendy. He had managed to say something ambiguous like, ‘Really?’ and had kept his dignity intact. However, once up the stairs and sitting at his desk, his mind began to work furiously.

  I shall have to marry her myself, he thought, and before the baby is born too. The little minx! I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she and Barry haven’t cooked this whole thing up between them, just to push me into proposing. So maybe I’ll hang on until after the birth? But what if Barry really does want to marry her? Jess said he was keen… I can’t have that fat youth stealing my baby. So it may be a girl – so what? Maybe it’s ridiculous of me only to have wanted a son all this time? Daughters often get on better with their fathers anyway. A little girl could be very charming… but can I bring myself to marry Wendy? Hector forced himself to consider the pros and cons, to be scrupulously honest with himself, and yet pragmatic. He got out his notebook, ruled a column down the centre, and made two lists:

  She’s having MY BABY – the clincher!

  It’s all of a piece really, Hector thought. In other words, Wendy isn’t my equal intellectually. Maybe that’s a good thing. Clever women are notoriously difficult to live with, and I’m not at all keen on this New Man stuff. Wendy is undoubtedly all woman. You wouldn’t get her expecting me to do the cooking. And the Somerset accent and the social scene? Well, how often do I mix in the sort of circles where that would be a disadvantage? She’d be fine at the golf club with the other wives. What am I fussing about?

  But what about love (whatever that is)? Forget it! Hector admonished himself sharply. You’re far too old for all that romantic nonsense. After all, you can’t expect to have everything in this life. Wendy fancies you, and you quite fancy her. That’s probably about as good as it gets. But what about loving Zillah? his conscience prompted him. Nah! Hector brushed the thought aside, crossly. That was mere infatuation. Beauty is a gilded trap for the unwary. Just as well some of us have the wit not to fall into it.

  The following morning when Hector collected his post at the front door, he discovered that his decree absolute had finally arrived. He was divorced from Megan at last! It must be fate, he thought. I’d better act upon it at once. I shall take Wendy out for a special meal tonight, question her on a few crucial aspects of her family health, and if all is well, get her to forget Barry and marry me instead.

  Wendy was trying hard not to examine her own feelings too closely. Barry had worn her down with his entreaties and she had finally said ‘Yes’. She wouldn’t have to face being a single mum after all, and the relief was wonderful. Barry’s delight had been very heartening too. It’s what I need, Wendy kept on assuring herself. I need to be loved, and Barry loves me. It’s that simple.

  She was now determined to stop herself obsessively keeping an eye out for Hector and his comings and goings at work. Instead, she kept her head well down. He clearly wasn’t going to propose to her. He didn’t want to marry her. It’s my own fault, she chided herself guiltily. I trapped him into sleeping with me the first time and now look where it’s got me.

  ‘Wendy?’ Hector’s voice made her jump.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Could I have a word?’

  Wendy walked across to the end of the Reception desk. ‘What about?’

  ‘I want you to come out to dinner with me,’ Hector said, keeping his voice low so that Jackie couldn’t overhear.

  ‘Oh,’ Wendy said, ‘well I’m not sure. I am an engaged woman you know.’

  ‘Please,’ Hector insisted. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose we could have just one more meal. I don’t suppose Barry…’

  ‘Right,’ Hector said. ‘Pick you up at seven o’clock sharp. OK?’ And he opened the door and disappeared upstairs.

  Oh dear, Wendy worried. I really ought to tell Barry, but I don’t think I’m going to. He’d only be cross, and after all, it’s not as though I’m going to make a habit of it. After tonight, that’ll be it. She felt sad at the thought, but steeled herself to try to think positively. She would go along with what Hector wanted this last time, and that would round things off tidily. Maybe she did owe him that.

  Hector arrived at her house promptly at seven o’clock, dressed in a smart suit and with a bottle of champagne in his hands. He was smiling cheerfully. ‘Pop this in the fridge, there’s a love,’ he said. ‘We can drink it when we get back.’

  ‘Oh I’m not drinking these days, Hector. It’s bad for the baby.’

  Hector frowned. ‘Well put it away somewhere, will you? I can’t keep carrying it around.’

  Wendy did so. Then they got into Hector’s Jaguar and set off for the restaurant. ‘I feel a bit bad,’ Wendy said. ‘I haven’t told Barry I’m here.’

  ‘Good,’ Hector said.

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind, Hector. I’m still going to marry Barry. We’re buying the ring Saturday.’

  ‘Wendy?’ Hector said abruptly, not taking his eyes from the road ahead. ‘Is there any madness in your family?’

  ‘What a thing to ask!’ Wendy was outraged. ‘My family’s as good as yours any day.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. So none of your relations have ever suffered from serious mental illness?’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Or serious illnesses of any other kind?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Bear with me, please, Wendy. It’s very important.’

  ‘Why is it?’

  ‘Because I say so. Now, have they? Think hard!’

  Wendy, remembering her resolve, said obediently, ‘Not that I can remember offhand, no.’

  ‘You don’t have any diabetes or cystic fibrosis or haemophilia, or anything like that?’

  ‘No, both my nans and grandads died of old age, and my mum and dad were killed in a gas explosion.’

  ‘Oh…’ Hector turned towards her for an instant. He looked genuinely sympathetic. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

  ‘It was years ago,’ Wendy said.

  ‘You poor little thing,’ Hector said, patting her knee consolingly.

  After that, there was no more talk of illness. Hector was very attentive and Wendy began to enjoy herself. They arrived at the best, crowded, restaurant (whi
ch Hector usually dismissed as being far too expensive) and were given a table right in the middle. Wendy ordered her favourite meal: prawn cocktail, followed by steak and chips, followed by Black Forest gâteau, and Hector didn’t criticise her choice once. Then, as she finally sat back replete, wiping her mouth with the napkin, Hector leant towards her and took her hand.

  ‘I’ve got something very important to tell you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ Wendy could feel a burp rising within her, and strove to keep it down.

  ‘I got my decree absolute today,’ Hector said, ‘so I’m finally divorced.’

  ‘Mmmmm,’ Wendy said, letting it out in suppressed form.

  ‘But don’t you see?’ Hector said excitedly. ‘Don’t you see where that leaves me? I’m free, Wendy, free to marry you!’

  ‘But…’ Wendy struggled with the unfairness of life, ‘… but now I’ve promised Barry…’

  ‘It’s not too late,’ Hector leant earnestly towards her. ‘Ask yourself who is it that you really love? Ask yourself who is the father of your child? Be honest, Wendy!’

  ‘But… do you really want to marry me?’ Wendy asked, confused.

  ‘I wouldn’t be asking you if I didn’t, would I?’

  ‘Well, you haven’t exactly asked me yet…’

  Then to Wendy’s huge embarrassment, Hector rose to his feet right there in the middle of the posh restaurant, got down rather heavily on one knee and said, ‘Please Wendy, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

  ‘Get up!’ Wendy hissed, blushing. ‘Everyone’s staring.’

  ‘Not until you’ve given me your answer,’ Hector said, smiling confidently.

  Oh God! Wendy agonised inwardly. This is what I’ve been praying for for so long, and now… I am so sorry, Barry. Please forgive me…

  ‘Well?’ Hector said. ‘Hurry up. My knee’s killing me.’

  ‘Oh Hector…’ Tears of happiness started from Wendy’s eyes.

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hector got to his feet and raised a triumphant thumb to the other diners. There was a desultory scatter of applause. Wendy didn’t know where to put herself. ‘Wonderful!’ Hector said, sitting down again. ‘Will you tell Barry, or shall I?’