I Own You

by Dawn McConnell

  The taxi pulled up at last and I lumbered out into the rain. For a moment, I stood outside the pub, listening to the noise from the boisterous crowds inside. Am I really going to do this?

  I had worn my tight jeans, the ones that showed off my baby bump, and a polo-neck sweater. My hands were shaking but there was no going back now. I pushed open the large wooden doors.

  Inside, a party was in full swing, red heart-shaped balloons decorating the bar, couples were dancing while ‘That’s Amore’ blasted through the stereo speakers. Less romantically, drunken women puffed on their fags and shrieked over the music while old blokes leered at them. I stood there for a moment, just looking around. It seemed no one had noticed me come in.

  I walked towards the bar – and that’s when I spotted the two of them, Stuart and Maria, serving customers from behind the bar while their son collected glasses. She was laughing and he was smiling at her warmly. Then he bent down and kissed the top of her head.

  It looked so natural, so affectionate. There was no mistaking the affection in that tiny, tender moment. Nobody else clocked it, nobody else even saw it, but in that moment of intimacy I felt all my hopes and dreams evaporate. With one last exhausted sigh, I knew it was over.

  Maria’s eyes scanned the room and that’s when they met mine. Instantly, her smile disappeared and the colour fled from her face. Stuart had been talking to one of the customers, but when he saw Maria freeze, his eyes followed hers and he too stopped dead.

  From then on, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I didn’t feel anger or pain. I didn’t feel anything at all. It was just as I had suspected for some time and now the truth was out, I felt calm. I hardly even noticed as Stuart lifted up the hatch of the bar, grabbed my arm and marched me back outside. His wife was right behind him, and their son behind her.

  ‘You told me it was over!’ Maria yelled at him once we were outside. ‘You said she was out of the picture completely! What the fuck is she doing here?’ She turned to me: ‘What are you doing here?’

  In answer, I opened my coat.

  There was silence. For a moment Maria just stood there, open-mouthed, not quite able to process what she was seeing. It was obvious to me that Stuart had been lying to us both.

  ‘You’re pregnant?’ she finally stammered. ‘She’s pregnant, Stuart? IS SHE FUCKING PREGNANT, STUART, WITH YOUR FUCKING BABY?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Stuart demanded, shaking me by the arm.

  I didn’t speak, just stood there as the rain beat against my face and the wind wrapped itself around me like a blanket. I felt frozen inside. There was nothing left for me to say. He had betrayed me; he was a coward. He had deliberately got me pregnant and then gone back to his wife. He didn’t even have the guts to tell me it was over. He had just treated me like crap, assuming I would get fed up of him. But I had caught him out in this monstrous charade and now I knew I could never trust him again.

  ‘Yes, I’m pregnant.’ I spoke to Maria in a calm voice, shrugging off Stuart’s hand. ‘I’m due in about two months but now that I know how Stuart feels about the whole situation, I think I’ll be better off on my own.’

  Maria seemed too perplexed to speak so I went on, now addressing Stuart: ‘If you’ll kindly give me £115 for the taxi fare back to Edinburgh I’ll be on my way.’

  I looked him up and down. His mouth was opening and shutting like a fish, but no words came out. He was pathetic. He’d lied to me over and over again and she could have him!

  ‘I don’t want him now,’ I said tonelessly. ‘I don’t even like him anymore.’

  My words seemed to break her. Maria burst into tears and flung herself at Stuart’s chest, beating on him and screaming out: ‘You bastard! You fucking bastard!’

  ‘Wait, Maria. Please . . . Please, Maria!’

  ‘No, Stuart! NO! You can get stuffed. I’ve had it.’ And with that she straightened up and looked at me, her face a picture of misery. ‘I don’t want him either. You’re welcome to him.’ Then she turned and stomped back into the pub, Fergus following her.

  Nearly seven months pregnant, I had no education and no place to live. I was the very person my mum had warned me I would become. I was too exhausted mentally to worry about Maria, who at least had a roof over her head and food on the table. She could also drive, while I didn’t even have the bus fare to get back to Edinburgh.

  For a moment, neither Stuart nor I moved. What would he do now? Would he run after her or stay with me? Who did he really want?

  I didn’t much care either way now. I just needed to get back because I was so cold and wet. The way it was all unfolding, it didn’t feel like my life at all, more like a movie I was watching from the outside. I was detached, watching it all take place around me, almost like I’d had to do when I was twelve, when John had snuck into my room and forced himself on me.

  ‘Oh fuck!’ Stuart said now, bitterly. I watched his mouth form the words, feeling nothing. Then he looked at me. ‘Well, come on then. I’m not forking out a hundred fucking quid on a taxi. I’ll drop you back.’

  Neither of us spoke on the return journey to Edinburgh. I just stared out of the window, watching the orange street-lights flash past. There was nothing between us now: no feelings, no love. Nothing. It had been a fling to him, that was all. I got it now. He had used me for sex and now it was over, he just wanted me to disappear.

  How stupid I’d been! And how much I hated this man sitting next to me. I had seen him now for the weak, pathetic individual that he was. Well, there was nothing else for it now: I had to have this baby and then try to figure out what to do next.

  Stuart drove us both back to the flat and he stayed over that night because it was too late for him to leave. The next day, he took me to a Chinese restaurant for lunch.

  ‘You’ve probably just cost me millions with your little stunt back there,’ he said as he guzzled down mouthfuls of special fried rice and noodles. Of course, it was all my fault!

  There was no apology, no admission of guilt. I could barely eat. All night long, I had lain awake planning what I would do. I felt nothing for this baby growing inside me and I didn’t want to be a teenage single mum – so there was only one way forward. I had decided I would put the child up for adoption once it was born. There was no other way.

  In the meantime, without any other means of support, I had no choice but to stick with Stuart, but it was purely out of financial necessity. I had nowhere else to go.

  After lunch, Stuart opened his wallet and took out two fifty-pound notes: ‘Here, this is all I’ve got. It will have to last you because I won’t be coming back this way for a while. The business is probably fucked and I’ve probably lost everything. You don’t know how these things work – I was trying to play happy fucking families so she wouldn’t try and fuck me over. But I guess that’s all blown out of the water now. So just . . . just lay low. Okay? I don’t need any more fucking dramas for now.’

  The next time I saw Stuart was the beginning of March when he picked me up from the flat and drove me to the airport. He handed me a flight ticket to Guernsey and a little blue jewellery box with a pretty pearl ring inside that brought tears to my eyes when I saw it.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, as he waved me off at the departure gate. ‘Just do what Mum says and you should be fine. I’ll see you on the other side.’

  Chapter 9

  My Black Eyed Boy

  ‘Please let me call the ambulance, Gladys! I really think I’m in labour.’

  It was 8 a.m. on 12 April 1986 and I was lying in bed after a night of being sick in the toilet and now the tops of my thighs were killing me.

  ‘My legs are hurting,’ I called out.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Gladys grumbled from her bed on the other side of the room. We’d been sharing her bedroom for the past four weeks and I was sick of running around after her. She seemed not to notice that I was nine months pregnant!

  ‘You don’t get sore legs when you’re in labour
,’ she went on. ‘Why would you have sore legs?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I replied. ‘I haven’t given birth before, have I?’

  I’d never been to any antenatal classes. I didn’t even have a book on pregnancy or giving birth. The only time I had seen a doctor was when I was four months pregnant so I was completely in the dark about how this was meant to go. The plan was just to turn up at the hospital when I was due to give birth.

  ‘Look, have your waters broken?’ Gladys asked.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Is your bed wet?’

  ‘No. But my legs are so sore.’

  ‘Listen, dearie, my legs have been sore for twenty fucking years. I’ve got chronic arthritis and I’m on a Zimmer so don’t tell me about sore legs! Now stop whining and make me a cup of tea!’

  Somehow, I managed to heave myself off the bed. I was very big now so I waddled to the kitchen, made Gladys a tea, took it through to her and then got dressed and went downstairs. It was the middle of April and I was due to give birth this week, according to the doctor I’d seen. It couldn’t come soon enough! I was fed up being so big, fed up living with Gladys and her endless demands and fed up waiting for this baby to come out.

  Stuart hadn’t been to see me the whole time I’d been here, though we’d talked on the phone and he’d said he’d be by my side the moment the baby came out. Despite everything, I hoped so. I was scared and although I still had my dreams of putting the baby up for adoption and starting over, I had no idea if I could do it alone. With my hormones flying all over the place and my fear of the future sky-high, despite myself and my big ideas, as the birth grew closer, my naive sixteen-year-old self held onto the faint hope that everything would be fine once the baby arrived.

  The night before, I’d complained to Gladys that I was bored to death of being pregnant and I wished the baby would just hurry up and come.

  ‘I know how to get this baby out,’ Gladys had told me. ‘You need a bottle of castor oil, fresh orange juice, a curry and some wine. Then you’ll definitely give birth!’

  So we went out for a curry and Gladys ordered me a chicken vindaloo which burned like fire all the way down my throat. Then she made me drink the cheap red wine we’d bought from the off-licence. By the time we were on our way home, I was already feeling queasy but Gladys wasn’t finished with me yet. Next she’d ordered me to mix half a glass of castor oil with half a glass of orange juice.

  ‘Drink that!’ she’d ordered.

  ‘I can’t drink it!’ I’d giggled drunkenly as I watched the two liquids separate in the glass. It looked and smelled disgusting. So Gladys got a spoon and mixed the drink up, swirling it round and round until the two liquids had formed a sort of brown gloop.

  ‘Now drink it!’ she shouted. ‘Quickly!’

  I knocked it all back and half an hour later I was violently sick in the toilet. In fact, I’d spent most of the night with my head down the loo, Gladys cackling away like an old witch.

  Now, at 11 a.m. the following morning, I still felt as rough as anything. Gladys eventually got up and dressed and came hobbling into the living room. I begged her once more to call the ambulance and, finally, she agreed. We arrived at the hospital at 11.20 a.m. and the midwife checked me over.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re only three centimetres dilated,’ she said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means you could be here for hours.’

  ‘But I’m in labour?’

  ‘Yes, but the very early stages. Why don’t you go through to the waiting room and get yourself a coffee?’

  I shuffled back into the waiting room where Gladys was sitting, peeling hard-boiled sweets from their wrappers. She gave me a questioning look.

  ‘They say it could be hours. I’m getting a hot chocolate.’

  ‘Tea for me,’ she said as she popped a bright yellow sweet in her mouth. I waddled over to the machine and took out some change. Just as I was putting the money into the machine, I felt a warm, flowing sensation down my legs. I looked down, horrified to see I was leaking water everywhere.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I breathed. ‘Gladys! Something’s happened! I think it’s the waters breaking. Oh God, Gladys! Do you think I should clean it up?’

  I felt so embarrassed at the mess I was making but the nurses and midwives swung into action. They put me in a wheelchair and whisked me straight through to the delivery ward. There, they measured me again. Now, I was eight centimetres dilated, which surprised everyone because apparently it was very unusual to go from three to eight in under ten minutes. I didn’t care about their stupid numbers, all I knew was that I was now in agony.

  ‘Can I get something for the pain?’ I begged the nurse as they laid me down on the bed. There were people everywhere now. They had put some pads on my stomach to measure the pain.

  ‘No, your pain levels are very low, just a two on the scale,’ she said. ‘You only get pain relief if it’s over seven. Relax, you’ll be okay.’

  ‘But it’s very painful . . .’ I couldn’t go on. There was a heaving sensation in my stomach and bile filled my mouth. I turned my head to the side and threw up all over the floor.

  ‘Did you have a curry last night?’ someone asked. Christ! I could have died from shame. Even I could smell the curry and the castor oil. The pain came again and, once again, I was sick over the side of the bed.

  ‘You’ve given birth . . . to a little boy!’ someone announced.

  ‘What?’ I said groggily, wiping the spit from the corner of my mouth. ‘Already? While I was throwing up?’

  A minute later, Gladys came in.

  ‘You look alright for being in labour,’ she remarked with a grin.

  ‘Gladys, I’ve had it. I’ve had the baby.’

  ‘I hope it’s a bloody boy or they can put it back.’

  ‘Yeah, it is a boy.’

  ‘Oh thank goodness! We’ll call him Stuart Michael.’

  ‘No, we’re not calling him Stuart Michael.’

  ‘Well, whatever. So where is he then?’

  Strangely enough, I hadn’t even thought about where the baby was.

  ‘Just coming . . .’ called out a midwife. ‘We’re just cleaning him up. You won’t believe this but she gave birth while she was being sick! She didn’t even feel him coming out!’

  ‘Aye, that’s because she drank a bottle of castor oil last night. He slipped out!’

  ‘Really? Oh dear, that’s really not advisable . . .’

  Someone had pushed up the bed so now I was sitting up and, finally, the midwife placed a little bundle into my arms. My son. I looked at him – he had a strange, squashy face and a mass of dark, curly hair.

  For a moment, I was confused. Was this my baby? Really? I felt like giving him back. Stuart hadn’t even made an appearance, and there was no family showing any interest in my predicament. What was I really doing? I was so consumed with how, at sixteen, I would survive and look after myself that I couldn’t imagine how to do it for two people. I didn’t have a plan for me, let alone another person who really couldn’t look after themselves. His eyelids flickered open and now all I could see were big black eyes. Oh my God, he looks like Damien from The Omen! I thought. Where did those black eyes come from? I’ve got grey eyes and Stuart’s are blue.

  ‘Why are his eyes black?’ Gladys asked sharply. I just shrugged. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t quite believe any of this was real. After all, at sixteen, I was just a baby myself.

  ‘Come on,’ the midwife said. ‘Let’s get you onto the ward, shall we?’

  She took the baby away and helped me off the bed. Just as I was edging my way towards the wheelchair, I felt something fall out of me.

  ‘Ahhh!’ I screamed. ‘What’s that? Is it another one?’

  ‘No, that’s the afterbirth.’ The midwife smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, it’s perfectly normal.’

  They put us on a nice ward with several other new mums and over the next few days, I watched from m
y bed as throngs of visitors came and went from the ward: husbands, parents, older children, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews and friends. The noise levels rose and sank with every new batch of arrivals and there was a great deal of cooing and clucking among the women.

  But it was strangely quiet on my side of the ward; my only visitor was Gladys. It gave me time to get to know my son a little better. The adoption option was very much at the forefront of my mind. But with all the nurses and midwifes constantly reminding me how wonderful motherhood was and how privileged I was, I hardly had the opportunity to discuss adoption with anyone. Luckily, my little boy latched on quite easily so I figured I would breastfeed him. It seemed like a lot less hassle than faffing about with bottles. That first day, I managed to hobble over to the payphone.

  ‘I’ve had the baby,’ I told my mum on the phone. ‘A little boy. He was born at midday.’

  ‘Congratulations, Dawn,’ she said. ‘How was the birth?’

  ‘Everything was fine. It only took half an hour. He weighs eight pounds exactly. The nurses say we’re both doing well.’

  ‘That’s good. I’m glad you’re both healthy.’

  And that was that. She didn’t ask when I was coming back or when she could see him. I could sense her disappointment in me from hundreds of miles away. I knew I was a failure in her eyes, a miserable failure. I slowly replaced the handset and hobbled back to bed.

  Over the next few days, the nurses were great, showing me how to hold, feed and bathe my son. I wanted to call him Callum – it was a name I’d always loved – so I just started calling him that and everyone else did too. He was a sweet little baby and I liked him well enough, but I could see I didn’t have the same bond that the other mums on the ward had with their newborns. Is there something wrong with me? I wondered. These women seemed smitten but to me, Callum was just like a cute puppy. Nice enough – but not terribly interesting. I couldn’t see how our futures might fit together.