Sweetpea

by C. J. Skuse

  A blank canvas, waiting for us to start painting our future on it.

  Craig smiled, a broad all-encapsulating smile, looking down at my stomach. ‘Can we have a minute to talk through a few things, do you mind?’

  ‘Oh, sure, sure,’ said the agent. ‘I’ll just be outside.’

  When she had left, he said, ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I want us to live here, Craig. The asking price was dropped again recently. We could so afford it. With my share of Mum and Dad’s and the sale of your flat, we could buy it outright. We wouldn’t need a mortgage or anything.’

  ‘We haven’t even talked about moving, let alone to somewhere like this.’

  ‘What’s wrong with this?’

  He shook his head. ‘Well, for a start it’s right out in the sticks. For another thing it’s in another country. And while we’re at it, it’s a wreck.’

  ‘It’s not a wreck. Just think of the possibilities. There’s a freshwater river, riding stables, a beach just down the road. Look at the size of the garden. We could grow our own veg! Keep chickens. Maybe a goat. Have flower beds all round the edge. I know the inside needs doing up but we could do that, together. It could be our project.’

  He shook his head again. ‘This is crazy.’

  ‘It’s my dream,’ I told him. ‘I don’t want to bring the baby up in a smoky old town where he’s breathing in all the fumes from the road and goes to school with kids who’ve got hypodermics sticking out of every arm.’

  ‘It’s a county town in the West Country, Rhee. Hardly the Bronx.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I said, pressing myself against him and rubbing the backs of his ears – always a winner. ‘Yes, it’s crazy, no we haven’t talked about moving, and yes leaving everyone we know will be hard at first but we’ll make new friends.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. This is hormones talking, isn’t it? I read about this on that app. Rational goes out the window when you’re expecting.’

  ‘Screw rational, Craig. We’ve been rational for four years and we’re still treading water. You’re bored, I’m bored. Let’s do it. Let’s just throw caution to the wind and move here. Raise our family here. I’ll write books and grow veg and you’ll pick up loads of local building work…’

  He pulled back. ‘This is the happiest I’ve seen you in months.’

  ‘I think we could both be happy here. That’s all.’

  There was a pub within walking distance called The Heron so we went there for a heart-to-heart over scampi and chips. We didn’t manage to iron anything out and he said when he comes back from Holland we’ll really look into it properly. Bronwen says she’ll keep us informed if she gets any other interest in the meantime but I’ve got a squiggly feeling in my chest that it’s ours for the taking!

  On Friday, we took Tink into town to get her nails clipped and Craig bought me a proper engagement ring – an 18-carat white-gold solitaire with ‘Forever’ engraved into it on the inside. It sparkles. We bought Tink a little diamond collar in a pet shop too so she wouldn’t feel left out.

  And on Saturday we FINALLY did a car boot sale! Made nearly £140 from junk we had stuffed in the spare room wardrobe. Had a Nando’s to celebrate.

  I checked his phone when he was taking the rubbish out – three texts from Lana Rowntree:

  I’m going to do it again if you don’t call me.

  Baby, please talk to me. I can’t stop thinking about you.

  Don’t think I won’t do it. I’ve got more pills left you know, I will, I mean it. It’s not fair to leave me like this.

  He didn’t respond to any of them. The next time I checked, they had all gone and so had her number.

  He left hella early in his van as they had to catch the 9 a.m. ferry from Dover. He kissed me and lifted my T-shirt to kiss my belly before he went. He had to pick up Eddie and Gary on the way and they were meeting seven lads at Dover and for the games they haven’t got tickets for, they are just going to ‘sit outside and watch it on the big screens, drinking beer and having a laugh’. This comment normally would have annoyed the phelanges off me but not today. Everything seems brighter today. Like a wall has come down and I can finally see the sunrise beyond.

  Sunday, 16 June

  This past week alone I have found myself crying to…

  1.a commercial for Dogs Trust;

  2.the idiot savant who won Countdown;

  3.a CBeebies Book at Bedtime, read by David Tennant

  4.a new strawberry appearing on my pot plant and

  5.Tink doing ‘Shake a Paw’ for the First. Time. Ever

  The flat feels lonely without Craig. Tink’s taken to sleeping with one of his socks. I keep talking to the Poppy Seed. I asked it this morning if it wanted Crunchy Nut or Shreddies for breakfast. Neither, it said. It wanted toast, four slices of, with peanut butter and a sliced banana.

  Just like my daddy has.

  Oh, fuck. Think I’m really starting to lose my mind.

  Monday, 17 June

  I’m not six weeks preggo yet and the sleepiness has well and truly kicked in. Today and yesterday I woke up, took Tink out around the complex, then went back to bed for an hour. I just want to sleep all the time.

  I’m also forgetting EVERYTHING. Coffee orders – out of my head. Mid-sentence, I forget what I’m saying. And piss! I’m pissing for England! I can’t even survive the drive into work without stopping off at the Drive-Thru McDonald’s on the retail park to empty my blad. I’m sure every woman gets this when they’re knocked up but I’ve never really taken much notice of what they’ve said before because it hasn’t interested me. Now I’m trawling Mumsnet for advice: Is it normal for morning sickness to kick in at lunchtime? Why do I need to piss every twenty minutes? Why do I wake up more tired than when I went to bed? How can I have just eaten half a loaf of bread and still be hungry?

  Can’t trawl on there for too long though – it’s like PICSO HQ.

  And everything is making me cry. Everything. Daisy brought me back a lemon and poppy seed muffin from lunch and I burst into tears. I couldn’t even tell her the real reason so I made up some shit about an old relative dying of a stroke after eating a muffin. She bought it anyway and Claudia gave me the afternoon off.

  Lana wasn’t in today. Nobody knows why.

  Also – tit ache. MAJOR tit ache. They KILL! I can’t lie on my front any more in bed and God help the next man who touches them – he may have to go the way of the Sabatier.

  No, no, I’ve given all that up now. I’m being a responsible mother. I’m nesting and looking after myself and looking on the positive side. No watching of unsavoury Channel 5 programmes. No chat-rooming. No fishing. Do I miss it? I don’t know. I’m too tired to miss anything right now.

  It’s precisely 6.26 p.m. There’s been an earthquake somewhere. Loads dead. Tink has just pissed on my strawberry plant. I’m going to bed for an hour.

  Tuesday, 18 June

  That hour turned into all night – missed dinner and everything! Woke up ravenous and ate two smoked salmon bagels and two and a half bowls of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.

  Phoned Craig at lunch. He’s having a good time.

  ‘That’s so awesome,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait to see you.’

  ‘Me either. How’s it going over there? Are you enjoying yourself?’ Listen to me being all considerate. Told you I’d turned a page *brushes lapel*.

  ‘Yeah, it’s great,’ he said. ‘But for a few assholes.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Didn’t you see it on the news? There was some trouble at last’s night’s game. It’s all over the papers here, not that I can read Dutch.’

  ‘I didn’t catch the news last night. I went to bed early.’

  ‘Oh, well, a load of English lads went a bit nuts in the town square. A combination of too much beer and too much sun, I think. They’ve arrested dozens. I’m keeping my nose clean, don’t worry.’ />
  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘We miss you, Daddy.’

  Unfortunately, late this afternoon, another boo-boo – AJ guessed about the baby. It was his last day today as well. I so nearly got away with it. I was in the staffroom, grabbing a bottle of water and I was trying hard not to vomit as he plated up his last ever doughnuts and stirred his last ever batch of coffees for the editors.

  ‘Can I tempt you to a hot milky beverage?’ he hammed, biting the top of my ear.

  ‘Ooh, no thanks,’ I said, as though he’d just offered to sacrifice a baby goat in front of me.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, fine, why?’

  ‘You love my coffee. You said my lattes are better than Starbucks.’

  ‘I feel a bit sick today, that’s all. Bad curry last night.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Had a horrible feeling you were preggo or something.’

  He must have heard my tiny gasp because he almost dropped his doughnuts. ‘You’re not…’

  ‘No.’

  He dropped a teaspoon and it clattered to the floor. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘Uh… well, a bit.’

  ‘Oh, fuck!’ he cried, closing the staffroom door. ‘Is it…? Did I do that? Oh, shit. Oh, shit shit shit. Claudia’s gonna kill me! My mum’s gonna kill me!’

  ‘It’s very early so I haven’t told anyone yet. Please don’t tell, AJ, I mean it.’

  ‘How far gone are you?’

  ‘A month. Or so. Nearly six weeks.’

  ‘And… it’s mine? Like, deffo?’

  ‘Afraid so. The dates work out. But you’re the only one who knows that.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ I pulled a chair out for him to sit down. ‘I’m supposed to be leaving on Friday. My trains are all booked.’

  ‘Oh, shit, yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m supposed to buy your present and card. Completely forgot about that.’

  ‘You were on the Pill?’

  ‘I was,’ I said. ‘It didn’t work. Anyway, Craig thinks it’s his baby and that’s the way things are going to stay, all right?’

  ‘No, it’s not all right. Crikey, this is huge, Rhee. I need to be involved.’

  ‘No, you don’t. It wouldn’t work anyway. We have fun, sure, but you’re hardly father material.’

  ‘I’m nineteen.’

  ‘Exactly. Why don’t I just buy you a Kylo Ren doll or something instead, yeah?’

  ‘That’s not funny. Don’t patronise me.’

  ‘Craig’s nearly thirty with his own business. He’s solid, dependable. Trustworthy. You work for Minimum Wage, live with your auntie, and you ride a skateboard. I don’t even know what your real name is. We’ve got this, seriously. Step off.’

  ‘It’s not his baby, it’s mine.’ It was the first time I’d seen AJ actually say something without smiling. He was all strong and determined, all of a sudden, like he’d aged a decade in the last two minutes. And then I remembered all his ‘My-dad-left-my-mum-when-I-was-a-kid’ crap and my heart sank. Of course he’d want to stick around for it. Major boo-boo, Rhee. Major boo-boo, rising to Lieutenant General boo-boo of the Rhiannon Light Infantry. I should have kept my big fat trap shut and drank his coffee and then ran to throw up in the Ladies’ like a good psychopath.

  ‘This is all wrong. I have to be here for you.’

  ‘I don’t need you. Forget I said anything. Happy island-hopping. Happy… whatever else it is you’re doing for the next six months.’

  ‘Why are you being like this? Hey, we need to talk.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ I said. ‘This is happening to me, not you.’

  He shook his head. ‘I know I’m not in any fit state to be a dad but… I want to try. This is too huge.’

  ‘This conversation never happened. And if you tell anyone about this, I…’

  He looked up at me. I could see it in his eyes, remembering the night I told him about killing the man in the park. Remembering the look on his face – the look that said I was a monster and he needed to get away from me. The Poppy Seed was my bargaining chip here and I needed to buy his silence.

  ‘I’m giving you a Fire Exit here. You don’t have to do anything. You’re young, free and single. Fly. Be free. I’ll never contact you, I promise.’

  ‘It’s Austin. That’s my real name. Austin James.’ It was only when he started crying that I left.

  Bloody wuss.

  Still no Lana at work today either. Bollocky Bill said she’s ‘away’ and Carol thinks she’s ‘ill’. God knows what’s going on there. Wonder if she’s gone to Holland to track down Craig?

  Wednesday, 19 June

  1.ISIS – MasterChef’s been cancelled AGAIN, thanks to a bloody uprising in Kenya. British people were killed so, of course, it mattered enough for a Panorama special

  2.Newsreaders who emote too much – just tell me about the school shooting, don’t tell me how to feel about it

  3.Shouty market stall holders – there was a French foods market on in the centre of town today (I have to do the write-up on it, of course). Excellent crepes but ferme la fucking bouche, Monsieur, there’s a good chap.

  We officially exchanged contracts on Mum and Dad’s house this morning – the money should be in my account within the next week, once the solicitor has done his bit of soliciting. I don’t know how much but it’s in the region of £300,000. Found out from Claudia that Lana Rowntree’s gone off on sick leave. She hasn’t left the country, apparently, and they didn’t say exactly what had brought it on but Claudia tapped the side of her head as she told me.

  Wandered around the French market that’s popped up in the High Street. Ate a crepe. Threw up said crepe in the toilets when I got back to the office.

  Tried to call Craig but it went to voicemail. He hasn’t called all day. I would start to worry but I’m so tired I don’t think I’ve got it in me. I wonder if anyone will notice if I just shut one eye for ten minutes.

  *

  I woke up to my phone buzzing on my desk. It was Craig, phoning from a police station in Amsterdam. He’s been arrested.

  ‘What? What for?’ I shrieked.

  ‘Violent conduct.’

  ‘What violent conduct?’

  ‘There was a skirmish in the town last night [England lost 3–0] and I was a bit pissed and I threw a bottle – only a plastic one mind – and it bounced off a riot shield. They slung me into a van and brought me here.’

  ‘Is it just you who got arrested?’

  ‘No, Nigel’s in here as well but they won’t let us talk to one another. Listen – I’ll be all right but just in case they come round to the flat, can you flush the rest of my pot? It’s in a box under the electric blanket in the wardrobe. Just a precaution.’

  ‘They’re not going to come here, that’s silly,’ I said.

  ‘Please, Rhee, I daren’t take the risk. I don’t want a criminal record. It’ll affect our chance of a mortgage for the cottage if we need one. Please, baby?’

  ‘You’re not going to get a record just for throwing a bottle at a riot shield.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t exactly hit a riot shield. It sort of ricocheted and hit a kid.’

  ‘A kid?’

  ‘Yeah. And it wasn’t plastic. I lied. It was glass. He needed stitches.’

  ‘God’s sake, how could you be so stupid?’

  ‘I know, I know. I haven’t slept a wink. Bloody stinks in here.’

  ‘Serves you right.’

  ‘I know. The guy from the British Embassy says me and Nige could be banned from the Netherlands for life.’

  ‘Bang goes the holiday home in Amsterdam then, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I have to go. I’ll call you back tomorrow, all right? And don’t tell my parents – not yet, they’ll only worry. It’d finish my mum off at the moment, you know what she’s like. Kiss the Poppy Seed for me. I love you.’

  ‘Love you too, dickhead.’

  Ugh, men! Can’t live with them, can’t hog-tie ’em and throw them into a ditch off the M5.

&nbs
p; Friday, 21 June

  Jim and Elaine collected Tink first thing – Elaine had been up since four, packing for their day at the beach. They didn’t stay long – they never do – and they certainly won’t drink my coffee or tea because I don’t have ‘their milk’ and Elaine can’t drink out of mugs. Neither does she do well in close-quarters accommodation. Craig hadn’t called either of them to tell them about his little sojourn at His Majesty’s Pleasure in Tulip Land yet. He said it would finish his mother off. I have to say, I was quite intrigued to find out what that would look like.

  They were barely in the lift with Tink on her lead when AJ appeared at the end of the corridor, large rucksack on his back.

  ‘The fuck are you doing here?’ I asked him just as the lift doors pinged closed. ‘Who let you in?’

  ‘I dunno, some bloke. One of your neighbours.’

  ‘That was my soon-to-be parents-in-law, you dickhead.’

  ‘I know. I waited for them to go. Can I come in? I’ve got something to ask you.’

  And boy did he ask me.

  He held my face in his hands. He kissed my lips, fully but softly, then pulled back. ‘I want us to be a family. Now you’ve sold your parents’ place we’ll have money to just bum around. We can be free together. See some of the UK, see Europe and Russia, then in six months’ time, I’ll go back to Oz and apply to live here permanently.’

  I turned round and walked back into the flat. He followed, closing the door. ‘I don’t want to “bum around”. And I don’t want to live with you. I want to put down roots. I want a family and a cottage with a river running past it.’

  ‘You could have that with me.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. You want to travel. I don’t. I want Craig.’

  ‘Well, that’s another thing – he’s been seeing someone. Lana from work.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. So?’ I said.

  ‘Lana and Craig,’ he said again, like I hadn’t heard the first time. They’re having an affair. He’s been two-timing you. Having an affair. Shagging around.’

  ‘I said, I know. Now can I please go and have my shower? I stink like last night’s chicken carcass.’