The M Word

by Eileen Wharton

  ‘The blood test result indicates you are not through the menopause. Peri-menopausal woman can still get pregnant. Weren’t you taking precautions?’

  ‘I’m not sexually active,’ I say. Well, I’m not. As a rule. There was only that night, but that was months ago. Dear God, no. NO. NOOOOOO.

  ‘Really?’ she says. ‘Shall I put you down for two o’clock Wednesday?’

  21

  #inshock

  I’m in shock.

  I’m too depressed to write, speak or eat.

  And I’m still in shock.

  I’m trying to get my head round this. The sickness. Not menopause. The headaches. Not menopause. The aching joints. Not menopause. The nausea. Not menopause. The fluttering’s. Not IBS. PREGNANT!

  Fucking pregnant!

  To Mick the Dick!

  The worst thing is, there’s no way I can have a termination. The conference in Harrogate was five and a half months ago. What am I going to do?

  I’m in bed. Feeling very sorry for myself. The phone keeps ringing. I’m ignoring it. Everyone on Facebook is “feeling blessed”. I want to kick them until they can’t move. Twitter folk are all counting their blessings. Piss off!

  I’m not just fat. Blessing counted.

  How could I not know? Sickness, nausea, going off coffee and mushrooms, headaches, flutterings, gaining weight, mood swings. How could I not know? Poxy doctor and his menopause theory.

  I remember a previous conversation. ‘Is there any chance, Roberta, that you could be pregnant?’

  ‘None at all,’ I said.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Certain. Unless it’s the immaculate conception.’

  Argh!

  There was nothing immaculate about it. It was drunken, messy, disastrous and embarrassing.

  #whatmenopause?

  I’m too bloated and ugly to take a selfie. I have thousands of missed calls and texts. I’m ignoring everyone. I’m trying to ignore the door, but someone is being very insistent. I look through the spy hole and see Mick.

  ‘Roberta, I know you’re in there.’ He cannot see me like this. I never want to see him again. ‘Just open the door. Why didn’t you come to work on Monday?’

  Work. Shit. I forgot. I’m pregnant and insane. Depressed. Go away.

  ‘I’m going to keep coming back and knocking on the door until you open up.’

  Another battering on the front door and Tammy’s voice says, ‘Roberta, are you going to open this door, or am I going to knock it down?’ Really? Couldn’t knock the top off a rice pudding. ‘I mean it, Roberta.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I knew you were in there. Open the bloody door, will you? I’m freezing my tits off out here.’

  ‘You didn’t have any to start with.’

  ‘Pleased to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour along with your marbles.’

  ‘Who’s with you?’ I ask.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Christ, Roberta. Who do you think is with me? The SAS? Have you been smoking stuff?’ I open the door, and she falls in. ‘What the hell is the matter with you. Blooming stinks in here.’

  ‘Charmed.’

  ‘Open a bloody window.’ She flings open the kitchen window, eyes the empty wine bottles and pizza cartons, tuts like a disapproving mother and runs hot water into the sink. ‘I’m going to run you a bath, wash these dishes and clean this place up, and then, you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on.’

  I have never seen Tammy speechless. Never. Her mouth opens and closes like a dying fish. I’m sitting in a towel with another wrapped round my head while she does guppy impressions.

  ‘Pregnant?’ she eventually manages.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘But when…how…who…where? Jesus!’

  ‘Exactly. So, forgive me if I’m not dancing the hornpipe round a maypole in my undies.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘You’ve said that.’

  ‘How long… How many…?’

  ‘Months? Weeks? Not sure but using my powers of deduction, I’d say five and a half months.’

  ‘Christ in a four-wheel drive… Who?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’

  ‘You never even said you were seeing anyone.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Shit. A one-night stand?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You don’t know the guy.’ Lies.

  ‘I’m a bit miffed you didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Pardon me for not filling you in on all the gossip, but a bit miffed doesn’t cover it for me. I’m a bit abso-fucking-lutely devastated.’

  ‘I can imagine. Shit. I thought you were menopausal.’

  ‘So did I. So did my poxy doctor. Apparently, peri-menopausal women can still procreate. Who knew?’

  ‘Oh God! What have the kids said?’

  I give her a look.

  ‘Oh, you haven’t told them. I don’t envy you that task.’

  ‘Really not helping, Tammy,’ I say.

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry. At least…er…’

  ‘At least I’m not just getting fat?’

  ‘Yeah. Every cloud…’ she says. ‘When are you going to tell them?’

  ‘You gonna be there when I do?’

  ‘Christ, no. I was wondering when to leave town. They are going to flip.’

  ‘Cheers, friend.’

  ‘What shall I tell Mick?’

  ‘Mick? What’s he got to do with anything? I don’t know what you’re insinuating about me and Mick, but I can assure you–’

  ‘Calm down, Roberta. I just meant what shall I tell him about you not turning in for work? He knows I was coming here to see what’s wrong with you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘So, what shall I tell him?’

  ‘Tell him I left the country. Tell him I have leprosy. Tell him I died.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you have flu.’

  ‘Swine flu.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you’ll be back Monday.’

  I look at her.

  ‘You’ll need to come back. You’ll need a decent maternity package.’

  ‘Shit.’

  22

  I’m not taking a selfie today. I have spots on my chin, greasy roots and a fat stomach.

  I receive a text message from Mick saying, ‘I hope u r ok.’ Liar.

  I need a distraction from the devastating news. I figure if my brother was adopted by the couple who wrote to my stepfather, his name would be Michael Rowbotham. I enter it on a Facebook search and get twenty-five hits. I start sending messages…

  Against my better judgement, I’m attending an antenatal appointment. I’m sitting in a waiting room with girls young enough to be my grandchildren, feeling like an old beast of burden. A pregnant hippo. A hormonal cow. I’ve got my bra on the last fastener, and I’ve loosened the top button of my jeans, pulling the zip down halfway, but I still feel trussed up like a Christmas turkey.

  ‘Urine sample,’ Nurse Ratchet demands. She’s broad and wears a hairnet over a tight bun. She looks like a Russian shot-putter (male). I hold out the small bottle I’ve been clutching. She disappears, and another nurse appears and invites me into a room to have my weight scrutinised and my height noted. I’m then shunted into a small room where a radiographer tries her best to make me piss myself. She squashes my bladder while trying to see the sprog.

  ‘Can’t seem to get a very good picture,’ she says.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t you want to see baby?’

  ‘No.’

  For the rest of the appointment, I’m treated like a pariah. Pardon me for not doing cartwheels round the corridors. I’m nearly fifty years old. I should be watching Antiques Roadshow and ordering a stairlift. Not procreating, changing nappies and having sleepless nights. I should be looking forward to Elton John concerts, dancing to Billy Ocean and developing a love
of sherry; instead, I am facing a new generation of stretch marks and a knackered pelvic floor. What have I done to deserve this?

  I could give the kid away. Take an extended break, give birth, have it adopted and come home. Nobody would be any the wiser. Or I could see this as a chance to put right all the wrongs of my previous parenting. I could get it right this time. Be a proper, loving mother who paints on the patio and plays with Play-Doh on rainy afternoons. The words of Mother’s letter keep coming to mind. Form a bond with your children and try to love them as I should have loved you. Easier said than done.

  I’ve sent Facebook messages to every Michael Rowbotham on the site but had no response yet. I still haven’t had a response from the Salvation Army, but they have a special department that deals with reuniting lost family members, so they might be able to help.

  I’ve invited the kids over for supper. I’m going to tell them about the pregnancy tonight. I’ll tell them all at once and get it over with.

  I could have predicted Shoni’s reaction. She rants and raves for ten minutes about how selfish I am and how I just want to steal her thunder.

  ‘I’m cancelling the wedding until you come to your senses,’ is her parting shot before she storms out in a huff.

  Drew shrugs and says, ‘Whatever. Cool,’ then has to dash as he has to get to the wholesaler to buy sesame seed buns.

  Carolyn got the train from Durham. Cries. Real tears. For about half an hour. Then hugs me before jumping on the train home. My kids are weird.

  Now, I’m sitting with Tammy watching crap TV and eating ice cream while she drinks wine. She’s brought me a bottle of non-alcoholic red which is basically just grape juice. ‘Thought you might like to feel as if you’re having a drink,’ she says.

  ‘I might like to just have a drink,’ I say.

  ‘It’s bad for the baby, though,’ she says.

  I take a couple of sips.

  ‘Is it good?’ she asks.

  ‘Good would be an exaggeration,’ I say. ‘It’s drinkable.’ The flavour isn’t bad, but it’s not as moreish as normal red wine. ‘Perhaps if I stick a shot of gin in it…’

  ‘That kind of defeats the object, Roberta,’ Tammy says when she sees what I’m doing.

  ‘You’re no fun. Give me a glass of that.’

  ‘No, you’re not allowed.’

  ‘I’ve been pissed for the past five months – one glass of white wine’s hardly going to hurt it further.’

  ‘One glass,’ she says, pouring a meagre measure. I take one sip and rush to be sick.

  ‘Coffee, mushrooms and alcohol,’ I say between bouts of vomiting. ‘Sure-fire sign I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Mick’s been asking after you,’ she says, coming to stand behind me and holding back my hair.

  ‘Probably worried I won’t come back, and he’ll have to face the Carters on his own.’

  ‘No, I think he’s genuinely concerned. He’s not all bad, Roberta. He can actually be quite nice.’

  ‘Pah. You haven’t got the hots for him, now, have you?’

  ‘No, Jonathon and I are very happy, thank you. I’m just saying, Mick’s not all bad.’

  ‘Yeah, neither was Attila the Hun, and I’m sure Pol Pot had some fans.’

  ‘What’s Paul Potts got to do with it? Really, Roberta, you’re being very random. Must be the hormones.’

  ‘I was talking about dictators.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dick Taters. Don’t think I’ve met him. Is he that new guy in accounts?’

  ‘Are you really as thick as you act, Tammy?’

  ‘There’s no need for rudeness. I know pregnant women get a little tetchy, but manners cost nothing.’

  ‘I think I’ll just go to bed,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to get dressed and go shopping for an outfit for Shoni’s wedding.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m invited.’

  ‘Rubbish. She’ll be fine, once she’s had time to calm down.’

  ‘About three years.’

  23

  Two Months Later

  #fatasfuck

  So, we’re in town. I’m in a changing room trying to fit my pregnant torso into a maternity gown for midgets when I hear a familiar voice.

  ‘Mick, how lovely. Yes, I’m with Roberta. She’s trying on a dress for the wedding.’ If he makes a joke about a tent or a marquee, I swear I will bite off his extremities one by one. The bump is huge. I can’t breathe it in anymore.

  ‘How is she?’ I hear him say.

  ‘So so,’ Tammy says.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, sweeping back the curtain and showing my pregnant hump in all its glory. ‘I think I need a bigger size.’ He stares. Rude. Still staring.

  ‘Jesus, Bob, who’d you swallow?’ I might have bloody known.

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ Tammy says. His face says it all. Shock. Horror. Revulsion.

  ‘Oh, so, that’s why you’re getting married. I did wonder.’ What the heck is he talking about? Me, getting married? As if I’d be so bloody stupid again. I don’t have time to correct him before he turns and disappears.

  ‘One way of getting rid of him,’ I say.

  A text comes through from Mick: ‘I hope ul b v happy 2 gether.’

  ‘He must think I’m marrying Harry McGarrigle,’ I say. ‘Is he for real? What a douche.’

  #tohaveandtohold

  Despite all my recriminations about the ostentatious nature of Shoni’s wedding, I have to say, the day is perfect. Apart from the waiter dropping soup in my lap and the best man getting drunk and falling on the pageboy, it’s going without a hitch. There’s a hairy moment when the delegation from Dagenham have an altercation with some lads from Sedgefield, but on the whole, it’s a magical day. Shoni smiles throughout, and that, in itself, is a bloody miracle. Knobhead’s behaving himself in the main. In that he hasn’t tried to molest me, the mother of the groom, or any of the bridesmaids. Dagenham’s parents are actually quite nice.

  We spend happy evening drinking shots (mocktails for me with a sly shot of gin when no one’s looking) and swapping embarrassing stories. Embarrassing for Shoni and Dagenham, whose real name is Kevin John-Joseph Richard Bertram Cunningham. He’s not so bad, actually. He sneaks me a couple of glasses of champagne when no one’s looking and surprises Shoni with a honeymoon to the Dominican Republic as a wedding present.

  I don’t like to think about what he might be bringing back, so I’m not going to think about it.

  #jobsworth

  I’m home from the wedding at last, and my feet are killing me. Heels and pregnancy do not mix. A good time was had by all, and Shoni’s safely at the airport on her way to the trip of a lifetime.

  Drew rings and says there’s a weird bloke keeps hanging round the burger van. Sometimes, he buys something, and other times, he just stands and stares. But then, today, he approached him and said, ‘I hope you’ll look after Roberta.’ Very weird. I ask him for a description, but he says, ‘nondescript’, which is not very helpful. Who would approach my son and tell him to look after me? I wonder whether it could be the man Carolyn saw hanging around Mother’s house. But Carolyn said he was quite tall and quite dark. Drew, when pressed, says, ‘Average height, average size and mousey hair.’

  I’m back at work as there is no longer any need to avoid Mick now that he knows I’m pregnant. It’s been a busy couple of weeks. Mick is under the misapprehension that it’s me who has been married, and I see no reason to acquaint him otherwise. Let him believe I’m pregnant and married.

  I’m looking for Mick as I need him to sign a document before I fax it. His new PA looks down her pointy nose at me.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m looking for Mick.’

  ‘Mr Vasey is unavailable today.’

  ‘I need him to sign this document. It should have been sent by close of play yesterday.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s unava
ilable.’

  ‘Can you tell me when he will be available?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.’ For fuck’s sake.

  ‘When’s he back?’

  ‘As I’ve said, I’m…’

  ‘I heard what you said. I don’t know what it was like in the company you came from, but here, we work as a team.’ This isn’t altogether true. Some of the departments are full of back-stabbing bastards, but I’m not letting on to her majesty.

  ‘I’ll inform Mr Vasey and ensure he gets back to you.’

  I’m seething at my desk when Tammy comes to get me for lunch.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Miss Fucking Frosty Knickers.’ She knows immediately who I mean. ‘Won’t tell me where Mick is or when he’s back.’

  ‘You should have asked me.’

  ‘Well, I would have if I thought you knew.’

  ‘It’s a secret,’ she says.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘I could tell you, but then, I’d have to kill you.’

  ‘You can tell me over lunch.’

  ‘Ok, but you’re buying.’

  We’re munching on scampi and chips and quaffing mocktails when she tells me, and the bottom falls right out of my world.

  24

  #fucketyfuck

  I call in sick. I can’t get my head round this. It’s too much of a coincidence. But coincidences happen in real life. I feel dirty. I feel disgusted. I feel disgusting. I feel violated.

  Tammy told me that the reason Mick is absent from work is because he’s seeing an agency about tracing a long-lost relative. Mick. Michael. Oh God. I want to die. It can’t be true. Mick the Dick is my brother. This baby I’m having. This thing. It’ll probably be born with two heads.