by Fiona Gibson
Leaving her doesn’t feel right, so I potter about in her living room, tidying and straightening and trying to freshen the place up by changing the water in the vase of hollyhocks which Paul must have cut for her. When I check on her just after ten, she is sound asleep. Although she never has a carer overnight, I’m still concerned about leaving her alone. So I unpack the baby listening device which her daughter Victoria bought for when she needs round-the-clock care, and plug it in in the hallway. I step quietly outside and take the other part to Paul’s cottage.
‘Hey, you’re still here,’ he says with a look of surprise. ‘Everything okay?’
‘I’m just a bit concerned about Mrs B.’ I hold out the baby listener. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I thought, just in case …’
‘Of course, not a problem. I’ll plug it in in my bedroom. Come in …’
‘Oh, it’s late, I know your girls are here …’
‘It’s fine, they’re in bed. Well, they’re meant to be. Took a bit of persuading tonight, all revved up after hide and seek.’ He grins. ‘Their mother’ll kill me.’
I smile and step into the small, cosy living room. It’s far neater than I’d imagined; wrongly, I’d assumed a lone man – a gardener – would live more chaotically. Abstract landscapes in bright, splashy colours adorn the bumpy white walls, and framed photographs of Jasmine and Rose are clustered on the mantelpiece.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Paul asks.
‘No, I’m fine, really.’
‘Or some soup? It’s broth actually, made from garden veg. I took some over for Mrs B’s lunch and she seemed to enjoy it …’
‘Better than mine?’ I ask, grinning.
Paul laughs. ‘Well, let’s just say it looked as if she’d finished it, but who knows? She might’ve poured it down the sink. So, can I get you some?’
‘That would be lovely,’ I say, realising now how hungry I am. It’s delicious, and perhaps the aromas filter through to the girls’ bedroom as first Rose, then Jasmine appear shyly in crumpled PJs and snuggle close to their dad on the sofa.
‘Hi,’ I say, hoping they’re not shocked by my presence.
They watch me with dark, solemn eyes. ‘This is my friend Audrey,’ Paul explains. ‘Say hello, girls.’
Jasmine turns and whispers into her father’s ear. ‘Don’t whisper, sweetheart,’ he says.
She focuses on me, her face sleepy. ‘You’re the dinner lady,’ she murmurs.
I smile. ‘Yes, that’s right, how d’you know?’
She turns to her father. ‘Daddy told us.’
‘He said you have two jobs,’ Rose adds, resting her head on Paul’s chest. ‘That’s a lot.’
‘Well, being a dinner lady doesn’t take up too much time,’ I explain, surprised by how pleased I am that Paul has talked about me to his girls. Yet the three of them look so cosy, all huddled up together, I sense I shouldn’t really be here.
‘I’d better get back,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the broth, and for listening in to Mrs B …’
‘Any time,’ Paul says, getting up and giving me a brief hug goodbye, which startles me. He has never seemed like the hugging kind.
‘Goodnight, girls,’ I say, feeling curiously restored as I stride out to my car. The soothing properties of broth, perhaps. Yes, that must be it.
The effect is short-lived. Jarring music is blaring from Morgan’s room, some terrible rap thing with repeated mentions of ‘bitch’ and ‘ho’ that I try to view with an open mind. But it baffles me, how Morgan can enjoy such violent and misogynistic tripe when his favoured activity – at least until recently – was cuddling Jenna and gently stroking her hair.
I call out hello, which he probably doesn’t hear over the din, and busy myself by setting out my Wilton Grange toiletries on the bathroom shelf. In such ordinary surroundings, they don’t look quite as impressive; I wonder what possessed me to get so excited over a few miniature bottles of shower gel and shampoo. I light the scented candle which I mistakenly ‘bought’ from the hotel, in the hope that the scent of honey blossom and lime might somehow cancel out the abrasiveness of the lyrics still blasting from Morgan’s room. However, all I can think is this is costing me about a quid a minute to burn, and besides, our bathroom will never share the serenity of the honeymoon suite, not with Jenna’s thong still scrunched up in the corner.
I start running the bath and stare at the thong. I can’t just leave it here. While Morgan isn’t especially observant, he’s bound to spot it eventually and it’ll upset him horribly: who wants to be confronted by the knickers of the girl who’s broken his heart? I pick it up bare-handed, and flip up the lid of the bathroom bin. It’s full to the brim of boxes and bottles, scrunched-up wads of loo roll and discarded razors – obviously Morgan didn’t bother to empty it in my absence – and, although I don’t mean to pry or even look, because God knows what else is lurking in its depths, I can’t help seeing it sitting there: the white plastic stick, a pregnancy test, with a clearly visible thin blue line.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Bun in the Oven
I decide to leave it to the morning to talk to Morgan because I want to broach this carefully. I didn’t fancy barging into his room and making him turn off his music; we’d get off on a very bad footing. While I’m aware that it will hardly be the easiest conversation we’ve had, tossing and turning all night in bed has given me time to mull over possible, less terrifying explanations than the obvious: i.e., perhaps I imagined it (even though I’ve been up twice in the night and re-checked the bin, before quietly lowering the lid and creeping miserably back to bed). Or – not that I’d wish to foist an unwanted pregnancy on anyone – maybe there’s the tiniest chance that Morgan invited a horde of people over during my absence and it’s one of those random teenagers who did the test. Don’t jump to conclusions, I tell myself, staring at my bedroom ceiling as dawn begins to creep into my room. Wait until he’s up, then have a mature and reasonable discussion …
At 6.47 a.m. I’m rapping on his door. ‘Morgan? Are you awake?’
‘Uhh?’
‘I need to talk to you,’ I announce, sweeping into his room.
‘What are you doing?’ His eyes ping open in the half-light. ‘It’s still night!’
‘No, it’s not,’ I say briskly. ‘This is the time normal people get up and go to work …’
‘Like who? Bin men?’ He glowers at me. ‘And it’s Sunday,’ he adds, as if every day in his life doesn’t offer limitless potential for leisure.
‘Look, Morgan …’ I clear my throat. ‘I found something in the bathroom bin, and I wanted to—’
‘You’ve been raking through the bathroom bin?’ He looks aghast.
‘No, not raking. I just happened to be dropping, er, something in, and I saw it, I couldn’t help it …’
‘What was it?’
I’m aware of my heart rattling away as I lower myself onto the edge of his bed. ‘A pregnancy test, love. A positive one …’
The defiance melts from his face. ‘Oh. Uh, yeah …’
‘So … is there something you need to tell me?’ He peers at me from his duvet nest, looking hopeless and lost. ‘Morgan?’
‘Yeah, Mum,’ he mutters. ‘Jenna’s pregnant.’
I stare at him for a moment, lost for words, and reach for his rather clammy hand – amazingly, he allows me to hold it – as this information swills around us, finally settling like dust. ‘Oh, darling,’ is all I can think of to say.
‘Yeah, I know, Mum.’ He pulls his hand away from mine and tugs the duvet up to his chin.
‘Did you find out while I was away?’
He nods again. God, what was I thinking, curdling custard while they went through this trauma alone? ‘Is that why you called the hotel?’ I ask gently.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, to tell me …’
‘No,’ he snaps. ‘No, Mum. I was just upset, y’know? She’d finished with me, I didn’t really know what I was doing …’ As
if he’s ashamed at having tried to reach out to his mum.
‘Okay,’ I say quietly, glancing around his room. Sitting on the top of his wobbly white bookcase is a matted teddy, Bobby, whose original eyes I had to replace with buttons from an old jacket. Although Morgan has probably kept him in an ironic, ‘Look, I still have my teddy!’ kind of way, I suspect he is still pretty fond of him. ‘So,’ I venture, ‘what’s she planning to do? I mean, what d’you both want to do? Have you decided?’
‘No, she just said it was my fault …’
‘Oh, come on, it’s not one person’s fault. I mean, if a condom split …’ The words shimmer awkwardly in the air. ‘I mean,’ I struggle on, ‘if you’d known there’d been an accident, she could have got the morning after pill …’
‘Yeah.’ He flips over so I can only see the back of his head. ‘Too late for that now, though.’
‘Well, yes, obviously …’
‘She didn’t get it,’ he adds, ‘’cause the woman who’s always there in the chemist – the fat one with moles and a nose ring—’
‘She was afraid of the woman with a nose ring?’
‘Yeah, well … not exactly. But she’s a friend of her mum’s.’
I stare at his messy dark hair. Ridiculously, even though he is part-responsible for having conceived a child, I am overcome by an urge to brush it. ‘Couldn’t you have gone in for her? Or gone to the doctor with her or …’ I tail off, because he’s right, it’s too late for that. A beautiful girl, who weighs little more than a packet of marshmallows, is pregnant at eighteen years old. My darling son is possibly going to become a father when he sincerely believed it was okay to microwave a T-shirt. That’s what matters, not any steps they might have taken to stop things reaching this stage.
‘So,’ I murmur, ‘you have no idea what she’s planning to do?’
Slowly, he turns back to face me. ‘No, Mum. She won’t talk to me.’
‘Have you tried, though? She’s probably just upset …’
‘Yeah, of course she is,’ he exclaims. ‘She did the test at home, brought it round to show me. Practically shoved it in my face. I didn’t even know what it was. Said I’d ruined her life, her future, we had a bit of a fight …’
‘Not a physical fight?’ I gasp.
‘No, just shouting, it’s when you phoned …’ Oh, of course. And to think I’d been worried about a broken lamp or TV. ‘… I’ve texted and called her loads,’ he goes on, his dark eyes filling with tears, ‘but she never answers.’
‘What about going round to see her?’ I suggest.
A look of terror flashes across his face. ‘I can’t do that! What if her mum and dad were there?’
‘But darling, you’ll have to face—’
‘They’ll kill me, Mum.’ He starts to cry properly, his shoulders heaving with each gulp.
‘Oh, darling,’ I murmur as he blunders out of his duvet and flings his gangly arms around me. We’re hugging, our hot faces gummed together with tears. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, it’s lovely to hold him close.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Vince exclaims. ‘What a raving bloody fool.’
‘Well, it’s happened,’ I say.
‘Holy shit,’ he mutters. ‘And they’re sure, right?’
‘Well, the test was positive and they’re hardly ever wrong …’
‘So what’re they planning to do?’
I sigh. ‘It doesn’t sound like they’re planning anything – at least, not together. Jenna’s finished with him, won’t reply to his phone calls or texts …’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘I even said he should write her a letter – you know, a proper letter, with a pen and paper. You’d have thought I’d suggested he send her a telegram.’
Vince sighs. ‘So, how does he seem?’
‘A mess, frankly. Pretends he’s okay, then breaks down in tears …’
‘Oh, God, I can’t remember the last time I saw him cry … Want me to drive over?’
‘No, there’s no need at the moment … maybe you should talk to him, though?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I call Morgan from his room. Despite it being almost lunchtime, he has yet to emerge from his lair. He slopes out in saggy pyjama bottoms, blinking as if emerging from hibernation, and snatches my mobile before disappearing back into the fuggy cave of his room. I potter about in my bedroom, aware of his muttered tones. The muted conversation lasts for over ten minutes, which must be a record, in terms of Morgan’s communications with his father.
He ambles out of his room and hands the phone back to me. ‘How did that go?’ I ask Vince as I head downstairs.
‘To be honest, I have no idea.’
‘He’s devastated,’ I add, ‘but I’m not sure if it’s the pregnancy part, or the being finished with part or—’
‘Look, are you sure you don’t want me to come over?’
‘No, really, we’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘I don’t want it to seem like a big drama …’
‘It is though,’ Vince says, ‘as dramas go. I mean, I can’t imagine many situations being much bigger than this.’
‘Yes, I know. I’ll keep in touch, okay? And thanks, Vince.’
‘Uhh,’ he groans, ‘I just wish I was nearer.’ So do I, I decide as we finish the call, if only because sometimes, I run out of ideas of what to do.
Morgan appears, perhaps drawn from his room by hunger as he’s now peering into the cupboard at the minibar snacks.
‘Didn’t they have any normal stuff at the hotel?’
‘Like what?’ At least he’s showing an interest in food. As far as I’m aware, all he’s had since I came home are roughly two inches of saveloy sausage and a meagre bowl of chilli.
‘Dunno, like normal crisps?’ He grabs a packet and glares at it. ‘Shallots,’ he says, grimacing. ‘What are they?’
‘They’re just like onions, love.’ I pause. ‘I’ll make you a cooked breakfast,’ I add, ‘but first I’m going to have to call Natalie.’
‘Who?’
‘Natalie, Jenna’s mum.’
‘What?’ he barks, shutting the cupboard with a bang. ‘But you don’t even know her!’
‘I’ve met her a few times, actually. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. We need to talk …’
‘What, like, have a summit meeting?’ His eyes fill with horror.
‘No, nothing like that. But I’m your mum, and I’m concerned, and I’m sure Natalie and, er, what’s Jenna’s dad called again?’
‘Mark or Mike or something else beginning with M. I dunno. He doesn’t really talk. So, you hardly know them but you’re just gonna call with, like, no warning?’
I give him a level look. ‘I’m not sure how to warn someone I’m planning to call them, love.’
‘Well, you just can’t phone out of the blue!’
‘I’m sure she’s expecting me to get in touch. I mean, I’m not just going to pretend it’s not happening, am I? There needs to be some communication …’
‘Yeah,’ he mumbles, ‘but not the kind that’s like all the mums getting together …’
I go to touch his arm but he swerves away. ‘It’s not all the mums. It’s just two. So, can I have her home number please?’
‘Her what?’
‘Jenna’s home number. Her landline, I mean.’
‘You want to call her house phone?’
‘Yes, darling.’
He opens the fridge door and shuts it again. ‘Don’t have it.’
‘Come on,’ I say firmly, ‘you must.’ He peers at me through his fringe. ‘Please, Morgan, just tell me …’
‘What’re you gonna do,’ he says, backing away, ‘shine a bright light in my eyes and force it out of me like the Gestapo?’
‘Morgan, don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been seeing Jenna for over a year, you must—’
‘I don’t know it!’ he shrieks. ‘I don’t have it, all right?’
I stare at him and slowly step away. Something tells me that perhaps m
y son isn’t quite ready to be a father.
I try to find Natalie Barnett’s number through old-fashioned directory enquiries, which seems in keeping with using the antiquated landline, but of course she’s ex-directory, everyone is nowadays. So, as I head towards Mrs B’s – I’m on the early shift today – I scroll through my mobile contacts to find someone who might know someone who knows her.
I sense a stab of nostalgia at the sight of the names of the mothers of Morgan’s primary school friends, friends he peeled away from once secondary school started and we parents no longer congregated at the school gates. I try Sophie Trainer, an organised sort who always seemed to know who was having work done on their house or had put out their recycling bin on the wrong day. ‘Audrey,’ she exclaims, ‘it’s been a while!’
‘Yes, well, you know how things are …’
‘So how’s Morgan doing? Where did he decide to go, in the end?’
I cannot bring myself to say: the sofa. ‘Er, he’s still kind of deciding on courses.’
‘Ah, right. Well, er, some take a bit longer to find their way, don’t they?’
‘Yes,’ I laugh hollowly. ‘So, how’s Freddie doing?’
‘Oh, loved his first year at Durham. Works far too hard, though. Grafts all through the night. I wish he’d let his hair down and party more!’
‘Yes, I know what you mean …’
My stomach feels leaden as we wind up the call. She didn’t have Natalie Barnett’s number, and it occurs to me that I should have it, and should have remained in regular contact with her when Jenna started staying over. First time it had happened – when it had become apparent that Jenna wasn’t going home – I’d hung around, pottering about until there was no more pottering to be done. I’d offered them tea and toast; I’d even polished the lamp flex, for goodness’ sake. At 1 a.m. the two of them were still clumped all over each other in the living room.
‘D’you need a lift home, Jenna?’ I ventured.
‘No, it’s fine thanks,’ she replied.
‘Are you sure? It’s awfully late …’
‘Jen’s staying over, Mum,’ Morgan explained.