Some of the graves in Abney Park are very grand. In one corner a cluster of carved angels stand quietly guarding over their charges buried just below the surface, heads bowed, wings resting. Another impressive tomb is topped by a full-size lion carved in marble. Frank Bostock, the grave’s inscription reads.
“I suppose he had something to do with lions?” Chris offers, neither of us none-the-wiser.
“He must have an interesting story to tell, to have such a magnificent grave,” I reply.
We reach the Gothic chapel in the centre of the park. Although derelict, it’s possible to wander around the empty shell of the stone walls. Shapes of brightly coloured light dance across the flagstone floor from the partial remains of the stained glass rose window embedded into the wall above the grand gothic entrance.
“Listen,” I say to Chris, standing stock still.
“What?” he replies, “I can’t hear anything.”
“Exactly. It’s so peaceful. No sound of traffic, or the constant drone of the buses. Only the sound of birds and the breeze whistling through the trees. I love it in here. It’s only a short walk from the High Street, yet it’s like a different world.”
As if on cue a stunning Red Admiral butterfly flutters around our heads, coming to land on my shoulder. I gently pick it up, allowing it to rest on the end of my fingers, lifting it up closer to my face. Its wings appear translucent from the shards of light that shine through the stained glass, illuminating its delicate beauty. It appears in no rush to fly away, completely comfortable on the end of my fingers.
Time stands still and I’m lost in the moment.
“Butterflies carry messages, you know,” I say across to Chris, who is staring at me, a bemused expression on his face, caused, I’m not sure, by the beauty of the butterfly, or my reaction towards it.
“Yes, butterflies symbolise death or rebirth after death. Many cultures around the world believe they carry the souls of the recently departed. It was Aristotle, I believe, who gave the butterfly the name ‘psyche’, which is the Greek word for soul.”
“God, you know some off-the-wall shit, Vicky.” Chris says lightly.
“Everything in the world is connected, Chris. That I firmly believe. I don’t believe we live in isolation and I do believe every decision we take and thought we have, has consequences and sets off a vibration that attracts more of the same.”
Chris continues to stare at me, stupefied.
“I wonder whose soul is inside this little fella? And why he chose to come and see me today? What’s your message, little one?” I say directly to the Red Admiral still sitting lightly on my fingers. “I’m listening.”
Almost immediately after the words leave my lips, a soft breeze whispers through the trees, breaking the stillness of the hot muggy air inside the chapel and lifting the butterfly up off my fingers. It flaps its wings and flies away. A feeling of peace and serenity, descends softly over me. It’s as if the butterfly has momentarily connected me to a world outside myself. A universe filled with energy. I’ve not felt anything like it before and it leaves me feeling centred and strangely calm, yet strong.
Chris reaches for my hand, watching me as I take a long deep breath in and asks,
”Everything OK?”
“Absolutely,” I reply. “Let’s head back,” I say after another deep breath. Holding Chris’s hand, he leads us back through the tree lined path towards the High Street, leaving me to ponder on the meaning of the visit from the butterfly, but certain that it carries some deep significance.
The next morning, I wake, unusually, before my alarm goes off. I’m hardly conscious before realising the reason I’ve woken up so early is an overwhelming need to throw up. My wobbly tummy of the past few days seemingly becoming progressively worse. I bolt into the bathroom, one hand clamped over my mouth before I hurl on the floor.
Making it just in time and after I’ve thrown my guts up, I jump into the shower, dabbing my face with a cool wet facecloth hoping the nausea will pass, but ten minutes later I feel no better. I dress ready for work, but find myself rushing for the toilet again, the griping pain in my stomach growing rather than dissipating with each visit.
I’ve only just vacated the bathroom, when Chris pushes past me, slamming the bathroom door loudly. The sound of him vomiting violently seeping underneath the closed door. He emerges moments later, looking like hell, holding his stomach, seemingly also in pain.
“I think I’ve eaten something that hasn’t agreed with me,” he says.
“Me too. I’ve got a proper gripey tummy. I’ve had to rush to the loo more than once this morning already,” I reply. “Oh-oh, gotta go again,” I say, pushing past him as I rush towards the toilet, holding my stomach, the cramp causing me to bend double.
Not surprisingly I’m sent home from work after only an hour, to discover Chris sat on the loo, a bucket in front of him, the duvet wrapped around his shoulders, shivering uncontrollably.
“I think we’ve picked up a bug, Chris,” I say, stroking his hair as I offer him a glass of weakly diluted juice. “I think I’m still in better shape than you, as I’ve only thrown up so far. I’ve not got the trots - yet. So I’ll head down to the chemist now and buy some Lucozade, some rehydration sachets and some diarrhoea tablets before I become too weak and we’re both too ill to leave the flat.”
“Good idea,” he confirms. “Pick up some loo roll while you’re at it. Something tells me we’re going to need it!”
The next few days pass in a haze of sleep, restlessness, interspersed with bouts of violent sickness as Chris and I ride out the worst of the bug, taking care of each other as best we can. It’s five days before we’re able to leave our bed for any length of time and attempt to try and eat something, starting with dry toast. Not surprisingly the flat is a tip. Empty glasses strewn all over the place, towels left wherever they’ve been dropped and bedlinen waiting to be washed. Chris and I set to, and begin to straighten up our home.
Somewhat weakened, but once I’m able to, I return to work the following Monday and Chris invites Michelle and David to come over for dinner on Thursday evening. A dinner date that we had had to postpone from the previous week when we were both so ill.
“Time for us to re-enter the world,” he’d said when he called his sister, “and probably the last chance we’ll have to hang out, before the baby comes.”
The following Thursday, Michelle waddles through the door, her gait now radically altered by the lumbering weight of her pregnancy.
“Wow, you’re positively glowing, Mich,” I say giving her a warm hug.
“That’s one way of putting it,” she says dryly. “I, meanwhile, do not feel beautiful, or glowing, or any of the other phrases they use to describe heavily pregnant women. I just feel big and fat and with swollen puddings for hands and feet!”
“Well I still think you look beautiful,” I say warmly.
“Bud?” Chris asks David, as I take Michelle’s wrap from her, revealing the full extent of her ever-growing belly.
“Yeah, that would be great,” David replies to Chris.
“And what would you like to drink, sis?” Chris asks, whilst cracking open a couple of bottles of Budweiser, passing one to David.
“Anything cold and wet - but not alcoholic, obviously,” Michelle replies.
“We’ve got plenty of juice if you’d like.” Chris turns to me and asks, “Vicky? Wine?” while he roots through the fridge looking for a bottle of white wine.
“Actually, babes, I think I’ll join Michelle in diluted cordial - I don’t think my stomach is up to wine just yet,” I reply. “It still hasn’t settled properly since our bug last week.”
“Yes, Vicky, that was absolutely awful,” Michelle says at the mention of our recent illness, “I really felt for you guys. It sounded horrendous. Glad you’re both over it now.”
“I’ve lost seven pounds in weight,” Chris says, slapping his flat torso. “It’s called the ‘shitting through the eye of a needle diet!�
��”
“I flippin’ wish,” I interject, “I’ve put two pounds on - go figure,” I add, passing Michelle, who’s now sat cross-legged on the sofa with a large glass of diluted juice. She’s unconsciously scratching her belly that is straining to break free from the tight white maternity vest top she’s wearing. She looks like a beautiful, big, long haired Buddha.
“Well, if anyone’s going to win the - who’s put the most weight on competition,” she says taking a sip of her drink, “I think you’ll find I win hands down,” she says raising her hand into the air as if claiming a prize.
“Not long now, darling,” David says wrapping his arm protectively behind her.
“And then once the little sprog starts bawling, puking and filling nappies, you’d wish you could put it back,” Chris teases. “You should have come around here last week, sis - it would have been good practice.”
“I think I had plenty of practice when you were a baby, Chris-to-pher, dearest,” Michelle teases back. “I’ve wiped your arse plenty of times, changing your nappies. And I have no desire to see your bum ever again!”
“Touché, sis,” Chris raises his bottle, acknowledging his sister has won this particular battle of words.
I’ve cooked a lovely spaghetti bolognese, with salad and garlic bread for us all, but once we sit down and I dish up, my appetite vanishes. I only pick at the food, moving it strategically around my plate, hoping our guests won’t notice.
“Are you not eating?” Chris asks, having observed my lack of hunger.
“For some reason, no,” I reply, “I keep waiting for my appetite to return to normal, but my tummy still feels funny.” Chris squeezes my hand under the table in support while our guests finish eating.
“Well, thank you, Vicky. That was all absolutely delicious,” Michelle says a few hours later, throwing her wrap around her shoulders, preparing to leave, David having already headed downstairs to hail a cab.
“Pop round this weekend. I want to soak up every last minute of independence I have before this little rascal turns my world upside down,” she adds, stroking her stomach affectionately.
“That would be lovely, Mich. Shall we pop over on Sunday? I could knock up a picnic and we could head out to one of the parks and sunbathe while the boys talk shite. St James’s or Green Park maybe? Hyde Park is always so busy at this time of year,” I suggest. “I’m sure Chris wouldn’t mind driving us into town. I know you won’t be up for battling with public transport.”
“Great. See you then. Vic-tor-ia. Chris-to-pher,” she says, air kissing both of us, before Chris walks her downstairs and back into David’s arms and the waiting cab.
In bed, later that evening, Chris rolls in behind me, spooning into my back while his hands reach round to cup my breasts in the usual way he does as he falls asleep. However, instead of finding my usual small, soft and squishy mounds, his hands discover hard, heavy and very tender melons.
“God, Vicky. Your boobs feel enormous tonight,“ he says, testing the weight of them.
“I know. They’re incredibly tender,” I reply. “Be gentle with ‘the girls’ Chris please. They’re really really sore.”
“You must be due on,” Chris says matter of factly, snuggling into my neck, preparing to drift off into the land of nod.
On hearing his words my blood instantly turns ice cold. I can’t remember when I was last on or when my next period is due, but it must be soon. Images flash through my mind as I try and remember where I was and what I was doing when I had my last period. I know I’ve taken a couple of pill packets back to back, either because I was away in New Zealand, or because I was due on when Chris landed back in the UK. I’m desperately trying to remember if I’ve had a period since we’ve moved in here. They’re so short. Blink and I miss them, so I honestly can’t remember. Long after Chris falls asleep, I lie for hours in the darkness, listening to the sound of Chris’s soft breath behind me, the gentle puffing of air entering and leaving his body as it blows against my neck. So peaceful and blissfully unaware of my own fear. As I lie in the dark, I’m absolutely petrified.
I must have fallen asleep at some point in the night because I wake up sharply the next morning when the sound of my alarm penetrates the quiet of our bedroom. Once dragged back into consciousness, the familiar rumble of the buses driving past on the A10 outside, reminds me that last night wasn’t a dream, that this situation is real - very real - and I remain as terrified this morning as I was last night.
I shower and dress as normal, preparing to go to work, except once I leave the flat, rather than board the 7.50am train from Stoke Newington into Liverpool Street, instead I find the nearest phone box and leave a message for Jonathan on the office answerphone telling him that I can’t come in as once again my sickness bug has reared its ugly head overnight, and I’ve spent yet another night no more than ten paces from the bathroom. I add that I hope to recover fully over the weekend and I hope to see him back at work on Monday morning.
Hanging up, my hands still shaking with fear, I walk towards the local chemist. Casually glancing down at the shelf where the pregnancy tests are, I still can’t comprehend that I need to buy one, never mind that there is a distinct possibility that the result will be positive.
I couldn’t tell Chris this morning. I have absolutely no idea how he might react. What if he lost his temper? Blew his stack like he did in Hong Kong that time. What if he says it’s all my fault? What if he doesn’t want it? What if he does? What if he leaves me? Abandons me? Jumps on the first plane back to New Zealand and leaves me high and dry. I’d like to think he wouldn’t, but I couldn’t guarantee it.
We’ve only ever talked about having kids in hypothetical scenarios, and only a very long way off in the future and only in some undetermined future ideology. Never have either of us, ever discussed the real possibility of what we would do if we did fall pregnant, by accident or otherwise. Therefore, lying awake into the early hours last night, I decided my best course of action, was to find out for myself first. At least then I will know what I’m dealing with. Hopefully it will be a false alarm, and he need never know.
I select the test that seems to be the easiest to use, at a price point I can afford and walk purposefully towards the cashier behind the counter, throwing my shoulders back with fake confidence. For some reason it’s important to me that she believes this situation is something that was planned and that I’m in control of and I’m hoping for a positive outcome. She smiles warmly back at me, seeing straight through my façade as she rings through the transaction, putting the test kit into a bag and handing me my change.
I stop at the local corner store and buy another bottle of Lucozade, taking it into the cemetery where I wait patiently. I let two hours pass, until I’m certain that Chris will have left the flat for the day. At 10.30, I tentatively turn my key in our front door, hoping that he’s headed out to meet Mo, as I would have expected him to. When I hear no sound from inside, I walk in through the door, throwing my keys into the bowl on the side before walking into the kitchen and flicking the switch on the kettle. I know I’m going to need a strong cup of tea before I pull out the contents of the brown paper bag.
Five hours later, I hear Chris’s key turning in the lock, before the door opens and I hear the familiar sound of his own keys landing in the bowl in the hallway. He must have paused momentarily, possibly because he’s noticed my keys also lying there when I wouldn’t normally be home for at least another two hours.
“Vicky. Vick-yyyy,” he calls out, “are you home already?”
“In here,” I shout back from the living room.
He walks into the room, where I’m sat silently at the table, my hands clasped around yet another cup of tea.
“How come you’re home early?” he asks breezily.
“Chris, come and sit down,” I say solemnly, “there’s something serious we need to discuss.”
“What’s going on, Vicky,” he laughs nervously. His cheeky grin, making my heart flip over
. I almost feel sorry for him. I know what I have to tell him is going to change his world forever.
“Oh my God, have you told Jonathan where to stick it? You have, haven’t you?” he continues. “Well, don’t worry, we’ll manage. Cash might be tight for a couple of months, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find another job.” He comes up to hug me and plant a kiss on my cheek.
“Chris, sit down please,” I beg.
“Why? What’s the matter? You’re scaring me, Victoria.” I can’t remember the last time I ever heard him use my name in full. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Chris, I’m pregnant,” I pause, allowing him to absorb what I’ve just said, while I study his features intently, trying to work out what he’s thinking and feeling as he processes the bombshell I’ve just dropped.
After what seems like an eternity he asks, “But how, Vicky? You’re on the pill.”
“I am. But no contraception is 100% fool proof, Chris. And you know how dodgy my stomach has been since we’ve moved up to London. It’s never felt right. I assumed it’s the change in the water, or the air, or the commuting or whatever, and that it would settle down eventually. I can only assume my body hasn’t absorbed enough hormone on a particular day. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter how it happened - it’s happened and I’m pregnant.”
“How far on are you?”
“Are we,” I correct him, “this is your baby too, Chris.”
“I know. I know,” he says, his voice elevated by a palatable panic. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just such a shock. I suppose it explains a lot. I’ve been thinking for a while how pale you look.”
Belonging: Two hearts, two continents, one all-consuming passion. (Victoria in Love Book 1) Page 31