The Cows

by Dawn O'Porter

  Cam

  Cam’s column about not wanting children appears to have caused quite the stir. Sky News, BBC Breakfast and This Morning all asked her to go on, but she only agreed to Female First on BBC Radio London, because she can’t be bothered with the Twitter backlash of going on TV. So many people read her blog, but apart from a few very carefully selected pictures she posts, her image isn’t hugely out there. That’s intentional. Every time she goes on TV, no matter what she is discussing, all anyone on Twitter goes on about is what she looks like. It’s so boring. They tear apart her hair, her face, her big hands. Even when people are complimenting her, she still wants to tweet back, ‘STOP GOING ON ABOUT WHAT I LOOK LIKE AND JUST LISTEN TO WHAT I HAVE TO SAY.’ She wants to be known for her opinions, so writing and radio suit her just fine. Also, she can hide her nerves if no one can see them.

  Arriving at the BBC, a woman with a clipboard comes to meet her in reception. She’s got a navy knee-length skirt on, a white shirt and a blue cardigan. Her hair is mousey and shoulder length, she isn’t wearing any make-up and she has reading glasses on top of her head. She’s probably around thirty-five, and looks like she loves libraries. Comparatively, Cam feels like a giant and looks like she loves mosh pits. She’s wearing skinny jeans, a taupe t-shirt and a black leather biker jacket with chunky boots. The weather is hot, she wants to take her jacket off but her sweat patches feel pretty bad, so she leaves it on, grateful for the aircon. She didn’t wash her hair this morning because she couldn’t be bothered to dry it. That’s another bonus of radio.

  ‘Hi Camilla, I’m Philippa. Thanks for coming on the show, we’re all really excited to have you. Did you get your pass?’

  ‘Yup,’ Cam says, proudly, holding it up.

  ‘Great. I’ll take you up.’

  In the lift, Philippa pretends to read whatever is on her clipboard to fill the silence. Cam is surprised by the lack of conversation. She’d start it herself, but her stomach is in knots at the thought of live broadcasting. She also has a paranoia about disappointing people when they meet her in real life. She’s so feisty, cool and funny on her blog, constantly getting emails from fans saying she is their hero, they wish they could be more like her. And although that is who she really is inside, she needs the help of a keyboard to get it out.

  When they step out of the lift, there is a door to get through, it needs a fob. Philippa pretends to struggle with it, but it’s obvious she is just buying time. She eventually seems to give in to the voices in her head.

  ‘OK, I shouldn’t really say this,’ she says, turning from a meek librarian to a someone with a bit of fire behind her eyes. Cam is a little startled by it.

  ‘Your column about not wanting kids was so amazing. I’ve never wanted children and it’s been hard to say that out loud sometimes, because of judgement. So, thank you.’

  ‘Oh good, thanks.’ Cam wonders what is coming next. That wasn’t worthy of the prefix, ‘I shouldn’t really say this.’

  ‘Look, you should know this. Janis doesn’t understand women like us. She’s doing this feature because she knows it will get a big reaction from the listeners, but she won’t have your back if they call in and get nasty. I just wanted to warn you, you’ll have to stick up for women like us. It’s what you do, I know, but seeing you face to face I want you to know how much I appreciate it, that you say what so many of us are too scared to say. I can’t be honest about who I really am here, I’d lose my job if she knew that I’d rather be single forever than have a husband, but you don’t have to lie about anything, you don’t have a boss like Janis to answer to.’ Cam’s mother flashes into her mind, and she wonders if that is true. Philippa looks quickly from side to side. ‘I get so paranoid this building is bugged.’

  ‘Right, well, thanks for the heads up,’ Cam says. She was not expecting that from Philippa. She’s got something of the Clark Kent about her. Also, talk about pressure, her palms are suddenly very sweaty.

  ‘OK, if you just wait in here, I’ll come get you when it’s time to go in,’ Philippa says, showing Cam into the green room, which is actually a white room with no windows, three chairs and a bowl of nuts.

  Cam takes a seat and checks her Twitter feed on her phone. Her piece supporting ‘Walthamstow Wank Woman’ has bombed.

  @CamStacey Oh do give over … you’re telling us not to watch a video of a woman having a right old frappuccino on a train? She loved it mate. She wants us all to watch it.

  @CamStacey I usually love you, but you’ve lost me with this, sorry. Am I supposed to sympathise with a pervert? #disappointed

  @CamStacey Then I should probably go to prison because I can’t stop watching it! It’s HOT. Love the PUSSY.

  She looks at the stats for her site. It’s had half the hits that one of her pieces usually gets, almost no retweets. This is so unusual. Cam feels deflated by it. She hates it when her posts don’t rate, but really? People are that jaded that they can’t see what has happened to this poor woman?

  She checks her email to see if there is anything notable. There is an email from a ‘Tara Thomas’. The subject reads, ‘Thanks, from Wank Woman’. Cam opens it immediately.

  Dear Camilla, I’m a bit short on words right now, but just wanted to say thanks for the piece you wrote. I can’t tell you how good it felt to read one thing that wasn’t about me being crazy or a pervert. I don’t know if you’ll read this, I hope you do. Thanks again, Tara (aka Walthamstow Wank Woman) x

  Tara saw her piece, and it made her feel better. That’s the greatest affirmation of her job she can imagine. Reminded that what she says counts, Cam tells herself she really has no need to be nervous.

  ‘We’re ready for you,’ says Philippa, coming back in. ‘Can you turn your phone off and come with me?’

  Cam does as she says, and the knots return to her stomach. As they walk down a long corridor towards a thick door with a red light above it, Cam thinks about what Philippa said about feeling judged for her decision not to have kids.

  ‘What do you think about Wank Woman?’ she asks, testing her.

  ‘Oh God, I can’t stop watching it,’ Philippa says, ‘the look on her face is priceless.’ Philippa opens the door and enters the studio. Cam shakes her head slowly as she follows. Such hypocrisy. Why can nobody else see it?

  The studio is small and dark. Thick fabric walls make it feel like an air raid bunker. You’d be safe in here if something went down, Cam thinks.

  Janis is sitting at a round table. She looks to be in her mid-fifties, frumpy with shoulder-length wispy hair. There is a microphone with a pop shield in front of her, and two on the other side of the table. Janis points at the chair opposite and, smiling, urges Cam to sit down. Cam does as she is told. The microphone feels like a thousand eyes, and the knots in her stomach tighten even more. She takes off her leather jacket, and keeps her arms down.

  ‘I’ll be with you in just a minute,’ Janis says quietly, covering her mic and leaning way to the left whilst making a circular motion with her wrist, as if trying to wind up the current caller, who is giving a long-winded answer to whatever Janis asked her about the controversial sex scene on Emmerdale the night before. After another ten or so seconds, Janis has had enough and cuts the caller off.

  ‘OK, well, we must move on otherwise it will be time for tonight’s Emmerdale and I won’t have had time to chat to my next guest. Thank you, Sandra.’ Janis rolls her eyes in a jovial way and smiles again at Cam.

  She seems nice, fun even, what was Philippa talking about? Janis continues. ‘Now, sitting opposite me is a young woman who doesn’t want children. She says she isn’t sad, or selfish. That she has no issue with intimacy and men. This, very attractive I might add, woman says it’s a decision that she has made, that it is her right not to have children and that society shouldn’t have such a problem with that. Please welcome blogger and founder of www.HowItIs.com, Camilla Stacey.’

  Cam clears her throat and takes a deep breath. Her mouth is dry, so she takes a sip of the gl
ass of water that’s in front of her, presuming it’s there for her.

  ‘Hello, Camilla dear, how are you today?’ says Janis, kindly, if not slightly patronisingly, but absolutely not meanly.

  ‘Good, thanks,’ says Cam, still with some water in her mouth. A little bit trickles down her chin and drops onto the felt table, creating a few dark spots. She doesn’t risk taking another mouthful. She swallows properly and looks to see Philippa through the window in the next room, her eyes like a mum watching her kid in a soccer match. Proud, but also saying, ‘Don’t lose. Don’t you lose!’

  ‘So tell me about what happened to make you not want to have children. Can you pinpoint a moment in your childhood that may have triggered this in you?’ says Janis.

  ‘No, not really,’ Cam says, knowing she should elaborate but needing the guidance of continuous questioning to get her through her nerves.

  ‘Surely a pretty girl like you could have any man she wanted?’ Janis probes.

  ‘Oh, well, I’m not sure the way I look has anything to do with it. I was raised in an environment where it was normal for women to have children, all three of my sisters do,’ Cam says, happy with her methodical response, feeling a little more confident.

  ‘Yes, but what was the moment you decided not to be a mother?’ Janis pushes.

  ‘Well there wasn’t one, really. I just always knew. A bit like being gay I suppose; you don’t decide who you fancy, you just do.’

  ‘Are you gay, dear?’

  Oh wow, she’s one of those, Camilla thinks. Just like her mum. But this isn’t her mum. This is someone she doesn’t care about upsetting. Her nerves take a back seat, and the Cam that her readers love comes to the surface. She sits up straight, nods subtly at Philippa.

  ‘No, dear, I am not gay,’ she says, boldly.

  ‘OK, well as expected our phone lines are hot with callers who want to know more about this, so I think we’ll go straight to them,’ Janis says, ‘Mary in Balham, are you there?’

  ‘Yes, hello Janis. Camilla, don’t you worry that one day you’ll retire and regret choosing your career over children?’ Janis rests her elbows on the desk in front of her, and aims a vacant smile at Cam as she waits for an answer.

  ‘Me not wanting children isn’t just to do with how much I work. Some of the most successful women I know are mothers. Some of the most successful women in the world have kids. Women can have it all … I just don’t want it all.’

  Janis leans her head slightly to the side and raises her eyebrows.

  ‘OK, thank you, Mary. Let’s go to Laura in Hertfordshire. Hello, Laura?’

  ‘Hello Janis, love the show. Camilla, I know that you’re single, other than the lover you have written about, but are you really just saying you don’t want children as self-defence against those who might say you’re only not having them because you never found “The One”?’

  Cam lets out an inaudible sigh and says, ‘No, I am not saying I don’t want kids to defend myself. If I wanted kids and couldn’t find a man I’d look into IVF, or adoption. I’d ask a gay friend to give me some sperm. There are loads of ways to skin a cat, I just don’t want children.’ She is proud of herself, speaking like she writes. Her readers will be happy.

  ‘Well, I think comparing having a child to skinning a cat says a lot about your feelings towards motherhood. Maybe as that clock inside you slows down, you’ll have a change of heart. I’m not sure there’s much more to say after that,’ Janis says, looking at the clock and then to Philippa, who looks to Cam and begs with her eyes.

  Nope, Camilla thinks, that can’t be it. She’s not getting up early and sitting in rush hour in the back of an Uber for forty-five minutes to be on air for three minutes and told she doesn’t know her own mind. Screw that.

  ‘You know,’ she says to Janis. ‘I don’t get it. A woman comes on and tells you that she doesn’t feel like she “needs” a child, and you and your listeners can’t take it in. Why is that? Why is it that since admitting to this apparently unbearable thing, I have been asked to go on nearly every news sofa to discuss it? Is this really such breaking news?’

  ‘Well,’ Janis says, looking nervous; her guests don’t usually answer back. ‘I suppose it’s just unusual, that’s all. For a woman to choose to not want children, rather than have that opinion forced upon them. You can’t argue that it isn’t normal, dear?’

  Cam squirms at the word ‘normal’, and continues.

  ‘Yes, it’s unfortunate that we have been conditioned to see an alternative to motherhood as not normal. But you do all realise that some of the most brilliant women in the world don’t have kids, right? Oprah, Gloria Steinem, Helen Mirren, Dolly Parton? Do you think their lives carry an air of tragedy because they never had children? I don’t. I’m sure they all had different reasons for not doing it, some maybe couldn’t, some didn’t want to, but these women’s lives are not empty because of that. I think it’s important we take the lead from our heroes and for everyone to stop valuing women on whether they do, or do not, become mothers. The irony of yours and your listeners’ opinions is that it is you boxing women in to these roles, not men. It’s highly un-feminist of you.’

  She looks up at Philippa, who is trying to hide a grin.

  A few seconds of dead air are a long time in radio.

  ‘OK, thank you to Camilla Stacey, editor of HowItIs.com and strident … non-mother,’ says Janis, wrapping up, not even looking up at Cam as she is led out of the studio by a trembling Philippa.

  ‘You were amazing,’ says Philippa, exploding with joy as the studio door shuts behind them. ‘Shit, let’s get downstairs, these walls have ears.’

  They walk the rest of the way with Philippa making a squeaking noise as she tries to keep her joy in. Cam wants to roar with frustration. As they get to reception and the front door of the building, Cam turns back to Philippa and says, ‘You know, you could tell Janis she’s an arsehole yourself.’

  ‘Sorry? No I can’t, I’d lose my job.’

  ‘So? You know what you want in life, you know who you are. Stop hiding behind all this,’ Cam says, reaching forward and tugging on her cardigan, ‘this weird disguise, and be honest with yourself. Don’t conform because of people like her. What’s the point?’

  ‘This look works here. I love my job.’

  ‘Do you, though? You love having a job where you feel you have to lie about who you are every day? Where your boss makes you feel irrelevant because you’re brave enough not to do what society expects of you, but you let her silence you anyway? Speak up! What’s the point in having strong opinions if you don’t live by them?’

  ‘I, but …’

  ‘There is no “but”. Women can’t keep complaining about how society treats them if they just take being told they’re wrong all the time and don’t react. You telling me Janis was an arsehole is fine, but I’m not the one who sees her every day and lets her get away with it. Do something, say how you feel. Nothing changes if you don’t.’

  Philippa looks at the ground like a schoolgirl that’s been told off, but then raises her head. ‘It’s different for you, everyone listens to your opinions. I’ve got so much to say but I haven’t earned my right to say it.’

  ‘I say this stuff to encourage women like you, not to speak for you.’ As Cam goes to leave, she says, ‘And stop watching the video of Wank Woman. You have no right to call yourself a feminist if you do.’ Philippa nods.

  In an Uber, Cam gets out her phone, there is an email she’s been desperate to send.

  Tara, I am so glad you emailed me, and so happy you saw the piece I wrote about you. How you holding up? Cam x

  Before she even reaches home, she gets a reply.

  Hey Cam

  How am I holding up? OK, let’s see. I can’t get to sleep no matter how many antihistamine or Nytol I take. When I eventually do drop off, I wake up with night terrors because I dream that someone is filming me in my bed, and I can barely remember what fresh air smells like. So all in all, I’m
holding up pretty shit.

  How is your day?

  T x

  Tara

  The doorbell goes and I wake up with a start. I was sleeping bolt upright on the sofa with the TV on, the remote control is in my hand and there’s a piece of cheese on my thigh. There is a bad smell. It could be me; it could be the cheese. My left eye is struggling to open again. I am completely disgusting. I really need to wash but the idea of a shower seems too stressful. The doorbell rings a second time.

  I look at my phone. No texts from my mother, and she would have let me know if she was coming over, she’s good like that. Who else would just show up? Before I put down my phone I look at the text conversation with Jason again, the speech bubble still hovering there like some cruel joke. Why do I care, it was just one night? I know I need to get over it. I don’t feel like I’ll ever move on from any of this. The doorbell rings again, this time followed by a loud thump. I consider not answering, because whoever it is, I really don’t want to see them. But a fourth ding-dong and more aggressive banging lets me know I can’t ignore it.

  I slump into the hallway and look at my front door. Jets of daylight are creeping in from the tiny gaps around the sides. I reach for my sunglasses from the drawer of the little French table in the hall. I can already tell that my left eye won’t be able to handle raw daylight. As I get closer to the door, I hear a man’s voice.

  ‘Tara Thomas,’ he says. ‘We can hear you in there. Can you open the door, please?’

  Next I hear the unmistakable crackle of a walkie-talkie. When I open the door, two police officers are standing on my doorstep. A large plump man, and a short skinny woman.

  ‘Tara Thomas?’ says the man.

  I nod. Despite my sunglasses, I’m squinting quite aggressively. I can also now confirm that the smell is coming from me, not the cheese.