by Gil McNeil
Ezra goes to the local posh prep school, where he has to wear one of those ridiculous uniforms based on Victorian chimney sweeps or something, with trousers in mustard-yellow corduroy.
I promise to think of names of ‘nice’ local children, and walk back down the lane wondering how mixing advertising types with villagers and the Garden Society is going to work out.
And I’ve got no idea what to wear either, which means I’ll have to go shopping. I’d better ask Mum to look after Alfie, because going clothes shopping with him is like being in Mission Impossible, but without Tom Cruise. Maybe it won’t really matter what I wear, as long as we get a really nice present for Ezra, and Alfie doesn’t decide to try to smuggle out that giraffe. And Lola doesn’t sack half the catering staff in the middle of the party.
Molly’s come round for tea and seems more distracted than usual. Once we’ve settled the kids in front of cartoons with a packet of Hoola Hoops each we take refuge in the kitchen.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You seem a bit quiet.’
‘Well, the thing is –’
And then she bursts into tears, sort of quietly and not in a hysterical way or anything, which is a good job because I’ve got no idea what you’re meant to do with someone who’s hysterical, but I bet that slapping thing is a really bad idea. Molly’s really not the tearful sort, so something awful must have happened.
‘The thing is, I think I’m pregnant, and I just don’t know if I can cope with two. I mean I know Dan will be pleased – he’s always said he wanted another one, but it’s not him that’s got to have it.’
‘You mean you haven’t told him?’
‘Not yet. I’m only a few weeks late.’
‘How many’s a few?’
‘Nearly two months actually – well, two months on Saturday. I just wanted time to think about it before I tell him. I mean it makes it so official once he knows, like it’s definite. And I’m not ready for that.’
‘Have you done a test?’
‘No, I couldn’t face it. I’ve got one, it’s in my bag. I’ve been sort of putting it off.’
‘Well, come on then, let’s do it. I’ll make some more tea or something, boil some water. Oh, sorry.’
‘It’s all right, but come up with me.’
We go upstairs and Molly does the weeing-on-stick thing while I wait outside the bathroom door, feeling rather nervous all of a sudden, and then she re-emerges, waving the stick in the air. We both peer at it. A very bright blue line appears in the window, almost immediately.
I hug her, and she half smiles as we go back downstairs, but she looks rather pale and tired.
‘I think it’s lovely, Molly, I really do.’
‘I’m sure I will too, once I get used to the idea. And Dan’s a great dad, he really is.’
I wish she didn’t sound quite so downbeat, like she’s trying to convince herself it’s going to be all right.
‘You’re all hormonal, and it’s bound to take a bit of time to get used to it.’
‘I suppose so. What should I do with this?’
She waves the pregnancy-test stick in the air.
‘Put it in my bin if you like, although we’ll have to wrap it up, because if Mum sees it she’ll have a fit. Unless you want to keep it. I carried mine around for weeks.’
‘No, I don’t want to risk Dan finding it, not yet. I might tell him tonight, but I’m not sure. I feel like I need a few more days.’
Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good.
‘Do you want some tea?’
‘No thanks, I should go really – I’m totally knackered. I’d forgotten how tired you get.’
I give her a hug as she’s leaving and she hugs me back, quite hard, like she doesn’t really want to leave, but then she seems to cheer up and starts talking about the garden again, and promises to bring another book round on her way home from school one night this week.
She says she’ll call me later, but she doesn’t, which I hope means she’s talking to Dan or getting used to the idea or something. I’ll call her tomorrow, just to see how she’s feeling. God, I don’t envy her. I mean having a new baby to cuddle will be lovely, obviously – there’s something so wonderful about newborns. But it will also be lovely knowing that someone else is doing the night shifts.
I’m having a horrible time at work, and Janet’s being extra annoying because Malcolm is away at some conference. She runs the business with Malcolm, and is also married to him, and she’s completely obsessed: the way she carries on you’d think he was some major creative genius.
I don’t think she was terribly keen when he announced he wanted to hire a bright young thing, especially when the bright young thing turned out to be me, and she’s been pretty revolting ever since I started. At first I thought it was me, and I was feeling pretty sorry for myself at the end of my first week until Brenda, who works on reception and has been around for years, took pity on me and told me that everyone hates Janet and she’s always horrible to new people, especially women, because she thinks they’re after Malcolm, which made me feel a bit better. Although it’s very annoying how women like Janet always seem to assume you’re after their husbands. I mean you’d have to be so desperate to go after Malcolm you’d probably be on some sort of special medication.
And just to make work even more perfect than usual my barn-hating man and his wife have turned out to have such bad taste it’s completely staggering. Every time I try to steer them towards something that won’t make people actually faint when they walk through the door, they manage to screw it all up again. The latest is some tiles they’ve found for the kitchen, with random splashes of colour that look just like vomit. And a giant blue-plastic whirlpool bath with gold dolphin taps, which they think is lovely. Sometimes I really don’t know why I bother.
Molly comes round with more gardening books, and we’re trying to cheer each other up while the children play and watch videos for half an hour. She’s told Dan and he’s delighted, and she seems to be getting more into the idea too, which is great.
‘Has your mum got over it yet?’
‘Only just.’
The other night when I got in from work Mum was standing at the door with her arms crossed, and a face like thunder. She asked me if I had anything I wanted to tell her, like she used to do when Jim and I were little and we used to steal biscuits and hide the ones we didn’t like under the carpet. I thought she’d seen the parking ticket I got a few weeks ago, so I said I didn’t know what she was making such a fuss about and she nearly went into orbit.
It turned out she’d found Molly’s pregnancy test. She says it fell out when she was putting something in the recycling bin, but I bet she was having a quick rootle about to see if there was anything interesting, because she’s always telling me off for making Alfie oven chips instead of peeling potatoes and making proper ones. Anyway, she’d rung her friend Phyllis who used to work in Boots and found out that a blue line definitely means you’re pregnant, and she wanted some answers. I ended up having to offer to ring Molly before she would believe me.
‘How’s Dan – still mad keen?’
‘I think the initial excitement’s worn off a bit.’
Oh dear. I thought she was looking a bit fed up when she arrived.
‘I mean he’s pleased, really, but he started going on about money yesterday, and how much another baby will cost, and how we’ll have to get the bedroom finished, which bloody annoyed me, actually, so we ended up arguing. We made it up, and he said he didn’t mean he’d changed his mind, and he does really want another one, but he just wants the house finished. And I feel sick all the time.’
She’s chomping her way through a packet of ginger biscuits.
‘And my clothes are getting tight already – it’s ridiculous. Look.’ And she hoists up her jumper, to reveal her jeans are unzipped.
‘Did you get big with Alfie?’
‘Elephantine. Taxi drivers used to make me
promise not to go into labour before they’d let me into their cabs.’
‘Me too. They thought Lily would be huge.’
‘That’s what Caesareans are for, trust me. No sitting on rubber rings with stitches in your undercarriage, as my gran would say. And lots of morphine for the first couple of days. Perfect.’
‘I had a water birth with Lily – it was lovely. Well, most of it. I did a lot of yoga too, and I think that really helped. I must find out about classes.’
‘I wanted to do something like that, but the hospital didn’t have a pool. I think it had a puncture or something, and anyway Patric wouldn’t come to the classes.’
Actually, even if there had been a pool I’m not sure it would have really done the trick. I know everyone says you’re supposed to want to be all elemental and go for as natural a birth as possible, but I quite liked my Caesarean. And I’m not convinced that telling everyone the ideal way to give birth is squatting on a bean bag with a cup of nettle tea isn’t just another way to make us all feel like failures if we end up with epidurals.
‘I’d like to go for a home birth this time – I think I’d feel more in control. But Dan’s not keen. He thinks if something goes wrong you’re better off in hospital, and I suppose he’s got a point.’
‘It’s tricky, isn’t it, knowing what to do, but at least you’ll have more idea second time round. And just think, all those lovely cuddles. And those first smiles. And the way they cling on when you pick them up, and curl their little legs up.’
‘Did you find it easy to breastfeed – at first, I mean? I was so sure it would be easy but I couldn’t get the hang of it for ages, and Lily was really fussy, and wouldn’t latch on. You feel such a tit, don’t you?’
We both laugh.
‘Yes, I suppose you do. Although Alfie was such a guzzler I think that sort of helped.’
‘Do you want another one, at some point?’
‘In theory, yes, I suppose, but Mum would never forgive me, not if I hadn’t nailed down a husband by then. Two would look like I was doing it on purpose. And I love it just being me and Alfie, and I don’t know if I’d want to risk screwing it up. Anyway, it’s not like I’m overwhelmed with offers at the moment, apart from the occasional builder, of course, and I don’t think fatherhood’s exactly what they’ve got in mind. And I’m not really sure I want one – a man, I mean – not at the moment. Not full-time anyway.’
‘I was thinking about it the other day, you know, and sometimes I think I would have gone for it, if I hadn’t met Dan – gone solo, I mean. There’s this woman at school, Fiona, and she’s with this really boring man. I mean he’s not terrible or anything, just boring and sort of grubby, and he’s always criticising her and bringing her down, but she wants kids, so she’s marrying him. It’s so sad.’
‘I know. Mind you, maybe I’d do the same if anyone was asking me.’
‘You wouldn’t, you know. You’re too sensible. And anyway you’re too much of a good mother – you wouldn’t do that to Alfie.’
‘True. I might have put up with a load of retarded boyfriends, but when it comes to dads I’ve discovered I’m rather choosy. It’s bad enough saddling him with Patric without picking another nutter. I’d really hate that.’
‘Dan’s a good dad.’
‘I know. He’s lovely.’
‘It’s just, well, I just wish it was a bit more exciting sometimes.’
‘It’s bound to be like that though, isn’t it? I mean it can’t be exciting all the time, can it?’
‘No, but some of the time would be nice. I mean I know he loves me – don’t get me wrong – and I love him too. But sometimes I can’t help thinking it would be easier on my own. I wouldn’t have to worry about what he thinks, or if he’s OK. Sometimes all I can cope with is myself and Lily. God knows what it’s going to be like with another one.
‘And I just can’t be bothered worrying about him too, and then he sulks. I know it’s hard for him, and with the baby it’s only going to get worse, but it just feels like I’m being stretched thinner and thinner. The head’s asked me to apply for one of the deputy headships – did I tell you?’
‘Molly, that’s great.’
‘I know. And I really want it. But what with school and Lily and Dan and now this one, I just don’t think I can cope. I feel like I’m disappearing. It’s such a cliché, but it’s true: I feel like the invisible woman sometimes. Like I’m on some sort of treadmill – get up, go to work, come home, play with Lily, fall asleep, get up, go to work. And school is such a big deal, it really is. The kids deserve someone who’s totally there for them, not someone who’s too knackered most of the time. I don’t want to turn into one of those teachers who treats it like some part-time job, just because it fits in with their kids’ school holidays. We’ve got enough of those already.’
‘You’re a great teacher, Moll – you know you are. They’re really lucky to have you.’
‘Not all the time I’m not. Sometimes I just coast through – I can feel myself doing it. And it’s not good enough. And I think Dan half wants me to give up work, or at least want to give up, if you know what I mean. I think he’d be happier if I was longing to be at home more, baking bread and having his supper on the table and all that bollocks. Sometimes I think he’s jealous of the kids at school, because they get so much of my attention. And I feel guilty about that too. And anyway, if I was a really good mother I’d want to be at home all the time, wouldn’t I? But I don’t. I really don’t. I mean I wouldn’t mind doing part-time, like you. But I wouldn’t want to give up altogether, even if we could afford it.’
‘Oh neither would I. I’d go mad. There’s only so much finger-painting a girl can take.’
‘School’s the only place where I feel I’m getting it right, at least some of the time. Where I really feel I make a difference. Half the time with Lily I just feel I’m not good enough.’
‘Oh but that’s the deal, isn’t it? It’s the same with Alfie. Anything he gets right is because of him, and it’s his triumph, but anything he gets wrong is my fault. You just can’t win.’
‘I know, but it just feels so bloody hard sometimes.’
There’s a crash from the living room. Alfie has jumped off the sofa during an especially lively bit of Winnie the Pooh. He was being Tigger but didn’t quite get the bouncing right. We make a huge fuss and confirm that no, his head is not broken off, but he might have a bump tomorrow to show Nana. This cheers him up because he loves showing off bumps and scratches, which always makes me feel like a negligent mother: even though Mum swears Jim spent most of his childhood covered in sticking plasters and she had to bulk-buy Germoline until he was at least twelve.
‘We should go. Come on, Lily. Let’s get you home – it’s nearly bath time. Shall we have a lovely bath, with bubbles?’
‘No. I want to stay here. No.’
Lily begins to scream and hurl cushions off the sofa. Alfie is most impressed and joins in. We finally manage to subdue them, with the help of two tubes of Smarties and some nifty footwork, and while I help Molly get Lily into the car Alfie has a nice little stamp about in puddles, in his slippers. Perfect.
Lily is practically inhaling her Smarties now.
‘You’d better get going – you’re getting dangerously close to a non-Smartie zone.’
We go back indoors and I rinse out his slippers while he has a last burst of Peter Pan before bed. I know what Molly means about how hard it is, and how you never feel you’re getting it right. And I know what she means about work too. Sometimes I actually look forward to my days in the office, just so I can feel I’m halfway competent at something. And in some ways it’s much easier for me, with just myself and Alfie to worry about. I mean obviously it would be nice to have a man around, but it would also make everything so much more complicated. Whatever you do you seem to end up feeling guilty, and poor Moll seems to be finding it especially hard-going at the moment. Which isn’t like her because she’s usually pretty upbeat: i
t’s probably just that hormone soup you slosh around in for the first few months.
Alfie’s got really tired after all his leaping about, and I’ve got my timing wrong, again. He refuses to lie down while I read him a story in bed, and keeps doing head-over-heels which he’s just learnt at playgroup, so I lose my temper and shout at him and he bursts into tears. I end up giving him a cuddle lying on his bed, and wake up an hour or so later to find my left arm has gone numb, and the fire has gone out. So much for a relaxing evening watching telly. I’m in work again tomorrow, and the kitchen is filthy. I must remember to have a quick squirt of Dettox before Mum arrives.
Of course I forget the Dettox, and Mum asks me what on earth I’ve been doing to Alfie’s slippers. Like I went out on purpose and dipped them in the nearest muddy puddle. I leave her trying to persuade Alfie to eat his Weetabix, and fussing over the bruise on his head, which you can actually hardly see but still makes me feel guilty, and then I arrive late at the office, due to being stuck behind some pillock in a tractor.
Janet is standing waiting for me when I arrive, looking rather pointedly at her watch.
‘Mr and Mrs Prentice are in the meeting room. Where on earth have you been?’
‘Stuck in traffic – sorry. I’ll go through, shall I?’
I walk straight into the meeting without giving her a chance to answer, and I’ve just started discussing the plans when she comes in.
‘I just thought I’d check everyone was happy. Alice is a relatively new member of our team, but rest assured we have every confidence in her. And if there’s anything you need, I’m just outside.’
Mr and Mrs Prentice look confused and I’m furious: Janet’s notorious for barging into other people’s meetings and undermining them. I’ve been practising what to say in case she does it to me, and it looks like this is my moment.
‘Thanks, Janet, I think we’re fine, but I’d love another cup of coffee.’
Mr and Mrs Prentice say yes, they would like another cup too, and then turn their attention back to the utility room. Janet looks thunderous, but has to go and sort out more coffee, so I give her what I hope is an encouraging smile, but suspect is more of a smirk, and feel very pleased with myself. Brenda brings the coffee in and gives me a wink as she pours it out.