What You Wish For, page 22
But if Bronagh knew, she chose to keep schtum. And when the last hugs, goodbyes and promises to look after Vic were over, and Kerry had driven his folks back for their final night at Willow Cottage, Sidney realised how much she’d miss having them around.
So, it seemed, would the boys.
‘Is Grandpa Douglas coming back soon?’ said Rory, once she’d kissed him goodnight.
Sidney decided not to correct him. It wasn’t as if the boys had a real grandfather anyway. Fergal had been estranged from his parents. And her own mother and father — well, the fact she thought of them as that instead of Mum and Dad said it all. They were her parents and she loved them, and she knew they loved her, as best they could. But the way she lived was so foreign to them. They’d visited once when the boys were small, and it was clear her mother considered their living conditions only one step up from dossing beneath an overpass. Her father didn’t understand why she needed to stay on the benefit. She could be a secretary, surely? In a firm filled with eligible lawyers or accountants?
There’d been no point trying to bridge the gap of understanding; it was too large. And until now, Sidney had put it out of her mind. The boys had not bonded with their grandparents on that first visit, and never questioned why they did not come again. She spoke to her parents by phone once a month for all of ten minutes. Her mother sent money for Christmas because she did not know the boys well enough to know what they’d enjoy. Sidney sent a card and a pot of jam or honey. And that was the relationship complete.
What a shame, Sidney now thought. What a shame that we didn’t make more of an effort. She was pretty sure her father had no idea how to make rockets out of yeast, but perhaps he had other skills that would appeal to boys? He certainly knew some whiskery-old jokes about books and authors (including such classics as Tragedy on the Clifftop by Eileen Dover, and the positively risqué Eating Asparagus by Major P. Smellie).
She should invite them for Christmas. That was months away. Plenty of time to cultivate an inner calm.
Then again, no one would be calm if she stayed pregnant. If she was, say, two months gone now, then the due date would be middish-February. No way she could disguise the bump at Christmas, unless she convinced everyone it was the new way to defrost a turkey.
God, she had to make a decision. And, yikes, it was nearly nine. The boys had headed off to school half an hour ago, and left her dreaming over her toast. She’d be late for work.
‘You’re looking much better,’ said Patricia, as she invited Sidney in.
‘Feeling it, to my relief.’
It was true. The sickness had suddenly stopped, and Sidney’s energy had returned. Her mind was still in crisis, of course, but that was easier to hide than a green face and sweaty brow.
‘Come and have a cup of tea,’ said Patricia. ‘Bernard is just on a call. He absent-mindedly answered the phone, and it was his mother.’
‘Does he usually avoid her calls?’ Sidney asked.
Patricia switched on the kettle. ‘Like a triskaidekaphobian avoids the number thirteen.’
‘Oh, well, I can’t cast aspersions,’ said Sidney, glumly. ‘I was just thinking about what a crap daughter I’ve been. Mind you, my parents are pretty crap, too. It’s like we’re pressing on with a bad date because we’re too polite to say no.’
She glanced around. ‘Where’s Reuben this morning?’
‘Doing his school work,’ said Patricia. ‘Mrs Dundy supplied us with assignments. If he completes them to the best of his ability then he gets an extra half hour of story time.’
Sidney watched Patricia pour hot water into the teapot and swirl it around. There was something nice about this ritual. It was calming. Gracious, even.
Patricia placed a tray of tea things on the table. Porcelain cups and saucers, a sugar bowl, milk jug and silver teaspoons.
‘So civilised,’ Sidney said, wistfully.
‘I confess, I only make pots for guests,’ said Patricia with a laugh. ‘Personally, I’m quite happy with the terrible teabags.’
‘Thanks to a present from Kerry, I now drink from a mug that says Coffee Makes Me Poop,’ Sidney admitted. ‘Which the boys find newly hilarious each morning. As they’re wont to do.’
‘Speaking of boys, I thought you might like to know that I’ve signed Reuben up for martial arts lessons with Casey Marshall’s partner,’ said Patricia as she passed over a teacup. ‘It was Jan Dundy’s suggestion, and I’m not entirely convinced of its merit. What do you think?’
‘It’s been marvellous for Aidan,’ said Sidney. ‘And Casey’s partner, Logan, is terrific, if a little on the earnest side. I think the only issue with Reuben will be ensuring he uses his powers for good not evil. No chop-chop hi-yaa in the school grounds, for instance.’
‘I’ve been reading him The Phantom Tollbooth,’ said Patricia. ‘And I think James and the Giant Peach will be next. I’d like him to become acquainted with imaginative, gentle boy characters, who use their intelligence to solve problems. With luck, that will counteract any unhelpfully macho models he may be drawn to, and open his mind up to a less confrontational way of being.’
Sidney felt a rush of tearful affection that was probably hormonal. But, golly, could Reuben have ended up with a better carer? And to think she’d had doubts.
‘You’re amazing,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased Reuben’s here.’
‘Oh.’ Patricia blushed. ‘Well, thank you. We’ve enjoyed having him.’
‘You didn’t want children of your own?’
The question was out before Sidney realised how tactless it sounded.
‘Sorry, none of my business,’ she added hastily. ‘Forget I spoke.’
‘Yes, it’s a tricky subject,’ said Patricia. ‘But I don’t mind you asking.’
Now Sidney was blushing. ‘Don’t feel compelled to answer, though. Really, it is none of my business.’
‘I think it does me good to talk about it openly. I wasn’t able to talk about it for many years.’
Patricia picked up her tea. She liked it dark as teak, Sidney observed. Strong.
‘We couldn’t have children,’ Patricia said. ‘I’ll spare you the medical details, but it was a combination of issues. Bad luck, really, when you came down to it. And nothing to be done. Not in those days. Now, with IVF, the story might have ended differently.’
Bad luck, thought Sidney. That’s how she felt about her own situation. Was she being selfish? Was she not appreciating her natural advantages, the ease with which she could achieve what women like Patricia wanted so badly but couldn’t, through no fault of their own?
Or was it her right to choose, as the old protest posters used to say? Maybe, but was it her right to choose on her own?
Bernard entered. He looked green, and sweaty across the brow. Sidney felt it safe to assume the conversation with his mother was the cause, and not morning sickness.
‘Tea?’ asked his wife. ‘I could put a spot of brandy in it.’
‘The only piece of information I can bear to relay,’ Bernard pulled out a chair and sank into it, ‘is that, apparently, the home is considering naming a new wing after her.’
‘They have those sets of rooms in castles, I believe,’ said Patricia. ‘Though they more commonly call them dungeons.’
‘Ouch,’ said Sidney.
‘You have no idea.’ Bernard dunked heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his teacup. ‘Torquemada was a rank amateur.’
‘It’s a bit of a lottery who we end up with for parents, isn’t it?’ said Sidney. ‘Some get lucky, some don’t.’
‘Your boys are fortunate to have you,’ said Bernard.
Kind of him to say, though Sidney suspected that next to his own mother, even Joan Crawford would look like Florence Henderson.
But, of course, then he added, ‘Pity more solo mothers don’t follow your example.’
‘I think you’ll find most of them do,’ Sidney said. ‘Or they would if they could. The system doesn’t exactly work in our favour.’
‘Really? I can appreciate that the benefit payment might be inadequate in some cases, but surely you’ve proved that with prudent financial management and a willingness to find outside work, it’s possible to make ends meet?’
Sidney snuck a glance at Patricia, who, to her surprise, winked. Which Sidney interpreted to mean that her husband had a good heart, but was clueless. And could she please be gentle while setting him straight.
‘Well, I have a very good support network,’ said Sidney. ‘And a food-producing garden. And use of a car. And a tertiary education, good health and white skin. All of which helps tremendously. But regarding my willingness to work — for every dollar I earn over a certain amount, the government clips my benefit accordingly. And if I needed to take out a loan to pay for unexpected expenses — that could also be counted as assessable income. If that loan exceeded my benefit, then the government could deem that I’d been overpaid, and take me to court to claim it back.’
Bernard’s mouth was agape. ‘A loan counts as income?’
‘If I use it for what they call “income-related purposes”, i.e. day-to-day living expenses, then yes. If I bought investments, such as shares, then no.’
‘That’s positively Orwellian,’ said Bernard. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Yes, it’s almost enough to make you believe that reading, writing and arithmetic are not, in fact, the skills we should be teaching our children,’ said Patricia. ‘Instead, we should be teaching them how to survive in a world that favours only a privileged few.’
‘That’s you and me, dear,’ said Bernard.
‘I know.’ Patricia reached out and patted his hand. ‘Aren’t we lucky?’
Getting in her car at noon, Sidney checked her phone. Two texts. One from Jill at the plant collective, asking if she could fill in for the next couple of hours as the person rostered on had fallen sick. She texted back in the affirmative and began to drive towards the Legion of Frontiersmen headquarters. The other was from Dr Ghadavi. It was very polite, but prompted an immediate recurrence of sweaty-browed nausea. The message was: the Hampton clinic had rung to tell him that their next free appointment was in three weeks’ time, but that they would only hold the booking until tomorrow morning. The timing meant she would also be required to have a scan to ascertain how close she was to twelve weeks. Could Sidney let him know what she wanted to do?
Sidney knew that if she had a scan, she would keep the baby. Not because she’d see a living foetus on the screen, but because, to her, scans and radiographers signalled the start of a process that had twice ended in labour and a baby. Once the warmed gel was squirted on her stomach, it would be impossible for her not to project forward to that end result. She’d feel the baby in her arms, smell its iron-and-yeast scent, see its eyes flutter open. She’d fall in love with her future baby then and there. And there’d be no going back. She texted the good doctor and said she’d have an answer for him by the end of the day. She didn’t know what that answer would be, but that was the end of the day’s problem.
As she parked opposite the plant collective, she saw her stall partner was Ianthe. Sidney considered turning the car around and pleading some emergency, such as an allergy to felt, but decided today was not a day for wimping out. And maybe Ianthe could suggest some herbal drink that boosted willpower and didn’t taste like it had leaked from a rusty leaf-filled gutter.
Ianthe had on a tiered skirt, ruffled blouse and a bright green felted waistcoat that looked to have been formed from play-dough by a toddler who’d lost interest halfway through. But who was she to judge, thought Sidney? She herself had on an old Superdry hoodie of Kerry’s over a striped women’s work shirt she bought at the op shop in Hampton so she’d have something suitable to wear to Bernard’s. He didn’t seem to notice she wore it every time.
‘Hello.’
Sidney nodded at Ianthe, pulled her folding chair in closer so she could check out what was on the stall. Helped to be familiar with what you were meant to be selling. ‘A plant’ was not usually appreciated as the answer to the question ‘What’s that?’
She glanced over to see Ianthe gazing at her with a slight frown on her normally round, cheerful face. That did not bode well.
‘How are you, Sidney?’ she said.
‘Much better, thanks.’
‘Things have been weighing on you, haven’t they?’
Sidney resisted giving Ianthe a sidelong glance, like a suspicious dog in a cartoon. What things did she mean, exactly?
‘Have they?’
‘It’s in your aura.’
‘Is it?’
Ianthe did not seem at all deterred by Sidney’s clipped tone. But then, she hadn’t got where she was today by being embarrassed about talking bollocks.
‘I see brown, which signifies confusion, or opposing forces in your life. And a hint of maroon, which means either potential or abrupt change. I expect the latter is causing the former.’
‘Auras come in maroon?’ said Sidney. ‘What else? Puce? Eau de Nil?’
Clearly, Ianthe’s superpower was an ability to un-hear sarcasm.
‘Would it help to chat?’ she asked. ‘I realise we don’t know each other well, but sometimes that can make it easier. Despite my haphazard appearance, I’m actually the soul of discretion.’
Dear Lord, she’d sounded for a moment like a normal person. A nice normal person. A kind large-bosomed auntie who’d stroke your head while you let it all out—
‘I’m pregnant,’ said Sidney. ‘And I have to decide whether or not to keep it by five o’clock today.’
Ianthe was unfazed. She’d probably heard worse. People who’d chanelled bad energy through their chakras and suchlike.
‘And fear is getting in your way.’
A statement, not a question. Was it that obvious?
‘Multiple fears,’ said Sidney. ‘A roiling rat’s nest of them.’
‘Well, I’m not one who believes fear is an illusion,’ said Ianthe. ‘It’s real and very often a valid warning. But it also grows over-large if we feed it, like that plant in the musical.’
‘Little Shop of Horrors?’
‘That’s the one. And our struggle is often to determine what size the fear should rightly be. To see it clearly, so we know whether we need to heed it or not.’
‘By five o’clock today,’ said Sidney.
Ianthe beamed. ‘Nothing like a deadline for motivation. Have a sniff of rosemary.’
‘Rosemary who? Oh. Right.’
‘Clears the mind and improves concentration. Not as effectively as Madagascan periwinkle, but, as you won’t be astonished to learn, that’s not as readily available round here.’
Sidney glanced upwards, half expecting to see God wagging His finger at her, telling her off for being smug and judgemental.
‘Thanks, Ianthe,’ she said. ‘That did help.’
‘Any time,’ said Ianthe. ‘It’s what I do.’
Kerry came round after work, at six-thirty. In time to check the boys were still doing their homework in their bedroom, and peel potatoes. As Aidan and Rory had no after-school activities today, Sidney had had time to make a chicken pie. Jacko had given her the meat in exchange for broccoli, cauliflower and rhubarb. She was a lucky girl to have such good friends. She slid the pie in the oven.
‘Bronagh and Douglas get off OK?’
‘Mm-hm,’ was the slightly strangled response.
‘Oh, dear.’
Sidney moved behind him, slipped her arms around his waist.
‘You miss them already,’ she said, hugging him tight.
‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘These tears are caused by onions.’
‘You’re not chopping onions.’
‘Very pungent potatoes, then.’
‘I miss them, too,’ said Sidney. ‘So do the boys. They should come back and live with us.’
Kerry turned to face her. ‘Us?’
Now, it was Sidney’s turn. ‘Mm-hm.’
‘This is new.’
Kerry’s tone was, fair enough, somewhat guarded. Thus far, Sidney had been unambiguous about her feelings on co-habitation.
‘Yes, well …’
The boys could emerge any minute, and a four-way conversation on this subject would be tricky. Difficult enough with just the two of them.
‘After the boys’ bedtime, let’s sit down,’ she said. ‘I have something to tell you.’
CHAPTER 26
Ash
Sidney’s phone call should have pleased him. Instead it plunged him into a depression, in which voices that sounded like those of his family members took turns to enumerate his failures. While Sidney was now on her third child, and Kerry his first, Ash, at a similar age, was not even partially attached, and the ever-present threat of his mother resuming her efforts to wed him loomed large. His career (if it could ever have been so termed) had gone backwards, and he would accumulate no wealth or assets besides the clothes he stood up in. His predecessor being so beloved, he was unlikely to ever attain the same status in the community. Maybe they’d say nice words after he’d died? No, who was he kidding? They’d build a statue to Dr Love, whereas Ash would be lucky if they spelled his name correctly on the death certificate.
Such self-castigation did nothing to improve an already fragile state of mind, made so by the looming reality of his date with Emma, now only a day away. The week since he’d asked her had passed like school holidays used to when he was back in Ahmedabad — long periods of boredom enlivened only by moments of panic and dread. In one of those moments, he’d phoned Magnus, who’d suggested they bring forward their weekend Scrabble evening, so that Ash could get everything off his chest that he needed to before Friday night. Ash suspected he’d need more than a few hours to peel back all the layers of his insecurities, but then again, Oksana was ruthless in her lack of toleration for wallowing, so it was quite possible he’d get down to the nub in the time it took to say Triple Word Score.
