Chapter Twenty One: Shut Up, It's Not Going to Happen

And with that the urge disappeared.
And something changed inside. Instead of a squelchy mush of eggs, all clinging together with sticky mucus, things became more organised. Hutches sprang up from nothing. These had a hard, muscular exterior and made it much easier to see who was staying and who was next to go. The eggs all enjoyed being inside their individual hutches and once inside, the sense of urgency, the rebellion against the urgency, and the frustration dissipated. They simply sat and munched on crunchy, week-old straw and soon enough they got used to staying cramped up inside and they didn’t even jiggle or try and force themselves to the front of the line. It wasn’t worth it and besides, they couldn’t figure out how to get out anymore. In fact when the next one left, they barely noticed. It seemed to rise up towards the heart anyway. Besides, if they semi-closed their cells, they could see the end was probably ten or fifteen years away- at most. At least these hutches were warm. Dry and crunchy but warm.

And George and I became friends again and every morning we got the bus to work and I stopped saying his hair looked stupid. And we never discussed the diary and one weekend I simply placed it next to his bed and so I guess we were doing what most families do and ignoring the difficult things and hoping they’d go away. And slowly, Carla forgave George for his near suicide. The fact was, she was now so unwieldy, so GIGANTIC and so incapable of standing, that she had no energy. And besides, the baby was coming and she couldn’t undo the fact that George was going to be a father- whether he chose to stay on the planet or not. And in my own way, I accepted my changing circumstances and simply listened as Simon rattled on about sales figures and percentage profit margins (and resisted the urge to grab him by both ears and scream ‘WHO ARE YOU?’) and it rapidly turned into a low level drone like when your Sky box is about to go on the blink. We never discussed our book shop idea anymore and he became less critical of the huge cardboard boxes of celebrity toss that were dropped off by mansion-size lorries once a week. And increasingly, I thought how foolish the idea had been in the first place and how eventually I wanted to leave the retail world and fry bacon in a greasy spoon rather than watch my best mate evolve into a monster. But at least back at Mum’s things had improved. The plates were a normal colour. And a calm descended on everything. With baited breath, the house waited, each room quiet and expectant; a baby-shaped absence that was everywhere- inside the newly fitted cot with sheepskin cosy, the high-chair with yellow elephants that danced up one side and the tiny, baby clothes which sat piled up next to the kitchen radiator.

And every night when I got back to my own flat, I tried to shove thoughts of Medium Brown out of my mind. I’d taken my eye off the important stuff and been slapped in the chops. It was early enough that things came undone relatively easily. After a couple of texts, he gave up. And the way he looked in my dressing gown was irrelevant.

‘You seem a bit peaky,’ Mum said one Tuesday afternoon, about six weeks after George’s wrestle with pen knife.
We’d met for lunch at Debenhams. My head was bulging with all the guff Simon had been flooding my brain with that morning. We had to get a 4% apple turnover in order to create a sustainable marketing pie strategy blah blah. Create greater customer satisfaction and more ‘joined up solutions’ so ‘customers could interact with the brand at every touch-point’. He’d even started wearing a cravat. It made me want to weep. I was also trying to ignore my period which was about to start, even though it was habit to mentally plan out what the egg would wear when it grew up, what school it would go to and what its favourite band would be. Instead I bit into my cheese and pickle sandwich and thought how happy I was being barren and not having a boyfriend and working with my best mate who had basically turned into a prize A turd factory.
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘Carla had a little show of blood yesterday,’ Mum said cutting her sandwich into four pieces.
‘Is that serious?’
‘Hopefully not. But I’ll just be glad when the baby is born and we’ve got them all safe at home and nothing else can go wrong.’
And with no warning, no croak in the throat or gagging, I felt a fat tear roll down my cheek and then this noise came out of my mouth like a terrier with its tail caught in the car door. Mum leant over the table and grabbed my hand. I took another bite of sandwich but my mouth was so dry and my teeth went up and down until it was just a ball of carpet rolled up under my tongue. How could everything suddenly become so hopeless? I studied the pattern on my plate and thought about frying those eggs in the greasy spoon and then stuffing ready meals into the microwave and living on my own in a bed-sit and never having sex and then dying with my rusty, old ways. Why couldn’t I find contentment in other people’s happiness? Like why wasn’t I happy that my brother was going to LIVE? That was pretty damned significant. And I’d read that diary. I knew how serious he’d been. And this was an exciting time because soon I’d be an Aunt and I’d have a great little relative who I could baby-sit and take out for the day and then I’d also have a sister in law (that was inevitable) who liked Death Music, Manga and was also my boss. Unless Simon took over the world and ended up owning a chain of faceless book shops. And I would be his monkey. His silent slave who still remembered a time when he was fun and snarled at the world.
‘What’s wrong?’
I picked up a napkin from the table and worked the ball of bread into the centre and then dabbed my eyes. I was at that stage where things could get unpredictable. Either I’d be really dignified and speak in a calm, coherent manner or gunk would fly out of my mouth and nose, all mulched up with bread and then I’d choke and everyone in Debenhams would gasp and probably think I was losing my marbles when really it was perfectly clear that I was right at my prime.
‘Are you getting your period?’
The psychic was out of her box. I kept focused on the plate in case she saw any of the other doom-rattling about in there, trying to work its way into her force-field. It was quiet for a bit with nothing but the sound of wet forcing its way down my throat. I blew my nose but the napkin still contained a great sticky ball which worked its way into the side of my face. Mum rummaged round for a tissue and then crouched down on the floor next to my chair.
‘You want a baby don’t you?’ she said eventually.
SHE WAS GOOD! But there was no point denying it. Okay so I’d stopped counting days now and I was trying my best to be a more compassionate, caring person. Okay I’d stopped having sex and staring at every single, miniature bald person as they were wheeled past me like a veritable smorgasbord.
‘I saw you taking your temperature a few months back. I thought it was odd. Then I noticed you kept staring at Carla’s bump and then that time I showed you the baby booties, you looked like you were about to explode. It’s alright. It’s only human.’
‘No, I’m not human,’ I said stabbing the bread ball with my knife and trying to cut it’s sloppy exterior as if I was dissecting an animal. Inside that ball lay clues to my future. If there was a bit of munched up cheese, it was good news and if there wasn’t, well it was dried up rabbit hutches and meals for one.
‘It’s normal to want a baby,’ Mum continued.
There was no cheese in the soggy bread ball. There was nothing but crumbs and some sinister looking pickle that denoted my dark, lonesome future. I’d never be happy in my own right. And at this very moment, even if I tried not to think about, there was still a perfectly good, perfectly serviceable egg working its way down into my pants. What a complete waste.
‘You’ve still got time,’ Mum said squeezing my hand.
It wasn’t going to happen. And then on the way back to work, I felt something harden inside. What was the point in crying? No really? I just needed to accept it. And I went back to work and I stacked shelves and I typed book enquiries into the computer and I smiled at George when I caught him itching the cuffs of his jumper, fingering the edges of the bandages.

Shut up. It’s not going to happen.

And the eggs didn’t care. They really didn’t give a shit. Besides the hutches made everything more orderly and there was less danger of flying out by mistake. And in fact when it was time, the hutch simply flew open and then you knew it was time to go. And the straw was dry but it sure was tasty like chewing on meat-flavoured string. And three hundred and seventy eight sat in its hutch and for the first time it just enjoyed munching and sitting there and studying all the eggs in their hutches and it seemed like everything was under control. Then a watery voice kept saying the same thing over and over. Shut up. It’s not going to happen. But none of them understood.

So she was only talking to herself again.