Two Blue Lines

“Dave...”

“Hhmm…”

“Dave I’m late.”

A single cloud in an otherwise perfectly clear Spanish sky blocks out the sun’s warmth for an instant and I shift to get back in it’s rays.

“Hhmm...”

“It’s probably nothing. Just the sun. Change of climate.”

“Hhmm...”

“Could you stop that for just a moment please, I’m trying to tell you something. Like I said it’s probably nothing but just in case…. Oh what the heck. Get over here…”

“Hmmm…. Mmmmmmmm….”

***

Well I guess now we both know the reason for her “lateness”. Why do women say that anyway? Why can’t they just come right out say it? Dave, I think I might be pregnant? At least then I’d have paid some attention, well possibly. I was rather enjoying myself at the time… But when they just go on about late all I think about is busses and trains, not family planning.

Living with someone you get used to seeing things lying about the place. Lipstick tubes, strange frilly things, soap. Somehow though, a used pregnancy test is not the kind of thing you expect to see lying around the bathroom on a Saturday morning the day after coming back from holiday with your girlfriend. It’s just the not the sort of thing Human Science classes prepare you for. Especially when there are two blue lines in that little window.

We should have spoken about it last night. Okay so the plane was delayed by four hours and by the time we got in we were ratty and irritable and utterly in need of another holiday-preferably to separate continents. And I guess I did just crash out on the bed and leave her to unpack, make the tea and feed the cat-but she still could have told me. I guess that was what she was doing in the bathroom for so long last night. I thought she was just travel sick.

She comes out of the bedroom now, dressed in my old university t-shirt and asks why I haven’t put the kettle on yet and if I’ve got any dirty washing as she’s about to put on a load. I obediently start to make us some coffee as she starts telling me all the things we have to do today-which generally seem to involve shopping, cleaning and staying out of her way while she does it. I’m going through the motions, tap on, fill kettle, open cupboard, get coffee. But all the time as I’m hmmm-ing and Ahh-ing along to her conversation, all I can think about is-oh God. She’s pregnant. How the hell did that happen? I don’t mean the birds and the bees stuff, just… there’s a part of me inside her right now. Growing there inside her belly. Part and me and part of her. A baby. Our baby.

“… and we really ought to go round and see my parents-I haven’t seen them for a month and I forget to send them a postcard…”

Oh God. Her parents. How the hell am I going to explain that I got their nice Catholic daughter pregnant without even proposing to her? I wonder if they’ll buy the whole Immaculate Conception story… Well they believed it the first time round.

“I need to go to the shops as well, we’re out of carrots and I was going to make… Dave? Are you even listening to me?”

“We need carrots.” I repeat grinning at my achievement while silently wondering if the poor kid will inherit my nose. Oh god. This is real. This is actually going to happen. There’s going to be a little baby in this world in just a matter of months. Our baby. My baby. Oh god. I’ve got to get out of here.

“Dave? You okay?”

“Carrots. Yes. I’ll get them for you. I’ll go right now. Carrots. Very important. Won’t be long.”

“Dave it’s 8.30 on a Sunday morning. Where the hell are you going to get carrots from? Anyway, I said I needed them for dinner not breakfast. But if you’re going out then I’ll give you list. We could do with some more milk and maybe some of that… Dave wait a minute!”

But I’m gone, shutting the half finished shopping list behind me. My head is spinning. I can barely even walk straight let alone think it. I feel as if I’m drunk and hung-over at the same time, as if I’ve just been punched in the guts from a blow I’ll never fully recover from. I feel… ah hell. I just need to get out of here. I need to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere to clear my mind and get all this in perspective. Oh yeah, and somewhere that sells carrots at 8.30 on a Sunday morning.

So I wander around, even more aimlessly than usual, vaguely hoping to find a nice quiet bench somewhere where I can just sit, relax and contemplate life, the universe and maternity wear. I’m temporarily distracted however by what sounds like a cross between a steam train and a scene from an adult movie. Understandably curious I wander in the general direction of the noise, wondering if by any chance it’s an early morning farmer’s market with a healthy carrot supply.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing like seeing fifty heavily pregnant women with their knees up in the birthing position, panting for Britain while their husband, partner or lesbian lover pulls a cuddly toy from under their shirts to REALLY put you off your lunch. A child birthing class. Yippee. Just great. The racket this lot are making you’d think they were trying to make babies not give birth to them. I’m about to run way as fast as I possibly can when a voice disturbs me.

“Terrifying isn’t it?” I spin round surprised to find I have company. Apparently I’m not the only incompetent father-to-be in this part of the world. My companion is thirty-something, slightly balding and puffing frantically away on a cigarette as if he’s up against the firing squad. He’s clearly been watching the heaving breathing display as well.

“Yeah. Women eh? Can’t imagine why they would ever want kids.” I was aiming for a male-bonding us-against the world sort of tone. It doesn’t quite meet its expected target.

“Too right mate. “ My companion replies. “This is our fourth and the previous there have already almost bankrupted me.” Her waves to the only lone woman in the group while hiding the cigarette behind his back. “I’m not allowed to smoke at home.” He informs me.

“So um, you’ve got kids then?" I ask dumbly.

“Yeah. Three so far” he replies, apparently not realising that he’d imparted this information only moments before. “They’re over there.” He adds waving his hand vaguely at the kids play ground behind us where his children are hidden among a bunch of fifty other screaming individuals. “You got kids mate?" he asks.

“Um no. No. No kids.” Realising that I may very be taken for some sort of sick pervert to be spying on birthing classes minus partner and kids, I quickly add “No yet that is. My girlfriend’s expecting. We heard this was a good class to join so I thought I’d come check it out.” It’s only half a lie at least and he seems to accept it.

“Well best of luck to you mate. I tell you, they’ll strip you bare and break your heart but having kids is the best thing in the world.” And with that he stubs out his cigarette under his shoe and makes his way back into the circle to give his wife a foot rub.

And this time I really watch what’s going on. It may look ridiculous to an outsider, but actually it’s a rehearsal for the biggest event in a person’ life – getting born. I guess you need a lot of practise as most people only get to do it once. And suddenly as I watch another teddy bear take the form of a human as the new furry baby is placed into the tearful mother’s arms, I realise that I want to be the one who does that. I want to the one who places our child in Suzy’s arms. I want to be there, through pregnancy, birth, everything. I want to do all this, foot rubbing and panting and anti-natal yoga. Because as soppy as it sounds, I love Suzy. And I love our baby. Even if it is only the size of a fingernail right now.

**

Okay. I’ve got to think about this rationally. A child. Our child, a baby. A tiny little fragile screaming, smelly, crying, puking… okay. Wrong line of thought. Yeah kids. Kids are cool. I can do kids. I think. Oh hell. I don’t the slightest thing about kids. I need to talk to an expert. That’s it. I mean, you need an operation; you see a doctor. You need a new house; you go to an estate agent. You girlfriend’s having a baby; you go to … Mothercare.

**

I must be mad. I am mad. Absolutely barmy. Loopy. Insane. No self respecting man would do what I’m about to do. It’s just unheard of. That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m going home. No. I’m not going to give in to this. I’ve got to prove to myself and to Suzy that I can do this. That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m going in.

Damm. Why do they put those annoying little bells on the doors of these shops? I think it’s just to prevent any self respecting man from trying to sneak in and out as quickly as possible without any sugary sweet sales assistant spotting them.

Too late.

Why do all these people have to be women? They go on and on about equal rights and political correctness but tell me, have you ever seen a male sales assistant in Mothercare? Exactly. I rest my case. Whatever it was.

And she’s wearing a cardigan. Oh great. Just brilliant. Why do all middle aged slightly over-weight women insist on wearing cardigans they either knitted themselves on the day their glasses were in for repair or brought for 10p at the jumble sale at the local church’s summer fete?

And she’s wearing a hair net. Oh joy. That’s just great. This has just really made my day. Well I don’t care how persuasive she is, or how mush she looks like someone’s Grandma, (not my grandma of course seeing as how she had purple hair and rode a motorbike until she was seventy. Plus she’s dead which would rather rule out the comparison) I’m not buying anything with bunnies, kitties, doggies or anything else cute and ending in –ies on it.

“Good morning Dearie. And what can I do for you today?”

“I…um...I...” Talk sense man.

“I’m having a baby. No, I mean. I’m not. Obviously, ha! She is. My girlfriend is having a baby. Our baby. She’s having our baby. We’re going to have a baby.”

“Yes Sir. I think I understand the situation. Now what can I do to help? Are you after anything in particular? A cot? Clothes? Cuddly toys? A pram?”

“Umm…”

“Okay sir. Let’s start from the beginning. What do you and your girlfriend already own?”

“Well we’ve got a house, well a flat. It’s got a spare room although it’s not really spare seeing as how it’s full of junk and you can’t actually get in the door. Oh and we’ve got a car of sorts, a Hoover, a dishwasher although she tells me I’m not allowed to call her that. Ha!.” Pause. “You meant what have we got for the baby didn’t you?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Right. Yes of course. The baby. Um... The baby yes. Well, I was kind of wondering if you could help me out there. You see, I’m not really sure what to buy…”

***

It’s getting dark by the time I finally make it home, armed with two carrier bags, a box of chocolates and a Chinese take-away-preparation, an apology and a meal respectively. I know it wasn’t exactly chivalrous of me to walk out without a word this morning, and I shouldn’t really expect a welcome committee, but somehow the sound of Suzy retching in the bathroom falls slightly short of welcoming.

Bags and meal hastily bunged on the table I push open the bathroom door to see her crouched over the toilet regurgitating British airways finest. Not a pleasant sight I assure you.

“Urghhh. Go away…” She groans when she sees me, before turning back and throwing up again.

I ignore her and kneel down next to her, holding her hair away from her face as she empties her stomach into the George V enamel bowl (only a fiver from a man on the market).

“It’s okay sweetie. It’s alright.”

“Eurgh… blewwww” she sweetly replies-about the only time I’ve been able to get away with calling her a pet name.

A few minutes of similar interactions later and she’s all done. I help her to her feet and run her a glass of water.

“Thanks. Oh god. I feel like death.” She moans.

“You look great to me." I tell her to which she just snorts. And she’s right. I love her dearly but the lingering sick smell is a little off putting.

“I guess you know then, as you don’t seem all that surprised by this. You found the test?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry I did that disappearing act-I just needed a bit of time to myself-sort my head out.”

“You needed time? Imagine how I feel-first day back from holiday and I’ve spent most of it on my knees puking down the loo!”

“Yeah-I thought you were meant to get sick in the mornings?”

“Jet lag.”

“Ah.”

“So?”

“What?”

“This, you idiot. Me. You. This.” She gestures in the general area of her stomach.

“The baby?”

“Duh! Look, I’m not going to go all possessive here. I know it’s not something we’ve given any thought to. Let alone planned for financially but...”

“We’ll manage.”

“What?

“I said we’ll manage. If you want this baby, the sickness, the sleepless nights, the crying, the nappies… then I want it too. Every bit of it. Well I mean you’re going to be doing most of the actual birthing process naturally but for everything else I’m going to be there. Hey look, I even got a present for him or her or them.” I dash back into the kitchen and retrieve the Mothercare bag from underneath the now-cold takeaway and hand its contents to her.

“It’s best to be prepared right? Hey don’t cry. I’ll take them back if you hate them that much. Hey…”

But she’s sobbing in my arms now, the little blue and pink Teddy bears squashed against my chest. So I just hold her and soothe her as best I can as the realisation fully hits for the first time that day. I’m going to be a Dad.

And it feels great.