Chapter Fifteen: The Whole Damned Thing is a Complete Damned Failure

It is ridiculous how many cute baby clothes there are nowadays. When I’d been a baby, there’d basically been blue and pink BabyGros or stuff knitted by your Gran. Most of the time I’d walked around in nothing but a baggy nappy (a grey, toweling one) and a T-shirt made of josh sticks and raffia. Babies never looked like adults back then. Now there were miniature pairs of denim jeans, slogan hood tops - even leather jackets with silver studs peppered all over the lapels. I picked up a small, yellow cardigan with a pastel-blue elephant on the front - ‘I’m Somebody Special’ the elephant declared, waving it’s sweet, little trunk in the air.
‘Too bloody right you are,’ I said clutching the cardie to my chest.
This would be my first baby purchase.

On the way out of the shop I spotted the sickly twosome. Carla had now entered a new phase where she looked terrible again. She'd had the blooming stage, the shiny skin and now looked haggard and drained. Pregnancy seemed to whisk you through your entire lifespan in nine months. By contrast George, well he looked full of VOOM and enthusiasm as usual. He was staring at a pram in the shop window that looked more like a piece of high-end medical equipment than something you’d push a baby round the park in. Carla was rubbing her tummy- something that she’d been doing constantly, just so she could remind everyone that yes she was definitely pregnant and not just overweight. Previously the rubbing had been like a constant, nagging irritation - it was like she was taunting me with it, each circle like a giant eraser rubbing out my precious baby plans. Well Carla could rub as much as she wanted now. Okay you couldn’t see anything different yet; my Polish fetus was as big as a fingernail but it wouldn’t be long till I could tell the world. I AM GOING TO BE A MUM. I practiced rubbing my hand on my stomach, then checked my reflection in the windowpane as I passed Sainsbury’s. Nothing was showing yet. Only two more months and I would take a full-page advert out in the Croydon Advertiser.

It was difficult coming up with an excuse not to go for a drink with Simon every night. And to be honest our relationship had become slightly cool since the evening I’d left with my baby’s father. It had never happened before- that I’d been so desperate for sex that I’d left a friend without even saying goodbye. And Simon was understandably hurt. Added to this, I couldn’t share the whole experience with him and this made the conversation strained. The past three weeks we’d felt more and more like colleagues. There was also more pressure at work- books just weren’t selling. Or at least some books were but not the majority and even the popular ones were discounted all the time. And that was with the free Aero and Dawn French autobiography that came with each purchase. All junior staff had been sacked which meant Simon and I were run ragged most of the time and didn’t have time to read books or sit in the stock room eating chocolate. All the uncertainty wasn’t good for Simon- he was a natural worrier and had just bought a place with his fella and would be worried about keeping up the mortgage payments if he lost his job. I was less concerned - mentally I’d already moved on. If I didn’t have any money, I could always live with Mum for a bit. You had to be flexible when you had children. In fact living with Mum would probably be a great idea- my old room was still there and as long as I could put up with George and Carla it would be fine. In fact it would be like a hippie commune- we’d share childcare duties and it would even mean I could go out sometimes and spend time with Simon. And maybe we didn’t have to give up on having our own bookshop. Maybe once baby was born and the economy had lifted, we could get that plan up and moving. I’d always been good at multi-tasking (I could read a book and serve customers at the same time) and there was nothing to suggest this would change. Motherhood would give me the push that I’d always missed- the drive to actually achieve something, if not for myself then for my precious, little softie head.

After making myself a huge bowl of mashed potato (the caterpillar needs carbs), I lay down on the sofa and tried to remember a time when I’d ever felt so content. Okay it was actually a bit boring, this waiting around for something to happen but soon I’d get swept away and once everyone knew, I’d finally get that sense that I really fit in. Let’s face it; I was almost the last person in my entire year at school not to have had a baby. There was only one other girl who hadn’t had a child and she’d become a wealthy technology consultant with her own company so that didn’t count.

I’d still keep my own way of doing things; I wouldn’t follow the herd in that respect. No ‘show off prams’, no Baby DVDs or weird chill out music or T-shirts that said ‘PUNK DEVIL’ on the front. Instead I’d go up into the attic and dig out the pram Mum had pushed me about in - a huge, bottle green monster pram with wheels the size of a bicycle. A proper old-school pram. And the big grey nappies well maybe I’d give them a miss but at least I’d push Deidre around in this proper antique pram and I’d dress her like a Victorian (I loved baby bonnets! Where did you get them from?) And I’d be up all night pureeing food, making educational toys from old corn on the cobs, crocheting and I’d make teddy bears out of recycled dressing gowns (just like my Mum had done for me). We’d listen to my old Sesame Street albums and then when she was old enough (was that about eight or even earlier these days?), I’d hand her my Judy Blume books so she could understand all about periods, divorce, drugs, step parents and the complex world adults operated in. I would ban all plastic - only toys made from wood. And she could play with pegs. I’d loved pegs. Oh no that hadn’t been me, that had been Granny. Granny loved pegs and Granny didn’t wander about the place wondering whether she was happy or not. Well at least I was pretty sure she didn’t. Deidre, it won’t be long now before we have you done up like a little mini Victorian and none of this modern shit because kids don’t know what anything’s worth anymore. Things can only ever get better if your starting point is a couple of dried out old pegs that have seen better days. No mini-skirts or patent handbags or Barbies with big tits and tiny waists. She’d be protected in the same, cosy version of childhood that I’d enjoyed. (I tried to forget that I’d always wanted Coco Pops, a Tiny Tears and a plastic Mickey Mouse house). I rubbed my tummy and felt the little collection of cells that was going to be my baby do a back flip – she couldn’t wait to come out and neither could I. When it was time I’d squat in Sydenham woods and I’d have her just as the sun filtered through the treetops. Or maybe I’d go into hospital as it was my first baby but I’d have no drugs or gas and it would be just like the film where they dab you with a flannel and then you cry and moan and then your face goes red and then it pops out. And I knew it would be a girl. And who cared if there was no Dad by the bedside. No Dad to get up in the middle of the night. If I was living in a commune with my Mum it really didn’t matter. In fact if George was so damned keen to become a father then why not let him be a father to two babies?

We’re going to have such fun with your uncle Simon and you’re even going to have a cousin who’ll be the same age. They won’t be as intelligent or good-looking as you (in fact they may be slightly backward) but you’ll have to be nice to them and sometimes you’ll wonder why your Uncle George (who will be like a Dad but more immature) is such a complete arse but most of the time we’ll be so happy, that it won’t matter. And my Mum - your Granny. Well she always makes ratatouille when something terrible happens. If the aubergine comes out then you know something’s gone wrong. And I’ll tell you all about your Grandad when you arrive. Your Grandad was extremely talented at Maths. He liked Eric Clapton. He always smelt of Erinmore tobacco. I’ll tell you all about him. Don’t you worry.

I must have fallen asleep then because when I woke up, I felt like someone had punched me in the back and for a moment I thought I’d fallen onto the floor and hurt myself. There was a cooking show on the TV and a bald guy was shouting - ‘THAT IS THE BEST COQ AU VIN I HAVE EVER SAMPLED,’ and then I felt another twang and it didn’t feel good, in fact I knew exactly what it felt like and it wasn’t what I wanted at all. ‘THAT COQ AU VIN JUST NEEDS A BIT MORE CREAM. IT’S SUBLIME,’ the demented bloke shouted. I pushed myself further into the sofa and lay as still as possible. If I just lay still then nothing would change. ‘SUBLIME, DELICIOUS. DELECTABLE RIBBONS OF PORK IN A CREAMY SAUCE WITH A WATERCRESS FOAM.’ I willed the pains to stop. I was pregnant. My period was late. I’d been positively shagged to death by the jungle-haired sperminator. But then I felt the characteristic knot - someone was wringing out my stomach like a shabby, old floor rag.

Ribbons of pork in a creamy sauce with a watercress foam.
Coq au vin needs a bit more cream, then it’ll be sublime.
I stayed on the sofa, barely breathing.

My period had only gone and started again.

There comes a point when you’ve been disappointed so many times that you can’t get upset anymore. And this was different to when I’d heard about Carla. This was heavier like a giant hand had pressed down on my head, pushing its full body weight behind the hand like it was trying to drive a stake into the earth. I thought about hiding under the duvet, shutting myself away from the world again. I contemplated carving great wounds into my arms – red and angry ‘WHY ME? WHY ME?’ – all over – then marching through the streets. I thought about opening my window and then balancing on the ledge before throwing myself down onto the pavement. It wasn’t high enough so I would have to climb up the stairs, get on the ledge and do it again and then get up and do it over until it finally worked. I thought about drowning myself in the sink. If I put enough fabric conditioner, I could poison myself at the same time. Or somehow wedging my head inside the microwave (but how would I shut the door?) and then setting it on ‘Baked Potato: Twenty-Five Minutes,’ and killing all my brain cells with radioactive waves which would stop the endless ruminating.

Who gave a shit how many days it was till I ovulated? Who cared if I was pregnant or just another vacant womb wandering the streets of Crystal Palace? Who cared if I slept with a toad? Who cared if I carried on working in the book shop forever, officially the oldest, blindest, most disappointed sales assistant in the world and everyone would be buying E-books or projecting books onto the insides of their glasses and I’d have trouble operating all this modern stuff and would lie down in the stock room with my dusty old books and breath my last breath. Taking my useless eggs with me straight to the grave. I’d give my body to science. But who really cared? By then, they’d be able to clone people properly and perhaps they’d find some way to clone me so I could finally have the baby that I’d always dreamed about. But I’d be dead anyway so who cared? And this was the problem. Part of the idea of having a baby was that I’d finally have someone else. And now I was finally giving up on the having someone else part.

Cut to Mother chopping onions. Cut to daughter watching onions being chopped.

I could never do that to my Mum and besides I was too much of a chicken for suicide; there was always some, stubborn part of me that refused to do it. I’ve always been concerned about what people might think. I want people to like me. And unless you’re a famous rock/movie star, a celebrated writer or terminally ill, well suicide just writes you off as a failure. Suicide isn’t interesting unless you matter. What other alternatives did I have? When you get to your mid-thirties, the idea of drinking and drugs and debauchery- trying to throw yourself into a world of hedonistic orgy- well it just makes you feel tired. And there’s always the fear and dread the next day when you wake up knowing that you’ve done terrible things but can’t remember and that’s funny when you’re young but not when you’re old. Then you’re only a hop, skip and a jump away from the ‘newspaper under the jumper’ crowd, the cauliflower men, and the broken brigade. Then there’s the spiritual path, the ‘live every moment fully’, be present, breathe in and out and take yourself off to that special ‘in the moment place’ but no thanks not if you’re feeling like this. I want the moments to go past very quickly thank you.

‘THIS RATATOUILLE NEEDS TIME TO DECIDE WHETHER IT WANTS TO LIVE OR DIE.’
Mum - have I ever told you how much I want to have a baby? Why won’t it work?

Eventually I pulled myself up off the sofa. I went to the shop. I bought a packet of Tampax. I didn’t even ask for a carrier back and just carried it under my arm with the label facing outwards so everyone could see I was barren again. When I got back, I wrote a note to myself and left it on the kitchen table.

I promise you will never feel as bad as this again.

Then that day I went to work, just as usual but something had changed. I’d opted out. All the hustle and bustle, all the expectations, all the plans for the future, the discussions, the debates, all of that was irrelevant. I would work all day and I would sleep at night. I would read. I would eat vegetables. I would give up on the idea of having a baby. I would stop counting the days. I would throw the folic acid down the toilet so that the Thames was awash with schools of the most fertile fish alive. I would rejoice for those fish. I would never feel envy. And I would be happy when my nephew or niece arrived. I would be there in all of the photos smiling. I would take that yellow elephant cardigan and I’d give it to Carla and I’d enjoy doing that too. I’d take the neon pram that looked like a medical torture device and I’d push it down the street and everyone would think it was my baby but I wouldn’t care because I didn’t want a baby anymore. It was a good thing that I’d got my period.
I was in a good place.