Chapter Four: Being Pregnant is a Joy!

The two eggs sitting nearest the exit had tried to make it out at the same time. Except it hadn’t worked. They’d sucked their sides in and then forced their flimsy, liquid cases against one another. They’d pushed and pushed. Despite their flexibility, the hole wasn’t wide enough for two. Then for a split second, one of them hesitated, took a shallow breath and fell back a little. And it was in that moment that the first one, actually the fattest of the two, pushed its way out and then span over and over on itself as it whizzed down the tube and one step closer to their collective goal. There was a low, audible sigh. The rest looked on through their yellow, quivering jelly masks with envy in their hearts. Perhaps that would be the one. It would grow eyes and a spine and fingers and toes. It would get lips and tiny teeth hidden way up inside its soft gums. And in that moment the sweet one, number three hundred and seventy eight felt especially sad. For days it had been filled with a soft hopefulness. Expectation bubbled up from inside every molecule of its minute yet perfect substance. Would it ever get the opportunity to whizz out the door and claim its future?

As I’ve already told you I hate sitting on the toilet and yet increasingly the toilet became the place where I spent most of my time. Thinking, analysing, waiting for something to drop out and yet hoping more than anything that this one would stay stuck up inside for long enough to grow into something I could put clothes on and push around in a pram. Ten days after Attempt Number Two and I was convinced I’d been fertilised. The cramps were completely unlike regular period cramps; they were much more subtle. Like a thin, pencil nib being dragged across the inside of my abdomen. Sketching out the plan - the features, foundations and groundwork for my baby. I constantly had the urge to pee. My skin had a red tinge and I had a rash round my neck that had started migrating up across my face. Pregnancy bloom?

The next three days would be crucial. If it didn’t fall out by day three then I’d do the pregnancy test that was sat wrapped in cellophane inside my bedside drawer. In fact I had three different kinds of test. The first would come up with a simple pink line; pink line meaning yes you are pregnant, it is really going to happen. The second was more sophisticated and not only told you you were pregnant but also told you how pregnant you were. The third was even better- not only did it tell you how pregnant you were, it also predicted the date you’d give birth, whether your baby would have a tiny penis or not and what its temperament and personality would be like.

I pulled my knickers up. Time to get out on the shop floor. Again I felt the strange scratching inside. I stopped still for a moment. Here we have one leg. Here a foot - let’s be generous with the eyes, let’s make them round and big like it’s Mum; eyes that are a defining feature, something to talk about. Let’s draw those legs out nice and thin, not too spindly but then again not too fat, let’s take our inspiration from Mr Tiny Penis - what did his legs look like? I know it’s hard to remember. In fact it’s hard even thinking about anything aside from that one defining characteristic but work hard. Let’s try. And let’s push out the roots of the hair a little so we can see what colour it will be. Blonde like it’s Dad? Gold like a lion? Or red-gold like the tail of a dying comet? Now let’s get the nose down, don’t let your hand slip, keep it steady. Make it straight, not too round, not like a tulip bulb, not like a turnip - no hang on you’ve gone too far, too much nose, back it up, back it up. That’s right… that’s exactly right.

The day at work passed quick enough. One of the benefits of working in a bookshop is you have all those resources at your fingertips. Look up ‘P’ for ‘Pregnancy’ and there are about fifty different books. And as long as you’re careful, there are plenty of opportunities to read. You have to ensure you’ve got your trolley slid up against alongside so you look like you’re putting out new products when Carla the hateful, old crone walks past. Actually she’s not old. She’s probably the same age as me except she’s had a hope lobotomy. She’s an empty husk. All that is left is spite, resentment and a desire to wreak revenge on all that have one tiny, ounce of hopefulness left inside. I’ve let myself get carried away. Another sign of pregnancy- you get more emotional heightened feelings and increased sensitivity. I pulled a book off the shelf and opened it up on the first chapter entitled; ‘First Signs’. I looked both ways checking that the Husk wasn’t anywhere nearby. Simon was crouched in a corner, fingering a hardback copy of ‘The Joy of Sustainable Living’. He’d recently moved to a flat with a small balcony and had high hopes of starring in his own version of ‘ The Good Life’. He too had a stacked up trolley pulled up alongside.
We weren’t stupid.

1. Avoid alcohol, drugs and tobacco products as these can cause birth defects and foetal alcohol syndrome.
2. Talk to your doctor about any prescription and non-prescription drugs you are taking.
3. Maintain a diet that contains an adequate amount of vitamins especially folic acid.

The first point was a bit of a worry. I’d rationalised the drinking, as I hadn’t thought it really counted until you KNEW FOR SURE that you were up the duff. And the fall out after Attempt Number Two had been pretty severe. For some reason he’d tried to keep in touch; he’d felt convinced we’d shared ‘the best night of our lives’. Despite the fact that I’d given him no meaningful indication that I’d enjoyed any part of it. In fact the only part I’d really enjoyed had been the sitting on the toilet afterwards knowing that there was a small yet vital chance that I might be pregnant. The problem was I never should have given him my number. It had been a terrible mistake. Then I’d fretted about the consequences of being pregnant, him being the father, him having my number, wanting to keep in touch to repeat ‘the best night of our lives’. There was no way I wanted him in my baby’s life or mine. I know, it’s his baby; fathers have rights too. But my aim was to get pregnant and raise a happy child on my own and do everything in my power to ensure it didn’t end up working in a menial position in a book shop at age thirty five with a series of failed relationships behind its back. My aim was definitely NOT to settle down with Mr. Tiny Penis and bring up a horribly miserable child who couldn’t understand why his Mum was full of confusion and bitterness and his Dad had skin as thick as an elephant hide. So I’d drunk a fair bit in the last ten days. I’d watered myself liberally with rose, pints of lager, a couple of organic ciders. But on the plus side I hadn’t had any spirits. And I’d stopped smoking. I’d stopped smoking apart from the six cigarettes I’d had that night with Simon when we’d sat in Forest Hill plotting the bookshop that we’d be opening together in the near future. The other points were fair enough. A few Nurofen didn’t count. And I’d been marinating myself in folic acid for some time. I’d had that much folic acid that my hair was as shiny as a shampoo advert. My follicles were positively trembling with acid.

I didn’t get a chance to read as far as ‘Week Two’ because Carla appeared. I was certain that she had a secret elevator that took her directly from the basement to the centre of the shop floor. I quickly shut the book and shoved it back on the shelf. Then picked up an armload of Science Fiction new releases and distributed them next to the ‘Ageing Gracefully’ section. I’d re-organise once she’d gone.

After work I headed over to Mums. I’d meant to get over the previous weekend but I’d been so distracted – what with standing on my head, taking my folic acid, getting lots of fruit and vegetables and knocking them back with a couple of glasses of wine that I’d run out of time. And the guilt inducing texts had started up straight away. Mum’s not particularly good at texting but she has enough skill to say what she really needs to. In fact the brevity of her texts only added to their sense of poignancy.
You must be very busy.
Would have been nice to see you.
We miss you.
I’m sure there will be other weekends.

By the time it got to Sunday night I was tossing in my bed, in the grips of guilt fever. Just because I was starting my own family didn’t mean I could just abandon my existing one. Mum and George were all I had. We had to stick together. We had to be there for one another. And besides once I had the baby I’d be relying on Mum to baby-sit at least three days a week so I could carry on working at the bookshop.

When I arrived the house was quiet. Mum wasn’t home from work yet and the only sound was George’s laptop. Once I got inside his bedroom, the smell almost killed me. What is it about teenage boys? George briefly looked up from his screen as I picked something up off the floor and held if in front of my nose. Unfortunately it was an ossified sock, fixed solid at a right angle. I threw it onto the bed.
‘This place is a tip,’ I said.
George continued with his game. I decided to try another tactic. With Mum not home yet, this was the perfect time to do my duty, to hear him out, encourage him to really vent his feelings, try and cajole him in a sisterly, loving way to go down to the local job centre.
‘Why haven’t you gone down the job centre?’ I said, a horrible accusatory dimension to my voice.
That didn’t go well.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Why can’t you switch that game off and talk?’
I sounded like an exact replica of Mum. Perhaps already my DNA was morphing into Mums. They say you always end up like your parents. I hadn’t even had my baby yet and already I’d become Mum at her worse.
‘Why don’t you fuck off?’
George reached over to his bedside table, grabbed the remote and pointed it at the IPod speakers. I’d never had IPod speakers when I was a teenager. I hadn’t even had their 1988 equivalent. I’d had Mum’s old FM radio with the dust-balls stuck wedged up inside the speaker holes - that was the problem, kids these days didn’t know they were born. Some dooming music started. For a long time I’d realised I was old, past it, that I found almost all forms of modern music too loud, too rambunctious, just plain annoying. The drone that pealed out of the speakers only confirmed my beliefs. I sat down on the bed. My dearest brother. My only brother. Soon you will be an uncle. My baby’s dearest uncle. And I want you to represent the pinnacle of achievement, of triumph over adversity. I don’t want this in a selfish way, I want it for you. I want you to be happy. You don’t look happy. Your shoulders are hunched and tense. You’ve been playing ‘Beelzebub’s Final Conquest Part VIII’ for two years now. Come back to me Brother. Tell me all of your problems.
‘Stop staring at me,’ he said not looking up.
Both hands were in a frenzy over the keyboards.
‘Can I see what you’re doing?’
He moved a little so I could sit next to him and see the screen.
Two luminous hawk – like creatures were flying through a cave. George pressed two keys at the same time and both of them exploded. Then what looked like a guinea pig in a red hat popped up and a caption came onto the screen. ‘YOU ACED IT. MOTHERFUCKER!’ I didn’t judge. I remained silent. Slowly, slowly catchy monkey.
‘That looks fun, can I have a go?’
‘You’ll have to start a new level. I’m saving this one.’
George handed me the laptop and the game began.

Approximately an hour later and my brow was sweaty, my eyes scrunched up about two inches away from the keyboard, my fingers bent and contorted in pain.
‘I can’t believe you’re on level seven already.’
‘That fucking owl just ate up three of my gold nuggets. I’m going to die!’ I said trembling.
Mum popped her head round the corner.
‘Will you be joining me for dinner?’ she asked quietly.
Couldn’t she see how important this was? Owls were taking over the freaking world! Guinea pigs would be the new warlords. The world was awash with the blood of a thousand hawks. It would only be saved if I got past level seventeen and handed over the secret ingredient to the Golden Wizard. But then I felt the guilt waves, quite subtle at first just a vague sense of uncertainty, not enough to distract me from the task at hand then much stronger, making my stomach ache, rising above the tiny baby cramps until I could no longer focus on saving the world from the apocalypse and had to focus on a different duty, much smaller, closer to home. I pressed pause.
‘You need to get a job,’ I said looking straight into George’s eyes.
He looked completely taken aback that I’d switched from Mum to computer game freak to Mum again. George pushed the laptop towards the bottom of the bed.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘I fucking know.’
Then he started crying and the guilt grew even worse. But at least I’d done my sisterly duty and could eat my dinner with a clear conscience.

Luckily Mum’s psychic abilities were seriously disrupted by George’s misery. She didn’t ask any leading questions, she didn’t even notice the red Mother rash on my cheeks or the fact that I had my hand cupped around my lower belly, lovingly cradling her miniscule, future grandchild. I felt Madonna-like. Calm. Serene. I would eat all the vegetables on my plate and I would push the wine to one side. I would drink some of the wine in the glass as Mum had just poured it and I didn’t want her to get suspicious. Mum lectured George in between mouthfuls of roasted vegetables. When are going to the job centre then? What state is your CV in? Could you become a driving instructor? Why don’t you get some driving lessons first? See if you’re any good. Driving instructors earn good money. Driving instructors often start their own businesses. Look how many driving instructors there are in Crystal Palace! They’re doing well. People always need to drive. It’s fool- proof. You don’t have to do it forever. Just until you decide what you really want to do. At least that’s decided then. At least you’ve decided to become a driving instructor.

As I cradled my tiny miracle and polished off another piece of bread (carbs are very good for pregnant ladies, eating lots of carbs was another thing I was really, really looking forward to) I started to feel sorry for George. I’d been at the receiving end of this lecture many times. Except back then it had been ‘retail sales’ rather than driving instructor. Mum was very impulsive; she didn’t think long and hard about which jobs would be most suitable for her offspring. It was simply whatever she saw on that particular day that struck her fancy. I would have to talk to George. The problem is when you’re young and impressionable you seek clarity, your brain is so addled and confused that you rejoice when someone shows you a path and actually makes the decision for you. But you need to get comfy with some of that ambiguity, some of that confusion. Otherwise you end up working in a lowly position in a bookshop with no prospects. There is nothing wrong with working in a bookshop don’t get me wrong. It’s just it wasn’t what I wanted. And Mum seemed so clear that it was the right path for me, I simply took her recommendation without resistance. Let’s get this straight, I don’t hold her responsible for the fact that I stayed in the same shop for over ten years. That was all my own doing. But I do blame her for setting me on that path. For forcing me to make a decision too early. For not letting me doss about a while longer and naturally find something I was good at and actually enjoyed. But then again George needed to get a job. Teenagers were lazy these days. I was torn. One foot alongside the youth of today the other firmly nudged up inside one of Mum’s slippers.

Later that evening George and I sat outside in the garden for a few minutes. We shared a cigarette. I didn’t inhale. I just enjoyed the sensation of holding it to my lips. In between holding it, I told him to get a job, get any job, just to make Mum happy, not to think too hard about it. To remember he wouldn’t be doing the same thing all of his life. All the time he looked at me with suspicion in his eyes. Just as he could see that I wasn’t really inhaling, he could also see I was faking it. I told him that he needed to be careful not to repeat my mistakes. He should try being a driving instructor but keep his other options open. Were there any jobs available for people who were really good at playing computer games? And what about Art? Hadn’t he always loved drawing when he was younger? But that’d been me not him. I’d always wanted to draw for a living. The issue was whenever I drew a hand it looked like an octopus. I used to get so frustrated I’d dig the pencil into my forearm and then bite the pencil in two. And then I’d really struggled with life drawing. I’d always run out of space on the page so all my bodies were gruesome and decapitated. And so then I’d moved onto making collages. I’d been really good at collages. There was a phase from about 1988-2000 that I’d been so prolific at making collages that every surface in my bedroom was covered in them. Most of them were themed around fire, death and suicide. That had been the point when Mum had come in and given me the lecture. She’d just got back from Croydon and predicted retail as my future career.

At least tonight I’d given George some balanced advice. I’d done all I could. I was the ghost of Christmas future – look at what can happen if you make a bad decision and stick with it. And for a split second as we looked up at the stars, I felt a strong desire to share even more. No one knew about the plan. Not Mum. Not Simon. Not any of my girlfriends. As I passed the cigarette he looked over. The same, blue- grey, round eyes (that were actually our father’s) stared into mine. Then I changed my mind.

The moment I knew I was definitely pregnant I’d tell everyone.