Even if something good – something worth cherishing – came out of her shortcomings, it would always be qualified; her child would never be a straightforward cause of celebration. She knew that both her parents would behave as if they had something to forgive, as if their acceptance of her son was a badge of virtue; but love provided with such reservations would be mortifying. She thought that outright rejection, unmixed with goodwill, would be less disheartening.
As the night wore on her resentment turned to misery, and she cried for the child that even she had not entirely wanted. Eventually, sometime after 2 a.m., she turned on the light and read a bit of a history of women’s lives in seventeenth-century England. That did the trick; things could have been worse – had been, in the past. She was woken after what seemed like a couple of minutes’ sleep by the alarm and the recollection that she’d promised to break the news to her father.
‘I think it ought to come from you,’ Cecily had said, firmly but kindly, and probably she was right; Tina was a grown-up, she shouldn’t need Cecily to intercede on her behalf. But then Cecily’s parting words had been, ‘Goodness only knows what Daddy’s going to say. I’m afraid he’s going to feel rather let down,’ and Tina had realized that, as usual, the tough love, the real chastisement, was going to be left to her father to
deliver. And she didn’t want to accept it. Cecily being wounded was one thing, but Robert being outraged was quite another.
The prospect of ringing home, and Robert answering the phone, and the conversation that would follow, was just too appalling to contemplate.
‘No, it’s actually you I wanted . . . I’ve got something to tell you . . . No, I’m not involved with the baby’s father, and no, I don’t actually know for sure who he is, and he, whoever he is, knows even less than I do.’
No. She couldn’t submit to that. She had to go down fighting. There had to be another way.
That was when the idea popped into her head, and it was so mischievous, so disrespectful, so downright naughty, that her initial response was incredulity at her own devilishness.
Then she started to laugh.
Why not? Why shouldn’t she explain herself? She had the chance to justify what she’d done, and why she’d done it, on a grand scale. Presented with such an opportunity for vindication, who could resist?
She was going to have to tell work sometime in the next couple of weeks. So why not kill two birds with one stone? Anyway, she was clean out of ideas for this week’s column? what the hell else was she going to write about?
Maybe it was only a temporary reprieve, but for now, at least, the guilt and regret Cecily had prompted had completely disappeared.
When she got into work the next morning she saw Dan, as usual, waiting by the lift. He was on his own, and no one else was in earshot.
It wasn’t really a conscious decision. She’d got out of the habit of taking the stairs anyway – didn’t have the energy any more. Somehow she found herself standing next to him.
The lift doors opened and he stood back to let her go in first. The doors closed and the lift started to ascend, and she said, ‘How are you? How are things with the lovely Julia?’
‘Oh . . . didn’t you know? We broke up.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said.
He glanced at her. ‘So are you going to start talking to me again now?’
‘Me? You were the one who wasn’t talking to me.’
He sighed. ‘Well . . . whoever started it, I think we can agree that we’ve been pretty silent lately.’
The lift hit the third floor. The doors opened, but nobody got in. Tina hit the button, the doors closed, and they went up again.
It was now or never.
‘We need to talk,’ she said. ‘Properly, not like this. Are you free for lunch?’
‘Yes, I suppose so, but—’
‘How about one o’clock, in the café in John Lewis?’
‘Why there? Nobody ever goes there. Isn’t that where all the mums and babies go?’
Fourth floor. The bell rang.
‘Please,’ Tina said as the doors opened.
She stepped out and round Monty Delamere, the
rotund parliamentary sketch writer, who was waiting, cigs in hand, to go down for his first smoker’s break of the day.
Monty brandished his cigarettes at them and declared, ‘It’s no good. I shall never give up. I just can’t make a start without them.’
Monty was known for his booming voice, which was echoed in the hectoring tone of his writing. Tina only just heard Dan say, ‘OK.’
When she got to the café at lunchtime Dan was already there.
‘Aren’t you going to have anything to eat?’ she asked him, setting her tray down on the table – she was starving.
He shook his head.
‘Too nervous,’ he said. ‘So . . . what did you want to talk about?’
She got a single sheet of paper out of her handbag, pushed it across the table towards him, and tucked in to her chilli con carne while he read.
Nobody’s perfect, according to the famous final quip from
Some Like It Hot
– but some are more imperfect than others, and some inflict their imperfections on their offspring and drag the whole lot of us down into the gutter. This is the lot of the single mother, or so many of the political
class and my fellow columnists in the media would have you believe.
Single mothers have a lot to answer for, don’t they? Street crime, social breakdown, happy slapping, pretty much any petty act of violence perpetrated by hoodie-wearing thugs . . . Who’d have thought that a bunch of mostly middle-aged women (the average single mother is thirty-seven), who are by definition lumbered with sole responsibility for looking after at least one child, and therefore likely to be somewhat preoccupied, would have the energy to generate so much restless violence? It’s phenomenal, isn’t it? I’ve always had a lot of respect for the resourcefulness of my gender, but this supposed ability to change nappies with one hand and lay waste to civilization with the other strikes me as truly incredible.
Time for me to declare a vested interest: I’m five months pregnant, and well on the way to becoming a single mother myself.
Accidents happen, and who knows how many of us wouldn’t be here if they didn’t? Sometimes accidents are blessings in disguise. I am very happy that I am having a baby; scared, honoured, intimidated, but mainly happy.
Some will take the view that my interesting condition is a moral and social failure, and if I wasn’t relatively well off financially, many more might be inclined to agree with them. But then, a couple of hundred years ago, many of our forebears genuinely believed in witches, and thought it was quite proper to prosecute them with the full force of the law. We’re never as far ahead of our ancestors as we’d like to think, and however we try to move forward, the bad old desire to find a scapegoat will always pull us back. And so we keep finding ourselves in the gutter, and looking for someone convenient to blame.
Dan read it, then read it again. She finished eating and watched him and waited.
Finally he looked up. His face was stiff with shock and discomfort, as if he’d just sucked on something horribly sour, and couldn’t get over the taste of it.
‘Am I the father?’ he asked.
‘I can’t be sure. There was someone else. We’ll have to wait until after the birth to find out.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell anyone that.’
There were smile lines around his eyes, which were a clear bright blue, the colour, she’d once read, most likely to be deemed trustworthy. He wasn’t smiling now. He was contemplating her with such forensic attention that she was suddenly acutely self-conscious, and felt herself beginning to itch.
Finally he asked, ‘Has anybody else seen this?’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t filed it yet.’
‘Why are you showing it to me? Are you warning me, or asking me for my permission?’
‘I think I’m asking for your blessing.’
‘Can you keep my name out of it?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I never told Julia what happened between us,’ he said. ‘She kept asking, though. People might figure it out.’
‘I can live with that,’ she told him, ‘but I’d prefer to leave them guessing for as long as possible.’
‘Then let’s,’ he agreed. ‘But go ahead, do your thing. I don’t want to censor you. It’s not for me to give you permission, anyway.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘About what?’
‘About . . . putting you in this position. Springing it on you like this.’
He swallowed. ‘Well . . . It’s a new life, Tina. That’s what matters, in the end, isn’t it? So I guess congratulations are in order.’
She opened up her handbag, and he said, ‘Oh God, you haven’t got another column in there, have you?’
‘No, something much better,’ she said. She got her wallet out and found the scan picture and passed it to him.
He gazed at it for a while, and then passed it back. The expression on his face was quite unfamiliar, and it took her a moment to see it for what it was: a kind of awe.
She was due to file her column by noon on the following day, for publication on Bank Holiday Monday. She saved it in Jeremy’s copy folder at ten to, and rewarded herself by making a cup of camomile tea. (To her astonishment, she had managed to give up caffeine.)
When she was back at her desk, her phone rang. It was Jeremy.
‘Well well,’ he said. ‘I must admit, I thought you’d been looking a bit porky lately.’
‘I wouldn’t make that kind of comment if I were you. I might get terribly hormonal and upset.’ She looked around to check who was in earshot, and then remembered that everyone was going to know soon anyway.
‘You do realize, don’t you, that you’re going to have to
tell me this officially? Much as I admire your disregard for standard workplace protocol.’
‘I don’t actually have to notify you for another couple of weeks, you know. This is just me jumping the gun, in the interests of the column.’
‘So when’s it due?’
‘Christmas Day.’
Jeremy gurgled with laughter. ‘You’re kidding me. That is just perfect. That is too good to be true. So should I expect a big star and a couple of wise men?’
‘I’m afraid the only stars will probably be the ordinary ones, and I think wisdom is a rather subjective quality.’
‘But I presume you’re not actually laying claim to an immaculate conception. Is there anybody you ought to give advance warning before this goes to press?’
‘I haven’t libelled anyone, or invaded anyone’s privacy. I’m well within my rights. Publish and be damned.’
‘So, er, Tina, between you and me . . . who’s the daddy?’
‘Watch this space,’ Tina said. She let Jeremy hang up first.
Over the next few days the news of Tina’s pregnancy began to fan outwards from the subs’ desk. Perhaps it was paranoia, but she detected a thrill of speculation following her as she moved around the office? she wasn’t waddling yet, not exactly, but she certainly couldn’t sashay, and much as she wanted to appear to be in control, she knew that she probably came across as increasingly clumsy and burdened.
That week’s work experience congratulated her in the
loos, Julia looked more upset than ever, and Anthea Trask told her she looked ‘positively blooming’: ‘The second trimester’s wonderful, I always think – so much energy! You will make the most of it, won’t you? It doesn’t last, I’m afraid. As you know, I’ve got five of my own, so if you ever want any advice, do feel free to ask.’
The weekend came as a relief, as it involved no personal contact with anyone. She ate, slept, swam, read and shopped online for maternity clothes – now that she was about to out herself, she could embrace elasticated panels, expandable waists and flat shoes. It was easy enough to ignore the accusatory vibrations given off by the telephone: her mother, still waiting for Tina to call and tell her father.
Saturday was fine, and she packed a picnic lunch and took it to Clapham Common, but was plagued by swarming ants and wasps enjoying their last hurrah. At dusk on Sunday she went out for a stroll and smelt an autumnal chill in the air, redolent of approaching bonfires. The sky was clear, and there was a huge, low, foreboding harvest moon, a reminder that the season of cold and darkness was on its way.
On Monday morning she was at her desk, finishing off the feature about women’s experiences of childbirth, when her mobile rang.
Mum and Dad.
She decided to let her father leave a message; it might be as well to allow him some cooling-off time before they spoke.
She had known he would see it. Her parents took the
Post
, not because it was really their kind of paper – they were broadsheet people – but out of loyalty.
They didn’t necessarily read everything she wrote, but usually at least checked to see that she was still in there. Tina suspected it was her picture byline, not the words that went with it, that gave Robert most pleasure.
My daughter
.
She listened to the message.
Tina, I’m afraid I have to tell you that I’m very disappointed in you. You’ve upset your mother and embarrassed both of us. I must ask you to reconsider your approach, if not for our sakes, then for the sake of our unborn grandchild
.
Click!
Tina put her head in her hands and fought the impulse to curl up into a foetal ball in her chair. Thankfully the office was quiet, it being a Bank Holiday, and the corner she shared with Monty and Anthea and the work experience was empty, so there was no one close enough to lean over and ask her if she was all right.
Very disappointed in you
. . . It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. There’d been that time she got into a muddle with her finances during her journalism course, and had to ask for an additional loan . . . Or back further still, when she got caught with some cigarettes in her bag, and was nearly suspended from school . . . It wasn’t the words so much, though they were bad enough, it was the chill in the voice. That voice! It had dominated all the dinnertimes of her youth: discussing, questioning, encouraging, and, of course, prevailing.