Forget Me Not. Isabel Wolff
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a googly.’
‘Well, I’m glad you approve,’ I replied crisply. ‘Do let me know if you’d like me to develop a drug habit or get a criminal record, won’t you?’
‘I’m going to start knitting for the baby at my Stitch ’n’ Bitch group,’ she went on, ignoring me. ‘Bootees first, then a couple of matinée jackets. I wonder whether it’s going to be a girl or a boy …? Maybe you could find out for me when you go for your scan. Or no – I know – I’ll make everything in yellow. Do you like moss stitch?’
My director of studies was very understanding. Most of our course was project work – in addition to the daily lectures we had to produce designs, to professional standards, for four different gardens. Then in June there’d be two Horticulture exams to test our plantsmanship, and the baby was due a week after these. I’d carry on with the course, as normal, but would just have to pray that I didn’t give birth early. I was cheered by stories of first babies arriving late. So, to my surprise, my life didn’t descend into turmoil, as I’d thought it would, but went on more or less as before: except that now Xan wasn’t in it, but his baby was – as though they’d swapped places. From time to time I’d pick up Sue’s book and reread her unwittingly prophetical inscription. I was blooming and growing all right.
I was aware, each day, of the baby unfurling inside me like a fern. When I went for my ultrasounds I’d watch in silent awe as it did underwater twirls and turns, or waved at me with its petal-like hands. I could see its profile, as it rocked in its uterine cradle; I could see the filigree of its bones, no bigger than a bird’s; I could see the arc of its vertebrae, like a string of seed pearls.
‘I love you,’ I’d whisper to it each night, as I lay, hands clasped to my swelling abdomen, feeling it jump and dance. ‘I’m sorry you’re not going to have a dad, but I’ll love you five times as much to make up for it.’
I e-mailed Xan an update but got no reply. His attitude wounded me, but it also helped me, because it enabled a carapace of scar tissue to form over my heart.
Seeing him on TV was hard though. The first time it happened I cried. Suddenly there he was, on the screen, looking dismayingly attractive, talking about some economic summit or other in Java. A couple of days later he was on again, talking about Jemaah Islamiah and the threat they posed to Indonesian democracy. He began to appear more and more – hijacking my emotions: so much so that I took to watching the news on ITV. I couldn’t risk an unexpected sighting of him wrecking my day.
In mid April I went to the first of my antenatal classes in the local church hall in Brook Green.
I felt nervous as I arrived, my despondency increasing as one cosy-looking couple followed another into the large draughty room. I’d prepared myself for this by putting a large aquamarine ring of Mum’s on my fourth finger; this also made me feel closer to her in some small way. If she hadn’t died, I reflected, she would have come with me to these classes and I’d have felt so much less alone.
I discreetly glanced round the seated group: the other women all had their menfolk in tow, and sported gleaming gold bands and showy engagement rings that flashed and sparkled in the strip lights.
There was a twenty-something blonde with her husband. They clutched hands the whole time, like infatuated teenagers. There was a brisk-looking brunette, with her bespectacled spouse. There was a woman in her late thirties who looked as though she was about to pop there and then. And then there was a large woman with long red hair, bulgy blue eyes and an almost perfectly round face, like a plate. She looked familiar, though I didn’t know why. Perhaps I’d seen her in the local shops. But she was clearly the oldest of us – mid forties – and was twice the size of her husband who, with his red cheeks and fixed grin, reminded me of a ventriloquist’s puppet.
The woman suddenly stifled a burp and patted her chest. ‘Wind,’ she explained with a little smile, as though she thought we might be interested.
By now we all seemed to be here, chatting in low voices, or swigging Gaviscon to ease our indigestion. I was the only single mother, I realised; my heart sank to the soles of my shoes. Then the teacher, Felicity, began handing out an assortment of paperwork on breastfeeding, pelvic floor exercises, what to pack for the hospital etc. But just as she was about to start the class another woman, a year or two older than me, walked in alone. I breathed a small sigh of relief.
‘Is this seat free?’ she asked me pleasantly.
‘Yes it is.’ I beamed at her. ‘Hi.’
The newcomer was dressed all in black, she was wearing Doc Martens and her dark hair was cut in a boyish crop. Her neat, regular features were unadorned by make-up. She wore an engraved silver ring on her right thumb, but her left hand was bare.
‘Right,’ said Felicity. ‘Now that we’re all here, let’s introduce ourselves.’
‘We’re Nicole and Tim,’ said the lovey-dovey couple in unison, then they laughed.
‘I’m Tanya,’ said the brisk-looking brunette, ‘and this is my husband Howard.’ Howard smiled abstractedly, as though he wished he weren’t there.
‘I’m Katie, this is my fiancé Jake and we’re expecting twins.’ A shiver of sympathy went round the room.
Then it was the turn of the large red-haired woman. She waited until silence had descended, a patient little smile on her lips. ‘I’m the journalist, Citronella Pratt.’ Now I realised why she looked familiar. She wrote a weekly column in the Sunday News. ‘And this is my husband, Ian Barker-Jones,’ she added unctuously.
‘I’m an investment banker,’ he said.
I was so taken aback by the Pratt-Barker-Joneses’ self-satisfied introduction that I forgot it was now my turn. Felicity prompted me with a little cough and I felt all eyes swivel towards me.
‘Oh. I’m Anna Temple,’ I began. ‘My baby’s due on the eighteenth of June and … erm …’ There was an air of expectation – so I did this cowardly and, as it was to turn out, stupid thing. ‘My other half’ – I swallowed nervously – ‘Xan … works overseas, as a TV reporter. In Indonesia,’ I added, aware that my voice sounded an octave higher than normal. ‘In fact, he’ll be out there for a few months, and so …’ I twisted my ring back and forth. ‘I’ll be coming to these classes on my own.’
I looked up and saw Citronella cock her head to one side and smile at me, but it was a shrewd, knowing sort of smile that made my insides coil.
Then the woman who’d just arrived spoke up.
‘My name’s Jenny Reid,’ she said confidently, in a soft, Northern Irish accent. ‘My baby’s due on June the fifth. And I’m here on my own because I don’t have a partner – but I’m fine about it.’
I saw Citronella’s eyes widen with something like excitement; then she collapsed her features into an expression of conspicuous solicitude.
In the coffee break she waddled over to Jenny and me. ‘How brave of you,’ she said to Jenny, clasping her fat, spatulate fingers over her massive bump. ‘I just want to say how much I admire you.’
‘For what?’ Jenny asked with a brittle smile.
‘Well.’ Citronella shrugged. ‘For going through such a momentous thing as childbirth alone.’
‘Thank you for your concern,’ Jenny replied evenly, ‘but as I said at the beginning, I’m perfectly fine.’
‘No really,’ Citronella persisted. ‘I think you’re marvellous – honestly – both of you,’ she added, nodding at me. I struggled to think of some retort, but a suitably sharp put-down eluded me.
‘Well, I think you’re brave,’ I heard Jenny say.
Citronella’s nostrils clamped shut. ‘Why?’ she demanded.
‘Well – having a baby so late. I think that’s