Authors: Graham Hurley
Given that Brendan was the father, and that I
’
d fallen in love with
him, all this probably sounds daft, even insulting. With Brendan to
love me, why would I feel alone? To that question, I had no answer.
Neither, as it turned out, did Michelle.
‘
What
’
s he like?
This
Brendan?
’
Good question. I told her as much as I knew. I told her that he was
older than me, and very bright, and a bit manic. I told her that he
’
d
been dotty about me from the start, and had courted me like mad,
but had never really been a pain about it. Since I
’
d moved in, we
’
d
got to know each other well, really well, and the more of him I saw,
the more I knew he was for me. I went easy on the bit about
Brendan
’
s special talents but Michelle and I had been pretty frank
with each other in our Bournemouth days and I think she guessed
that the sex was wonderful. I also admitted, when she asked, that he
was married.
‘
Do you trust him?
’
Better question still.
I said I did.
‘
Why?
’
.
‘
Because he
’
s never let me down. Not once. Because he
’
s kind,
really kind. Because he says we
’
re important, the most important
thing of all, and I believe him.
’
‘
Does he make you laugh?
’
‘
Yes,
’
‘
On purpose?
’
‘
Yes, and in other ways, too. He can be funny because he tries so
hard, and funny because he thinks he
’
s fooled you, but you can see
through him, right through him. He could come back as double
glazing. He
’
s completely transparent. I tell him that sometimes.
’
I
grinned.
‘
He keeps the warmth in, too. Do you know what I mean?
’
Michelle looked briefly troubled and I knew I
’
d touched a nerve.
Living with Brendan had taught me just how rare it is to find a
relationship like ours and telling other people about it sometimes
isn
’
t kind. Maybe I should have stuck to
Home
Run
after all, I
thought. Who wants to hear about other people falling love?
I got us both another drink. Michelle was still looking gloomy.
‘
It
’
s not all roses,
’
I told her.
‘
Don
’
t think that.
’
She brightened up at once.
‘
It
’
s not?
’
‘
No,
’
I sat down.
‘
I
’
m pregnant.
’
She stared at me and I could tell at once that it was the last thing
she
’
d expected to hear. Canny, street-wise Julie Emerson? The Viking
goddess of the windsurf set?
Pregnant
?
‘
How come?
’
I told her how I thought it must have happened. Blaming drink
was the oldest excuse in the book but I genuinely couldn
’
t think of
another. Since that first night, and the morning after, I
’
d been back on
the pill so Brendan
’
s malt whisky had a great deal to answer for.
‘
How has he taken it?
’
‘
He doesn
’
t know.
’
I explained about my visit to the GP. We were talking hot news, I
said, and I
’
d yet to decide whether or not to share it with Brendan.
‘
What
’
s stopping you ?
’
‘
I don
’
t know.
’
I stared at my glass of
Pils
.
‘
I
’
m a bit confused.
’
‘
You think it might change things?
’
‘
I doubt it but
…
’
I pulled a face,
’
…
I suppose it might.
’
‘
And you don
’
t want that to happen?
’
‘
No, of course not.
’
‘
So why don
’
t you
…
’
Michelle made a loose, circular motion with
her hand.
‘
Get rid of it?
’
‘
Yes.
’
‘
I
couldn
’
t.
’
‘
You
couldn
’
t
?
Why not?
’
‘
Because
…
’
I frowned, concentrating hard,
’
…
it
’
s not mine to get
rid of.
’
‘
Of course it is.
’
‘
No, it
’
s not.
’
‘
Whose is it then? Brendan
’
s?
’
‘
No.
’
‘
Not
Brendan
’
s?
’
‘
No, it
’
s his, of course it is. But it
’
s not, if you see what I mean.
’
Michelle was looking bewildered. Surprise had given way to
disbelief.
Then blank incomprehension.
‘
It
’
s a baby,
’
I said at last.
‘
It
’
s alive. It exists. I can
’
t just get rid of
it
…
’
I touched my glass to hers,
‘
…
can I?
’
As it happens, I couldn
’
t tell Brendan my little bit of news, not at once, because he chose the whole of the next fortnight to go away.
Co-production deals had taken him off to Australia and the postcards
began arriving within days, dozens of variations on a theme of mile-long beaches, curling waves, and hunky surfers daubed in pink
sunblock. In a way, this absence of his was a blessing. Not only did it
give me
a breathing space to get stuff
sorted out in my head but it also
offered a chance to nail down some dates. So far I only had the
confirmation that I was pregnant. Now I wanted the entire script.
I returned to the GP. She was still waiting for my notes to come up
from Petersfield but in
the meantime I gave her a summary of my
health
to date. No major diseases. No broken bones. And a level of
fitness that was, by media standards, pretty impressive. The GP
concluded her examination with some wary questions about what she
termed my
‘
situation
’
. In this, she covered pretty much the same
ground as Michelle, with one exception.
‘
You still have a flat of your own?
’
‘
Yes.
’
‘
And you
’
ll be keeping it?
’
I gave the question some thought. Given half a chance, I
’
d sell the
place tomorrow but Gilbert had just added two enormous eyes, in
white gloss, to the front door and his message to would-be buyers had
become all too effective. Mark was still telling me to hassle the
freeholder, something I hadn
’
t had time to do, but even if I got some
kind of result I
knew
that Mark was close to giving up on the place.
His last prospect, plus half the street, had been given the full Mozart
treatment on CD, some concerto or other, at something close to a
million decibels.
‘
Fo
r a while,
’
I said carefully,
‘
I’ll
probably hang on to it.
’
‘
That might be wise. Could you cope alone there? You and the
baby?
’
The question made me blink a bit. Most GPs take extraordinary
care to keep their, distance from patients
’
private lives, but this one
sounded just like my mother.
‘
Of course we
’
d cope,
’
I said brightly.
‘
But I
’
m sure it won
’
t come to
that.
’
Even now, nearly a year later, I can see that doctor
’
s face. I was on
my feet, the consultation over, her questions answered, and as I
backed towards the door I remember her glancing up from her desk,
pen in hand. She looked weary, like they all do, but there was
something else in her expression as well, an odd mixture of
pity
and sympathy. She sat in this room every day.
She probably
ta
lked to
hundreds of young women like me. And there was a part of her, way
down, that felt sorry for us.
I worked harder than ever during the next couple of weeks, mainly
trying to nurse my other baby,
Home
Run
.
The dates that came
through on the pregnancy ringed the week of
17
December,
1997,
a
deadline that gave me barely any leeway at all for post-production
after the November shoot. There
’
d be pictures to edit, sound tracks to
lay, and a fine cut to agree before we
’
d be ready for the final dub. This
process was complex enough but the fact that we were dealing with a
pilot made it doubly so. This first programme would be a template for
everything that followed, and if we got anything wrong then the fault
would be magnified over subsequent shows. We
’
d therefore be in for
weeks of anguished debate over the off-line, wrangles over what was
to come out, what should survive. Would I really be able to fight my
corner, the way a real producer should, when any day I might become
a mother?
The prospects for both babies were, to be frank, worrying and I
knew there was no point pretending otherwise. But arguing for a
change in the production schedule would inevitably risk declaring my
hand. Was Brendan really ready to con
front life as a threesome? When
he
’
d only just made room for me?
Until Brendan came back I couldn
’
t begin to resolve this issue so I
got on with the nuts and bolts business of actually producing the thing.
First call, of course, was for the kids themselves and I spent an
infinitely depressing week in the company of various Inner London
social workers, touring the dodgier council estates. Each of them was
testament to different kinds of failure and the more kids I met, the
more sullen and wary they seemed to become.