The Would-Begetter (13 page)

‘Jess?’ Hector said, at her elbow. ‘Got a moment?’

‘Sure.’ She followed him into the corridor outside.

‘Come over to the pub,’ he said. ‘I need a break from everyone, particularly Nige. He’s off for two weeks from Monday and he’s getting more like a headless chicken as each day passes.
“You won’t forget this?”
and “Be
sure to do that”
and
“Make a point of not
…” and so on. Anyone would think I’d never deputised for him before! I don’t think he’s the ideal News Ed. anyway; far too nervy. I told him – if you can’t take the heat, get out of the stable.’

‘I’m sure he will have found that most reassuring,’ Jess said. ‘I’ll come, but only for a soft drink or I’ll be useless all afternoon.’

‘Nonsense,’ Hector said. ‘You’re the least useless person I know.’

Jess walked with a spring in her step down the steep stairs, and out through Reception, smiling at the new girl on the desk (whose name she hadn’t caught) and over the road to the George and Pilgrim. There, she and Hector ensconced themselves in a corner by the window, and she unwrapped her sandwiches surreptitiously so that the management wouldn’t notice and take offence.

Jess wondered if Hector lunched here most days with his
fellow reporters and Nigel, or whether she was being particularly favoured. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to him properly since the last time they’d been here, way back in January, and she was curious to know how the hunt for Morgan’s mother might be going. If I had a son, she thought, I certainly wouldn’t call him
Morgan!
Then she thought, I must be careful. If I asked impertinent questions he’ll probably go all defensive on me, and then I won’t discover anything at all.

‘D’you come here often?’ she asked him.

‘Now there’s a leading question,’ Hector teased her.

‘So what’s the answer?’

‘The answer is no, hardly ever. No time, usually. Today I just felt in need of some undemanding but intelligent company.’

Jess considered a moment and then decided this was a compliment. ‘Well, thanks,’ she said.

Hector raised half a pint to his lips and sipped it reflectively. Then he put the glass down with a sigh. ‘Do you ever think about genetic death?’

‘Not a lot, no.’

‘Course not. You’re young. Why should you? I’ve been weighing up the pros and cons of fatherhood, you see; trying to analyse it dispassionately, and it still seems to me that wanting children is entirely justifiable. It’s selfish, yes, but let’s face it there are no
unselfish
reasons for wanting kids, are there? I suppose I’ve been trying to understand my own motives. It’s not that I’m afraid of a lonely old age, or worried about a lack of potency… Somehow it’s the idea of being the end of the line that depresses me. But in any case, being keen to be a dad can only be a
good
thing, can’t it?’

‘I suppose we’re all victims of the great assumption
when
rather than
if,’
Jess said carefully. ‘But it won’t be too late for you for years yet? After all, men can go on siring children well into their dotage.’

‘True.’ Hector looked unconvinced.

‘That reminds me,’ Jess said. ‘Guess who’s having a baby – someone you’ve met.’

‘Give up,’ Hector said, without trying.

‘Caroline Moffat. You remember, my friend from school? You could have knocked me down with a polystyrene rock
when she told me! She used to be so anti, and now she’s bloody radiant. It’s due in September apparently.’

‘Really?’ Hector said, frowning. ‘Have a drink? Go on Jess. I’m having another half. Have a shandy or something innocuous if you must. It’s on me.’

‘Oh, well all right then. Low alcohol cider, thanks.’ Hmmm, Jess thought to herself as she watched Hector going up to the bar. It looks as though poor Hector hasn’t got anywhere with the Brakespear woman. He doesn’t seem to be having much luck, does he? She wasn’t his type anyway. Actually, I can’t really think of anyone who would be…

When Jess looked up again, Hector was walking back towards her holding the two drinks. He looked preoccupied, as though he were doing mental arithmetic.

Wendy started her afternoon shift early, so that she could overlap with the new girl and keep an eye on her. She didn’t altogether trust that Jackie (or whatever her name was). She didn’t reckon she’d got a proper grip on the job as yet. Wendy inspected the desks on the far wall, where the public composed their advertisements, to check they had their proper compliment of pens and forms. They hadn’t. Jess’s file of contact prints was, however, back on the reception desk where it should be, so things were looking up. Last time someone had come in wanting to buy a photo Wendy hadn’t been able to find it, and had looked a right charlie.

‘Two pens short,’ she said, lifting the bar to get behind the counter.

‘I dunno,’ the new girl said. ‘What do they do with them, eat the frigging things? You’re in early, aren’t you?’

At that moment, Hector and Jess came in together through the swing doors. Hector had his hand resting on Jess’s shoulder, where it had naturally fallen as he had ushered her in ahead of him. Jess was laughing, and Hector looked pretty cheerful too until he saw Wendy, when he merely looked surprised.

‘You’re in early,’ he said in passing, and without giving her the secret wink she had come to count on.

‘Yes,’ Wendy said, ‘I…’ but they were already disappearing upstairs.

‘That’s the Senior Reporter and the Photographer, right?’ asked Jackie. ‘Hector and Jane?’

‘Hector and Jess,’ Wendy said rather shortly.

‘Oh, right. It takes a while to work out who’s who around here, doesn’t it? Are they an item then?’

‘What?’
Wendy turned on her irritably.

‘You know – going out together?’

‘No of course they aren’t!’

‘Oooh, I’m sorry. Touched a nerve there, have I? I only wond…’

‘Well stop wondering,’ Wendy said. ‘You can go now. I can manage.’

‘Suit yourself.’

The girl made a big production of collecting up her things and putting on her coat, and then finally she was gone and Wendy was alone. Stupid cow! she thought. What does she know? But the remark had unsettled her. She wished she knew where she was with Hector. Of course she understood his wish that their affair should be kept under wraps at work. It was well known that business and pleasure didn’t mix. She didn’t mind that so much (although it would be nice to have a ring to flash around), but she still wondered whether Hector was ashamed of his association with her.

It made her feel insecure, and he did nothing to reassure her. He never discussed their future. He never said ‘One day we must…’ or ‘Remind me to take you to…’ or ‘That’s something I’d love to share with you…’ He also, puzzlingly, never mentioned children. Wendy couldn’t understand that. If, as everyone knew, he was desperate for kids, then why did he never bring them into the conversation? It would be the most natural thing to do after all. Perhaps the gossip about him wasn’t true, Wendy wondered, but then again, if not, why did he go and get his sperm tested? And while I’m on that subject, she thought idly, something that’s always bothered me – if there’s really that many millions of them, then how on earth do they know which ones they’ve already counted?

Wendy pulled herself together. I’m being silly, she told herself. Of course he wants children. He’s probably only waiting for the right moment to bring the subject up. I hope
he doesn’t wait too long though – I mean, I may be wrong, it’s early days, but I’ve never been late before…

She didn’t know if she was excited or scared at the possibility. If only Hector had given her some idea of his feelings on the subject. She really didn’t know whether he’d be delighted or furious. And how would she break the news to him? Would she say ‘the pill’ had let her down, or would she confess?

‘Can I get some service here?’ a sudden man’s voice said, making her jump.

‘Oh…! I didn’t see you come in.’

‘Well that much is obvious. Now look here… What’s your name?’

‘Miss Bing.’

‘Bing? That’s not a name, that’s a slag-heap! Anyway, never mind all that. What I want to know, Miss Heap, is what you intend doing about this?’ he slapped a copy of the previous week’s
Chronicle
down on the counter and jabbed a finger at one of the front page stories.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Wendy asked coldly.

‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. It’s all lies, that’s what!’

Oh no! Wendy thought wearily, furtively pressing the alarm button under her counter. A fully paid-up member of the awkward squad. That’s all I need!

The Somerset Levels are magical towards the end of May, Jess thought, as she walked slowly along one of the moor’s rough drove roads. The early morning mist was burning off in the sun and lengthening her view along the rhynes on either side of her, revealing high blue patches of sky above the bare knuckles of pollarded willows. It’s worth getting up at six, she thought, just to have the place to myself and to see the flowers of cow-parsley and comfrey and water crowfoot, and the reflections of yellow flags at the water’s edge.

A displaying snipe was drumming overhead in a falling arc, making a strange bleating
wuther-wuther
sort of noise. A grey heron, startled at her approach, took off and flapped deliberately away. Skylarks rose straight up from the ground, singing. A sedge warbler only a few feet away erupted briefly from cover in the reeds in a burst of scratchy song, before diving back again.

Jess stopped at a gateway where a perfect spider’s web, beaded with dew, glinted in the sunlight. The landscape looked green and fecund. A purposeful group of black and white cows a field away waited beside their corrugated-iron milking bail. She could hear the
putt-putt
of the tractor-driven engine and see a man in white overalls bending down to wash udders or slip on the clusters. A cuckoo called. Swallows swooped and twittered. The air was cool and sweet. Jess inhaled deeply; an addict getting her fix. I ought to come for a walk every day, she thought. Just being here lifts my spirits so wonderfully.

She looked at her watch. It would take half an hour to get to work, so she’d best be starting back now. She had left the Jeep beside one of the many single-track roads that criss-cross the moor and now she drove abstractedly, looking all around out of habit for good subjects to photograph. Soon the ground
began to rise gently to one of the many tumps and ridges favoured by the local hamlets and villages, but there were also a few injudiciously-sited cottages along this lower road, only just above the annual inundation level.

Dodgy place to live, she thought, driving past. But they’ve apparently got away with it for decades – until last winter’s freak flood, that is! The first two she passed now looked much the same as usual; dried out, reclaimed, even repainted. But the next one coming up still had jettisoned chairs in its front garden. What a mess!

Jess didn’t see the boy who jumped out into the road in front of her, waving his arms, until the very last minute.
What the
…? She jammed on her brakes and missed him – just. She wound down the window. ‘What the hell d’you think you’red…’ Then she recognised him. It was the Brakespear woman’s son.

‘It’s my mum,’ he gabbled, clutching the handle of the door and wrenching it open. ‘You’ve got to get help. She’s fallen down and I can’t…’

‘Hey… calm down,’ Jess said. ‘I’ll just pull off the road and then you can show me, OK?’ She parked the Jeep in the gateway, grabbed her mobile phone from the passenger seat and followed Christian up the garden path.

‘So, when did your mum fall, and where?’

‘Down the stairs, just now, over the cat, and she can’t get up and I…’

‘Have you phoned for help?’

‘Can’t. Haven’t got one. That’s why I stopped you.’

‘It’s all right,’ Jess said, patting his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got a mobile.’

Zillah was still in a heap at the bottom of the stairs when they got inside. Jess saw with relief that she was pale but conscious.

‘Aren’t you the photographer from the
Chronicle?’
Zillah said. ‘Good of you to stop.’

‘I didn’t have much choice,’ Jess said, ‘thanks to your kamikaze son here. So what’s the damage?’

Zillah winced. ‘I think I’ve broken my leg, but I’m more worried about the baby.’

‘Baby?’

‘I’m nearly five months pregnant.’

‘I’ll ring for an ambulance,’ Jess said, pressing buttons on her phone. ‘What’s your address?’

The ambulance crew took forty minutes to arrive and during that time Jess, guessing that she shouldn’t try to move Zillah, made her more comfortable on the floor with cushions, and then ran Christian the short distance to his school.

‘Won’t you be late for work?’ Zillah asked when she got back.

‘It’s OK. I can phone in.’

‘Handy things, those.’

‘Well I’m out and about a lot, so I more or less have to have one to keep in touch,’ Jess said, wondering why she felt she had to make excuses.

‘Clive’s got one in his lorry, but of course he’s never here when he’s needed. You got a man?’

‘No,’ Jess confessed.

‘Very sensible. Ooooh!’

‘What?’

Zillah put both hands flat on her stomach, her worried expression transformed into one of delight. ‘I felt it move! That’s the first time. Can’t be much wrong if it’s kicking, can there?’

‘I’m so glad,’ Jess said, but she was thinking, why is it that the whole damn world seems suddenly to be
pregnant?

Hector enjoyed being Acting News Editor, even if it did mean getting to work at eight thirty each morning. This Monday he sat in Nigel’s chair in the long, open-plan Newsroom, running his eyes over the News Diary and relishing the modest amount of power the job afforded him. Behind him on the wall was a board with the date of the paper’s next edition marked in at the top, the names of the two duty reporters under it, and below them the six or so stories currently being worked on, each with the initials of the reporter doing them. In front of him was the line of desks which would shortly be staffed by the half dozen reporters and the secretary: On the far side of the room, the Sub-Editors would work at another line of desks, writing the headlines and laying out the copy and advertisements on large screens.