A room of one’s own was
sufficient for Virginia Woolf – but by the close of 1982, she had a
house of her own, a baby of her own and a pet of her own. The
problem was, she seemed to have acquired them via a type of hire
purchase.
And they could not be returned to
the shop….
Getting pregnant was ridiculously easy.
Not for her the five miscarriages; one ectopic pregnancy and one
still birth that had been her mother’s lot.
No.
One night of pill – less sex,
preceded by a Truscott extravaganza at a Greek taverna during the
course of which Philippa had smashed plates; danced on tables and
ogled the waiters, was sufficient.
In the pre home-testing era, she had
provided a urine sample for her doctor and the requisite rabbit or
frog had died or turned pink. And she knew she was properly enceinte
when she began to reside in the toilet - evacuating from all orifices
throughout the day and most of the night. She missed out on the
traditional bloom of preg Unfortunately, a jolly good brag is
dependent upon the compliance of the braggee, and here she was
sold somewhat short.
Her mother was ecstatic and knitted up
a storm – but her response was not reliable because she had also
airbrushed the Hunt debacle from history. Her father gave her a
cheque instead of saying: You’re stuck with him now. Lynne
said: If you call me Aunty Lynne I shall fucking kill you - and
meant it.
Nicola and the kiddies said
nothing because Paul did not tell them and it would be at least five
months before she could brandish the evidence on access weekend in
the form of a swelling stomach and a smock from Mystical
Madonnas.
So she was left to her own devices;
discarding Jane Austen; Erica Jong and Cosmopolitan in favour
of Penelope Leach; Miriam Stoppard and whatever Mother and
Baby magazines she could buy. It was a world of trimesters;
stretch marks; cervixes; brown nipples and heartburn.
What Paul thought of it, she neither
knew nor cared.
It was her body; her pregnancy; her
baby. And that was all.
Well – perhaps not quite all.
She felt a residual need to maintain
some sort of sex life in the changed circumstances. This was
difficult – because from the moment she became pregnant, she ceased
to find her husband attractive.
It was not that he had altered in any
way – or gone to seed especially. He had always been a
sartorial mess; the Cleghorn wardrobe had been an aberration and the
tousled and ruffled look was – and remained, part of Paul's charm.
It was that their intimate moments
had ceased to be a deux – at least in her mind.
In the throes of passion – or what
passed for it; imaginary Nicolas would loom into view; or Hunts and
Cleghorns.
On one occasion too horrible to dwell
upon, she had been put off her stroke by a repellent image of
the superannuated bookseller – and by then there was nothing for it
but to close her eyes, think of John Lennon and wait for it to be
over.
But she kept her counsel,
discovering that wine and vodka in judicious quantities deterred
unwelcome ‘visitors’ when avoidance was no longer feasible. It
was a pre Health Police era and later in pregnancy, copious amounts
of medicinal Guinness (for the iron content) did the trick.
She found that one bumper unbridled session would do in
place of more frequent lacklustre couplings; buying her more time
off in between.
And Paul did not complain.
For once, she became inordinately keen
to visit Eric and sample the delights of Picks Norton as a guest of
Donald and Gillian. She anticipated an Eric in grandfather-mode with
the prospect of a new baby toppling Nicola from her perch in his
affections.
It was not to be.
Eric was not father material – let
alone grandfather - and her pregnant queasiness at the sight of one
of his ribs of beef oozing complementary blood, only sufficed
to cement her status as resident wimp.
Nicola in similar straits was fondly
remembered for chomping her way through the side of a whole bloody
calf which she had then washed down with a bottle of his best
Bordeaux.
And her own value as something below
the rank of amoeba was hardly enhanced by the fact that she had
ruined Eric’s attempt to show off to Paul by taking them for a ride
in his new Rover (drinks petrol like a fish and purrs like a
pussy).
It had been a mistake to venture a
boiled egg at breakfast and waves of nausea engulfed her as they
purred across Tufnell Bridge above the motorway. Eric
had been compelled to make an emergency stop so that she could pour
out of the car and deposit the contents of her stomach over the
bridge; thence into the open sun roof of an unsuspecting motorist
below. Emptied and weak, she repaired to the back seat, praying that
stray threads of vomit had not escaped her mouth to settle amidst the
creases in the white leather upholstery.
A weekend at Picks Norton was similarly
frustrating. Gillian, who had formerly delighted in ramming the
mysteries of the Breast is Best League down her un-pregnant
ears, was not to be tempted onto the subject.
No.
The increasing independence of David
and Susan was a relief.
The tyranny of the nappy pail
was now consigned to the past. And we won’t be revisiting that
chapter again, will we darling? (with an arch look at Donald).
It was wonderful to exercise the brain
after an eternity at the mercy of Roger Hargreaves and the Mr
Men and I’ve become a bit of a men-magnet!!
(smirking).
The idea of Gillian attracting anyone
other than her legally assigned spouse (and that was debatable) was
ludicrous – but the point was clear. Nicola, divorced or not, was
on the inside looking out; she was on the outside looking in and it
could rain and hail and snow on her - with or without babies.
That was where she would stay.
The fall-out at work was better.
Head of Department Andrew, naturally
assumed she would leave – which determined her decision to stay
come hell or high water - courtesy of a decent nanny.
Such dedication reaped a just reward
and she was astounded to hear Andrew respond in effusive tones –
with the promise of a scale promotion on her return from maternity
leave. It meant responsibility for university entrance; goodbye to
some hated junior classes; a place on the Senior Management Team –
and more money.
She bore her nausea; heartburn and
cystitis with pride. She was a contender.
Chudleigh’s reaction was mixed.
The snooty Head Master who had banned
her from hallowed turf before marriage conveyed a modicum of
respectability, offered wintry congratulations when they crossed
paths at the Corps Annual Parade.
Betty Glenn was genuinely pleased.
But shock and awe came courtesy of
Dorian Chase who turned up one morning bearing gifts – in the form
of: a jolly useful little book and some threads.
The book; an obscure, illustrated
feminist guide to sex in pregnancy, adorned with pictures of engorged
genitalia – was consigned to the bin. The threads took
the form of three of Dorian’s old maternity smocks; washed and
pressed but infused with the characteristic Chase grubbiness. Paul
caught her stuffing them into the back of the wardrobe and insisted
on a floor show:
Darling, how kind of Dorian – now
you really MUST wear them! Pink and orange swirls are …
(struggling) - well you won’t find anyone else dressed in
that!!
So she wore the hideous sacks in strict
rotation at Chudleigh functions – but never without washing them
first in a vain attempt to remove any lingering trace of their
original owner.
It was an intimacy too far…
But she was happy – for want
of another word to describe the self absorption, epitomised by hours
spent examining her body for signs of change. These were an eternity
coming and by four and a half months she could still zip up her
jeans; unsurprising as so much body weight had been flushed down the
toilet.
Pregnancy came with a customised kit
and she became inordinately attached to her Co-operation Card
issued by the doctor on the occasion of her first routine
examination. This large piece of card, meticulously annotated by
whoever was examining her, contained fascinating facts about her
blood pressure; blood group; results of scans; tests and weight
checks.
It was her unique body encyclopaedia;
endlessly enthralling and exquisitely intimate. She had to resist the
temptation to show it to people.
Not that the occasion ever arose,
because, in the absence of anyone with whom to share these exciting
times – she was lonely.
Paul pottered on in his own fashion;
amicable and not, as far as she could tell, engaging in Hunt or
Cleghorn activities – but things had changed.
She had taken him back - but he was
what he was.
What he was not, was doting Daddy
to his existing three children, so expecting a rush of enthusiasm for
a clump of cells was naïve. After the birth, it would be their
baby, and she firmly believed that one in the house was
worth three in the bush.
For now, there was Betty.
Betty Glenn; the wife of David, was not
a natural soulmate and had little in common with the unconventional
eccentricities of Lynne. But Lynne was in London; Lynne had no
interest in babies and since the advent of Paul their lives were at
best disengaged.
And Betty was there.
Betty and David, hailing from similar
monied County families, had attended minor single sex boarding
schools prior to Oxford for David and an Oxford Cordon Bleu
School for Betty.
(It didn’t signify; the woman was
capable of ruining tinned soup).
Betty was averagely pretty in a sandy,
freckled way and dressed in a ‘young mum’ uniform of peasant
skirts, linen blouses and exercise sandals.
She was never without a baby-change bag
for toddler Miles; her reading material rarely extended beyond the
thrills and spills of a Jilly Cooper; and she occasionally
omitted to shave her legs.
But she was a silent bulwark against
the Chudleigh matrons and was not a cheerleader for Dorian after the
latter’s off-stage skirmish with David.
She was normal and kind and nice;
someone to talk to about heartburn and flatulence.
And she did not prey upon Paul.
She would do.
One of the first things they did was to
spend a morning in the centre of Dorlich, shopping for clothes.
After an enjoyable couple of hours flicking through the wares at the
dedicated maternity shops, Laura Ashley, as usual, was the outlet of
choice.
She chose ankle and mid calf length
dresses, high on the bust with flowing skirts and sleeves in rust and
green and midnight blue velvet. They were tasteful and comfortable
without the ‘pregnancy trademarks’ of elasticated waists and
panels, because they were not maternity clothes. They were lovely
and she felt like a Botticelli Primavera.
With the Chases thankfully off limits
since the infamous supper and the Truscotts in abeyance, they began
to see more of David and Betty as a couple. The evenings were
pleasant; usually a take-away at the Glenns’ (Miles was at a
difficult stage in potty training and Betty was reluctant to
leave the deck), followed by Bridge.
She was hopeless; Betty was quite good
and David was a fanatic; regularly bested by Paul’s mixture of
distracted and ruthless play. Wine was drunk; nothing was thrown or
thrown up and she was glad that Lynne was not privy to any of it
because it was all ineffably dull.
But it was safe.
As summer approached, it seemed natural
to re-visit the idea of holidaying as a foursome and Bridge evenings
in the Glenns' high-ceilinged school apartment now included this new
conversational variant to add to babies and Chudleigh. Maps were
bought; routes were planned and Villequier was selected as the
destination for a two-week vacation. The men shared driving and she
and Paul took a room in a small hotel near to the campsite where
David and Betty erected their luxury tent, equipped with the
essentials required for a not-quite-potty-trained toddler.
Hotel Caudebec; situated next to
a forest, was clean and neat, boasting excellent views and a
wood-panelled restaurant overlooking the Seine.
The Victor Hugo Museum was nearby; but
she had not realised that the writer’s daughter, Leopoldine ,had
drowned in the Seine; weighed down by her sodden skirts
following a boating accident. Nor that the river had also claimed the
husband, who had attempted her rescue.
It’s amazing – we had no idea!
said Paul:
Three No Trumps! (with a
flourish).
They were finishing their first rubber
of the evening outside a tent door garlanded with drying training
pants.
Victor Hugo was virgin soil as far as
she was concerned. The film of The Hunchback of Notre Dame with
Charles Laughton in grotesque mode was the extent of her knowledge,
but the fact that the author was enjoying a tryst with a lover whilst
his daughter wrestled with mortality was disconcerting.
She played a card, thinking of that
other corpse, fished from the sea and strapped to the boat on their
return from honeymoon.
Water of a different kind engulfed
Betty; weighed down by the rows of training pants which had to be
washed and dried on a daily basis. David was considered to be a good
husband (the dalliance with Dorian was an aberration) but
consigned the care of his fractious toddler entirely to Betty,
surfacing to read a bedtime story or assist with Lego.
It was hardly surprising that she
occasionally forgot to shave her legs. It was amazing that she
managed to shave anything at all; or even to wash.
Betty was a good wife and mother
with a good marriage – but what next? David would not leave
her, despite infrequent Chase-style aberrations; but no doubt
his sharpness to her in company would increase; he would take less
care with appearance and manners (belching; farting); less note of
her birthday and interests. They would live parallel lives and when
Miles left home – what?
It was a life lived by many – even
most people, she thought, as they walked back to the hotel.
I
t was all right.
It would not do for her.
Their last day was the day of Diana
Spencer’s marriage to Prince Charles and she felt the baby kicking
for the first time. She dragged Paul from the shower, clamping his
hand to her stomach. He was sceptical; the baby would not perform to
order ,which she liked.
She was also glad to miss Royal Wedding
frenzy and said so to Paul as he tucked into a huge bowl of moules
mariniere at the hotel table.
The restaurant was full; Paul rose to
his feet
I would like to propose a toast to
HRH and his lovely bride!
The restaurant gave voice as one in a
patriotic roar:
HRH – LOVELY BRIDE!!!
Followed by four rounds of God Save
the Queen.
Stupid Spencer bitch ---- what
dickheads!! sniggered her husband as a French hotel became a
little England minus flags and bunting.
He was not laughing the next day – or
driving either; having spent the night adorning the bathroom with
bodily secretions following a violent onset of food poisoning as soon
as they reached the bedroom.
The disgusting smell had precipitated
another attack of morning sickness and one or the other of them
drowning in vomit seemed a distinct possibility. They paid the bill
and she avoided thoughts of the chambermaid.
It was a subdued party on the boat
home. Nobody was up to Bridge. Miles was sulky; David picked at his
bites; Paul was snappish and Betty was exhausted.
She looked at the sea and thought.
Betty and the training pants; Diana
Spencer, worn by her big dress; the floating body; a baby in its
watery sac; herself, pregnant.
Perhaps Leopoldine had the best of
it.
