The Generation Game (33 page)

In the glorified shed, in the darkness, I can smell the nicotiana that I planted up in terracotta pots and have to banish thoughts of Helena. And Adrian. There is only this second. This moment.
There is only now.

I tangle my fingers through Justin’s hair, something I thought I would never do again as long as I lived. Adrian might be my husband and I might be very stupid, but lying on the wooden
floor with Justin is possibly the only thing that will keep me sane. That will remind me I was a person. That I won’t blow away on a gust of wind. Really, it is the only thing I can do.

Three weeks later I make another trip to the chemist. But this time I do the test myself. I do it in the comfort of our own bathroom, wee on a plastic strip and wait for a
little blue line to appear in a little window… yes, there it is. Before I have time to take this in, to comprehend the full consequences of what this means, there is a knock at the front
door. I am too much in a fuddle to leave it, to wait for them to go away in order to contemplate the stick in my hand, so I rush downstairs and fling the door open. There is Auntie Nina.

‘I’m going to have a baby,’ I blurt out.

‘Are you, darling? Well, that’s lovely news. Congratulations.’

She comes in for a cup of coffee. Very strong coffee because she would actually prefer gin. She sits at the kitchen table, polished and restored once again since the spillages of blackberry wine
at the party. She listens to me gibbering away and then she asks in her straight-to-the-point way: ‘You’re getting on a bit, Philippa, aren’t you, to be having a baby?’

And there is that niggle, which my excitement can only just contain.

‘Forty’s young these days. Forty’s the new thirty.’

‘Well, your mother and I were from a different generation. We had our children young. Not that it did us any good.’

Nina sips her coffee then she says: ‘I’m glad you went for the cream tiles. Cream will never date. Just you see, your little one will be all grown up and you still won’t need
to change them.’

I am finding it hard to listen to Nina. I want her to go now. I want to be alone with the stick. Alone. Because its implications are only now beginning to sink into my thick brain.

When she’s drained a second cup, I see her to the front door where she tells me to take care, a phrase she uses with its true meaning. Then she adds: ‘Make sure that husband of yours
does some running round after you for a change.’ I know she doesn’t think highly of Adrian. Not many people do. She grips my arm as if she’s about to say something, then she lets
it go in exchange for a Camel.

I watch Nina get in her car – the way they teach young girls at finishing school – and drive off, with a slightly unnerving squeal of tyres. The smell of burning rubber makes me rush
inside and be sick. Or maybe it’s this speck of a baby making itself known.

As I lean back on my heels on the bathroom floor I feel suddenly weak and want Auntie Nina back. My hormones are making me as fickle as Helena. I don’t want to do this on my own like the
last time. I have a house and a husband that I’ve procured through irresponsible means, leaving me with no other family. I should give it my best shot and try and make it work otherwise what
does that decision say about my judgement? What has the last five years all been about? And where is the alternative? Where is Justin in all this? On his latest travel venture… Sofia…
Budapest… Prague… Timbukbloodytu. He walked away that night. He kissed me afterwards and asked me if I’d be okay. There was a pause when I could’ve said no, I won’t
be, take me with you but instead I thought of Toni. I thought of Auntie Sheila. I thought of Bob. There was no way I could leave Adrian, Toni’s once-partner, to take up with her brother.
Of all the people in London
. So I said, yes, I’ll be fine. And he walked out of the summer house, walked back up the garden path and disappeared into the bushes. He left me in that
moonlit garden, alone. He walked away.

I will tell Adrian the miraculous news tonight. That should be enough to make him see sense. To get over Toni once and for all. He need never know I know. She need never know I know. It can all
be brushed away, swept under the carpet. Worse things happen at sea. (Thank you, Miss Mothball. Today I need your clichés more than ever. I can’t think beyond my next word).

Bad plan. It just delays the inevitable. The shock of my announcement makes Adrian marvel at the miracle that he’s pulled off, you would think single-handedly. I do
nothing to dampen his incredulity, his satisfaction. But the initial impact soon fades as the future begins to make itself felt. As I start going to Mothercare and buying baby accessories off eBay.
Over the coming months, while I grow fat and heavy, Adrian grows aloof and uncaring. He says ante-natal classes are for women which doesn’t inspire great hope that he’ll be any help at
the birth. In fact I don’t think he will be there at all. We might as well be living back in the sixties. I might as well be part of that generation for all the progress that has been made.

And do I confront Adrian with all this? No. I say nothing. I do nothing. I don’t want to upset my baby. I want to be a good mother. I
will
be a good mother.

When I am eight months pregnant and washing up is something that has become as trying as swimming the Channel, Adrian breaks the news to me. He doesn’t stand by the Aga
brandishing a glass of wine. He sits himself down at the kitchen table and puts his head in his hands. I have a vision of Auntie Nina but Adrian is not drunk. He is not stoned. He is as sober as a
judge. As sober as my grandfather who I’ve never met, but who I’ve heard – on that busy old grapevine – has recently died and will never ever be able to pass judgement on
me. On my life. For that is now down to Judge Adrian, my husband. And he is on the verge of condemning our marriage to the bin.

‘It’s over,’ he says. ‘I’m in love with Someone Else.’

He thinks I don’t know. He thinks I am stupid. They both think I am stupid. Well, maybe it is them who are stupid. Maybe I know more than they do. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe I know nothing.

He is at work when my waters break. I consider phoning him but dismiss that idea out of hand. I consider Joe but he has his own family now and his wife would hardly go a bundle
on what I am asking. So there is no-one. I call a cab and hide the pain in my voice as I’m afraid they won’t want me in one of their cars but ten minutes later an Irishman from Mayo is
standing on my doorstep. I could kiss him if I weren’t doubled over. He half-carries me to the cab (he has the arms of a weight lifter, fortunately) and then speeds off over the humps of East
Dulwich, through Camberwell and down the Walworth Road, heading for St Thomas’. I wish now I hadn’t gone all nostalgic and chosen the hospital of my own birth. I should’ve gone
for King’s, a darn sight nearer. Still, the Hail Marys reassure me somewhat, the thought that this is out of my control now. No going back even if I wanted to, which I quite possibly do.

Michael, the cabbie, swings into the ambulance bay and nabs a porter who comes running with a wheelchair when he hears the noise I’m making. Then there are lifts and corridors and lino and
I try, really try, to block out the splat of sick echoing at the back of my mind. The sirens flashing and wailing across Torquay. The Cavalier who went off in a huff years ago.

Finally I am in a delivery room. The bumps and sways of the journey have dilated my cervix nicely and I am virtually ready to push. That is when the peace descends. A moment of calm transition
between full dilation and giving birth. I remember my iPod. I ask the midwife, Fran, if she’ll get it out of my bag. And then I listen to The Monkees. And then I start to cry.

Come on, Philippa, get a grip. You’re nearly there.

And then there’s an overwhelming, all-encompassing, you just-can’t-fight-it need to push. All the stuff you hear about melons and grapefruits and all the rest of it is absolutely
true. Three agonising, skin-splitting pushes later and she is placed in my arms. A baby girl. Small and wet and a little bit blue.

You are here. You have arrived.

“Hi Phil.” A cheeky grin is the first thing I see when I wake up – having managed a measly twenty minutes kip – followed by a whiff of prawn cocktail
crisps.

“Hello, stranger. How are you?”

“I should be asking that,” Joe says, offering me a crisp. I am famished so I take a handful. That’s my Joe, always thinking of bar snacks. The first person I called with the
news. The first familiar face to come and see me. Us.

“What took you so long getting in touch?”

“Oh, you know.” And no, of course, he doesn’t know, but lovely Joe doesn’t push it. Instead he is transfixed by you. Lovely you.

“How’s the little one?” He peers at my baby asleep in her tank. “What’s her name?”

“Not sure yet. I was thinking of Maggie maybe.”

“What?”

And in that word, the spark of fire in his eye, I see my old Joe. My Jiminy Cricket about to remonstrate me for my lack of political conscience.

“I’m joking,” I say. “Did you lose your sense of humour along with Clause Four?”

He laughs, to prove he hasn’t, then he picks you up, an expert now, having three children of his own. Whatever happened to the man who thought there were enough children in the world? He
fell in love. He grew up. As we all must do one day. As I am finally beginning to.

Evelyn and Judith turn up bright and early the next morning, laden with fresh produce – mostly bought from the greengrocers as not much is happening fruit-wise on the
allotment. You, my baby-with-no-name, are in the middle of a squawking session, little face all red and cross. Judith takes control, grappling you from my arms and looking like she means
business.

“Let Judith try,” Evelyn says, sitting me down in the chair, turning her attention to this new, somewhat bewildered mother. “Are you getting your five portions?” she
asks, taking in my pallor which I know – from the odd glance I’ve caught in the glass doors on the way to the loo – is a whiter shade of pale.

Judith carries on rocking, stroking your hair as if you were a cat. I feel a twinge of guilt for Valerie and Lesley who’ve been taken in by Evelyn and Judith in preparation for this
time.

“Don’t worry about them,” Evelyn instructs. “They’re fine. They’ve got their fluffy paws firmly ensconced under our table.” And she indicates the
intricate pattern of fur decorating her expensive cashmere cardigan. “Judith and I have decided we’re cat people. Now, have a banana. The last thing you want is to be constipated with
everything else going on down below.”

Indeed.

“What do you think of her then?”

“She’s really rather lovely,” says Judith. But she could do with a name.

“I know. But I don’t feel ready to give her one yet. I’ve got to get it right. It’s so final.”

“Well, make sure you give her a decent middle name. That way she can always change it when she’s older.”

“Alright. I’ll think about that one too.”

I don’t have a middle name. Philippa has always been enough on its own. But Someone Else does. Terry Siney does.

Oh, Terry Justin Siney. Where are you now?

Yet another visitor. It is still too early for Auntie Nina to have knocked back her first drink of the day so she is quite chirpy as she totters in, stooping to kiss me on both
cheeks, a floppy pink bunny under her arm. “For your little one,” she says. “Where is she?”

She sees you then, in the cot, sleeping the way babies are supposed to sleep.

“Oh, Philippa,” she says. “Helena would be charmed.”

There is silence then, at the mention of her name. But names are on Nina’s mind.

“What are you going to call her?”

“If she’d been a boy it would have been Lucas.”

“Darling, how sweet of you to think of him.”

“I always think of him.”

“Do you?” she asks, wandering over to the window and peering at the office blocks. (I’d hoped for a river view, the Palace of Westminster, when I booked in here but all I got
was a lousy grey-scape.) “I sometimes think I imagined him. That he never existed at all. That he was all a dream. A fairy tale.” She reaches up her sleeve for a hanky, her chirpiness
dissolving, and comes and sits on the bed. “That’s why I left Torquay. Why I’ve never gone back. I suppose I thought it easier to leave him behind.” She blows her nose.
“That was wrong of me. He was my son and I left him all alone.” She starts to cry and I put my hand on her arm.

“I’m sorry, Philippa,” she says, a little while later after she’s taken deep breaths, had a glass of water and composed herself. “This is supposed to be a happy
time for you and I’m dragging up the past. You see… I loved him so very much.”

“I know you did Auntie Nina. And you shouldn’t worry about not seeing him. I used to visit him a lot when I lived in the shop. I’d tell him all my secrets.”

“You did?”

“Of course. He was my best friend.”

“My Lucas,” she breathes.

And I want to cry too but I am a grown-up now. I am a mother.

“So, Philippa, what have you got in mind?” Nina asks, brightening a little as she takes in your pretty face.

“What do you mean?”

“A name. You really must decide.”

Decide... yes... she is right. I have to decide.

“Lucy,” I say. “I will call her Lucy. That’s as close as I can get.”

And maybe, one day, when she is bigger, she’ll have a crop of messy hair. A shouty voice that will sing out across the streets and pierce my heart with a shot of love.

“You are Lucy Wink Smith,” I tell my daughter. “And I love you.”

(So much for the sensible middle name but what else can I do?)

Finally he comes back and finally I let him in.

“How is she?” Adrian asks, tentatively, his usual cock assurance a little limp. He avoids close contact with me, edging around the room, eventually ending up by the cot, looking
sheepishly at the contents within (ie. You).

“She’s feeding a bit better today,” I say, meaning: I’ve been managing perfectly alright without you.