Most of the shops are closed now. The lights of KFC look oddly romantic in the early evening. Families huddle around tables at the windows, exchanging stories over their red buckets of fried chicken.
My dad comes out of the pharmacy waving a paper bag. “The good stuff.”
I make a big show of putting on the lipsalve I bought. “Mmm, strawberry,” I say. “Couldn’t resist.”
We walk on until we reach the ’Front. I don’t come here often, as it can get a bit rowdy. There’s always something happening: funk and soul night, quiz night, Breton folk music night. Not my kind of thing. But it’s on the harbour, and it serves decent beers.
Last time my dad came down to Falmouth, I took him to the specialist craft ale bar, Hand. He had a 7 percent saison beer called The Emptiness Is Eternal, and he told the barman it tasted like piss. Didn’t stop him from ordering two more and then chanting football anthems so loudly James and I had to take him home.
The ’Front bar is much more traditional: Cornish flag bunting and pints of Betty Stogs on tap. It has a low, vaulted ceiling, giving it the air of a smugglers’ inn. It’s tucked away beneath Trago Mills, a discount department store with a UKIP billboard nailed to the side of it. I’m trying to block out the fact that on the way here, my dad looked up at the billboard and said: “Not long now till we get our country back, eh?”
“Well,” Dad says, settling into his chair with a pint. “This is nice.”
I’ve ordered myself a red wine. After all, I don’t know for sure that I’m pregnant. Drink till it’s pink, so they say.
“Dad?” I ask. “What was it like? You know, after Mum died? Did you ever feel angry with her?”
“Angry, pup?” He opens the paper bag he got at the pharmacy and takes a blue tablet out of the box inside. I’m not sure he should be mixing pain medication and alcohol, but if I say anything, he’ll tell me I’m nagging. “Wasn’t her fault she died. Or do you mean angry at her for something else?”
I fiddle with the stem of my wine glass. “If she hadn’t gone out drinking . . .”
“Accidents happen, Sol. You know that, in your line of work. So do I, that’s for sure.” He opens a packet of pork scratchings.
“But she didn’t die doing something worthwhile.” I swallow a large mouthful of wine. “She tripped over a post.”
Dad chews thoughtfully on a piece of pork. “Your mum made mistakes, like all of us,” he says. Then, his voice cracks: “She’d be so proud of you now.”
“I don’t know. Mum was a genius. I mean, you’re really talented too, Dad, but—”
Dad bursts into laughter. “Your mum was a bright woman, yes. But not as clever as you, chuck.”
I shake my head. “But Mum was always working on something. Like that notepad you said she kept by her bed, where she’d write down ideas in the dead of night. I can go for months without working.”
Dad takes a long draught of his pint. It leaves a moustache of foam on his upper lip. “Your mum was a workaholic,” he says, wiping his mouth. “She was an insomniac too. When she woke up in the wee hours, it wasn’t quadratic equations she was scribbling down. It was shopping lists, or reminders to record Mastermind off the telly. Sometimes she’d write down targets, things she wanted to achieve. She could never just relax and enjoy the moment, your mum. Always worrying about what was to come. The only way she could chill out was with a drink. But she’d always take it too far. Especially after she had you.”
“I . . . was too much for her?”
“She loved you to bits. She really did. Having a baby was overwhelming for her, though. She’d start playing with you or feeding you or whatever, and she’d get so frustrated. You’d spend ten minutes together, and then she’d be calling to me out in the studio, begging for me to take over. I didn’t mind. Quite liked it. Cuddling a baby instead of working.”
My face feels tingly. I feel so disgusted by my dad so frequently. Not to mention confused about how someone like my mother could have married him. I’ve often felt angry with Mum because she was the one to die and not my dad. Maybe I’ve been angry with my dad for not dying.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say, heading for the toilets, still wearing my coat. I go into a cubicle and take the test out of my pocket.
First Response. If the test is positive, I honestly can’t predict what my first response will be.
I’ve done this so many times now. I know exactly what angle to place the stick at, how many seconds to keep it in my urine stream, how long to wait afterwards. I replace the cap and lay the test across my thighs.
I’m not ready to do this again.
I’m not ready for so many reasons.
I look at the graffiti on the cubicle walls: “Trans rights NOW.” “Do what makes you happy!” “This is the closest we will ever be.”
Whatever the result is, I don’t want to feel emotionally connected to it. You can’t fall in love with a line, or grieve over the lack of one. I want to be able to look at the test, acknowledge whether there’s one band or two, throw it in the bin, and then figure out what to do next. It’s just a series of processes. Simple as that.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly. “Do what makes you happy!”
I open my eyes.
Two lines.
The test line is darker than the control line. It’s much, much darker than it was last time around. With Lucy.
“This is the closest we will ever be.”
I put
