On the drive home that night I was greatly relieved. We’d told our parents, we would tell Marty’s parents the next day, and after that we’d tell our friends. If I wasn’t throwing up so much, I’d have called this one of the happiest and most exciting times of my life.
The next day Mum drove over with a photograph from Andrew Smith’s fiftieth birthday celebration and, blow me down with a feather, there they were: a young Mum with a younger Marty Brown sitting next to each other, deep in conversation. How weird to think that Mum met Marty before I did! (Naturally, God got the credit.)
Defah called, sounding very, very tired. She asked if I could come over. When I arrived she was in the shower, standing there naked, the water running over her body. I asked what was wrong, and she said, ‘Nothing’s wrong, I’m just a bit scared.’ What about?
‘Clarey, you’re not going to believe this, but John and I are pregnant again. We’re gonna have another baby. I think I’m a month behind you.’
What are the chances! Ten years ago, as sixteen-year-olds in Defah’s bedroom, we dreamed about this moment. We said that when we were grown-ups, we would move into houses around the corner from each other, marry best friends, have babies, and they would be best friends too. We dreamed it, but we did not plan it. We could not possibly have planned this, not even if we’d really tried. This was magic.
Just so you know, Marty did ask me to marry him. Kind of. On the back step of our new house the day we moved in, over a cup of tea, he said, ‘Clare, about marriage: is that a thing you’re interested in doing?’
‘No!’ I replied, a little too abruptly. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong. What I mean is, I feel like we’ve got so much going on already. The thought of planning a wedding when we’ve only been together a few months is a bit overwhelming. Also, you might discover in about a year that you actually find me rather annoying and want out. How about you?’
Marty said that, to be clear, he was not planning on leaving me, ever. He knew that, if anything, a year from now he would be even more madly in love with me, and I need never worry, because he wasn’t leaving unless I told him to. As for marriage, however, yes, he felt the same—that for now, we needed to concentrate on learning how to be outstanding citizens, how to make a living, and how to become people worthy of bringing a baby into the world. Marriage was something we could circle back around to later. The particulars of this conversation would become the source of some dispute in years to come when, three years after we became parents and he still had not proposed, my mother and sisters and I calculated that it couldn’t be too far off Surely? On one memorable date night, when Marty rang Mum himself to ask if she could babysit, Mum was so sure this was the night, she snuck a bottle of champagne into our freezer, all ready for a toast when we came home. As I turned the key and walked in the door after the date, and caught a peek of Mum’s expectant little face, all smile and high eyebrows, I quickly shook my head and gave her a thumbs down. Her joy muffled, she left quickly. I found the bottle of champagne exploded in the freezer the next morning. Really, I just should have told him what was on my mind. The pressure led to misunderstandings. But this is a story best left for later.
Over drinks recently, our friend Monique said something about my husband that pretty much sums him up, in a sentence: ‘It’s not that I want to steal your Marty as such, it’s just that … how good would it be if all the men in the world had a little bit of Marty Brown DNA squished into them at birth?’
I said, true. I also said, ‘Monique, keep your mitts to yourself.’
The truth is, Marty really is a gift of a man. He’s kind, clever, handsome, even-tempered, enigmatic and, to top it all off, a true doer. Marty makes things happen—mainly because he rolls up his sleeves and gets the job done himself.
No, he’s not perfect. Of course not. He snores, and doesn’t stop tickling when you tell him to, and he does have quite a touch of facial blindness, and also, sometimes, when I’ve told him something that means a lot to me, and he’s not ‘reacting the right way’, I do have to spell it out for him, say things like ‘Marty? This is how empathy might sound, were you to try to emulate it—which would be a good idea about now …’
But, yes, he is the love of my life. Eighteen years, and going strong (that is, assuming he puts out the bins tonight like he promised).
12
Human being
I’m a human being
I’m a human being
I’m a human being
I have my fears also.
‘HUMAN BEING’
(Autumn Bone, 2003)
To say that our friends were surprised when they heard our ‘happy news’ would
