I had so much to think about that for once the journey seemed to be over almost before it had started. The sign outside the window suddenly read ‘Braintree’ and I had to rush to get off the train before it moved on.
In the car park, I found Kerry sitting in her ancient green Volvo. The baseline of the reggae she was listening to was making the side window rattle. She was rolling a joint in full view, and the first thing she said when I yanked open the door and slid in beside her was, ‘Shit, you look well! Is this the Anthony effect?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I told her, reaching out to turn the music down. Then, in spite of myself, I added, ‘No, I think I might be pregnant, actually. I’ve only just worked it out.’ Apparently it was a secret that I just couldn’t bear to keep to myself.
‘Fuck!’ Kerry said, turning the music back up a bit. ‘No way!’
‘I’m not sure,’ I informed her. ‘But I am definitely late, and I’m feeling bloated and a bit vommy, so . . .’
‘That’ll get the old dear off my back,’ she said, licking the seal of the joint and raising it to her lips. ‘D’you want to go to a chemist’s and get a test?’
‘No,’ I said definitively. There was no way I was doing that in my mother’s house. I wanted to be all alone with my emotions for that particular life event.
‘Really?’ Kerry insisted. ‘There’s one just—’
‘No!’ I said, more forcefully. ‘And please don’t smoke that stuff while you’re driving. It scares me. Plus, like I said, I’m feeling a bit sick.’
‘It’s only a weak one,’ she protested. ‘It’s nearly all tobacco. It’s just to take the edge off.’
‘And you’re not to tell Mum, OK?’ I said, as she ignored my request and lit up.
‘Why not?’ she replied, speaking in smoke as she started the engine, engaged reverse gear and lurched out of the parking space. ‘She’ll be thrilled. She’s been banging on at me to have a baby.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, me! I told her it’s not happening, but she wasn’t happy about it. This’ll take the pressure off me big time.’
‘At least open the fucking window, Kes,’ I said, waving my hand at the clouds of smoke she was producing.
‘Oops,’ Kerry said, reaching for the window winder. The smoke swirled around as the cold air rushed in. ‘Sorry. I forgot we had a baby on board. God, I can’t wait to see Mum’s face!’
‘Stop it. Look, I just want to wait till I’m sure,’ I told her. ‘Then I’ll tell her. In the meantime, not a word, you hear?’
‘Sure, whatever. It’s your call,’ she said. Then, ‘Fuck, though . . . A baby!’
When we got to the house, Kerry used her key to let us in, so we surprised Mum snoozing on the sofa in front of the television. She looked shocking when she woke up, and it was one of those moments when I suddenly noticed she had aged.
‘Oh! Girls!’ Mum said, standing and rubbing her face with her hands until the colour returned to her cheeks. ‘Gosh, I fell sound asleep.’
‘Hi, Mum,’ Kerry said, leaning in to embrace her, an annoying dope-induced smile on her lips.
Mum sniffed at her, prompting Kerry to pre-empt any criticism by moaning, ‘And yes, Mum, I’m still smoking.’
Kerry stepped aside and I took my turn to hug our mother. ‘Gosh, you look well,’ Mum told me, prompting Kerry to snigger. I suspected the joint had been stronger than she’d admitted and shot her a glare, warning her not to say anything.
Growing up, hiding anything from Mum had been impossible. It had always felt as if she had invisible nerves running through the house, and it didn’t matter if you were stealing a bit of cooking chocolate or merely thinking about maybe staying out late . . . whatever it was, Mum already knew.
It was the same, even now. She’d noted Kerry’s snigger and had sensed my glare even though her back was turned. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ she asked, now piercing me with her blue eyes. I was stunned. No matter how many times it’s demonstrated, you can never get used to that kind of prescience.
Kerry laughed out loud. ‘Amazing!’ she said, forming a gun with two fingers and pointing at Mum, gangster-style. ‘Our mother is amazing.’
By now, there was no point even trying to lie, so I admitted it. ‘I might be,’ I said. ‘I don’t know yet.’
Mum started to cry then. ‘Oh, you are!’ she said, through tears. ‘Oh, you are! I can tell! Oh, I’m so happy for you, sweetheart!’
It took half an hour before we could have anything that resembled a reasoned discussion about the fact that I might or might not be pregnant.
Over drinks – orange juice for ‘pregnant’ me – I tried to convince them that even if I did turn out to be pregnant, I might choose not to keep it. But I don’t think I convinced anyone. I couldn’t really convince myself.
Once lunch had been served, an unusually lazy vegan lasagne from the freezer, I tried to change the subject by asking Mum about Morocco.
‘I’ll tell you once we’ve eaten,’ she replied mysteriously.
‘Why?’ Kerry asked, her fork suspended in mid-air. ‘What happened?’
I frowned at Mum, then glanced at Kerry and back at Mum again. ‘You’re pale,’ I said, noticing it as I said it. ‘If you’d been to Morocco, you’d have a suntan. But you’re as white as a sheet.’
‘I know,’ Mum said. ‘I didn’t go.’
‘But the postcard,’ Kerry said. ‘You sent me a postcard.’
‘Me too,’ I agreed. ‘It said you were on a
