Mum lived in the same semi-detached house we’d moved to just before Dad died, and it was an absolute nightmare to get to.
It was in a tiny hamlet called Oxen End, about ten miles from Braintree in Essex. Her last-ditch plan, her final attempt at saving him, had been to get him away from the pubs. As he’d simply driven – drunk – to Great Bardfield, or even as far as Braintree, and then home again, his smuggled bottles of vodka hidden beneath the spare wheel, it hadn’t made a blind bit of difference. If anything, it was a miracle he’d hadn’t killed anyone.
As Mum didn’t drive, it was she who’d ended up stranded in the middle of nowhere. Luckily, since his death, she’d made friends with people who had cars.
The lack of regular public transport, combined with my inability to pass the driving test – I’d failed three times before giving up – was the main reason I’d taken the job in well-connected Canterbury, but also the reason I hadn’t visited Mum since Christmas.
The journey, which generally took about five hours door to door, involved a train to Stratford, then another to Braintree, followed by a bus to Great Bardfield, and then either a lift from a friend, a taxi (if I could find one) or an extremely long walk along dark country lanes with no footpaths. Which is why I was studying the various timetables on Friday evening when Kerry called.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I was wondering if you wanted me to pick you up at Braintree tomorrow?’
‘You’re coming too?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Apparently so,’ she said. ‘Any idea what it’s about?’
‘None. I thought it was just me.’
‘Mum asked me not to bring Agata, which seems weird,’ Kerry said.
‘She told me not to bring Anthony, either,’ I said. ‘Not that I particularly wanted to.’
But it was unusual that Mum didn’t want Agata there. Kerry often complained that Mum loved her Polish girlfriend more than she loved her own daughter. ‘Is something going down?’ I asked. ‘Is it something serious, do you think?’
‘Maybe she’s selling that bloody house.’
‘Gosh, that would be great,’ I said. ‘The roof was leaking at Christmas, and the garden’s totally out of control.’
‘I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,’ Kerry said. ‘Maybe she met some bearded guy in Morocco and wants to emigrate.’
‘God, don’t,’ I laughed.
‘I’m gutted I’m not gonna get to see the famous Anthony, though,’ Kerry said.
Though I doubted very much that uptight Anthony would get on with my vegan, dub-loving sister, I said, ‘Yeah, it’s a shame. But to answer your question, yes, please do pick me up. I’m looking at trains now, and it’s bad enough just getting to Braintree.’
On Saturday morning I woke up shockingly tired. I felt unreasonably sleepy and vaguely nauseous, almost as if I hadn’t slept at all, yet by seven I’d forced myself out of bed and into the shower. I cleaned Dandy’s litter tray (yuck), put out enough food and water for the weekend and rushed out the door.
By eight, I’d made it to the train station, and by nine I was at Ashford International, peering enviously out of the window at all the lucky sods travelling to Paris rather than Oxen End. Their journeys would be faster than mine, too.
As the Kent countryside rolled by, I thought about my tiredness and nausea and realised that I was feeling bloated too. Kerry, who was something of a supplement addict, would almost certainly have something to help with water retention, I reckoned. It was then that it dawned on me: I’d missed my period. I was almost two weeks late.
I watched the countryside spinning past, and when the sun came out I closed my eyes and let it flicker against my eyelids. I started cataloguing the sensations in my body over the past two weeks: my tender breasts, the tiredness, my mood swings, and the more I did so, the more convinced I became. I tried, for a bit, to get in touch with how shocked and scared I was, simply because that’s how I’d always assumed I would feel. But I’d wanted children for as long as I could remember. Actually, ‘wanted’ doesn’t really cover it – I’d simply never been able to imagine that I wouldn’t have kids. It took a while before I was able to admit that my dominant feeling was joy.
We had taken no precautions, so I could hardly claim to be surprised. Would Ant be shocked if it was true? I wondered. Had he assumed I’d gone on the pill? Or did he see our relationship as long term and potentially fertile? My suspicion was that he simply didn’t see my capacity to get pregnant as in any way his responsibility, and perhaps he was right. After all, I’d known I wasn’t on the pill. All I would have had to do was say no. But I hadn’t, had I? I’d not said no and I’d refused to think about what might happen.
Would I stay with him if I turned out to be pregnant? I surprised myself by thinking that it was unlikely, and shocked myself even more by realising that I didn’t find the idea of being a single mother particularly scary. So perhaps my inability to organise contraception had been driven by my unconscious desire for a child.
Then again, maybe pregnancy would change our relationship for the better. Perhaps it would even change Ant himself. Had thin-lipped Marjory always dreamed of grandchildren? And if she had, and I provided one, would she too change her attitude?
I suspect that this was hormone-driven, but I began to list Ant’s good points: his generosity, his professionalism in
