Neither of my kids is a budding Einstein. Lachlan once shoved a raisin up his nose and we spent four hours in Accident and Emergency; and Lucy swallowed a pound coin, which meant squeezing her stools for a week to make sure it passed.
This morning they’re being particularly obstreperous. Clothes are rejected, breakfast orders are rescinded, negotiations are undertaken, and squabbles are nipped in the bud. Lachlan wants to wear his Wellingtons and Lucy insists her space buns are crooked and make her look lopsided. I blame Jack for showing her Star Wars.
Leaving the house late, I rush across the green, dragging them along while they complain and bicker. As I near the pond, I notice someone standing between the trees. I recognize her from somewhere but can’t think of where or why.
I kiss Lucy at the school gates and drop Lachlan at his preschool. Today he decides to latch on to my leg, begging me not to leave. One of the staff distracts him long enough for me to slip away.
As I’m folding up the pushchair, I catch sight of two mothers whispering and stealing glances at me. They look away guiltily.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“No, nothing,” says one of them, curling her top lip. I hear them laughing as I leave. I want to know what they’re saying, but it’s not worth the effort. I have a whole five hours in which to cook, clean, shop, wash, and iron before I get to have some Meg time.
First I have an appointment to see an obstetrician, Dr. Phillips, who has consulting rooms on the lower floor of a large Victorian house near the river. My GP made the referral because of complications when I had Lucy and Lachlan. Nothing particularly serious. Their heads were too big. My pelvis was too small. Something had to give.
Dr. Phillips has a waiting room covered with testimonials, photographs, and cards from satisfied patients, thanking him for delivering their “precious gift,” as though he’d personally arranged the conception, pregnancy, and birth. Reassuringly middle-aged, he has John Lennon spectacles and a slight overbite that makes his mouth the most interesting feature on his face. I wonder if he’s married. If so, what does his wife think about this part of his job—looking at other women’s bits? I can imagine him getting home and not wanting to look at another vagina. This sets me giggling and I can’t stop even when he’s palpating my womb.
“He’s almost crowning,” he tells me. “Not long now.”
“Thank God,” I mumble.
He goes to his desk and types notes on his computer. I pull down my dress and take a seat opposite.
“We do need to discuss the birth,” he says, clasping his fingers on his small potbelly. “I know you were hoping to have another natural birth, but you tore in both previous deliveries.”
“Maybe I won’t tear this time.”
“That’s highly unlikely, and stitching you again will be more difficult. I think you should seriously consider a cesarean.”
I’m struggling with this—not because of political correctness or the idea that I’ll be judged by other mothers as being “too posh to push.” Twice before I’ve done things the old-fashioned way, which hurt like hell but gave me a tremendous sense of satisfaction.
“How long would I have to stay in hospital?” I ask.
“Without complications, you’re looking at three to four days.”
“And that’s what you recommend?”
“Absolutely.” Dr. Phillips opens his calendar on-screen. “We can bring you into hospital early on Thursday, December seventh, and operate first thing.”
I want to argue, but I know he’s right.
“Talk to your husband. If there’s a problem with that date, give my office a call. Otherwise I’ll see you then.”
AGATHA
* * *
At thirteen I was baptized as a Jehovah’s Witness. It meant I could go door-to-door and help others repent their sins and live in peace on earth. In the months leading up to the baptism I attended scripture classes. My teacher, Mr. Bowler, was a church elder with a moon face and a bowl haircut that made his name seem very apt. He talked a lot about God’s Kingdom and Armageddon, who I thought must be an apostle because the scriptures kept saying, “Armageddon is coming.”
Mr. Bowler had four daughters and owned a clothing store in Leeds. His youngest daughter, Bernie, was a year above me at school, but we weren’t really friends.
After my baptism, I continued going to Kingdom Hall twice a week, where Mr. Bowler helped me with my maths and science homework. He also read my English texts in advance and helped me write essays.
One day he asked me if I would go door-to-door with him, distributing the Watchtower, which was the church’s magazine. I wanted to be the best Jehovah’s Witness I could be, so we walked the streets and stood on doorsteps, telling people they could live forever in paradise if they woke up to the truth. Most of them were annoyed but didn’t say anything nasty because I was so young.
It grew dark and started to rain. We had to run. I laughed. Mr. Bowler bought fish and chips. We ate them in the basement of Kingdom Hall, licking salt and vinegar from our fingers.
I shivered.
“You’re cold,” he said. “You should take off those wet clothes.”
He tried to unbutton my blouse. I told him no. He tickled me, pressing me down. He kissed me on the lips. He said he loved me. I said I loved him too. It was true. I did. He had been nicer to me than anyone I had ever known. I wanted him to be my father, but he had his own daughters.
I remember the musty smell of the sofa and the rough fabric of the upholstery itching my skin. My dress had ridden up to the top of my thighs. His fingernails were scrabbling at my knickers. I pushed his hand away.
He said that when two people love each other they did more than kiss. They took off their clothes. They touched. He kissed me again. I didn’t like the fat wetness of his tongue, which tasted of cod and vinegar.
I knew what he wanted. I had heard girls talking. He took my hand and moved it up and down. He sighed. He shook. I wiped it off with his handkerchief. This will be our secret, he said. Nobody else would understand.
Why must it always be a secret?
The next time we went door-knocking he gave me a bracelet engraved with a message: There is no cure.
“To what?” I asked.
“To love,” he replied.
Afterwards we went back to the basement at Kingdom Hall. We sat on the sofa. He pushed the same fat wet tongue into my mouth and forced his knee between my thighs. I didn’t like the kissing. I didn’t like his weight or the pain or the shame, so I burrowed inside myself and hid in the shadows.
“Open your eyes, princess,” he said. “I want you to look at me.”
Please don’t do that.
“Isn’t this nice?”
No, you’re hurting me.
“You’re a proper woman now.”
Can’t we go back to the way it was before?