Forget Me Not

‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ I added, as though I thought she might be disappointed.

‘That’s quite all right.’ She sighed. ‘You’re not the first.’ She crossed my name off the list and gave me something to sign. ‘Good luck,’ she said as I left.

I retrieved my clothes from the locker and got dressed, and walked past reception, not even telling the nurse on duty that I was going, not asking – or even caring – whether I’d get my money back.

I didn’t wait for the lift but ran down the five flights of stairs and stood outside the building for a moment, inhaling deeply, feeling my heart rate gradually slow. Then I went next door into the bookshop, found the parenthood section, pulled out a copy of What to Expect when You’re Expecting and took it to the counter.

‘I’m going to have a baby,’ I said.

* * *

I sent Xan a long e-mail that night, explaining my decision.

He wrote back one sentence: I will never forgive you fordoing this.

I hit Reply: I will never forgive myself if I don’t.

The next morning I drove down to see my father.

‘Well …’ he said after a moment, as we sat at the kitchen table. ‘This is a … surprise, Anna. I can’t deny it.’ He was shaking his head in bewildered disappointment, as though I’d just had an unexpectedly poor school report.

‘I hope you don’t disapprove,’ I said in the awkward silence that followed. ‘I don’t really see why you should,’ I went on, ‘because first of all loads of women go it alone these days, and secondly the same thing happened to you and Mum.’

I saw a look almost of alarm cross Dad’s face, but he and Mum had always glossed over their shotgun wedding; absurdly, I’d thought, given that it had been screamingly obvious that she was two months pregnant with Mark when she got married.

‘Sorry, Dad,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’ There was another silence in which I found myself wondering whether he and Mum had had terrible rows about her unplanned pregnancy, or whether Dad had just accepted that he should do the ‘right’ thing.

‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated. ‘But I’m just so … upset.’

‘It’s OK,’ I heard him murmur.

‘And I’m acutely aware that I’m in the same position as Mum was thirty-five years ago. But she was lucky – because she had you. And you didn’t abandon her, or berate her – like Xan has done with me. You just dealt with it, then made a happy life with her’ – my throat was aching – ‘for nearly forty years ’til death did you part. And although it may sound strange to be envious of one’s own parents, I am envious of you and Mum.’ I felt my eyes fill. ‘Because I know your sort of happiness is not to be my lot.’

What you need is a hardy perennial.

‘I’m going to bring up this child on my own. It’s not what I would have hoped for.’ I felt a tear slide down my cheek. ‘It’s going to be lonely, and hard.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Dad said, handing me his hanky. ‘But it’s going to be a joy too – because children are; and when they come along, I believe that you just have to accept it.’ He looked out of the window.

‘What are you thinking?’ I asked quietly.

‘I’m thinking that maybe this new life has started because your mother’s ended.’

I felt the hairs on my neck stand up.

I’ve got the peculiar feeling that I was meant to meet you.

‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘Maybe it is …’

Dad put his hand on mine. ‘You won’t be on your own, Anna. I’ll help you, darling. So will Cassie.’

I doubted that Cassie would help in the slightest – but she was at least thrilled by my news. ‘I’m delighted,’ she said when I phoned her that night and told her that she was going to be an aunt. ‘Good on you, Anna! Congratulations!’

‘Well, thanks,’ I said, genuinely touched by her enthusiasm. ‘But can I just repeat that I’m not with the father – Xan. He’s gone to Indonesia. He doesn’t want to know about the baby. He didn’t want me to have it. He’s effectively abandoned me and I’m extremely upset.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Cassie said matter-of-factly. ‘I heard you say all that.’

‘Then why are you quite so happy about it?’

‘Because I think it’s great that you’re to be a single mum. Good for your image. You’ve always been far too … I don’t know … organised about everything – always planning ahead – and now you’ve been bowled a googly.’

‘Well, I’m glad you approve,’ I replied crisply. ‘Do let me know if you’d like me to develop a drug habit or get a criminal record, won’t you?’

‘I’m going to start knitting for the baby at my Stitch ’n’ Bitch group,’ she went on, ignoring me. ‘Bootees first, then a couple of matinée jackets. I wonder whether it’s going to be a girl or a boy …? Maybe you could find out for me when you go for your scan. Or no – I know – I’ll make everything in yellow. Do you like moss stitch?’

My director of studies was very understanding. Most of our course was project work – in addition to the daily lectures we had to produce designs, to professional standards, for four different gardens. Then in June there’d be two Horticulture exams to test our plantsmanship, and the baby was due a week after these. I’d carry on with the course, as normal, but would just have to pray that I didn’t give birth early. I was cheered by stories of first babies arriving late. So, to my surprise, my life didn’t descend into turmoil, as I’d thought it would, but went on more or less as before: except that now Xan wasn’t in it, but his baby was – as though they’d swapped places. From time to time I’d pick up Sue’s book and reread her unwittingly prophetical inscription. I was blooming and growing all right.

I was aware, each day, of the baby unfurling inside me like a fern. When I went for my ultrasounds I’d watch in silent awe as it did underwater twirls and turns, or waved at me with its petal-like hands. I could see its profile, as it rocked in its uterine cradle; I could see the filigree of its bones, no bigger than a bird’s; I could see the arc of its vertebrae, like a string of seed pearls.

‘I love you,’ I’d whisper to it each night, as I lay, hands clasped to my swelling abdomen, feeling it jump and dance. ‘I’m sorry you’re not going to have a dad, but I’ll love you five times as much to make up for it.’

I e-mailed Xan an update but got no reply. His attitude wounded me, but it also helped me, because it enabled a carapace of scar tissue to form over my heart.

Seeing him on TV was hard though. The first time it happened I cried. Suddenly there he was, on the screen, looking dismayingly attractive, talking about some economic summit or other in Java. A couple of days later he was on again, talking about Jemaah Islamiah and the threat they posed to Indonesian democracy. He began to appear more and more – hijacking my emotions: so much so that I took to watching the news on ITV. I couldn’t risk an unexpected sighting of him wrecking my day.

In mid April I went to the first of my antenatal classes in the local church hall in Brook Green.

I felt nervous as I arrived, my despondency increasing as one cosy-looking couple followed another into the large draughty room. I’d prepared myself for this by putting a large aquamarine ring of Mum’s on my fourth finger; this also made me feel closer to her in some small way. If she hadn’t died, I reflected, she would have come with me to these classes and I’d have felt so much less alone.

I discreetly glanced round the seated group: the other women all had their menfolk in tow, and sported gleaming gold bands and showy engagement rings that flashed and sparkled in the strip lights.

There was a twenty-something blonde with her husband. They clutched hands the whole time, like infatuated teenagers. There was a brisk-looking brunette, with her bespectacled spouse. There was a woman in her late thirties who looked as though she was about to pop there and then. And then there was a large woman with long red hair, bulgy blue eyes and an almost perfectly round face, like a plate. She looked familiar, though I didn’t know why. Perhaps I’d seen her in the local shops. But she was clearly the oldest of us – mid forties – and was twice the size of her husband who, with his red cheeks and fixed grin, reminded me of a ventriloquist’s puppet.

The woman suddenly stifled a burp and patted her chest. ‘Wind,’ she explained with a little smile, as though she thought we might be interested.

By now we all seemed to be here, chatting in low voices, or swigging Gaviscon to ease our indigestion. I was the only single mother, I realised; my heart sank to the soles of my shoes. Then the teacher, Felicity, began handing out an assortment of paperwork on breastfeeding, pelvic floor exercises, what to pack for the hospital etc. But just as she was about to start the class another woman, a year or two older than me, walked in alone. I breathed a small sigh of relief.

‘Is this seat free?’ she asked me pleasantly.

‘Yes it is.’ I beamed at her. ‘Hi.’

The newcomer was dressed all in black, she was wearing Doc Martens and her dark hair was cut in a boyish crop. Her neat, regular features were unadorned by make-up. She wore an engraved silver ring on her right thumb, but her left hand was bare.

‘Right,’ said Felicity. ‘Now that we’re all here, let’s introduce ourselves.’

‘We’re Nicole and Tim,’ said the lovey-dovey couple in unison, then they laughed.

‘I’m Tanya,’ said the brisk-looking brunette, ‘and this is my husband Howard.’ Howard smiled abstractedly, as though he wished he weren’t there.