The Yorkshire Pudding Club Page 8

  Elizabeth did not think she had ever enjoyed sex. Even if she was lucky enough to be satisfied, by luck rather than design, she just wanted them to shove off straight afterwards and leave her alone. She had never snuggled up to anyone in that post-coital afterglow, not even to Dean in that ‘blink-and-you’d-miss-it’ honeymoon period, and once the ‘act’ was over with, she got as far away from him as possible in bed. It wasn’t normal, she knew that, but it was normal for her; she’d had no different experience to prove otherwise. She never consciously wanted to think what going to bed with John Silkstone would have been like, but occasionally something slid under the thought barrier and she would find herself imagining how gently he would have kissed her, how warm his great big body would feel against hers and how he would pull her right into his side after it was done and cuddle her to sleep. She would shake the fantasy away in a panic. It scared her witless.

  She really would have to get firm with Dean; he had started to make her skin crawl long before Christmas arrived, but it wouldn’t have been fair on him to finish it then, so she had decided to do it after New Year. Then New Year came and she had found herself clinging to him instead. It was all her fault that he was still around; she owed him for being there when she had needed someone familiar with her in the night, anyone who stopped her from being alone and scared in the dark.

  Sex, for Elizabeth, was currency and power. Sex was anything but love.

  Chapter 9

  It suddenly flagged up in Janey’s subconscious diary that she should have had her period by then, and when she checked her actual diary, she found she had not only missed it but her next one was due soon. She was not unduly worried because George always used protection and they had never had an accident yet, plus maybe some job stress had held things up a bit. Still, she would feel better when it landed. A woman might hate her periods coming, but she hated them not coming a damn sight more.

  Mr and Mrs Hobson had a low-key but sweet romantic evening that Valentine’s night and George cooked, because he liked to and he was miles better at it than Janey. He bought her flowers, they settled down in front of the fire with DVDs–an Alan Rickman for Janey then a Jackie Chan for George, and they shared a nice bottle of sparkly vino, which they drank from long champagne flûtes. Then they went to bed, kissed and cuddled for a bit, and he eagerly fondled her breasts which was great until he said, ‘I’m sure these are getting bigger, chuck.’ And she froze.

  In a brave moment, Elizabeth picked up her mobile, tapped in Dean’s number but then clicked it shut again. I can’t finish with him on Valentine’s night, can I? she thought, although five minutes later she was fast revising her opinion as the late-night unexpected visitor banged on her door. She could have used the excuse that he had not bought her a card to lever him out of her life, not that she wanted one from him for this tired liaison had no truck with romance. She let the staggeringly drunk Dean in out of the cold, furious as much with herself for not ending it yet again, as with him for thinking he could buy a bonk with two cod and a giant carton of peas. She knew also that she was partly misplacing her childish anger at not getting a stupid card from him, even though commonsense told her this was a ludicrous line of thinking. ‘Grow up, Elizabeth,’ she told herself, and put up with the sight of Dean trying to co-ordinate the meal onto two plates, a task he was finding pathetically difficult in his present state. The smell of fish was making her retch; all she could think about was the fish being raw and slimy inside the batter. She got herself a glass of water to combat the nausea and then her brain started to run with thoughts of fish swimming in that very water and doing their business in it. She threw up all over the kitchen floor, right into Dean’s smelly trainers. They had a convenient row about that in which he threw them in the bin and stormed out to find a taxi in very evil socks.

  Elizabeth would have raised her head and thanked God, had she not had the distinct impression that this was part of a much bigger joke that He was playing on her.

  Helen spent Valentine’s night alone with her huge bouquet of red roses, a two-litre bottle of diet lemonade and a Jane Austen DVD because Simon was at a charity dinner event.

  ‘On Valentine’s night? Saturday as well?’ she had cried when he told her where he was going.

  ‘Yes, well, they planned it mainly for couples,’ Simon had explained. ‘Trouble is, there will be lots of alcohol and standing around, and I think it will be too much for you.’

  ‘But I’m fine,’ Helen said, trying to stop looking green. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it sooner?’

  ‘I told you about it weeks ago–you must have forgotten.’

  ‘Won’t you feel a bit odd if everyone’s in couples?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s a business meeting more than a social event, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather be here with me?’ she said, more tearfully than she intended.

  ‘It’s important I’m seen there, Helen, for God’s sake–please understand that. It’s just another day unless you’re a love-struck teenager or happen to own a card shop!’ he said wearily, as if she were being totally unreasonable. He kissed her forehead, though she had raised her lips to him, then he went off in his tuxedo and told her not to wait up.

  Helen watched him go from the window; she waved but he was already on his mobile and didn’t look back. Of course he was right. Why did they need cards and romantic meals on Valentine’s Day when her tummy was full of the proof of their love? She concluded that she really must try to be a better, less pathetic and more attentive wife.

  Chapter 10

  First thing on Monday morning, the men arrived to deliver and fit Elizabeth’s carpet. They were nice blokes who helped her put the furniture back in its new formation and she slipped them an extra tenner for their trouble because she did not like owing anyone. Then, when they had gone, she collapsed on the bed, fell to sleep for two hours, and dreamed about Sam and Auntie Elsie looking around and admiring what she had done. She woke up with the wonderful sensation of Sam pawing at her face, only to find it was actually Cleef who had come to tell her that she was thirty seconds late with his food. As she was getting out his Whiskas, her eye fell on the large ‘P due’ on the calendar above the cat-food cupboard. Her period appeared to be over a week late, though usually she was a day or two early. At least it came last month, thank goodness, when she really needed to see the cleansing evidence of blood, although she had noticed it was distinctly on the light side.

  She felt slightly sick but slotted a slice of bread in the toaster because her stomach was creaking like an old ship with lack of food. By the time it had popped up out of the toaster, she would have thrown it up, had it so much as touched her lips.

  What the hell is up with me? she thought, not even opening her mind to options other than a local virus.

  When Barry Parrish rang to tell Janey that they were offering her the job, she would have danced on the desk had her head not been cluttered up with other stuff that needed dealing with first. There would be time for celebrations later. She had gone into Tesco the previous day specifically to get a pregnancy test but chickened out in the end because getting one had somehow made the potential nightmare more of a real possibility. She wandered around the store in a fog with all the other Sunday shoppers and bought fifty pounds’ worth of foodstuff she didn’t need instead.

  Janey rang George on his mobile to tell him the good news about the job and he whooped enough for them both and promised to cook something special for tea from the provisions in the overflowing fridge. Janey did not feel like tea, she felt like staying close to a toilet with something nice and cool on her forehead. She went to Boots in her lunch-hour and picked up a test, stuffing it down into the bottom of her bag as if out of sight equalled out of mind. Then she got off early with a pretend migraine and went round to see Elizabeth, who looked worse than she did.

  ‘So what brings the pleasure of your unexpected company then?’ said Elizabeth, forcing herself to sound jolly d
espite feeling like death warmed up to just below chilled.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Janey, sailing past her into the sunny kitchen and putting her bag down on the little circular dining-table in the middle of it.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Got any juice or something? I don’t feel like tea or coffee.’

  ‘Yeah, course,’ said Elizabeth, going to the fridge for the big carton of cranberry juice. ‘This do you?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Are you feeling okay? You’re very pale.’

  ‘Bit of a headache,’ said Elizabeth, rubbing her forehead. ‘Probably paint-induced.’

  When she turned around, Janey was looking at something she had taken out of a paper bag.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What’s it look like?’

  Elizabeth took it out of her hand. ‘A pregnancy test?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘Who do you think? My mam’s dog?’ said Janey impatiently and downed her juice in one, wishing it were a brandy.

  Elizabeth didn’t know what face to present as instinct, on this occasion, did not encourage her to say ‘Wow!’ and dance around singing ‘Congratulations,’ like they had done for Helen.

  ‘You’re not, are you?’ she said finally.

  ‘I bloody hope not!’

  ‘Well, what made you buy it then?’

  ‘My boobs are getting bigger and I’ve been feeling a bit sick. It’s just a precaution. I’ll do this then I can put it out of my mind. I know I’m not pregnant–I can’t be,’ Janey said decisively.

  They opened up the package; there were two tests in it.

  ‘What do you do with it?’ said Elizabeth, noseying over her shoulder.

  ‘I haven’t a clue–I’ll tell you in a minute,’ replied Janey, as she unfolded the leaflet inside. She read the instructions twice aloud to make sure she understood them, then she disappeared up the twisty narrow staircase into the bathroom whilst Elizabeth poured out some more juice. Soon after, Janey came back downstairs holding the pencilly thing as if it was something contaminated with the plague.

  ‘Right. Now, apparently, I wait for three minutes,’ said Janey. They sat at the table, propped the test up against the salt pot and watched it, Janey with her hands clasped as if in prayer, just wanting to get this nonsense over with so she could go back to normal life. They waited for hours, or so it felt.

  ‘Does a blue line in that box mean you’re pregnant or not pregnant?’ Elizabeth said as it materialized slowly in the second box. Janey didn’t answer; she was too busy going corpse-white and saying F words, which Janey only ever said in the most extreme of cases.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ she kept saying over and over and over. She looked as stunned as if she’d just been hit with a sledgehammer, which metaphorically she had. Elizabeth wafted herself with the instruction leaflet; she was burning up whilst Janey was shivering.

  ‘How? I just don’t understand!’ said Janey tightly, shaking the indicator as if to make it admit it had made a mistake and erase the blue line. ‘We never took chances. Ever.’ Then she swore again as her head slumped forward into her hands.

  ‘Do the other test–that one might be faulty,’ encouraged Elizabeth.

  ‘What’s the point,’ said Janey. ‘It says they’re about three million per cent accurate. It’s right, I just feel it. Oh, bloody hell!’

  ‘What will you do?’ Elizabeth said eventually, taking her friend’s hand and gripping it hard.

  ‘What can I do but have it?’ Janey said with an unpleasant laugh. I’m totally trapped, she thought, wishing her conscience about abortion was not so strong. She did not want it but she couldn’t not have it. There was no way she was capable of killing it, for that’s what she would feel she had done if she went for an abortion. George certainly would never forgive her if she were to do that, and she could never keep it secret from him–the one secret she had kept from him was bad enough. How, how had this happened? It just did not make sense!

  ‘George will be happy,’ Elizabeth said tentatively, because she couldn’t tell if Janey was on the brink of going berserk like the Incredible Hulk or about to start sobbing.

  She did neither; she just got slowly to her feet, lifted up her bag and her keys and said, ‘I best go tell him then, hadn’t I?’

  ‘Do you want me to drive you?’ Elizabeth said, thinking Janey didn’t look fit to drive.

  ‘I’m all right. I just need to be by myself for a while,’ Janey said, thinking that Elizabeth didn’t look fit to drive her even if she had wanted her to.

  ‘Will you ring me when you get home then?’

  ‘I’ll ring twice–don’t pick up and don’t panic if it’s not in the next five minutes. I need to circle the block and think for a bit.’

  When it rang almost half an hour later, Elizabeth did not pick up. She was too busy drinking more juice and staring at the second testing kit in the bag on the table.

  Janey’s house was only a couple of minutes up the road from Elizabeth’s, but it took her twenty more to pull up outside the substantial Victorian stone-built town villa with the front aspect overlooking the park. She walked up the path, collected herself and opened the door to the rich aroma of lamb cooking.

  ‘Hello there, Power Lady!’ George said, coming out of the kitchen in an apron with inflated pecs and six-pack that Elizabeth had bought him last Christmas. His welcoming smile slid as he studied her sad, pale face. ‘Ey, what’s up, love? I thought you’d come in bubbling over about your job.’

  Janey wanted to be excited about her job, except the job was at the other side of a mountain in her head and she couldn’t see it at present.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said quietly.

  George said nothing because he could not take it in. He was hearing the words he had most wanted to hear in the world but it took him a while to accept that it was not his ears playing a great big fat trick on him. Then when his brain allowed the information entry, his face did not light up like 300 Bonfire Nights, nor did he leap up in the air or make any strange animal noises. He pulled her quietly towards him and cuddled her gently as if he was thanking her. Then he started crying. Then Janey started crying.

  A baby, thought George. My baby. Our baby. He wanted to scream the house down. He wanted to lift Janey in the air and spin her round like couples on the telly did. But her face said it all. George’s stomach dropped like a stone and he said to himself, ‘What have I done?’

  Elizabeth didn’t know how long she stared at that paper bag. All she knew was that it was showing light through the window when Janey had left and it was dark grey outside when she picked it up and took it upstairs into the bathroom. She sat for ages on the stool in the corner before she got a grip on herself. She needed to know if this was why she kept being sick and felt tired and irritable, and why every bra she had made her chest feel sore. Knowing would not change the facts, and at least if it was negative, she could finally and forever bury that night. And if it was positive…well, it needed dealing with, but hopefully she wouldn’t have to cross that bridge.

  Remembering the instructions Janey had read out, she stuck the stick into her stream of urine then she took it downstairs, as Janey had done, and sat on the kitchen chair, staring at it so hard that she thought she had imagined the blue line at first, but she hadn’t. It was definitely there, as she knew deep down that it would be.

  ‘Stupid STUPID bitch that I am!’ she screamed aloud at herself. ‘Why didn’t I go for the morning-after pill?’

  Her brain mocked her: ‘Because it was all over in seconds. Because he didn’t come inside you and you can’t get pregnant if they don’t.’

  How many times had she scoffed at the anonymous women on problem pages for believing they could not get pregnant during periods or if they did it standing up or if a man said he had only put it in an inch?

  And then I go and beat them all into second place in the Miss Stupidest Cow World Contest by not sorting this out the morni
ng after when I had the chance, she thought. Why didn’t I, just in case? Why didn’t I? Why had she–sensible, practical and old-enough-to-know-better Elizabeth Collier–stuffed this problem away like a cat in a box and not expected it to scratch and claw its way out?

  This could not be allowed to happen: she couldn’t have a baby. She wasn’t like the others. Janey would come round to the idea of her pregnancy because her lovely family and in-laws would rally and her life would jiggle about, resettle and adjust. George would put her on a pedestal and bring her cups of tea every five minutes and love her…love them. But her? People like her shouldn’t have babies. People who never learned what proper love is, whose mams buggered off and left them, whose dads took family to mean something different to what it should be. Only people with nice blokes at their side should be looking at that stick watching the blue line come out, then go off snuggling and laughing and discussing names and flicking through the Argos catalogue for ideas as to what they might need. It should not be like this; she had nothing to give a child.

  She got the Yellow Pages and looked up Abortion Advice, shaking so much she nearly scribbled down the number of the abattoir, which was almost the same thing really. See Clinics, the entry said, so she saw Clinics, expecting it to say See Abortion Advice and land her in one of those circular living-nightmare dreams where you never get a straight answer until it’s too late. It didn’t though, and there was a number. She took it down. She would ring them in the morning and in a couple of days, it would all be done with. She held tight to that thought and kept it in her sights like a runner keeps the finishing line in his focus and nothing else. Nothing.