December EIGHT YEARS BEFORE

December

E IGHT YEARS BEFORE

5.30 P . M .

Madeleine left the office and stepped out on to the pavement on this purple-hued wintry night where Christmas lights had been strung up across the street and a chill lingered in the air. Buttoning up her coat, she felt awash with a potent combination of loneliness and fatigue. Her flatmates were her friends, kind of, but they were no Trina. She shared no history with them and the prospect of putting her key in the door to be met with Luciano bitching about his colleagues in the department store, Liesl crying over her shithead of a boyfriend’s latest antics, or Meredith necking wine like it was water until she passed out, was all more than she felt able to cope with right now.

Her interaction with her best friend earlier played heavily on her mind. It was a situation she didn’t know how to remedy, unable to take back her words or change the fact that Trina saw her sleeping with Jimmy as a betrayal. And in the light of her friend’s admission, her words of intent, the life she pictured with someone just like Jimmy ... Madeleine could hardly blame her. It was all such a bloody mess.

As if guided by instinct and without too much forethought, she jumped on the Tube and headed out to her parents. Home ... Not that it had been home for a while, but right now it was the only place she wanted to be. She needed to tell them, wanted to share with them this boulder of destruction that had hurtled into her life, aware that it was hurtling into their lives too.

It felt like she had to concentrate on keeping everything together, putting one foot in front of the other and not giving in to the volcano of emotion that threatened to burst from her. It was impossible for her not to picture the thing that had taken up residence in her womb. No matter how often she saw the image of the scan imprinted behind her eyelids, it still felt like a dream – or rather a nightmare – and she couldn’t wait to wake up, laugh over the horror now averted, and crack on with her life.

Her bag was stuffed with leaflets about what to expect during her pregnancy, how things would progress from now on, the options around giving birth, the importance of eating right, and so on. She was fairly certain much of the wisdom and instruction was aimed at those in the early stages who could make sure they were doing everything in their power to build a healthy little specimen.

All of this was coming to her too late; her baby was only going to be cooking for another couple of months and then it was here! She . She was going to be here. A little girl. This was the first time she’d properly considered this, as if the news of her pregnancy had been enough to digest and, now that was bedding in, she allowed herself to think of this baby as a girl.

It was a lot.

Here too, on her journey home, every billboard, every poster, every image in every magazine, on the front of every book, and every shop window was baby related – how had she not noticed this before? Nor the preponderance of prams and buggies that cluttered up the pavements and station platforms. Babies and pregnancy bumps were everywhere! This was not going to be her life! It was not! She was going to impress Rebecca, grab her chance and make something of the opportunity that had fallen into her lap.

Arriving at the Brenton Park estate, she moved en masse with other weary workers who walked with a heavy tread from the high street, along the back alleys and short cuts to the tower blocks that Madeleine was convinced grew taller and wider the longer she was away.

Eschewing the piss-scented lift, as was always the Woods way, she walked up the concrete stairs, admiring the fresh graffiti that someone had sprayed up the wall. A vast, indecipherable tag that looked a bit like ‘Hot Dog’ but could have been anything. It smacked of boredom and destruction and could not have saddened her more.

Standing outside the front door, she placed her hand on the doorbell and hesitated, yet another door through which she was going to walk in as one person and leave as another.

She pressed it and stood back.

Marnie opened the door and yelled her delight.

‘Oh, hello, little love! Why didn’t you use your key? What a lovely surprise! I wasn’t expecting you! How are you feeling? Do you want soup? I’ve got tomato or chicken and sweetcorn and I can do that with some toast – it’ll make you feel better!’

All this before she had taken a step over the threshold.

‘Hi, Mum.’ She half walked, half fell into her mum’s embrace. Closing her eyes against the shoulder that had always been there for her to cry on, enjoying the sensation, knowing that in just a short while things would never be the same again. Everything – everything – was about to change, and the only thing of which she was certain was that she didn’t want it to.

‘Poor little lamb, I can tell you’re not feeling the ticket. Come in, you’re letting all the warm out.’

Marnie pulled her inside and closed the front door behind her. They turned right into the small, square sitting room and she sank down into the chair by the window.

‘Where’s Dad?’ It was unusual for him not to have called out in greeting when she entered, no matter where he was in their tiny flat.

‘Oh, he’s not here! He’s gone up The Red Lion with a couple of lads from the market. They asked him out for a pint. He was quite excited to be going out, bless him! He even put some of that Lynx on I got him for Christmas a couple of years ago. He smelled lovely!’

It was a relief of sorts that he wasn’t home – one less set of questions, one less face contorted with disappointment. The thought of letting her dad down, her beloved dad who worked so hard ... it cut her heart.

‘The Red Lion? Can’t imagine Dad up the pub.’ He had never been a boozer, bar the odd tipple at Christmas.

‘I know, he said he’s going to sip half a shandy and make it last. Hope he has a nice time. He works so hard.’

The love in her mum’s eyes when she spoke about her husband was touching. It made Madeleine think of her earlier chat with Trina, who wanted this life. The image of her friend walking away without looking back was burned in her mind.

Marnie nestled into the corner of the sofa, clipped her pen to the front cover and folded away the word search magazine. ‘So, how did you get on at the doctor’s? What did they say? Did you get some antibiotics? It’s all they ever seem to do up the health centre, dish out anti-bloody-biotics.’

This is it ... She shrugged her arms from her coat and curled her legs beneath her, as she prepared to voice the unthinkable.

‘I didn’t get antibiotics, no. It was, erm ... It was ...’ How to begin? What to say? She felt the pressure in her chest and fought to get a full breath.

‘What is it, love?’ Marnie’s face twisted with worry.

‘It’s okay. Erm ...’ She literally couldn’t find the words and looked up, hoping inspiration might fall from above.

‘Madeleine, you’re scaring me. Are you ... Are you poorly, darling?’ Marnie’s hands balled into fists, which she now coiled against her mouth. ‘What’s wrong? Whatever it is, just please tell me. I can’t stand the thought of you not being well. What did they say? Tell me!’ Marnie’s chest heaved as she no doubt ran through all the terrible possibilities.

‘I’m . . . I’m pregnant.’

Her mum’s mouth fell open and she emitted a long, slow breath. ‘You’re pregnant?’ This she asked with the faint twitch of a smile on her mouth.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

Madeleine pictured the image of the baby girl on the screen and nodded. It would have been hard to define the emotions that filled her up in that moment, but shame – shame was right up there – along with guilt and relief and a whole other bunch of feelings that weakened her. She sank back into the chair.

‘Oh my love!’ This time there was no mistaking Marnie’s smile behind the hand that part-hid her mouth. ‘I just ... Oh my goodness! I don’t know what to say! A baby! Well, that’s a surprise! My God! Oh, Madeleine!’ Her mother lurched from the sofa and came to rest on the rug in front of her. On her knees, her mother pulled her in for a warm, tight hug. It was restorative, it was comforting, and she knew it was short-lived as what she had to say next would not be so welcome.

‘Oh! My little girl. Oh, my word.’ Pulling away, her mum looked into her face and ran her hand over her hair. ‘You look tired, but are you well, other than tired?’

She nodded and slipped free of her mum’s embrace. Marnie retook her seat on the sofa. Her hands fidgeted in her lap.

‘Are you in a relationship? Are you seeing someone? I haven’t heard you talk about anyone, not that it’s any of my business.’ Marnie licked her lips. ‘But are you?’

Again, she shook her head, knowing her mother was probably imagining Sunday roasts, welcoming her fella into the flat, the man who had got her daughter up the duff. ‘No. No, I’m not seeing anyone.’

‘Okay, okay.’ She watched her mum shuffle to the edge of the sofa, the excitement in her voice barely disguised. ‘Well, that’s fine, we can cope with that. Plenty of people do it alone nowadays and of course you’re not alone – you have us, you have Trina, you have—’

‘Mum,’ she began, and Marnie stopped talking. ‘It’s not that straightforward.’

‘I know, my love, but you won’t be the first and you’ll certainly not be the last. And your dad might be a bit old-fashioned, but he will be over the moon once he gets used to the idea, he really will. How far are you? When can I tell people?’ Her eyes were bright with joy and it almost floored her. How this woman could only see the positives, as if life were like it was in the movies, where everyone gets a happy ending.

‘I didn’t know I was pregnant, not until today.’

‘Well, I bet it’s still sinking in, but that explains you feeling a bit off colour. I remember that feeling of shock – of wonder, but a shock! I’d offer you a glass of champagne but a) you can’t drink and b) I’ve never had a bottle of champagne in my life!’

‘It is a shock, Mum. And as to how far along I am, it’s a funny one, actually.’

Marnie held her gaze. ‘How far are you? Can I start knitting? Or is it too soon?’ Her mother beamed up at her, pushing to know the answer. ‘How far are you, lovey?’