Until You're Mine Page 4

  ‘Oh James,’ I replied, and the ensuing silence sent him back to our bed alone.

  When he returned from his last mission two weeks ago, I showed him once again the letter from my obstetrician spelling out the strict rules, ‘no sex’ included. ‘It’s serious,’ I told him. ‘You know my history. I won’t do anything to put this baby at risk.’ His expression nearly killed me. I hated lying to him. I’d not really told him everything about my previous losses because talking about them was so hard. ‘Shore leave or not, we can’t risk it,’ I insisted. ‘Not long now.’

  *

  The doorbell rings exactly at eight o’clock and there’s a mad scramble from the boys to answer it.

  I follow them through to the hall. I am swamped by doubt and second thoughts. I’m still in two minds about having a stranger in the house, and also in doubt about my ability to cope alone when the baby arrives. The whole situation makes me feel a bit useless, to be honest.

  James and I both agreed over the weekend that Zoe was pretty much perfect. We offered her the job at lunchtime on Monday once I’d had a chance to check out all her references and done an hour’s worth of Googling to see if there were any Zoe Harper horrors lurking online. I found nothing. Her referees couldn’t speak highly enough of her. When I phoned her, she was over the moon and said she could start Wednesday morning, which actually worked out perfectly because I have an antenatal appointment at ten-thirty today so I’ve taken the entire morning off work. First up, though, we will take the boys to school together. I want her to meet their teacher.

  ‘Welcome, Zoe,’ I say warmly. And there she is on the doorstep, a taxi pulling away and two old-fashioned suitcases at either side of her slim legs. I notice her bicycle leaning against the wall. ‘How lovely to see you again.’

  ‘Claudia, really good to see you too,’ she says with a big grin. ‘And Oscar, Noah . . . hmm.’ Then she says it again but the other way round and points to the other twin with a big fake giggle. They love it.

  Oscar heaves one of her cases over the doorstep. ‘I got muscles,’ he says.

  ‘Mine are bigger,’ Noah chips back, and drags the other suitcase inside. It instantly falls opens and Zoe lunges for it as the contents spill across the tiles.

  ‘Oh, Noah,’ I say, ‘look what you’ve done.’ Slowly, I join the others in gathering up her belongings. T-shirts, leggings, undies, a couple of books – none of it’s very well packed – and then I see it, poking out of a half-zipped-up toiletries bag. God knows I’ve seen enough of them in my time. A pregnancy testing kit.

  Zoe whips it out of sight, cursing her stupid old suitcase and its dodgy catch.

  My stomach lurches as I straighten up with the help of the door handle. Surely I must be wrong. I stare at Zoe but she’s in deep banter with the boys. She grips a case firmly in each hand and has a canvas satchel slung across her body. She bends from the weight.

  A pregnancy testing kit?

  *

  ‘No, really,’ I tell James. ‘I saw it clear as day. Unopened. Poking out of her wash bag.’

  ‘Maybe she’s just late and wants to make sure.’

  He thinks I’m mad, I can tell. ‘Or maybe it belongs to a friend . . . yeah, yeah, right.’ Then I shut up as I hear her on the stairs.

  The boys are like bits of litter in her wake as Zoe sweeps into the kitchen all pink-cheeked and happy. ‘It’s glorious up there, Claudia. Thank you for making it so nice. We’ve just been playing tag, hence the breathlessness.’

  ‘And I won!’ Noah yells.

  ‘No you didn’t, Zoe won.’

  ‘From now on I think we should save tag for the park,’ Zoe says. She points to the water filter jug on the counter which somehow never gets put back in the fridge. ‘Do you mind?’

  I wave my hand for her to carry on. ‘Make yourself at home. There’s a beautiful park not far away if you want space to charge about.’ The boys know the garden is off limits for footballs and bikes. I don’t pay the gardener for it to be churned up into a sports pitch.

  ‘Canon Hill Park,’ Zoe says between breathy gulps of water. ‘I’ve been researching the neighbourhood.’ She rinses her glass and dries it up.

  ‘Wear ’em out as much as you can,’ James chips in, moving towards the sink to wash his hands after bringing in the dustbins. I suspect James’s casual attitude to having a stranger live with us comes from life on a cramped submarine with dozens of other crew members. Sharing our house is no big deal for him.

  ‘Come on, we have a little bit of time for me to show you where things are, Zoe, then we must head off for school. I used to walk but I tend to drive now.’ I resist the urge to pat my tummy. ‘James is out later and I’ll be off to my appointment and yoga class shortly. Then I’m back in the office for the afternoon. Will you be OK, do you think?’ I instantly regret asking.

  ‘Of course,’ she says, and I almost think she’s going to cry with joy. ‘This is my job and I’m going to love it.’

  *

  I roll up my mat and push it into its bag. I’d never even considered yoga before I became pregnant. It totally focuses my mind, allowing me to forget all the troubles at work for a whole hour. It also takes my mind off my baby’s imminent arrival. Can I see myself using meditation and the sun salutation during labour? No, of course not, is the honest answer. I know what it’s like to give birth, although this time will be different. But for now it helps calm my mind and gives me something else to think about other than a particularly taxing case at work and the fact that I’ve left a virtual stranger in charge of my little boys.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ Pip says. ‘You’ve done all the right things and her references checked out, didn’t they?’

  ‘I spoke to her last employer myself. She couldn’t rate Zoe highly enough. She said she was almost jealous of me having her as they’d become really good friends.’

  ‘There you go then.’

  Pip and I waddle towards the door where we wait for the others. It’s become a bit of a ritual after the class – stuffing our faces with carrot cake and cappuccino at the coffee shop down the road. Even though I’m really busy at work, it delays going back for another half-hour and makes me feel a bit more like a proper mother.

  ‘I’ll have to bring Lilly round to yours for an after-school play-date and get the low-down on her,’ Pip continues. ‘I can be your spy.’

  ‘You’ll see her at school in the mornings, too. I can’t tell you what a bonus it’ll be having her drop the boys off. I can get to the office by eight now.’

  Pip frowns. She began her maternity leave a month ago, and keeps suggesting I should give up work. I will, of course, but I’m not ready yet. ‘And what will she do all day long before the baby comes?’

  ‘I’ve left her a list. There are a hundred mending jobs for her if she’s able to sew, then there’s the shopping and the boys’ washing and ironing. It’s bound to be a bit quiet until D-Day but then she’ll be rushed off her feet. I’m glad she has this time to settle in.’ I hold my stomach as pretty much every pregnant woman does when they’re talking about their baby.

  ‘Have you decided on a name yet?’

  Four of us are walking down the road towards Brew-haha, each carrying different weights of baby. Pip and I take first prize. We’re about the same gestation, give or take a week or two, and we’re both carrying girls.

  ‘We’re thinking Elsie or Eden at the moment. Going through an E phase.’ We laugh. It’s freezing today and I pull my cape-like coat around me. Usually I’m complaining I’m too hot.

  ‘Such pretty names,’ Pip says, holding open the door. The smell of coffee wafts out of the café.

  ‘So, did we learn anything new in class today?’ I ask our little group once we’re all seated with too much cake and enough caffeine to induce labour all round.

  ‘It’s the breathing techniques that confuse me,’ Bismah says. ‘I don’t know how to concentrate on that while pushing out my baby as well as sucking on gas and air and tearing off my
husband’s hand.’

  ‘Don’t forget screaming for an epidural either,’ Fay says. She’s probably the most terrified out of all of us. She’s very young. At least I have a bit of life experience to suck on. And she’s going to be a single mum. I feel sorry for her, hence inviting her along to our coffee meets. She didn’t seem to know anyone at the group. I was happy to befriend her.

  ‘So scary to think that within the next five months we’ll all have had our babies,’ I say.

  ‘Reckon you’ll be the first to pop, Claudia,’ Pip says. ‘You’re nearest to your due date. You definitely look as if you’re carrying lower than last week.’

  A good sign, I hope. I look at Pip’s beautiful bump. She won’t be far behind.

  ‘I hope we can still all be friends when they’re born,’ Bismah says. ‘I’d like to stay in touch.’ Her long nails sink into a piece of moist cake as she picks it up. Her fingers are the same caramel colour as the icing.

  Out of all the women at the childbirth classes, I reckon it’s Pip I’m most likely to stay in touch with. She’s a teacher and, coincidentally, her husband is also away from home a lot. Not nearly as much as James though. We had them round to dinner early on in my pregnancy, not long after I’d met her at the antenatal yoga class. We all had a good evening, but anything couples-based generally proves tricky. The reciprocal invitation arrives and I have to explain how James is half a kilometre under the Atlantic and won’t be free for dinner for another two months.

  ‘Do you know if your husband will be there?’ Bismah asks me. ‘For the birth.’

  ‘I know for a fact he won’t be,’ I reply. ‘Getting pregnant was hard enough so we didn’t even bother to plan dates to ensure he’d be on shore leave when she arrives.’

  ‘That’s hard,’ Bismah says, looking saddened for me.

  I don’t reply. Instead, I think about what she’s said and tuck in to my cake.

  *

  They are pleased to see me at the office, yet slightly disappointed. ‘Thought you’d gone and had it,’ Mark says. He walks past my desk and drops a file onto it. ‘Meantime, while we’re all waiting for you to pop, Christine’s gone and had another one. I think she’s due for an unplanned visit.’

  I stare at the file and wonder what is wrong with the woman who keeps bringing babies into the world only to have them removed within days of their birth. Apart from her first, Christine Lowe has not managed to keep one of her offspring in her own arms for much more than a week.

  ‘This is number eight,’ I say thoughtfully, scanning the file I know only too well. I try to help them, really I do, but she will never change. I know when I am beat. The best I can do is make sure her babies get the best start we can offer. ‘Is she still with the same man?’ I forget his name.

  ‘She’s confirmed him as the father but he’s in prison again,’ Mark says matter-of-factly.

  ‘Do you think she stands a chance with him out of the picture?’

  Mark lifts one eyebrow up and down a few times, a trick he likes to do if we all go to the pub on a Friday night. I get what he means.

  ‘OK,’ I say, and take a deep breath. We know it’s hopeless. There are calls to make, paperwork to do, another child to remove from its mother. Sometimes being a social worker feels a little too much like playing God.

  5

  THE HOUSE IS quiet. The breakfast things are still on the table and the smell of coffee, children and love pervades. My stomach churns from it all. I gather the crockery and tentatively load the dishwasher. Is this my job, I wonder? Claudia said the cleaner comes when she feels like it but as long as she does her ten hours a week, no one cares how or when the house gets cleaned. Her name is Jan, apparently. I wonder if we will get on, if she will get in my way. I make a mental note to get chatty with her, find out when she’s likely to be in the house. I don’t want anything going wrong.

  ‘I’m just off out then.’

  I turn suddenly. I’d forgotten James was still here. He looks awkward in his own house. Earlier, Claudia told me he was in his study catching up on paperwork. I managed to poke my head round the door, take a sneaky peek when he stepped out for a moment. The room has a big leather-topped desk and bookshelves all around. It’s decorated with nautical items – pictures of ships, photographs of uniformed men, certificates in frames on the wall, and a white porcelain head with phrenology markings on its skull. It made me smile when I saw the sunglasses balanced on its face. There’s also a table made from a ship’s wheel set between two armchairs. I imagined James and Claudia sitting there, sipping tea, discussing life. Claudia says he spends a lot of time in the study, which could make things tricky until he leaves.

  ‘Bye,’ I say, thinking I should have said something else. I smile and he waits, and then nods and leaves. I think he feels as awkward as I do.

  I lean back, pressing my head against the wall. It’s time to get on.

  *

  That afternoon, I set off for school early. Meeting Claudia’s closest friends could be useful, and lingering in the school playground is the best way to do it. Besides, it’s what a nanny would do. I go on foot, even though Claudia has given me use of a little Fiat tucked away in the garage or, for longer journeys, James’s car after he’s gone. Besides, it’s a pleasant walk. The sun is glimmering through a skim of clouds and there’s a nip in the air that will help numb my heart. It’s the way it has to be for now.

  Perhaps I’ll take a detour through the park with the boys on the way home, see if there are any ducks, take a spin on the roundabout. Pretend I’m something resembling a nanny.

  I thought I’d be the first to arrive at school, watch the others come into the playground oblivious of me lurking under the tree, figuring out who’s who. It’s not yet three and school doesn’t finish until ten past but there are already several clusters of women gathered together in nattering groups. I hear PTA and plant sales mentioned, something about a boy called Hugh and his dreadful mother. Someone else is moaning about school dinners while another stands alone, clapping her gloved hands together and stamping her feet, self-conscious that she doesn’t have anyone to talk to.

  I’m pretending to read laminated notices on a board when a woman comes up to me.

  ‘Let me guess,’ she says. She has a vague Scottish accent. ‘You must be Zoe.’

  I turn and force a grin. My eyes flick downwards – I can’t help it – and I replace the involuntary action with an even bigger smile. ‘I certainly am. Word spreads fast.’

  ‘I’m Pip,’ she says. ‘A good friend of your boss.’ She holds out her hand. I shake it. Her fingers are icy cold.

  ‘You’re . . .’ Is it rude to mention it? I can’t help it. ‘You’re pregnant too.’

  ‘Must be something in the water round here,’ she says with a lilting laugh. ‘There’s a whole group of us at the moment.’

  The water. I have to hold myself back from slapping the side of my head and saying, Oh, it’s that simple is it? Take a few swigs from a Birmingham tap and you’ll be up the duff in no time. Why the hell didn’t I think of that one?

  But I don’t. I laugh at her little joke and try desperately to think of something normal to say. ‘How many children do you have at the school?’

  ‘Just the one. Lilly. She’s in the same class as Oscar and Noah. They often play together so if you’re up for a bit of after-school chaos one day, we’ll have to arrange a visit.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I say. The playground, with its odd-shaped climbing frame and spongy tarmac beneath, its bricked-off area with several newly planted trees and chimes hanging from their twiggy branches, and a few big pots of dried-up rosemary and lavender (labelled, curiously, ‘Sensory Garden’), is filling up with mothers. Some have pushchairs which they rock mindlessly back and forth while they chit-chat, some are on their own, and there’s just the one dad with a group of women clustered around him as if he’s a prize bull. ‘I think the boys would love that. I want to keep everything as normal as possible for them.’
It’s hardly their fault, I think.

  ‘She said you were good,’ Pip says.

  Her hand is on my arm. Gently, I pull away. ‘I just want to be the most help I can. It’s my job.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ Pip asks.

  Here we go. ‘Kent originally. Then my parents divorced and I ended up living with my mother in the back of beyond in Wales. Not many kids at my school went on to university, me included, but I knew from a very young age what I wanted to be. I’ve always loved kids. I went to college and studied childcare and it’s landed me some amazing jobs. I’ve recently been in Italy where I took a course in the Montessori method. It was a brilliant experience.’ I cringe inwardly. It sounds too rehearsed.

  ‘No way,’ Pip chimes. ‘One of my other friends is crazy about the Montessori method. She’s got her three little ones on a waiting list. I’ll have to introduce you.’

  Please don’t, I think. Then that grin again. It’s as pre-programmed as my story and will remain that way until I leave.

  Eventually the bell rings and, like a bunch of well-trained dogs, the waiting mothers and the father – who’s now got several other dads around him – all turn to face the school door. A string of children files out with a weary-looking teacher leading the way. She makes them stand in a line and, one by one, they spot their mummies and their little feet itch to break away into the arms of home. Oscar and Noah are nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Is this the reception class?’ I ask Pip.

  ‘It is,’ she says, not taking her eyes off a little blonde girl at the end of the line. They are waving at each other. Lilly, I presume. With lopsided bunches and a cute turned-up nose, shiny shoes and a pink lunch box, she is clearly the class angel.

  ‘I don’t see the twins,’ I say.

  ‘Oh. No, you’re right.’ Pip glances up and down the line in case I’ve missed them. I don’t think there’d be any mistaking those two livewires in this well-behaved line-up.

  ‘I’ll go and see the teacher,’ I say. My heart kicks up a gear. Is it my fault if they’ve escaped from school or been kidnapped on my first day at work? Getting the sack this early would be no good. No good at all.