Non Pratt - Trouble

I close my eyes and try to ignore Lola’s wails and Gran’s helpful “hormones” stage whisper to the woman at the desk.

“Gran. Can you take Lola to sit in the chairs, please?” I say. And just like that they’re gone and I breathe another slow breath and put my bag on the desk and dig around until I find my white book with the massive headline that announces that this is THE SEX ISSUE, which makes me smile. It makes the woman at the desk smile too.

“Why are we here? Is something wrong with Granny Ivy?” Lola is still hiccupping a little when I join them.

“Come here, Lolly.” I pull her up onto my knee, exchanging a glance with Gran, who wanted me to tell Lola before we got here. “There’s nothing wrong with Granny Ivy.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

“Is there something wrong with you?”

“No.” I’ve got to be quick because I can see the idea terrifies her.

“Good.” She throws her arms around me and I can feel her patting Gran’s hair.

“I’ve just got to have a test for something,” I lie, because what else am I supposed to do? The second person to find out my news cannot be Lola. It just can’t.

“Hannah Sheppard?” A woman in a shapeless blue top and trousers steps out into the corridor and I stand up. Then I sit right back down again.

“I can’t do this.” I’m shaking and I can see Lola’s getting worried, but I can’t help it. “Gran, can you come in with me?”

She looks at Lola and back at me. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

The hall is packed with towers of suitcases and presents when I open the door. Mum is looking frantic because she can’t find the spare key to give to Next Door so they can come and feed The Kaiser whilst we’re away. Dad is looking in the bowl by the door.

“Where’ve you been?” he asks, not looking up from the change he’s sifting through in his quest for the key.

“Nowhere,” I say. That causes him to look up. I’m usually more forthcoming about such things.

“Your mother wants to know if you’ve packed your thermal underwear.”

We’re going to see Gran — Dad’s mother — for Christmas. In Yorkshire. I would be insane not to pack my thermals after last year’s “surprise” hill walk. I answer with a nod and pick up the cat, who’s trying to chew the corner off one of the presents. He gives in with bad grace and lets me hold him close, lets me feel the solidity of his fat furry body.

I drop him gently back to the floor and think of the days when holding the cat and smelling his fur was the only thing that brought me comfort. I wish we could take him with us.

It doesn’t look much like a baby to me, but according to the woman who actually knows what she’s talking about, it’s perfectly healthy — although I lose count of how many times I’m told off for leaving it so late, since it makes it impossible to date accurately. I don’t tell her she doesn’t need to. She keeps trying to chat to me, thinking I’m worried about what I’m seeing and the fact that I’ll need to have a different test for Down’s, but the thing that’s worrying me the most is that I’ve left Lola on her own in the corridor outside.

Gran asks if we can have an extra picture, but you have to pay and I didn’t come with any cash.

“I’ll get one for you, love…” But Gran doesn’t have anything smaller than a twenty on her. The nurse tells her there’s a tea counter down the corridor and Gran toddles off to get some change whilst I nip out to check that Lola’s where we left her.

She is.

“Is everything all right?” she asks, looking up from the game she’s playing on my phone.

“Yup,” I say, noticing a bit of ultrasound jelly is soaking through my top.

“Is that a Smartphone?” The nurse is standing at the door, looking over at us.

“Uh-huh.” I’m distracted, trying to rub off the excess jelly without anyone noticing.

“So it can take pictures?”

I nod, still not paying attention.

“Bring it here. We can use it to take a photo of the baby.”

There’s a moment of silence in which I pray the nurse did not just say that.

Then Lola gets up and hands over the phone.

“What baby?” she says.

The first thing my grandmother does is hug me with a desperation that nearly throttles me. This is the first time she has seen me since my “dark period”. It entertains me how the family shorthand makes me sound less like Aaron Tyler and more like Pablo Picasso.

“So good to see you, Aaron.” Gran clamps my head between her palms and looks at me intently, eyes searching mine, looking to see whether I’m the same boy she saw this time last year.

She’s going to be disappointed.

It’s one minute to midnight. One minute to Christmas and I’m snuggled up in bed, curled around my almost-bump.

Baby.

I press the light on my phone and look at the screen.

Baby.

The nurse labelled the image bottom and head, which is helpful because I’m not sure I’d be able to tell too easily.

Baby.

I thought it would feel different knowing what it looked like, but I still can’t believe it’s inside me.

Baby.

Maybe I do feel different.

My baby.

I’m dozing on the sofa, listening to Lola play with her second favourite present, a doll she’s named Kooky. Her first favourite present (her words, not mine) is the little black rabbit that Mum and Robert managed to keep a secret even from me. It turns out he’s the reason I was kicked out of the house yesterday, the little bastard.

Lola didn’t know what to call him and she asked Robert to choose, so the rabbit’s called Fiver. He’s now sleeping in his hutch in the utility room, which I know because I just went to check on him. I always wanted a rabbit and, if I’m honest, I’m a bit jealous — although give it a week and I’ll be the one checking his water and changing his straw anyway. Still. If he was my rabbit, I wouldn’t have named him after his price tag.

What will I call the baby? I guess it’s a bit early to start thinking about it — seems like it’s bad luck or something. I don’t want any of that. Seeing it on the screen yesterday made me realize just how much I want everything to be OK. With the baby, I mean. I’m not so stupid to think that everything’s going to be OK with my family.

I watch Lola reach over and take Robert’s new mobile off the coffee table, bored of Kooky already. I shut my eyes again and snuggle further into the cushions. I want this for my baby: cosy fireside family Christmases and big dinners, a pretty twinkly glowy tree and Disney movies…

I think I drifted off.

“…Hannah’s asleep,” I hear Robert say and Mum sighs. I suspect I am about to be summoned for dishes so I keep my eyes tight shut and breathe quietly. So not in the mood for dishes right now.

“Careful with that, Lolly — it’s not a toy,” Mum says.

“I am being careful,” comes the reply.

There’s a pause and I can imagine that Mum’s still there, watching Lola to make sure she’s not about to break something.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m using Daddy’s phone to take a picture,” Lola says.

“What of?”

“Kooky’s baby.”

It takes every little bit of control I have to stop my eyes from snapping open. Instead I lift my lids, just a crack, to see that Lola is holding Robert’s phone over Kooky’s tummy as the doll lies back on a cushion.

I shut my eyes and pray for a Christmas miracle.

“How’s Daddy’s phone going to help?” I hear Mum step further into the room.

“It’s going to take a picture of Kooky’s baby inside her tummy.” I kind of glossed over the details on how the nurse got a picture of my baby and Lola definitely thinks mobile phones have something to do with it.

“You are?” Mum asks.

“So we know the baby’s OK,” Lola explains.

Please shut up, Lola…

“And is her baby OK?”

“Yes.”

There’s a short silence, then, “Lola, where did you learn about this?”

“Hannah.”

I pretend my hardest to be asleep, like a little kid hiding under a bath towel thinking no one can see me if I can’t see them.

“Hannah told you?” Robert chimes in, disapproval ringing in his voice.

“No. She said not to say…” Lola’s not sounding so certain now and I can imagine she’s looking over at me.

“Hannah?” Mum says my name in a way that’s meant to wake me up.

Keep your eyes closed.

“I know you’re awake.”

I open my eyes. They’re both looking at me: Mum curious; Robert cross.

“You were telling Lola about making babies?” Mum obviously thinks this is her area of expertise, not mine.

“I—”

“You shouldn’t be talking about it with her. She’s too young.” Robert weighs in a bit louder than he means to because he’s had a little too much wine.

“Robert. Volume,” Mum says sharply, as she has been doing all evening.

“Stop shouting!” Lola interrupts. “You’ll scare her baby.”

Oh, Lola…

“What?” Robert and Mum don’t seem to realize what’s going on; they’re looking at Kooky still.

“Hannah’s baby. You don’t want to scare it by shouting.”

I’m sitting on the stone bench that overlooks the sloping front garden. It’s cold, but my cheeks are still burning hot from being shut inside close to a log fire and too many relatives, and there’s a white heat in my mind that’s so intense it’s almost consuming me.

I breathe, watching a little of it disappear in the air.

One breath at a time, little by little, heat out, cold in, until I’m there.

Uncles Matt and Dave were talking to Zoë, Matt’s wife, about me. About how pale I looked. About how my parents hadn’t come to them to talk about the problem. About how they shut out the Family. That was no way to deal with these things — we’re family, we share our problems, we share the burden of our children’s woes. We don’t hide and pretend everything is all right.

But did you hear? They sent him to counselling.

Counselling? Well, of course, he would need that after—

I heard Gran walk in, sensible clops of sensible shoes on the flagstones.

It didn’t stop them.

He only went to three sessions. (Wrong, Uncle Dave. I went to four.)

Well.

Well.

Well.

Stephanie told me she’d set him up with visiting.

Visiting? Who?

At one of the old folks’ homes her company do the supplies for. (Gran does not put herself in the category of old folks because her back’s still straight and her mind sharp.)

How’s that supposed to help?

No answer. I imagine there was a lot of shrugging. (Mum’s logic was that I need some perspective — a bit of purpose. Which is true.)

Little Lynette told me he’s very withdrawn. (Of course, I forgot, brattish seven-year-olds are experts in psychoanalysis — I should have gone to Zoë’s daughter for counselling.)

It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch.

Mm.

Mm.

Mm.

Goes to show.

I walked past the door. You could almost see the shared thought bubble:

How long has he been there? Did he hear us?!

“We’re leaving on Monday,” I said, looking back. “Best to finish the conversation then.”

Then I came out here.

There’s a swell in the volume of voices as someone opens the back door and crunches down the path towards me. Dad sits down and holds his hand out flat then grunts.

“Snowing.”

It’s winter. We’re in Yorkshire. I am not entirely blown away by this turn of events.

“Your mum is currently tearing strips out of Zoë and the uncles.”