feelings.
Like my daughter, Poppy, like my mother before me, my unhappiness was making me vicious.
And this after everything else that she and I had been through.
SIX
Martha
A ND THIS AFTER EVERYTHING else that she and I had been through.
Jennie got pregnant with Josh because I was pregnant with Lawrence. When I first said this Sam called me paranoid, but there were other clues that I failed to mention – and not just buying strappy sandals or getting a furious urge for Pot Noodles. It was illnesses, unbelievably – not just ours but our children’s.
This wasn’t like Munchausen’s Syndrome; it was no straightforward cry for expert attention using Poppy as bait. And I haven’t yet seen a label put on these particular symptoms, but after the initial shock there was no doubt left in my mind – she was copying.
It beats me how Jennie conceived in all the dire misery of that Italian holiday. I can only presume that their Friday night date was too much of a habit to break.
Of course, she had known that I was ‘carrying’, ‘with child’, ‘up the spout’. When I first suspected, panicked, cursed Sam’s loins and his creeping hands, she hurried straight round to the nearest chemist to pick up a pregnancy testing kit.
Positive. But please, please, could it be wrong? We hadn’t planned this. This was too soon.
Every morning, expectantly, she would enquire into my condition, and then take my dramatic reaction at face value (it was more the response of a shocked prima donna). She was at her most priggish when I said I’d get rid of it.
‘But you can’t. You can’t possibly. ’
My arguments were with myself. ‘Why not? There are too many kids in the world already.’
‘It’s murder,’ she said, ‘taking a life.’
‘Bollocks. Don’t come round here spouting that mumbo-jumbo. I’m not a pro-lifer and nor are you.’
‘You don’t have to be a fanatic to know what’s right and wrong.’ And that little self-righteous nose tilted at the sharp end. ‘You have no reason to have an abortion. You should have behaved more responsibly.’
‘Oh yes? Like you and Graham?’
OK, that was unkind, and Jennie was taken aback. ‘What d’you mean by that?’
I got up to rescue Fishcake the cat from Poppy’s inexperienced maulings. She treated my cats as if they were toys; I was glad I didn’t own a pet Rotty.
‘Jennie, I know you’re on the pill and that’s very commendable, but I am too fat to do that and that’s why we use a more hazardous method.’
‘Yeah, your repulsive old cap. No wonder it failed, it must be rotten. And you never keep your appointments, so that must mean you subconsciously wanted this baby.’
Jennie was right; my cap was disgusting and I felt uncomfortable wearing it. And I do mistreat the stuff I dislike. My jug kettle in hearing-aid beige, a wedding present from an old aunt, is stained and unpleasant and handled roughly because I want one I can use on the Aga. Same with my torn, brown ironing board. Same with my shoes: I prefer my old Scholls or I would rather go barefooted. Oh yes, my cap was a nasty sight and I shouldn’t have left it out in the upstairs bathroom, but then I didn’t expect my friends and neighbours to be up there rooting about.
Once Jennie asked, ‘Have you got piles?’
Surprised, I said, ‘No, but Sam has. Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
Now that was a lie, I knew. She had been in my bathroom cabinet. ‘But he’d hate anyone to know – his health image. His vanity.’
And another time she gave herself away. ‘Why does Sam use an old-fashioned razor?’
‘Because he’s like Esau, an hairy man, and nothing else will do the job properly. Why?’
Jennie shrugged.
‘For the record, I use his old razor blades.’
At that time her questions weren’t too out of line, as we frequently discussed more personal matters than those. What really baffled me was why she was interested. I rarely bit back whatever she did. Already, a level of
Like my daughter, Poppy, like my mother before me, my unhappiness was making me vicious.
And this after everything else that she and I had been through.
SIX
Martha
A ND THIS AFTER EVERYTHING else that she and I had been through.
Jennie got pregnant with Josh because I was pregnant with Lawrence. When I first said this Sam called me paranoid, but there were other clues that I failed to mention – and not just buying strappy sandals or getting a furious urge for Pot Noodles. It was illnesses, unbelievably – not just ours but our children’s.
This wasn’t like Munchausen’s Syndrome; it was no straightforward cry for expert attention using Poppy as bait. And I haven’t yet seen a label put on these particular symptoms, but after the initial shock there was no doubt left in my mind – she was copying.
It beats me how Jennie conceived in all the dire misery of that Italian holiday. I can only presume that their Friday night date was too much of a habit to break.
Of course, she had known that I was ‘carrying’, ‘with child’, ‘up the spout’. When I first suspected, panicked, cursed Sam’s loins and his creeping hands, she hurried straight round to the nearest chemist to pick up a pregnancy testing kit.
Positive. But please, please, could it be wrong? We hadn’t planned this. This was too soon.
Every morning, expectantly, she would enquire into my condition, and then take my dramatic reaction at face value (it was more the response of a shocked prima donna). She was at her most priggish when I said I’d get rid of it.
‘But you can’t. You can’t possibly. ’
My arguments were with myself. ‘Why not? There are too many kids in the world already.’
‘It’s murder,’ she said, ‘taking a life.’
‘Bollocks. Don’t come round here spouting that mumbo-jumbo. I’m not a pro-lifer and nor are you.’
‘You don’t have to be a fanatic to know what’s right and wrong.’ And that little self-righteous nose tilted at the sharp end. ‘You have no reason to have an abortion. You should have behaved more responsibly.’
‘Oh yes? Like you and Graham?’
OK, that was unkind, and Jennie was taken aback. ‘What d’you mean by that?’
I got up to rescue Fishcake the cat from Poppy’s inexperienced maulings. She treated my cats as if they were toys; I was glad I didn’t own a pet Rotty.
‘Jennie, I know you’re on the pill and that’s very commendable, but I am too fat to do that and that’s why we use a more hazardous method.’
‘Yeah, your repulsive old cap. No wonder it failed, it must be rotten. And you never keep your appointments, so that must mean you subconsciously wanted this baby.’
Jennie was right; my cap was disgusting and I felt uncomfortable wearing it. And I do mistreat the stuff I dislike. My jug kettle in hearing-aid beige, a wedding present from an old aunt, is stained and unpleasant and handled roughly because I want one I can use on the Aga. Same with my torn, brown ironing board. Same with my shoes: I prefer my old Scholls or I would rather go barefooted. Oh yes, my cap was a nasty sight and I shouldn’t have left it out in the upstairs bathroom, but then I didn’t expect my friends and neighbours to be up there rooting about.
Once Jennie asked, ‘Have you got piles?’
Surprised, I said, ‘No, but Sam has. Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
Now that was a lie, I knew. She had been in my bathroom cabinet. ‘But he’d hate anyone to know – his health image. His vanity.’
And another time she gave herself away. ‘Why does Sam use an old-fashioned razor?’
‘Because he’s like Esau, an hairy man, and nothing else will do the job properly. Why?’
Jennie shrugged.
‘For the record, I use his old razor blades.’
At that time her questions weren’t too out of line, as we frequently discussed more personal matters than those. What really baffled me was why she was interested. I rarely bit back whatever she did. Already, a level of
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