16

As I drove into work the next day, I pushed down the visor to lessen the effect of the sunshine on my eyes. Ten minutes later, as I waited in a queue of traffic heading up Ayr’s Sandgate, I was surprised when

I had to switch on the wipers to wash away the rain. My mind was just as confused as the weather. Anna pregnant. Unbelievable. A yawn ruptured my smile. I didn’t get much sleep after hearing that piece of news. I had breakfasted, dressed Pat, got him off to school, this being still only his first week, and then driven into work in a daze. Anna’s voice reverberated in my head.

‘I’m pregnant.’

I’ve often watched TV programmes and prayed that the man displayed the right reaction to this sort of news. A reaction that would bring reassurance to their partner. I was usually embarrassed to be male when they inevitably acted like the Neanderthal the scriptwriters intended. But now I knew why. Pat was planned for, prayed for. He was the product of respect, devotion. My reaction then was of exhilaration, joy and tenderness. With Anna my reaction was a classic caveman ‘Ugh!’ and I sat down.

So did she.

‘Say something,’ she had twisted her fingers. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you or even if I should. I mean, I wasn’t the best wife. I know I screwed up. But … this is your baby and I thought you should know.’

‘Are you sure?’ My voice sounded as if it came from the end of a long tunnel.

‘Am I sure of what?’ Anna demanded. She looked stung by my question.

‘Sure that you are pregnant?’ The question of parentage never entered my head.

‘Yes,’ she said wearily. ‘I bought three testers, one a day for three days. I couldn’t believe it … I’m still struggling to believe it.’

Silence widened the distance between us.

‘Say something … please,’ Anna begged me at last. She was leaning forward, elbows on her thighs, hands before her as if clasped in prayer. Hands that had before now bruised my flesh. Hands that would soon care for my child.

‘What are you going to do?’ I asked her, my voice soft, frightened of the answer.

‘That depends.’ She examined her fingers.

‘On what?’ I asked, voice raised.

‘I don’t know, Andy. I don’t know. I’m scared. I’m on my own. A child’s a huge responsibility…’

I forced out the question, ‘Have you thought of termination?’

‘No, absolutely not,’ She looked up at me. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘No, but there’s no way I could stop you, if you really wanted to.’ I paused. ‘I’m sorry I asked you. I just needed to know.’

‘I was thinking more of adoption.’ Her nails now came under close scrutiny.

‘Adoption?’ I fought to keep control. I needed to show as little emotion as I could. I didn’t want Anna to think she had the upper hand. But the thought was clear in my mind: no child of mine would be brought up by strangers.

‘Yes, but I’d rather keep her.’

‘Her? You know it’s a girl?’ The thought that she might have had a scan and I didn’t share in the experience filled me with jealousy.

Anna didn’t reply at first. She stuck her hand in her bag and pulled out an envelope.

‘Here.’ She handed it to me. ‘They can’t tell the sex at this stage. Way too early … I would love a girl though.’

I opened the envelope and pulled out a small, glossy piece of paper. I had held one before, so I knew instantly what it was.

‘Is that it? Him or her?’ I pointed at a tiny white dot in a forest of black-and-white lines. Anna nodded.

‘Wow.’

More silence. We were both lost in the small, shiny piece of paper.

‘How far gone are you?’

‘Four weeks.’

‘That means it was that night…?’

Anna nodded but I carried on with my question anyway.

‘…The night that I came back from Campbeltown?’

While Anna was pulling and tearing at my genitals, my seed was battling through her body with only one purpose. It had succeeded despite everything.

‘My God.’ I stared out of the window for moment, then turned back to Anna. ‘A child conceived in less than perfect circumstances.’ My laugh held little humour. ‘You hear couples saying they remember when they conceived their child. It’s usually, oh I don’t know … after a party, a romantic meal, that weekend they spent sheltering from an April shower in Paris.’ I breathed deeply. Keep calm, I told myself. No point in shouting.

‘I know, Andy, and I’m so sorry. I just can’t apologise enough. My behaviour was shocking. But this is our child. Ours.’

She dropped onto her knees, moving forward. She reached me and held my hands tight in hers. I wanted to pull them away, but I couldn’t move. I was immobilised by a bruise of emotions. Hurt, joy, fear and frustration were only the ones that I could articulate and they were painting my mind purple.

The one feeling that I didn’t want to admit to was relief. But it was there, however much I tried to deny it. The baby gave me a valid reason to take her back.

‘I love you, Andy. As soon as I realised I had to tell you about the baby, I knew that we had to get back together.’ Her eyes were soft, the rim of her irises blurred with tears. ‘This is our baby.’ She gripped my hand tighter for emphasis. ‘We can make it work, for her sake.’

I managed to pull my hands free. Anna took this as a negative sign, stood up, head bowed and went back to her seat.

‘I need … I need to think. I need to let this soak in,’ I told her. Hope sparked fresh in her expression.

‘Of course.’ She stood up. ‘I’d better go. Let you think. Say hello to Pat for me.’ She was out of the door before I could say goodbye.

 

The noise of a horn tore me from my thoughts. I was sitting on the approach to a roundabout with a growing line of angry drivers behind me. I waved an apology and drove off.

What should I do? The question was rooted in my mind and shoots of questions and thoughts were spreading in every direction. As I negotiated the final stretch of my drive to work I tried to make sense of the commotion in my mind. Let Anna go but keep the baby? Let them both go? Hold on to them both? Which was the decision that would provide the most security for Pat and myself? Could I even make such a decision?

A knock on the car window pushed these thoughts and questions temporarily from my mind. I was sitting in the bank car park, elbows on the steering wheel, head buried in my palms. Sheila Hunter was standing beside the car, peering in the window.

‘You okay?’ she mouthed.

I motioned that I was fine and, taking care that I wouldn’t hit her with the door, I got out of the car.

‘You alright?’ she asked again.

‘Yes, yes … fine thanks,’ I answered. ‘You?’ I looked at her. ‘Hey, you’re looking great.’ She had put on a little weight, her hair was cut stylishly and her already fine features embellished with make-up. She looked a lifetime away from the mouse of a beaten woman I had visited only weeks ago.

‘Thanks.’ Somewhat self-consciously she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I’m doing a lot better thanks, Andy. Sorting my life out once and for all.’

‘Is that man of yours giving you any more trouble?’

‘No,’ she answered. ‘Haven’t seen or heard from him for ages. Letters from my lawyers are keeping him occupied. How’s things with you?’

I took my briefcase from the car and we began walking to the staff entrance. ‘Oh, you know…’ I avoided eye contact. ‘… The usual.’

When we reached the door I rang the bell. While we waited for it to be opened I felt driven to ask her something.

‘Do you mind if I ask a personal question?’ I turned to face her.

‘That depends,’ she answered with a smile on her lips and curiosity in her eyes.

‘If it’s too personal you don’t have to answer.’ I tried to reassure her.

‘Well? Big build-up, what’s the question?’ She smiled.

‘If you were to give advice to another person … another woman…’ the lie soured my tongue, ‘… in a violent relationship, what would it be?’

‘Simple. Get out.’ She spoke quietly. Her eyes gave no hint if she wanted to know my reason for asking.

‘What if the domestic situation is complicated? Kids etc? Things are never simple are they?’

‘You’re right, things are never simple. But violent people rarely change and if someone wants to hold on to their self-esteem, their confidence, their … self-worth, then they have to get out. And if there are kids, especially boys, then consider what messages they are getting. It’s okay to be a bully? A slap, or worse, now and again works wonders to keep the little lady under control?’ She paused as if to moderate the edge in her voice. ‘No, violence doesn’t belong in any home and whatever your reasons are for asking…’

I began to speak, to make up a story.

‘Don’t tell me. I don’t need to know,’ continued Sheila, having said the last thing I wanted to hear, but the first thing I needed to. ‘But, if you are asking on someone’s behalf, tell them to get out, go to the police, social services, a woman’s refuge. There are lots of places that a woman can go for advice nowadays. The situation’s far from perfect, but there is help out there for women in that position.’

But, what about a man? I wanted to say, but couldn’t. There was no way that I was about to admit to this. What a laugh everyone would have. I could just hear them. A big bloke like him and he can’t handle a delicate wee woman. Telling them that size was deceptive or that I would rather face a wall of New Zealand rugby players than my wife would probably only result in louder derision.

The one thing Sheila said that I couldn’t believe, didn’t want to believe, was that people don’t change. I refused to accept this. Beneath Anna’s carapace of anger was a soft centre that needed to be shown a way out. I loved her, and she could see that. I could help her chip away at her brittle shell and reach the real woman beneath. I would have to. The alternative was just too frightening to contemplate.