‘I can go with her. I’d like to go with her. And she said after last time she didn’t want us both again, so only one of us can go.’
‘What about me? It was my idea.’
‘But I know more about this sort of thing than you do. I promise I’ll bring back a full report.’
‘Anyone can bring back a full report. Ruth can do that.’
‘True. But it makes sense for it to be me. I’ve read all the books, and I know what questions to ask.’
‘Lend me the books, and I’ll know what to ask, too. Anyway, the hospital staff are the people in the know. We don’t have to know anything at all. And I’m sure they’ll be delighted to explain.’
I listen in fascination as Eric and Silas argue over the lunch table as to which of them is to accompany me to my twenty-week scan. I’ve never heard them argue before, and while this is a relatively amicable discussion, there is an undertone of stiff-necked determination on both sides.
‘May I say something?’ I ask at last.
‘Of course. Go ahead, Ruth,’ Eric says.
‘This is my scan, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘And I’m insured to drive the Land Rover now?’
‘You know you are.’
‘Then I can go to the scan on my own. And I can bring back — how did you put it? — a full report myself. That way, no-one needs to feel left out, and you can both stop this silly argument.’
Their faces fall into identical expressions of surprise and disappointment, and I can’t help laughing.
‘I’m sorry, Ruth,’ Eric says, after a moment. ‘I suppose we just forgot, well, forgot...’
‘That I was here?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing I am here. And presumably I have the casting vote.’
‘But it seems such a waste,’ mourns Silas. ‘It’s so interesting, and you’re allowed to take someone. I’ll never get an opportunity like this again.’ He makes it sound like a wasted theatre ticket.
‘Yes. But I can hardly choose between the two of you, can I? So it’s fairer to have neither of you. No-one will be pleased, but no-one will be disappointed.’
‘We could toss up for it,’ Silas suggests.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Ruth?’ I’d forgotten my mother was there.
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘I’d love — I’d really love to come with you. If you’ll let me.’
‘Oh, Mum! Of course I’ll let you. I’d love to have you with me. You’re the obvious person. And we can go for lunch afterwards.’
Eric and Silas stand down gracefully (after all, they can hardly take issue with my mother accompanying me to the hospital), and after extracting promises of photos and answers to the list of questions Silas has compiled, they go out to do something unpleasant to a goat.
‘Did they really both go with you to your last scan?’ asks Mum over the washing-up.
‘Yes. They were an absolute pain.’
‘I’m sure they were. But Ruth — was it appropriate for them to, well to see you like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘With no clothes — down there.’
‘It was a knickers-on affair; all perfectly dignified,’ I assure her. ‘Down there was all covered up, and just the tummy showing. But in any case, I don’t think I’d want them again, and certainly not both together. They were very sweet, but they wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways. And they did their double act in the waiting room and made an exhibition of all of us. I’m not going through that again.’
‘They used to do that as little boys.’
‘Well, it’s probably all very sweet with little boys, but with elderly men, it’s excruciating.’
‘I can imagine.’ Mum folds her tea towel and hangs it up. ‘Ruth?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m — I’m so glad I came. Not glad about leaving Dad, of course, but glad I’m here now, seeing you like this. Being — well, being with you.’
‘I’m glad too.’
‘But I’m worried about your father.’
‘Why? He’s okay, isn’t he?’
‘Up to a point.’ She sighs, twisting her wedding ring round on her finger. ‘But he’s not used to looking after himself, and — well, it is my job. I know that’s an unfashionable view, but it’s all I’ve ever done since we married. Looked after the house and Dad, and you of course, when you were at home. Dad worked hard before he retired, and I saw it as my role to support him. I still do.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Enjoy what?’
‘Being — well, a housewife, I suppose.’
‘Yes. On the whole, I did. But that’s another thing. I’d like to do something else as well; I’d like to be good at something else. Something different. Before it’s too late. Does that sound odd?’
‘Not odd at all. Isn’t that what most of us want? To do something really well? That’s certainly how I feel about my violin, and although I’ll never be as good as I’d like to be, at least I’ve given it my best shot. What sort of thing would you like to do?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not creative, or musical, or anything like that, but there must be something I could do. Something new. Something different.’ Mum sits down at the table, and rests her chin in her hand. ‘I may have been quite a good wife, but I wasn’t really a very good mother, was I?’ she says after a moment.
‘Well, you looked after me beautifully. I had a — good childhood,’ I say carefully.
‘But I never tried to understand you. I thought I did, but now, when I see you with Eric and Silas, so relaxed, so easy — I feel I must have got something wrong. And the violin.’ She sighs, and pulls at a strand of her neatly permed hair. ‘I knew it meant a lot to you, but I didn’t understand why. When I hear you playing now, and see how much Eric and Silas enjoy it, and the encouragement they give you...’ her voice tails away. ‘I should have been the one to encourage you, even if I don’t know much about music. It was as much a part of my job as looking after you. But I didn’t know. I never really understood. And now I suppose it’s too late.’
‘I don’t think it’s ever too late in relationships,’ I tell her. ‘Provided both people want things to change. I don’t think I’m really the daughter you wanted, am I? And it’s not your fault I’m the way I am. Take the music. In some ways, I’d prefer not to want to be a musician. It leads to so much heartache and disappointment. Life would have been so much easier if I’d wanted to be — a chartered accountant, for instance. A nice safe profession, with far less scope for failure and a good income. And Dad would have been thrilled.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he?’ We both laugh.
And of course, all this is true, provided that in the fullness of time Dad was able to walk me down the aisle in my white frock and hand me and my virginity over to a suitable young man (maybe another chartered accountant. Why not?), after which I would “settle down” and keep house for him and any offspring we might have. And the whole cycle would begin again. A little dull and predictable, but safe, and oh, so respectable.
‘And I’m to blame, too,’ I say now. ‘Instead of ranting and slamming doors, I could have sat down with you and explained things properly. I could have tried to understand you, as well as the other way around.’
‘You did get pretty angry,’ Mum says. ‘But we were the adults.’
‘Well, now I’m an adult too, and we — well, you and I, anyway — can start to understand each other.’
‘Don’t make the same mistakes with — with your baby,’ Mum says now. ‘You’ve got the chance to make a better job of it than I did, and a clean slate, even though you’ve got no — there’s no —’
‘Father?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitates. ‘Who was he, Ruth? What was he like?’
I recognise that she’s been working up to this question, and I admire her courage, for it can’t have been easy. Mum and I have never really confided in each other, and this is uncharted territory.
‘Well, he’s nice,’ I begin lamely. ‘A musician. A very good one. Much better than I’ll ever be.’
‘And — oh, Ruth, I really need to ask you this. Is he — is he married?’
I shake my head. ‘He was, but his wife found someone else and he’s now divorced.’
I note the little intake of breath at the D word, but Mum doesn’t comment.
‘Do you still see him?’ she asks me.
‘No. We’ve lost touch.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Yes. Yes, it is. It’s funny, really. We’ve never played a big part in each other’s lives, and yet now I really miss him. I haven’t even had the chance to tell him about the baby, and he ought at least to know that. Then it would be up to him what he did about it. If anything. And before you ask —’ for I can see the question trembling on Mum’s lips, almost begging to be let out — ‘I might even marry him, if he’d have me. Not just because of the baby, but because he’s a good man, we’ve lots in common, and I think we’d be good together. But we’d have to see about that.’
‘He can’t have just — disappeared.’
‘That’s what I thought. But it seems that he has. Disappearing is what he does. He’ll probably turn up sooner or later, but we could be talking months or even years. I’ve tried to track him down, but I think he must be abroad.’
‘Does he have a steady job?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ I laugh at Mum’s expression. ‘Musicians and steady jobs don’t necessarily go together. As you and Dad kept telling me, it’s risky business.’
And for the time being, we leave it at that. I realise afterwards that Mum and I have covered more ground in the last hour than we have in the past ten years, and I’m grateful to her for initiating the conversation. If it had been left to me, would we ever have talked like this? I doubt it. My mother has the courage that I lack, and I feel new respect for her. In many ways, she is a much better human being than I can ever hope to be, and while I disagree with many of her principles, she has certainly lived by them. It is to my shame that this could never be said of me.
The scan takes place the next day, and while the baby certainly appears to be more baby-like than it was last time, and Mum ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over tiny fingers and toes, a waving arm, a ‘dear little face’ (‘I believe it’s got your nose, Ruth.’ Has it? How on earth can she tell?), I still fail to experience any of the wonder and delight I’m supposed to feel.
‘Aren’t you at all excited, Ruth?’ Mum whispers, when the technician disappears for a moment to fetch something. ‘I’d no idea it would be as amazing as this. We never had this sort of thing when I was expecting you.’ She seems to have forgotten the unfortunate provenance of her foetal grandchild in her wonderment at the combined miracles of nature and modern technology.
‘Of course I’m excited,’ I tell her (what else can I say?).
‘Do you want to know the sex of your baby?’ The technician has returned.
‘No — yes — I don’t know.’
‘Silas does,’ Mum reminds me.
‘Well, it’s not his baby,’ I snap, and am instantly sorry. I give her hand a squeeze. ‘Yes, okay. Why not?’
‘A boy,’ we’re told. ‘Were you hoping for a boy?’
‘I — don’t mind. But Blossom will be pleased.’
‘What’s Blossom got to do with it?’ Mum asks.
‘Blossom reckons she can always tell. She told me weeks ago that it was a boy.’ It would have been nice to be able to confound Blossom, but now it seems that even that small victory is denied me.
We go through Silas’s list of questions, and receive patient (and on the whole, satisfactory) answers. No, the baby doesn’t appear to have any congenital defects or chromosomal abnormalities, although there are no absolute guarantees. Yes, it is the right size for its gestation, has all the right bits and pieces in the appropriate places and the degree of its activity is normal. It probably weighs about a pound (only a pound? That’s less than half a bag of sugar. I try to imagine a pound of baby, and fail) and its various measurements are to scale.
As we emerge later on into pale autumn sunshine, I feel an overwhelming sense of loneliness, and suddenly I ache for the big, comforting presence of Amos; for the feeling of his arms around me, his clean man-smell, his comfortable chest, even the tickle of his beard against my cheek. I imagine him seeing in our baby all the things I don’t yet seem able to see, and telling me what a clever girl I am (isn’t that what new fathers are supposed to say?). We would walk hand-in-hand across the road to the pub for lunch, and he would have his usual pint of bitter (in a jug with a handle) and I would sip my tomato juice, and we’d get out our new photos of the baby, and admire them together. Best of all, we would be a couple; a couple sharing our baby.
Mum has been better company than I could have hoped for (or deserved), but it’s Amos that I want with me now. I imagine his delight at the prospect of a son, his dreams of taking him to football matches (Amos loves football. Who will take the seahorse/rabbit to watch football if it hasn’t got a father? Every child deserves at least one parent who understands the off-side rule), helping with maths homework, running in fathers’ races on school sports days, and in the fullness of time, teaching it to drive. How will I manage to do all these things on my own? How do single parents cope?
‘Are you all right, Ruth?’ Mum asks me.
‘Something in my eye,’ I tell her, fumbling in my bag for a tissue.
Despite our new improved relationship, I’m still not ready to tell Mum how much I long to find Amos.