A week later — how things can change in a week! — things are not looking good. Since Mikey has managed to persuade me that the gap year must at the very least be postponed, I’m sure that with a bit of luck I’ll be able to stay on in my flat, take on some violin students and make some kind of living for myself and the seahorse/rabbit. The Norwegians will understand. After all, this is an emergency.
The Norwegians do not understand. Neither are they nearly as nice as they once appeared to be. They tell me, in impeccable English, that they have rights. I have signed a piece of paper. My flat — my flat — is theirs for the next twelve months.
I explain that something has cropped up, and I have nowhere to live. The Norwegians tell me that they also have nowhere to live, and that where I go is my problem. They are moving in on Tuesday. Please can I make sure that the flat is clean and that I have defrosted the fridge.
Couldn’t they make it Thursday? I plead. Even Wednesday? No, they could not. The Norwegians have made nice tidy little Norwegian plans, and these plans include moving into my flat on Tuesday. It appears that they are still prepared to do right by the cat, for that is in the agreement, but not to give me even one extra day, which is not. If I ever get to go on my gap year, I shall definitely not visit Norway.
In desperation, I ring round my friends. Surely someone, somewhere, will take me in, if only temporarily. I shan’t take up much room, and I promise to play my violin very quietly. I can even busk until I get some students. But everyone seems to have some reason or other why they can’t put me up. Of those who might have been able to have me, two friends are having marriage problems, one is moving house herself, and another is about to have twins. As for my orchestra friends, they are mostly poor and living out of suitcases, quite apart from worrying about their jobs. It would be churlish to add to their problems.
Feeling desperate, and very sick (the morning sickness has now kicked in with a vengeance) I reach the bottom of the accommodation barrel and find my parents. I shall go and spend the night with them, and break my news to them as gently as I can. It’s not something I am looking forward to.
Now, perhaps I should explain about my parents. They are nice enough people, but they are stuck in a nineteen fifties time warp; an age when nice girls got sensible jobs (teaching, nursing, social work; that kind of thing) and then married, had children and led unblemished lives of dedicated domesticity, after which they went trustingly to their reward (they are also strict Evangelical Christians). My parents are undoubtedly good people — they give generously to charity, help (if not actually love) their neighbours, and lead generally blameless lives — but there is a lack of joy or humour which I find very hard to take in all but the smallest of doses. My childhood was bordered by strict rules and narrow boundaries, and as an only child, I was very lonely. Sundays — for me, the worst day of the week — were days of mind-numbing boredom, involving two church services, plus Sunday school, and I was not permitted to do anything which could be called work. Occasionally, I would sneak out with my violin and practise in the garden shed, but if I was discovered, retribution inevitably followed, so it was rarely worth the bother. Sundays apart, approved friends were allowed to come and play, but not stay overnight, and parties were regarded with suspicion. I remember our annual holiday (a fortnight by the sea) as dull and uneventful; a cliché of Englishness, with my father dozing in a deckchair and my mother doing nothing more adventurous than paddling discreetly at the water’s edge. We ate cheese and tomato sandwiches and Penguin biscuits and drank stewed tea from a flask, and I was allowed the occasional ice-cream, but on the whole, I would infinitely have preferred to have stayed at home.
I am a mystery and a disappointment to my parents. My musical ability is something they seem to see as a threat rather than a gift; the pursuit of hedonism rather than of art. True, they paid for my violin lessons, clapped politely at school concerts, and when I was awarded a place at music college, they didn’t exactly stand in my way, but neither did they encourage me.
‘Are you sure, Ruth? Are you quite sure?’ my mother said, when I finally left to take up my place. ‘It seems such a — such a risky way of life.’
‘Quite sure, Mum. I’ve never been surer of anything.’
For how could I explain to her that music was my world, my life? That music flowed in and through me like the air I breathed, and that I could no more live without it than I could transform myself into the kind of daughter they wanted?
No-one understood where my musical ability had come from. My mother played the piano a little, and my father sang (badly) in the church choir, but otherwise, apart from light music on the radio and Songs of Praise on a Sunday evening, music played no part in their lives. A great uncle was reputed to have been a reasonably proficient cellist, but by the time I knew him he was old and arthritic, his days of music-making long gone, together, sadly, with his memory.
But worse by far than the idea of living at home is the prospect of telling my mother and father that I am pregnant. For a start, I know for a fact that they still believe me to be a virgin; they have always taken my word for it that when I go on holiday with a boyfriend we sleep in separate rooms, and that any man staying at my flat occupies the sofa. My fall from grace is going to come as a dreadful and most unexpected blow.
In the event, their reaction is worse than even I could have anticipated. I have read about people turning pale, but I have never actually seen it happen until now.
‘Oh, Ruth! How could you do this to us?’ My mother exclaims, after a few moments’ horrified silence.
‘Mum I haven’t done anything to you. If I’ve done anything to anyone, I’ve done it to myself.’
‘What will people think?’ My father joins in. He has not gone pale so much as red. He does a good line in what he sees as righteous indignation, citing Jesus among the moneylenders as his example, and he is very, very angry. ‘Have you thought about our reputation?’
‘This isn’t about you.’ I too am getting angry. ‘It’s about me! Do you think it’s easy for me? Do you think this is what I want?’
‘I don’t know —’
‘No. You don’t know. You know very little about me, as it happens. You’ve never really understood me, have you?’
‘We’ve tried —’
‘No, you haven’t! You’ve never tried. You’ve never tried to know me. My music, my friends, my way of life — all of it. You treat me like a — like some kind of foreigner!’
‘What on earth can you mean?’ My mother seems to be recovering herself. ‘We’ve given you everything you need. We’ve cared for you, loved you —’
‘Have you? Have you really? Isn’t loving someone all about accepting them for what they are? Years ago, you created a mould, and you’ve been trying to fit me into it ever since. But it doesn’t work that way. I know I’m a disappointment to you, and I’m sorry about that. Believe me, at the moment I’m a disappointment in myself. But there have been so many times when I’ve needed you — needed your support — and you haven’t really been there for me.’ I know I’m being unfair, but having got going, I’m finding it hard to stop. All the anger and disappointment over the years seem to be coming to the surface in an unstoppable tide. ‘I am who I am, Mum. I try — as you do — to live my life as best I can. But I’m different. Different from you. Can’t you understand that?’
‘Oh, we understand that all right. You’re most certainly different from us.’ It’s my father’s turn. ‘We understand that in spite of every opportunity, in spite of a good Christian upbringing, you can go and behave like this. It seems we’ve been wasting our time all these years.’
‘Dad, I’m thirty-six years old! You finished bringing me up years ago. What I do now is my responsibility, not yours. Besides, it’s the twenty-first century. Things have changed. You mightn’t like it, and of course you’re entitled to your opinion, but nowadays there’s no stigma to being a single parent. No-one minds anymore.’
‘Well, they should mind. They should. It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. I’ve always said so, haven’t I, Rosemary?’ (turning to my mother). ‘But I never thought anything like that would happen in this family. I never thought it would happen to us.’
‘It’s not happening to you!’ I yell. ‘It’s happening to me! My baby, my life, my disgrace, if you like. All mine. You don’t have to have any part in any of it if you don’t want to. You can disown me if it makes you feel better.’
‘There’s no need to be silly, Ruth. Of course we wouldn’t disown you,’ my father says. ‘We’d never disown our own flesh and blood.’
The argument rumbles on, to the exhaustion of all parties and the benefit of none. The divide between my mother and father and myself is as wide and as deep as it ever was, and it seems that none of us has the power to change it. There have been occasions when I would genuinely have liked to be what my parents want me to be — for a start, it would have made life so much easier — but with the best will in the world, it could never happen. Years ago, I even wondered whether I could have been adopted, but my dark hair and eyes (my mother’s) and stubborn chin (my father’s) have long since put paid to that theory.
‘Well, I’ll go and put the cocoa on,’ says my mother, when everything has been said that could possibly be said, and I have enraged them even further by refusing to divulge the paternity of my unborn child. ‘Would you like some, Ruth?’
Cocoa? At a time like this? But for my parents, their routine is a lifeline second only to God, and it would take more than their daughter’s downfall to prise them away from their bedtime cocoa (half milk, half water, with one teaspoon of sugar).
‘No thanks. I think I’ll just go to bed.’
I give them each a dutiful kiss, and go upstairs. Maybe Mum and Dad will see things differently in the morning.