Breakfast at my parents’ house is a dignified affair. Not for them the dripping tea bag dredged from its mug, the burnt toast eaten on the hoof. The table is laid with a white cloth, tea is brewed under its smug knitted tea cosy, and neat triangles of toast stand to attention in the toast rack (my parents are the only people I know who own — never mind use — a toast rack). Most families that I know come down to breakfast in relays and grab what they can find, but in my parents’ house we are expected to breakfast together (cereal and toast on weekdays; a boiled egg on Sundays). As I unfold my table napkin and wait for my father to say Grace, I imagine days or even weeks of these breakfasts and this atmosphere (today, an enveloping thick grey blanket of reproach and disappointment), and resolve to find myself somewhere to rent as soon as possible. True, it would be convenient to stay on here, at least until I have enough students to enable me to make some kind of living, but it would be at the expense of the sanity of all concerned, and hence simply not worth it.
But in the event, the decision is taken out of my hands.
‘Your mother and I have been talking.’ My father butters a small piece of toast, looks at it for a moment as though it might be in some way unclean, and then puts it carefully in his mouth. ‘Haven’t we, Rosemary?’
My mother nods unhappily.
‘And we think it best if you don’t stay here.’
‘What?’ This is something I hadn’t expected.
‘Yes.’ He continues, as though I hadn’t spoken. ‘Best all round, really.’
‘How can it be best?’
‘We have our reputation to think of. It may sound old-fashioned to you, Ruth, but the church is very important to us. People respect us. Look up to us, really. Your mother teaches at Sunday School; I still preach the occasional sermon. And then there’s the Youth Group. What kind of example would it be if we had — if you — well, if people saw you living here?’
‘You mean — you mean you’re actually throwing me out? Like a Victorian father? Is that what you’re doing?’ I am incredulous. I didn’t think even my father would do anything like this. I am fortunate indeed that he’s not a Victorian father, for if he were, no doubt it would be the workhouse for me.
‘Well of course we’re not. We can’t throw you out if you don’t live here, can we, even if we wanted to? We’re just saying that it would be — awkward if you lived here at the moment. We’re asking you to find somewhere else to live.’
‘But surely I can stay just until I find somewhere to rent? After all, I don’t look pregnant. No-one need even know. And I’ll pay my way.’
‘It’s not about money, and it doesn’t matter that you don’t look — well that things aren’t obvious. People will ask questions, and we’ll have to tell them the truth.’ Ah. The truth. Far be it for me to stand between my parents and the truth. ‘I’m sorry Ruth, but there it is. This problem is not of our making.’
Looking at my father, his heightened colour, the way he is stabbing at the butter, I can see that he’s still very angry, and I know what all this is about. I’m being punished. I’ve been a bad girl, and this is my punishment; to be banished from my parents’ house. It may well have something to do with what people think, but it’s got a lot more to do with how my father feels.
‘And the baby? Are you going to disown that, too?’
‘We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.’ My father holds out his cup for more tea.
‘My baby isn’t a bridge to be crossed! It’s a human being; your grandchild. None of this is the baby’s fault. “Suffer the little children —”’
‘Please don’t try quoting Holy Scripture at me, Ruth. Especially out of context. As I said, we’ll have to see.’
‘What about you, Mum? What do you think?’ I see my last straw, and grasp at it, but without much hope.
‘I’ll do as your father says, naturally.’ My mother looks uncomfortable. ‘It’s probably best that you go away. Just for the time being.’
‘And the baby?’
‘As your father says, we’ll — we’ll see.’
I am filled with sudden rage. Hitherto, I have dwelt on my situation rather than my unborn child. My baby, to whom I have yet to give more than a few glancing thoughts since my visit to the clinic, suddenly becomes enormously important, and for the first time in my life, I feel I am not alone in my battle against my parents. I now have someone on my side. It may be tiny — still at the seahorse/rabbit stage — but it is mine. We are a unit. My baby and I against the world. I feel empowered and protective and — yes — even maternal, and I smile, in spite of myself.
‘This is nothing to smile about, Ruth.’ My father dabs at his mouth with his napkin, and then folds it neatly and replaces it by his plate. ‘However, just to let you know that we want to do right by you, we have an idea.’ He pauses to make sure he has my full attention. ‘We thought you might go and stay with the twins for a while.’
‘Applegarth’s huge. They’ve got plenty of room,’ my mother offers.
‘Yes,’ my father continues. ‘I’m sure they’ll be glad to help.’
Why on earth should they be glad to help, when my parents are not? But it’s an interesting idea.
My uncles — my mother’s elder brothers — are identical twins. Eric and Silas have remained unmarried, and have always lived together, occupying their parents’ old home, a huge rambling Victorian house in the middle of nowhere, together with a menagerie of animals and a chaotic amount of clutter. They are gentle eccentrics, devoted to each other and all living things. They have never, as far as I know, made any kind of living, existing comfortably on their inheritance (my grandfather made a lot of money in wool. Needless to say, my mother has divided most of her share between her church and various charities) and such food as they are able to grow themselves. Although nowadays I see little of them, I have always been fond of my uncles, seeing them as the most human (and by far the most interesting) members of my small family. However, I’m not at all sure how they will feel about having their disgraced niece thrust upon them at short notice.
‘When were you thinking of asking them?’ I say, folding my own napkin in an attempt at insouciance.
‘I already have.’
‘But it’s only half-past eight!’
‘They get up early to do the milking.’
Milking? ‘And?’
‘They’re thinking about it.’
‘I’ll bet they are.’
‘They’re ringing back at eleven.’
‘And you didn’t think to consult me before you did this?’
‘No. I didn’t.’ My father stands up, drawing a line under our conversation. ‘Since you are so irresponsible, and that is putting it kindly, as to get yourself into this — situation, you can’t really expect us to trust you to make a wise decision as to what to do next.’
By half-past eleven, the expected phone call still hasn’t come, and my father is pacing up and down the hallway looking at his watch and tutting like the White Rabbit (although of course, unlike the White Rabbit, it is not he who is late). My father hates unpunctuality, and although he has known his brothers-in law all these years, and they have never considered time-keeping to be a priority, their behaviour never fails to surprise and infuriate him. Accepting other people’s modi vivendi is not my father’s forte.
It is twelve fifteen when the expected phone call finally comes, and my father shuts himself in his study to take it. Lingering in the hallway outside, I hear little of what he says, although such words as ‘shame’ and ‘waste’ and ‘disappointment’ give me a taster of the tone of the conversation. When he finally emerges, it is not without an air of triumph.
‘All settled,’ he says, his relief palpable. ‘They’re happy to have you for as long as you need to stay, and there are no neighbours to gossip, so they have nothing to worry about on that score.’
Eric and Silas have always seemed to me to be the last people on earth to worry about gossiping neighbours — or anything else, come to that — but I let it pass.
‘I don’t believe they’re churchgoers,’ he continues (he knows very well that they aren’t), ‘but I’m afraid that can’t be helped.’
‘What a shame,’ I murmur.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’
Two days later, I have finished clearing out my flat, packed up those things I want to take with me, said a fond (and unreciprocated) farewell to the cat, and am on my way. The Norwegian invasion is just hours away, and I don’t trust myself not to tell my new tenants all the things which are still fuelling my indignation. Suffice it to say that I hope the boiler makes its early-morning howling noise (an occasional but very alarming occurrence) and that the neighbours throw one of their more boisterous parties. After their uncharitable behaviour, the Norwegians do not deserve any consideration from me.
My father drives me the forty miles to my uncles’ house (I sold my car to help pay for the gap year). It is not a comfortable journey.
‘So,’ he says, after about fifteen minutes. ‘What plans do you have?’
Plans? I haven’t had time to plan anything, and my parents seem to have taken care of my immediate future.
‘Well…’ I hesitate.
‘I thought as much.’ The car veers violently to the left. ‘You haven’t given this much thought, have you, Ruth?’
‘I need time,’ I tell him lamely.
‘You don’t have much time.’
‘I believe these things take about nine months,’ I say, in a weak attempt at humour.
‘Not funny, Ruth.’
‘I never said this was funny.’ My father’s not the only one feeling angry. ‘But it’s happening. It’s a done deal. I’m having a baby. Lots of people have babies, and yes —’ because I know what’s coming next — ‘many of them are out of wedlock. Dad, it’s not the end of the world!’
‘It’s the end of your reputation.’
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. ‘I’m a violinist, Dad. My reputation — such as it is — rests on my musicianship, not on my virginity!’
‘Well, really!’ The car screeches to a halt at traffic lights.
‘I’m only saying what you’re thinking.’
‘I think we’d better end this conversation before one of us says something we regret,’ my father says, as the car starts up again.
And I think he’s right. Looking at his stern profile, his neat collar and tie, his highly polished shoes, I find it hard to believe that this man is related to me at all. Parents are supposed to love their children unconditionally, but where my father is concerned, this seems to be very much in doubt.
Will I love the seahorse/rabbit unconditionally? Only time will tell.