It is now January (if anything, even worse than November, with its grey twilight days and penetrating cold), and everyone is tired and grumpy. Meanwhile, I have commenced ante-natal classes.
After two sessions, I’ve decided that nothing can be quite so smug as a room full of cosily pregnant women lying on cushions on the floor doing their breathing exercises, each cocooned in a warm blanket of reproductive self-satisfaction. While I thought I would welcome the opportunity to talk to women of my own age and in the same condition, I had no idea of the self-centredness of pregnancy, and after two coffee breaks’ worth of conversation about backache and breastfeeding and Braxton-Hicks contractions, I long for talk of anything but babies. What do these women actually do, apart from being pregnant? Have they lives, jobs, interests? It would appear not, or at least not at the moment. Right now, their lives centre round their bumps, the wonder of what’s inside those bumps, and most importantly of all, how it’s going to get out (we are all first-timers. Presumably second-time-round mothers are too busy to bother with all this, or maybe they feel they already know enough. I envy them).
Of course, Silas wanted to come with me, but fathers’ evening (the only time when men are invited) doesn’t happen until later, and in any case, I don’t think it would be appropriate. In the absence of a genuine father, I have been invited to call on the services of a “birthing partner”, but so far, I’ve decided against it, since there doesn’t seem to be a suitable candidate. Silas, who is dying to be chosen, is out of the question, my mother (the obvious choice) seems unsure, and Kaz, who has volunteered for the part, is not in my good books.
For Kaz is beginning to make headway with Kent.
She hasn’t told me so. In fact, she hasn’t told me anything at all, but I can tell from her demeanour that something has happened. She sings as she goes about her work, volunteers to do the most unpleasant of jobs and has even made her peace with Blossom, although she continues to live with us. I know for a fact that she has dumped the “boring” boyfriend, and since the latest club didn’t work out after all, she’s short of work, and living here she has little opportunity to meet anyone else.
Kent, too, has changed. Always a cheerful person, he now literally glows with happiness, and nothing is too much trouble. On several occasions I have intercepted covert glances and smiles between the two of them — the kinds of secret smiles particular to lovers — and wherever possible he and Kaz contrive to work together. Kaz has been teaching Kent to milk the goats, and I’ve even caught her giving him what appeared to be a pole dancing demonstration in the garden, using a long-abandoned telegraph pole by the hedge.
‘What on earth is Kaz doing?’ Eric asks, as we watch from the kitchen window. ‘She’s going to hurt herself if she tries to climb that thing. It’s probably rotten by now.’
‘She’s not trying to climb it. She’s — dancing with it.’ I know my voice is tight with hostility, but just at the moment, I can’t help it.
‘Now I’ve heard everything!’ Eric has never understood the pole dancing thing. ‘Don’t you go trying anything like that, Ruth. You could do yourself serious damage.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
At this moment, Kaz begins to swing effortlessly by one arm, her head thrown back, legs stretched out at an impossible angle, looking as ravishing as ever despite her torn shirt and filthy jeans while Kent watches, apparently mesmerised. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with jealousy. I know this is nasty of me; they are both free and single, and they are both people I’m fond of. I should be pleased for them. But up until now — notwithstanding a possible relationship with Eric and Silas — Kent has been my friend; my almost-relation. He’s been the person I play music with; the one who really understands and shares my passion. And now it seems as though he’s found an altogether different, more exciting kind of passion; something I can’t share in at all. And I don’t like it. Besides, I’m the one who needs a partner, not Kaz. Until recently, Kaz has had putative lovers beating a path to her door, while I, with my impending motherhood, have no-one at all.
After two weeks of this, I can’t stand it any longer.
‘Kaz, how could you?’ I ask her, as we muck out the pigs together. Kaz is doing most of the work since my size (which to me appears colossal but which I’m told is quite normal) prevents me from doing much in the way of bending.
‘How could I what?’ Kaz pushes Sarah out of the way with the handle of her shovel (Sarah hates her home being disarranged, and always makes herself as unpleasant as possible).
‘Kent.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes. Ah.’
‘Well, what’s it to you?’ She stands back and wipes her hands on her jeans.
‘I — I’m —’
‘Jealous?’
‘Of course not!’
‘I wouldn’t blame you,’ Kaz says. ‘He is rather gorgeous, isn’t he?’
‘Not particularly.’ I’m in no mood to collude in this kind of conversation. ‘Anyway, when did it all start?’
‘I suppose — inside the camel.’
‘What?’
‘You know. At Christmas, when we were playing charades, and Kent and I were a camel. Under a rug. We — kissed.’
‘How romantic.’ If I wasn’t so cross, I’d laugh.
‘Yes. It was rather. I was going to tell you, but I knew you’d be like this.’
‘I’m not being like anything. It’s just — I don’t like seeing him being taken advantage of.’
‘Ruth, no-one’s taking advantage of anyone. We just — like each other. We get on.’
‘But you’ve got nothing in common!’
‘Oh yes we have.’ Kaz winks. ‘More than you think.’
‘Have you — well, have you —?’
‘Not yet. No. But we probably shall.’
‘And you’ve got a cosy little love nest waiting for you in the caravan, haven’t you?’
Kaz closes the door of the sty and leans against it. ‘Ruth, do you have to be like this? I thought we were friends.’
‘Yes. No. I don’t know.’ And to my horror, I burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. It’s just that I’m fat and tired and unlovely, and you’re young and beautiful, and — and I feel so alone!’
Kaz puts her arms round me and pulls me into a hug, and for a few minutes we stand there in the drizzle as I sob into her shoulder and she pats my back and makes the kinds of soothing noises that Lazzo makes for the animals.
‘Come on,’ she says, pushing me gently away. ‘It’s freezing out here. Let’s go back into the house and I’ll make us some tea. And Ruth?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t tell the boys about — about me and Kent yet, will you? It may come to nothing, and it’s early days.’
I promise that I won’t.
Later on in bed, I am awakened by the activities of the baby, who seems to be playing football with my liver, and my thoughts turn again to Kaz and Kent. Maybe it’s not so bad after all. Neither of them seems to have had it easy so far, and don’t they both deserve a little happiness? If Kent turns out to be my cousin, and he and Kaz stay together, then Kaz will be a kind of cousin, too, and I’ve always wanted more relatives. Kaz would make a good relative; maybe even the next best thing to a sister. She’s kind and funny and loyal. I reflect that I could do a lot worse.
As I rearrange my pillows and turn onto my back, I conclude that my problem is that I’m now surrounded by couples. Eric and Silas have each other, as do Mum and Dad. Even Sarah has what might be called a gentleman visitor, who is delivered from time to time from the back of a very dirty truck and stays just long enough to guarantee another litter of piglets. I have only met him once, and he is if possible even more ill-tempered than she is, but none the less, he is her mate (although no doubt the mate of many others, besides), and he seems to do the business to the satisfaction of both parties. I’m the only one who’s alone.
Mikey has heard from his contact in Barbados, who has made a few enquiries but come up with nothing in the way of news of bearded trombone players, or indeed any trombone players at all. It seems that Barbados is bigger than I had imagined, and any search for Amos would be of the needle and haystack variety. Amos may even have already tired of it and left. As I drift off to sleep, I dream of Amos and me running towards each other across a palm-fringed beach, like a Caribbean Cathy and Heathcliffe.
‘Ruth! Ruth!’ Amos calls, but his voice and image become fainter and fainter until I find myself alone, and when I awake again, my pillow is damp with my tears.