Selma
Kent, UK
13 April 1992
We were all sitting at the table inside, sheltered from the heavy rain. The flames of the fire we’d lit leapt up the walls of the cave, making dark tattoos on everyone’s skin. I put my hand to my huge stomach, felt my baby stir inside. I looked over at Idris. He was quiet too, peering at the shadows cast by the large gate. Maggie and Julien were inside, talking in low voices. I had a feeling they might leave soon so it would just be me and Idris.
Would that be so bad?
He noticed me watching him. ‘How’s the last chapter coming along?’
‘I finished it.’ I felt numb as I said it. Why did I feel so numb?
His eyes widened. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was going to.’
‘We have to celebrate!’ He jumped up to tell the others but I grabbed his hand.
‘Just us two,’ I said. ‘Can we do something normal?’
He frowned. ‘Normal?’
‘Like go out for dinner.’
‘Is that what you really want?’
‘Yes,’ I said, squeezing his hand. ‘Don’t you think it would be nice to get away for a few hours, just the two of us?’
He nodded. ‘Okay. If that’s what you want.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling. I’d found myself yearning for normality lately. I’d even started craving the microwave ready meals I used to share with Mike, both silent as we ate and watched something on TV. Not the cave and its gloomy damp walls.
Idris and I found a new restaurant along the beach, in the opposite direction to the town, where no one would recognise us. It sat right on the seafront and served a plethora of seafood. For those three hours, it really felt to me like we were just a normal couple who lived in a normal house with normal jobs. Of course, I noticed the looks we received: Idris with his beautiful long hair and green eyes, me a contrast with my long dark hair and huge belly. But that was fine. Nobody there knew we were from the cave, as far as I knew. We were anonymous … and alone. Just the two of us.
But then a familiar face appeared.
Donna paused as she saw us. She was with a man, his arms covered in tattoos. She said something to him and walked over, staring in surprise at my tummy. I thought of what I’d learned about her in court, ABH against a minor.
‘Wow, look at you!’ she said. ‘I had no idea.’
Idris and I exchanged tense looks.
‘Don’t worry,’ Donna said. ‘I won’t say anything.’ She frowned. ‘Are you still in the cave?’
I nodded, wrapping my cardigan around my tummy. Could I really trust Donna not to say anything?
‘I presume you’ve seen a doctor,’ Donna said, ‘got your birth plan sorted?’ She laughed. ‘God, listen to me, reverting to my midwifery days.’
I suddenly felt the urge to beg Donna to come back, despite what she’d done. Maggie had been reading up on delivering babies so she could help when the time came, but how could that beat a proper, qualified midwife like Donna?
‘She has it all sorted,’ Idris said, putting his hand over my stomach. Donna looked at him, frowning. ‘How’s Tom?’ he asked.
Donna sighs. ‘Good. But he’ll have a permanent limp.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Idris murmured.
‘And Oceane?’ I asked. Idris tensed. I thought about the two of them sometimes, two beautiful people making love. But it had all happened before Idris and I got together, he’d assured me of that.
‘I have no idea how Oceane is,’ Donna said, face tense. ‘She ran away not long after the accident in the cave.’
‘Is she okay?’ Idris asked, frowning.
‘She’s fine, sends me postcards. She’s travelling with a friend. I have to accept she’s eighteen now, I can’t watch her every move. You look after yourself, okay?’ She took one last look at my stomach, worry flickering on her face, then she walked back to her date.
I returned to the cave in low spirits. The way Donna had looked at me, with such concern, had filled me with worry. She clearly thought my child wasn’t in safe hands.
My mood seemed to be reflected back at the cave as Caden lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with a gloomy look on his face, a bottle of wine half-finished beside him. Nearby, Maggie and Julien sat quietly at the table, staring sombrely into their teas.
‘Cheer up everyone,’ Idris said as we walked inside.
‘What’s there to cheer up about?’ Caden slurred. ‘I can’t play my guitar and this place isn’t like it used to be.’
‘Then write some songs until your arm heals.’
‘Writer’s block,’ Caden said with a sigh.
‘Writer’s block, in this place? Selma’s finished her novel, you know! What’s stopping you writing a song, Caden?’
I looked at him sharply. I hadn’t wanted to tell everyone yet.
‘Her first one took her five years,’ he continued, pouring himself some wine. ‘And yet she wrote this one in a matter of months. It’s proof that this place,’ he said, looking around him in awe, ‘can make all of us achieve our dreams.’
He’d been like this the past couple of months. The deeper I sank into darkness, the more he tried to battle his way out of his own darkness with a peppiness that was beginning to annoy me. Any time I mentioned resuming our search for a flat in town, he’d bang on about Spain. When I said we had no money, he said we’d find a way to make money.
It was driving me mad, especially as I got heavier and more uncomfortable. I found myself stuck in this numb, still place where every time I tried to think about what would happen when the baby came – hell, what would happen as the baby came – I just buried my head deeper into my novel.
But now the novel was finished and I felt nothing.
‘Dreams? What dreams?’ I said, all my frustration suddenly pouring out. ‘I’m heavily pregnant with a child who could be taken away from us the moment it’s born, and another child who doesn’t want to see me!’ I pulled the draft of my novel out from my bag, waving it in the air. ‘Who knows if the novel’s any good either? It’ll probably get rejected by my agent, more heartache, more hopelessness. And then what do I have?’
Everyone looked at me in shock. They’d been so used to me being the one to pump them up with enthusiasm. But all the fight was out of me now, the dual disappointments of Becky moving away and Julien’s Spanish dreams bursting too much.
‘What do you mean, what do you have?’ Idris asked. ‘You have me, our child.’
I looked at Idris. Love – yes, we had love. But how much of it was real? I’d fallen in love with a version of Idris I now knew wasn’t true. No enigmatic rock star with millions. Just a street artist without two pennies to rub together. And he’d fallen in love with a lie too. All my lies about my book sales, the way I presented myself when inside I was an insecure mess. Our relationship was built on fabrication after fabrication.
And that look in Donna’s eyes, the pity … the worry for my unborn child.
I scraped my chair up and got up, walking out of the cave. I approached the crackling fire outside and stared into it, trying to find some answers. But none came.
‘Selma, come on,’ Idris said, following me. ‘You told me yourself not to give up on the dream, to stop with the self-pity. You’re been so down the past couple of months.’
‘This isn’t about self-pity,’ I said. ‘We had a chance then. But now it’s all just turned to ashes.’
I flicked through the pages of my notepad and stared at it. For so long, I’d dreamed of completing my second novel. And now here it was, heavy in my hands, but I felt nothing. It reminded me of when Becky was born. The excitement and anticipation in the run-up compared to how it felt when I held her in my arms. Numbness. Confusion. Darkness.
‘Selma,’ Idris said, voice filled with concern. ‘What’s wrong?’
I turned to look at him over my shoulder, at his beautiful green eyes filled with concern.
He knew, just as Mike had known, when the darkness descended upon me.
‘Everything,’ I whispered.
Then I threw my novel into the flames, watching as the words I’d slaved over curled in the fire and turned to ash.
‘No!’ Idris shouted out, shoving me out of the way so he could retrieve the pages from the fire, flinching in pain as the flames bit at his fingertips.
‘It’s no use,’ I shouted. ‘It’s all over.’
As I said that, I felt my tummy tighten in pain, wetness between my legs. I looked down as waves of pain spread up my back.
‘Idris,’ I said. He continued scrabbling for my novel. ‘Idris!’
He turned to me, scraps of burnt paper in his hands.
‘The baby’s coming,’ I whispered.