ago, with the revolutionary idea that what consenting people do between themselves was their business. Then a fifteen-year-old boy was propositioned outside his school and suddenly there’s moral outrage and the police are cracking down like Thatcher was still Führer. Of course fifteen-year old girls get propositioned all the time, but that isn’t a threat to public safety apparently.’
‘So all the gory details are making it to page seven are they?’ James asked nervously.
‘Two columns on page four and five now, next to the regular advertising for Debenhams.’
‘Right, I see. No reason. I was just wondering,’ said James, although there’d been no indication from Ben that he’d been about to ask why he wanted to know.
‘And we don’t need to ruin the holidays with work worries when we go back inside again do we?’ James continued as Ben, roll-up lit at last, drifted off into his own world again, and started work on his crossword.
Rebecca had spent the morning in a frenzy of cleaning, in case the midwife making her home visit took one look at their place and immediately called social services.
As she sat on her knees scrubbing out the bottom of the crockery cupboard she was aware that the midwife was unlikely to conduct a full kitchen inspection, and probably wouldn’t make judgements on whether their unborn child should be put on a wait list for fostering based on the condition of the cutlery drawer, but she couldn’t help it. Housework wasn’t really her thing, and James usually did a lot of it. But really he was a tidier, not a cleaner. As long as everything looked to be in place that was enough for him, he didn’t seem to notice the dust and grease and dirt. She did, but that didn’t mean she got around to doing something about it, except when they had people coming.
During the Christmas and New Year limbo period she’d had more than a week of sitting around and doing nothing in their little terraced house in Neasden. She could’ve gone at the place with a vengeance then, but it had just seemed too early to start on this nesting business, and she was pining for work. Not that she was exactly passionate about her job as a senior associate at a Harrow law firm, it was more that she loved the office on those in-between days at Christmas when the phone never rang and she could watch seasonally appropriate old movies on the computer and eat mince pies all day. But her office now closed down at this time of year, so that was the end of that lovely tradition. And now she’d had to take an extra day to be at home for this; it was a demanding little squirt already.
Waiting for this appointment had added another element to the floaty, on-hold, feel of the week as they were still not yet properly in the system – the pregnancy was not yet official. She’d gone to the doctors before Christmas, but that hadn’t really got the ball rolling, nothing was written down. Despite three, no four, tests – two on the day they found out, one the next day, just to be sure, and one taken a few days later because she was bored, and it was there – the nurse at the GPs had taken yet another one, told her the same result she’d had the four other times, and then sent her away with a number to ring for someone to come around for a booking appointment. The lady on the phone had been very cheerful, as though it was a lovely surprise that someone was calling her up to tell her they were pregnant, rather than something she must hear dozens of times a week. However the first slot she’d had available was after the holidays due to staff shortages, with priority going to those ‘about to pop’, as she’d put it. Rebecca figured she’d be over ten weeks gone; a quarter of the way through her pregnancy without any medical intervention at all. It almost felt Victorian – she’d be having the baby on a factory floor if it carried on at this rate.
She realised she was getting distracted from the task at hand and that time was running out and she hadn’t even bleached the draining board yet, or dusted the high shelves. She had a vision of the midwife putting on a soft white leather glove and running her finger along surfaces for evidence of unseen filth that was somehow harmful to foetuses. Then she thought if the midwife did need to put on gloves, it’d be those rubbery plasticky ones, and it wouldn’t be the mantelpiece she’d be fingering. Sticking out of the cupboards beneath the sink, her bottom wriggled uneasily.
Rebecca banged her head on the underside of the cupboard shelf as the doorbell rang. She stood up and swept the cleaning products under the sink. Glancing around the suspiciously clean-smelling kitchen, she wished they’d had a proper drinks cabinet. The over-full wine rack topped with spirits wasn’t a great look, but too late now. She tried throwing a tea towel over it, but that just looked messy. Worst came to the worst she’d have to say that she never touched the stuff and James was an alcoholic.
As she reached the door, Rebecca wondered if her mental image of a midwife looking like the scary big-boned blonde woman that used to do the house cleaning show was going to be accurate. She wondered if she was really going to be fierce, with a heart of gold, or just fierce. Here we go, she thought as, for the first time since she’d got pregnant, she absently stroked her tummy.
With the door open she’d adjusted her eye level a good eight inches down as she found the less-imposing-than-expected figure behind the door. False alarm, it was a schoolgirl collecting sponsorship pledges for a new school building.
‘Hellooo! I’m Suzanne? The midwife?’
Either nurses are getting younger, or the local sixth form’s work experience programme is getting more ambitious, Rebecca thought.
‘Hello. Do come in,’ Rebecca said with a sweep of her arm along the corridor past James’s neatly wall-mounted mountain bike.
‘Ooh, thanks!’ said Suzanne, a spasm causing her elbow to twitch out. As they headed into the living room Rebecca wondered to herself what was happening to her; she’d never said something like ‘do come in’ before in her life. Today the nerves were expressing themselves as a traditional housewife. And nothing brought out her nerves in social situations more than someone who was even more nervous than she was. The two women stood by the old fireplace looking at each other expectantly for a few seconds.
‘Would you care for a cup… Sorry, would you like a tea or coffee?’
‘You wouldn’t have a gin would you?’ asked Suzanne before hurriedly adding, ‘Sorry, sorry, a joke, not appropriate. Humour can be welcomed but in a neutral non-threatening tone, on non-contentious topics, and in an environment where it can be reassuring for the mum-to-be.’
Rebecca began to think the midwife might have forgotten she was in the room, until she stopped looking up at a point on the ceiling and mumbling, composed herself, and smiled apologetically.
‘I am sorry. Obviously I didn’t mean that. It was inappropriate and unprofessional. Unless you’re having one.’ Suzanne winced, and slumped down into an armchair.
‘Maybe now would be a time for me to go over with you the government health recommendations, which are that pregnant woman should refrain from alcohol entirely during pregnancy. The lack of evidence that one or two units a week does any harm at all apparently outweighing the potential for worry and guilt a responsible woman will inflict on herself for the occasional glass of sauv blanc in contravention of the official line.’
The room fell silent again.
‘Maybe I’ll just have a glass of water,’ said Suzanne.
Rebecca headed into the kitchen to get the water for Suzanne. She’s clearly mad, she thought. The job is so stressful she’s just flipped. Or maybe she’s a nut who goes door to door impersonating a midwife, like one of those people that rocks up to hospitals pretending to be doctors and that are only found out when they’re halfway through performing an appendectomy and making buzzing noises like they’re playing Operation. But what are the chances of her knocking on the right door at the right time? She’s nervous, she’s just nervous. I should go back in and help her relax.
As Rebecca walked into the living room, Suzanne was standing again, facing the wall and bending sideways from the waist so her head was almost at a right angle to the floor.
‘Your