‘Because if you are – serious about each other, that is – then we need to talk about getting you some protection.’
‘Oh, Mum, come on.’ She covered her face with her hands. The backs of them were scrawled with her spiky writing.
‘No, listen, listen. It’s important. I know this is about as much fun for you as a poke in the eye but my mother never had this conversation with me and look how I turned out.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
‘I didn’t mean you,’ I said, instantly agonised because of course I had meant her. ‘I meant that I had a baby young with no clue, no money, no support.’
‘Apart from Nonno—’
‘Yes, and he was great, but he disapproved and it showed. It still does sometimes. I’d hate for that to happen to you. You have such a bright future.’
‘So I can’t have a bright future with Dylan in it? Is that what you’re saying? You do realise that your idea of a bright future and my idea of a bright future are very different, don’t you? I don’t want to end up like you, in a crappy job.’
I ignored her cheap dig, her rising voice. I hadn’t taken my A levels because my morning sickness meant I hadn’t been able to move further than a few inches without vomiting. When I’d finally returned to work I had a handful of scrappy qualifications and no experience. I don’t mind the clerical work, but, as Edie often pointed out, what little girl grew up dreaming of data entry? Still, I’d hurt her feelings and I felt bad about it. I tried to divert her.
‘I think Dylan is a nice boy, I do, but I just want you to be aware of how much you’re giving away.’
‘Mum, seriously, please shut up.’
‘I think we’ll go to the doctor after the weekend and speak with him about contraception, because if you’re going to do it—’
I heard her starting to wail – it was a frustrated, angry sound, primal – but I spoke over her just as the first fat drops of rain began to fall.
‘Because if you’re going to do it then I am going to make sure you are both as safe as possible. It’s ridiculous to think otherwise. What on earth would you do if you got pregnant?’
‘We’d manage, okay?’
I laughed. ‘Oh, brilliant. Where would you live? Where would all the money come from? You’re aware babies need someone there all the time, aren’t you? You can’t just leave it in the cot while you go and hang out with your mates.’
‘Fucking hell, Mum! Why are you talking about babies? We haven’t even had sex yet!’
Ah. Yet. There it was. I let the word hang in the air. She was glaring at me, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glittering.
‘Monday,’ I told her. ‘We’ll go on Monday.’
She stormed off, slamming the door so hard the glass shivered. I dragged both the chairs in just as the rain became a downpour. Dark clouds the colour of charcoal. For a moment I stood, letting the water trickle over me. The curls of my hair plastered themselves to my skin. I hadn’t handled that very well.
Three days later it was all over with Dylan. I caught Edie, eyes streaming, make-up running like black ink, at the bus stop in town. She wouldn’t tell me what had happened, just that she hated him. He was a bastard; a sketchy, horrible bastard. That was fine by me. Boys, young boys, are mostly fickle. I bought her a pot of tea in a nearby cafe and let her cry on my shoulder for a bit, her head turned towards the wall so that no one could see her. I kissed her and smoothed her hair. In that moment I wanted to hurt that young man. I wanted to gut him and leave him lying in the road. Ropes of bloodied entrails, leaking sacs of testosterone and the smell of Lynx deodorant. That would be all that would remain of Dylan, breaker of my daughter’s heart.
Of course, my anger burnt itself out by that evening, and over the next few days Edie regained some of her buoyancy. A week later she was even smiling and singing along to the little radio on the kitchen windowsill. I watched her making herself a peanut-butter sandwich and swinging her hips to the music, all glands and tall hair and hormones. And I knew.
‘Who is he?’
She smiled at me secretly, but she could never stay quiet for long. ‘I met him at the youth club. He doesn’t go to our school.’
‘The youth club at St Mary’s? I didn’t think you still went there. Thought you all thought it was for losers.’
She made an ‘L’ shape with her left hand and held it to her forehead, laughing. ‘Yeah, sometimes it is. There’s nowhere else to go, though.’
She was right. God save any fifteen-year-old in a small town with no money. I felt for her.
‘What about Dylan?’
She frowned as though she genuinely had to think about who he was. Maybe she did. ‘Oh yeah, no, sure. He’s got a new girlfriend now.’
Ah.
‘But he’s history, he really is. Truly.’ She took a bite of her sandwich and smiled at me. ‘He goes to St Andrew’s.’
For a moment I can’t work out who she means. Then I remember. The new boy. Not Dylan. He’s history.
‘The private school? Really?’
‘Yup. He’s gorgeous. Very intense.’
Uh-oh.
‘Is he coming over tonight?’
Tonight was my night out at my women’s group. I would be out for a few hours. I narrowed my eyes at her, watching a pink blush stain her cheeks.
‘He might do,’ she sang coyly, and I rolled my eyes.
‘You stay downstairs. You leave all the lights on. Your body. Your decision.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ She was walking up the stairs.
‘I mean it, Edie.’
I heard her bedroom door slam and a moment later her music started. I sighed, considered having a cigarette and thought better of it. I was meant to be giving up. I’d even taped an image of a blackened, diseased lung to the fridge in an effort to quit smoking and eat less. It hadn’t worked in either case.
I still wonder how things could have been different. If I had arrived home later, or earlier, or hadn’t gone to my group at all. If it hadn’t been raining, maybe. I still think about the little things – the way my foot slipped on the wet pavement as I got off the bus, the way I allowed a man on crutches to use the cashpoint in front of me. If I hadn’t done these things, how much would have been different? How many triggers could I have avoided? But you can’t think like that. It’ll kill you.
So here’s how it happened. I took the bus to my women’s group – which was really no more than a handful of us sipping instant coffee in a church hall and talking about the lack of good, meaningful, fulfilling sex – and got off at the high street. I waited in line for the man on his crutches to negotiate the cashpoint. It was not raining yet but it would start soon, the forecast said.
I headed down Eastleigh Avenue and took a right at St Mary’s church. Here, on the eastern side, the high stone wall was choked with ivy and star jasmine. The perfume cloaked the evening air, so thick I could almost touch it.
Round at the back of the old church an ugly, flat-roofed prefab building had been tacked on, used for the youth club and neighbourhood meetings. The spaces beneath the windows were stained with rust, which ran like teardrops down the pale walls. Inside it smelt like damp towels and sour milk, the hot metal of the tea urn. It’s a smell I find at once repulsive and comforting. When I reached the door, however, the first thing I noticed was the sign, handwritten and covered with clear plastic so the ink did not run in the rain.