Seventeen Years Ago
Eight weeks pregnant.
Jackson and I sit in silence, fingers entwined, as a normal sunny Saturday morning flashes past us through the bus window.
Kids on bikes, a dad washing his car, and several people out pushing buggies or arguing with toddlers who have different ideas about how their morning should go.
I try to imagine pushing a buggy and looking down into the eyes of a tiny baby who’s depending on me for everything, and my insides shrink.
I can barely bloody look after myself, how the hell can I look after someone else?
We’ve come to the beach to talk properly. We had our first midwife appointment yesterday which sort of makes the whole thing feel real although all she mostly did was talk to our mums while Jackson and I did great rabbit-in-headlight impressions.
I can smell the sea air the minute I step down onto the pavement from the bus. There’s something magical about the clean fresh air and crashing of the waves, even if I won’t go anywhere near the water.
‘Do you want anything to eat or drink?’ Jackson nods towards Sullivans.
There’s a waft of freshly brewed coffee from the open door of the café and saliva pools in my mouth. It’s a smell I used to love, but morning sickness has ruined all that. Without me uttering a word, Jackson knows.
‘Come on, let’s hit the beach,’ he says and begins to quicken his strides.
We walk down the main street, faster than I want to go, past the pastel-coloured shops full of tourist tat and people meandering along at a snail’s pace.
The door to Bert’s Bakery is open and a group of kids spill out onto the pavement as we walk by.
They talk amongst themselves and sneak looks at me.
The sun is blazing down from the sky, but I know that’s not the reason my face is on fire.
Again, Jackson rescues me and his fingers curl around mine and he pulls me to him as we walk.
The gap in between the shops is easy to miss, and most of the tourists do, but we head down the ramp onto the beach.
I take in a lungful of salty air, hoping it will calm my sickness.
The tide is out and the golden sand is strewn with strands of bobbly bottle-green seaweed and scatterings of tiny seashells that crunch underfoot as I walk.
‘Take your shoes and socks off,’ Jackson says out of the blue.
‘Why?’
He is already bending to do exactly that. ‘It feels good.’
I screw up my face. ‘No way.’
‘I know you don’t like the sea, but it’s not that bad.’ He jogs into an incoming wave and kicks, sending white foam spray in my direction.
I squeal. ‘Oi. Don’t.’
He runs back and falls into step alongside me, laughing. ‘You never did tell me why you won’t go in the water.’ He gives me a playful push in the direction of the sea. ‘Go on. Get your feet wet. It won’t hurt.’
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘What is? Paddling? No, it isn’t. You can swim, can’t you?’
It’s alright for him. He loves swimming or surfing or simply messing around in the sea with his mates.
‘Of course I can,’ I say, indignant. Although I’m not entirely sure that is true.
Dad taught me to swim four summers ago. He’d got fed up with me going to school swimming lessons and never really getting anywhere.
So, in the summer I turned eleven, he’d decided he’d teach me.
I’m sure he ment well, but wading out to sea with me until I was out of my depth and then staying just out of reach, so I spent more time under water than above it, was not a teaching method I’d recommend.
I thought I was going to drown. Sink in the salty water and never breathe air again when the tip of my big toe touched the sand and by some miracle, I managed to keep my head above water. I cried every time he made me do it. Not that I think he noticed or cared.
Dad’s efforts did have the desired effect. I could swim, I think. But however much I loved the beach and the smell of the air, I would do my damnedest to never put a foot in the sea ever again. It scared me so much it made me dizzy.
‘I don’t like it, OK,’ I say, embarrassed to tell Jackson the real reason. ‘Anyway, we didn’t come here to mess about.’
‘Alright. I was trying to lighten the mood,’ he mumbles, kicking at the damp sand with his bare feet.
‘Well don’t.’ We lapse into an uncomfortable silence as we walk. I shouldn’t have snapped at him, but with my emotions in free fall I can’t help it.
The rainbow beach huts are close now. There are eight huts in the row, every one a different colour, red, orange, pink, blue, navy, cornflower and purple. The end hut is a pale and faded yellow.
I try to make amends and nod towards them. ‘Come on, there’s something I want to show you.’
Most of the huts are maintained and in fairly good nick; however, Daisy has peeling paint, a shutter in front of her window that doesn’t close properly and behind it the grubby glass is cracked.
I’m nervous as I fiddle with her door handle.
Only Reeni and I know about the hut and it feels strange showing her to someone else.
‘This isn’t yours, is it?’ Jackson asks, standing on the edge of the concrete veranda. ‘How’d you get the key?’
‘No key,’ I mutter, agitated at the door’s refusal to open. It’s not normally this difficult. With a final jerk, the lock clicks and I push the door inwards. ‘Just a dodgy lock.’
‘You mean we’re trespassing?’ He follows me into the hut. ‘Cool.’
The inside of Daisy always makes me smile and I put my bag and coat down on the floor.
There’s a brightly coloured rag rug centre stage hiding a couple of broken floorboards, we’ve hung pastel bunting around the back wall, and several red and blue cushions lie on the tatty cream-painted benches which stand opposite each other.
I haven’t been in here since Reeni told me I could share the space with Jackson, but she obviously has as she’s set up our little foldaway table against the back wall.
On it is a copper tray holding a small packet of chocolate Hobnobs, my favourite biscuits, two cans of Lilt, and there’s a page ripped out of a notebook caught under one can.
Welcome to Daisy, Jackson. And Ellie – remember what the deal was ;) xx
‘What deal?’ says Jackson, picking up a can of Lilt.
‘Nothing. It’s an in joke. Here …’ I pass him the biscuits. ‘Open these.’
I pick up the cushions on the bench and arrange them into a type of nest to snuggle myself into.
But I can’t get comfy. My boobs ache like mad and the waistband on my school skirt is uncomfortable too.
I sigh and shift the cushions around again.
Jackson grabs the two cushions from the other bench and hands one to me to help with my comfort quest and props the other behind his head so he can lean back with ease as he sits next to me.
And then there’s silence.
It’s been a long time since I wasn’t sure what to say to him.
I remember being tongue tied at first. So nervous that I’d say the wrong thing and put him off me.
But he was never like that. Never made me feel stupid for telling him what I thought, even if his ideas were different from mine.
Very quickly, talking to him was the easiest thing in the world to do and about as far away from awkward as you could get.
But awkward in capital letters is how I feel now.
Half of me wants to crawl on his lap, melt into him and disappear.
Rewind life and pretend the hotel sex never happened.
The other half of me knows I need to have a grown-up conversation with him.
But I’m scared. What if bringing it up means I lose him?
What if Mum’s right and now he’s had time to think he doesn’t want anything to do with me and a baby?
What if I don’t want anything to do with this baby?
I let out a strangled sob. And as if he knows what I’m thinking, Jackson wraps an arm around my shoulders and holds me.
We sit like that for ages, welded together as one person, hidden from the everyday life which is going on outside the door.
‘Have you thought what we should do?’ I’m frightened, but I need to know what he thinks.
Where he’s at. I want someone else to make this decision for me.
Make sure it’s the right decision and one I won’t regret.
I want someone else to take all the grown-up responsibility away from me. I bury my head in his chest.
‘I’ve thought about nothing else. Have you?’ He stalls. ‘I mean … what are you going to do?’
His words wrap a noose around my chest and pull it tight. I push myself away from him and the tension bites across my forehead. ‘What do you mean, what am I going to do about it? This isn’t all down to me.’
‘Well, no. But you’re the one that’s …’ He nods towards my stomach. ‘It doesn’t affect me.’
I thrust myself away from him, sliding along the bench to put as much distance between us as I can in one movement.
‘Seriously Jackson, what the hell?’ Mum’s wisdom is ringing in my ears.
‘Of course, this doesn’t affect you. Why the hell would you want any of this to inconvenience you?
’ My voice fills the little hut and I can feel the thud of my heartbeat hammering in my chest. ‘You’re quite right.
You get to carry on going to school. You can do all your exams and study for them properly.
’ I take in a huge breath and my eyes sting as I glare at him to hide my hurt.
‘You get to go to uni, get a job or travel the world. You get to have a life because nothing in your life changes, does it? Well done you. Nothing about this …’ I throw my hands at my body, ‘… has any effect on you.’
He swallows. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
His face puckers in confusion, but he’s lit a fire inside me and I erupt. ‘What the hell did you mean then?’
‘You’re the one that thinks they’re pregnant.’ He’s pushed himself up and is sitting bolt upright now in defence mode.
‘Thinks?’
‘That midwife person yesterday didn’t do a scan so we could see a picture or anything. That’s what they always do on telly. This could all be wrong; you could be imagining it.’
My chest is on fire with the speed of my heartbeat. ‘You are kidding, right? Why do you think I peed in that pot? I am pregnant.’ I stare at him and slow my words down. ‘There is a baby growing in here, whether you like it or not, and it’s going to mess up my body and my life.’
‘Maybe you should have been more careful then.’ He waves a finger at me. ‘If this is only going to affect you and I get off scot-free, you should have gone on the pill or something, shouldn’t you? You knew why we went to the hotel. I didn’t force you to go.’
‘It takes two to make a baby, you coward. I wasn’t having sex on my own, you know.’ I shoot him daggers. ‘Maybe you should have known how to use a condom properly.’ My sarcasm grates and I hate it, but I can’t stop myself.
‘That’s right. Blame me. It could never be anything to do with you, could it,’ he spits back, a red flush rising up his neck. ‘You should have got the morning after pill.’
I scramble to my feet, sending cushions scattering.
He’s right. I should have done that, but I was sure I’d be OK, we’d only done it once and the thought of going to the doctor and asking had made me wish a hole would open up and swallow me.
So I’d done my best impression of an ostrich and prayed everything would be fine.
‘That’s right, blame me. Because this is all my fault and nothing to do with you, is it?
I should have known you’d say that.’ I bend and yank my bag and coat off the floor.
The blood is thumping through my ears and my breath is coming in short staccato bursts.
If I don’t get out of here quickly, I’m going to burst into tears and I’m dammed if I’m going to cry in front of him.
‘I’m going. Leave me alone. I hate you.’
I run out of Daisy and ignore his calls of ‘Ellie. Wait.’ I can’t bear the thought of talking to him for one minute longer.