13
U p on the Sea Walls that edge Clifton Downs at the top of Avon Gorge, she stood looking down to where the river meets the sea, just able to make out three working cranes standing sentinel on the docks at the mouth of the River Avon. Her gaze now rested below, on a pleasure boat ploughing through brown-green water, chevron-shaped ripples fanning out behind, in its wake.
She loved this view and liked to stop here to enjoy a break. Taking a bite from her scone, she next sipped at her takeaway latte from the local deli. Just in front of her, two jackdaws perched on the bald branches of a tree which clung for life onto the top of the cliffs; railings guarding a two-hundred-foot drop. And looking out and across the gorge she could see a peregrine falcon shoot across, skimming the chasm to land somewhere in the opposite woodland.
A jackdaw’s caw caught her attention. ‘Okay. Here you are, birdy,’ she said, as she scattered the last of her scone on the ground. One jackdaw nonchalantly cruised in to land, its claws outstretched, then strutted about, pecking at crumbs with all the sense of entitlement as its dinosaur ancestors. Funny how we used to think they were all lizards, she thought, when clearly they were birds.
Her attention returned once more to the beauty of the opposite side of the gorge, where there stood – between clumps and clusters of trees – a cliffside of granite and sandstone layered in humbug stripes of grey and orangey-gold.
She shivered as a haze and chill arrived on the air. Time to go. Pulling her jacket around her, she allowed herself one last inhale of an incoming sea breeze, before leaving incoming tides to do their thing.
‘This had better be good.’ Mel sounded groggy down the phone. ‘Fen’s left for work and I was planning on having a lie-in. So what is it? What’s up? You didn’t give Max food poisoning, did you? He still there tucked up in your bed, is he?’
‘No and no. And not in front of Rowan,’ Polly hissed, as she handed her daughter a beaker of Ribena to be getting on with. ‘Look, can we meet up? Please, Mel. It’s an emergency.’
‘It had better be.’
Polly waited as Mel had a think down the line.
‘Okay – meet me at the M Shed. Half an hour.’
Polly strode along the harbourside pushing a suitably wrapped-up Rowan in the buggy. A fresh river breeze caught her hair in blowing-cobwebs-away mode. She thought of how things had subtly changed since Mel had “gone lezzer”. Although they joked and, on the surface, things were the same – Mel continuing to tease her mercilessly, and Polly to josh that she was a bossy cow – still, Polly was all too aware that while she felt free to chat to Mel about her sex life (or lack of it, more like), there existed some kind of agreed embargo on discussing Mel’s girl-on-girl action. Maybe we both need time to adjust , she thought, as she lengthened her stride to pass a crocodile of schoolchildren heading for SS Great Britain .
There was that moment, soon after Mel come out, when Polly couldn’t stop herself asking Mel if she’d ever fancied her.
‘What? You? Do me a favour! Ugh!’ was what she’d said.
‘Why not? What’s wrong with me?’ Polly had felt a little put out, if she was honest.
But Mel had placed her arm firmly through hers, chuckled softly and said, ‘Don’t be daft. You know I think you’re gorgeous. But, come on. We’re like sisters, you and me – and fancying you would be pervy!’
And that was that. But she remained unsure about what was the social etiquette when your best girlfriend turned lesbian.
‘Ro, come along. Mel’s waiting.’ She looked down at her daughter, whose cheeks were pink from the cold. Next thing, Rowan had somehow managed to get her feet tangled up and fallen headlong.
There was a gap as, shocked by her fall, Rowan held her breath and then, ‘Whaaaaaaa!’ let rip with a full-on toddler it’s-not-fair-why-me cry. Bending down, Polly picked her up to plonk her back on her feet, then set about brushing dust from her child’s duffle coat.
Rowan, sobbing away, pointed a chubby finger at her chin. ‘Hurt chicken,’ she blubbed in between sobs. ‘H-h-hurt ch-chicken.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Polly.
‘Oh-oh-d-d-dear,’ responded Rowan.
Polly tried not to laugh at her daughter getting the word for “chin” wrong. Mishearing it for chicken. It did make her amused, though.
‘Is it better now, Ro?’ she asked, putting on her concerned face.
‘Yuh-uh-uh-ess.’ Her chin now had an angry-looking graze on it.
Polly got down so she was face to face with her daughter. ‘Ro Ro? Shall Mummy kiss it better?’
Nothing.
‘Ro, darling?’ Making doubly sure Rowan could see her lips.
‘Ro? Say something.’
‘Nuffink.’
‘What’s nothing, darling?’
‘Nuffink means no,’ pronounced Rowan.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nuffink means no,’ she insisted.
Scooping her up into her arms, she kissed her all over her face and chin. ‘Ah, Ro, you are so funny.’ And Rowan, now happy as Larry, slapped Polly on both sides of her face – like a little Eric Morecambe to Poll’s Ernie Wise. God love her. Chickens for chins. Nothing means no. She felt blessed to share her daughter’s faltering starts at making sense of her world.
‘C’mon. Spit spot.’
‘Pit pot!’
‘Up you get! Your carriage awaits!’ She strapped her back into her buggy and set off once more. Wouldn’t pay to be late for Mel. Overhead, a seagull hung suspended above the river like a mobile over a child’s cot. Am off for a rendezvous with Mel. Rendezvous. That’s a good word, isn’t it?
Across the water, in the amphitheatre-type space in front of the Lloyds TSB building, skateboarders zoomed from one side to the other. Up a ramp, up up into the air, pause, turn mid-flight and down, while above them, black-headed gulls rightly showed off their own prowess; soaring, tilting and perfectly judging the thermals. Further along, two idiots – with beer in hand – were trying to rock a wooden jetty, where a squadron of gulls rested. As the youths ran at them, the birds nonchalantly took to the air, squawk-shouting – what very much sounded like – Tossers ! at the yobs below.
Mel had arrived at the café ahead of them and was well through a latte.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ said Polly even though they weren’t. She unfastened Rowan then wrestled her into a highchair. ‘I think an emergency chocolate brownie might be in order.’ She pointed at Rowan’s chin. ‘Accident.’
‘How’s my gorgeous Ro Ro?’ Mel asked, and was rewarded with a cherubic grin. She summoned a waiter to give their order.
‘Show Mel your chin.’
But Rowan was giving all a stare worthy of Queen Elizabeth I showing disdain to her courtiers. ‘She hurt it,’ murmured Polly.
‘Chicken,’ said Rowan, and nodded at Mel. ‘Chicken.’
Mel gave the little girl’s tubby thick woolly tights-clad legs a sympathetic waggle.
‘Oh no,’ she said – which appeared to appease Rowan. The drinks and brownie order duly arrived, and Mel – once the waiter was safely out of earshot – said, ‘Come on, spill the beans. Is it true, or not?’ She glanced at Rowan, but there was no need to worry about little ears overhearing, because squeezing the life out of her cake – ahead of shoving it into her mouth – was taking all of Rowan’s attention.
‘I’m dying to know – you have to tell me,’ she said, lowering her voice a little, just in case. ‘Now.’
‘Is what true?’
‘Does he have a big… you know…’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Does Max have a big –’ knob ? she mouthed.
‘God’s sake!’ hissed Polly, jerking her head towards her daughter. ‘Rowan…’
Mel raised her eyes at her. ‘I’ve heard he’s a –’ sex machine , she mouthed again.
Polly glanced around the café, checking no one was paying attention to them. She needn’t have worried; there was a group of what looked like foreign students, complete with backpacks, anoraks and guidebooks at the next table, and that was about it.
‘Shh. I didn’t find out. Okay?’ She glanced around again. ‘In any case, that’s not why we’re here.’
‘It isn’t?’ She sat back. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘No. Look. I’ll give you the lowdown on Max later. I promise.’
‘The lowdown? Or was it the down-low? You filthy cow!’
‘Shut up.’
A waiter began to clear away their things, but not before he’d given Rowan a little chuck under the chin, which caused her to give him a grumpy look. ‘Sorry,’ explained Polly. ‘She fell and hurt her chin earlier.’
‘Hang on a tick, I have just the thing,’ he said, as he headed off to return with a colouring book and pens. ‘There you go, young lady.’ Polly mouthed her thanks.
‘So, if it’s not Max and his gigantic wanger,’ Mel said, once the waiter had left, ‘just what is this big emergency you dragged me down here for?’
Polly made sure Rowan was busy scribbling in the book. ‘Right,’ she began, leaning in towards her friend. ‘You’ll never guess who poked me on Facebook last night?’
‘Umm… Johnny Depp? David Dimbleby asking you to be on Question Time !’
‘Be serious.’
‘Oh, all right. I dunno. Who?’
Polly spelt out Spike’s name because Rowan was in earshot.
‘No! You are joking.’ Mel slapped the table, causing Rowan to jump a little.
‘Shh,’ said Polly, looking pointedly at Rowan, who was now trying to feed part of her brownie into the opening of her beaker.
‘What? He poked you? Just like that? Christ. That’s a turn-up for the books.’ Mel fixed her with a steely look. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘I don’t know. What do you think?’ Polly sat back, casting around the café as if for inspiration. It had soothing stripped wooden tables and chairs, with waiting staff dressed in smart black. People milled about outside, walking past the floor-to-ceiling windows, dashing to work appointments, or strolling hand in hand, or skateboarding past…
‘Maybe,’ said Mel, bringing Polly back to the discussion, ‘this could be a golden opportunity for you to build bridges with Spike. Perhaps now is the time to let him know that he has a beautiful daughter.’
‘Is it? Is it the right time, though? What good can it do when he lives on the other side of the world? In Australia? It’s not like he can play an active part in our lives, is it? In any case – he was the one who told me not to get in touch. Remember?’
‘But clearly he’s changed his mind and is reaching out to you. And what about Ro?’ she said, lowering her voice once more. ‘Is it fair on Ro to deny—’
‘Shh.’ Polly nodded across at Rowan. ‘Little girls have big ears.’
Rowan stopped mid-grasping her cake like a wildlife expert might strangle a venomous snake. ‘Have I got big ears, Mummy?’
‘Of course you haven’t,’ she said, reaching across to wipe Rowan’s face and hands with wet wipes. ‘I meant other little girls. Your ears aren’t big. They’re like shells.’
‘Like smells?’
‘No, darling.’ Polly smiled at her daughter. ‘Your ears are lovely, aren’t they, Mel?’
‘Sure are. They’re the best ears in the whole wide world.’
Suitably pacified, Rowan set about sucking the remainder of her apple juice from her beaker.
‘I’ll walk back to the house with you,’ said Mel, as she picked up her mobile to text Fen. ‘I’ve just got to see those pictures. And – you don’t mind, do you, but I thought I might as well shower and change while I’m there. Only I’m a bit whiffy.’
‘Charming. Oh, and Mel… I’m really sorry if I’ve not always listened about Fen. I hope you know that if you do ever want to discuss anything – anything at all – with me… then feel free. That’s what best friends are for, yeah?’
‘I do love you, ya muppet.’
A dockside steam engine trundled past the trio on its way to Ashton Court Estate – tooting its whistle – which was all very exciting for Rowan. Mel whipped her excitement up further by woo-woo-ing, while Polly thought of her Scottish explorer ancestor – Mungo Park. Once, she’d seen a copy of a painting of Mungo, and he’d owned the same determined chin, the same hair and the same blue eyes as Rowan. The story was that somehow Mungo had managed to fall out of his canoe and drown in the River Niger; which Polly, as a child, had thought hilarious. Up the creek without a paddle.
Toot toot. Hurrying up the path to her road, she could smell the cinders and burnt iron in the air – conjuring up memories of iron filings and school lab experiments on magnetism. Unseen forces, she thought, as she gave Rowan a final push to the top.
Back at her house, she put Rowan down for a nap, while in the kitchen Mel had made them both a hot chocolate.
‘Ooh, lovely,’ Polly said, as she cupped hers in her cold hands.
‘Rowan is so adorable,’ Mel said. ‘You’re lucky to have her. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mel. I do. Thanks. Still, it’s good to be reminded, now and then, because when you’re in the daily grind it’s easy to lose sight of things. And,’ she said, giving her friend a quick hug, ‘this is exactly why you are such a good godmother.’
Mel gave her a look that she couldn’t quite work out… Before she could ask her, Mel clapped her hands together. ‘Right then. You might as well tell me everything about Max. And I mean everything. Plus the whole SP on Spike too. I mean, honestly, I leave you for one day and look at the fine mess you get yourself into.’
‘Yes, Olly,’ said Polly in her best Stan Laurel voice, causing Mel to flick her with a tea towel.
‘All right. All right.’ Polly began to fill her in about Max when Rowan called from upstairs for a drink of water.
‘Sorry, Mel – hold that thought. I won’t be long…’
‘No worries, you go ahead,’ said Mel, as she turned to stare out of the window.
Once Polly had attended to her daughter and returned, it was to find Mel furiously attacking the kitchen work surfaces with Cillit Bang. Rub rub rub rub, as if she’d been hired to clean up after a murder crime scene.
‘Everything okay, Mel?’
‘Yes.’ Then turning to face her friend, cloth in hand. ‘Sort of.’ She flung the cloth into the sink and pulled off the Marigolds. ‘That’s not quite true. I’m not really all right, because the thing is, Polly. And – this is so exciting…’
‘Yes? Go on, what is it?’
‘I don’t know where to start. I’ve been dying to tell you for ages, but Fen said I should wait, but I can’t. We were discussing it into the wee hours last night.’
‘You were?’ Polly had not seen Mel this excited since she managed to land Tony Wolf, the best-looking boy in Bristol.
‘Okay – now don’t be shocked. Here goes. Fen and I are planning on having a baby. There. I said it. So, what do you think?’
Polly gawped. ‘A baby? But how? I don’t understand. You and Fen? A baby?’ Nope; it still made no sense when she said it out loud.
Then she saw – really saw – her friend’s face. Saw how radiant she looked as she explained to Polly how her biological clock was tick-tocking away; how she admired Polly and adored Rowan; and how these days you didn’t have to deny yourself the right to a child just because you happened to be gay. Hadn’t she seen that film where those two lesbians use an anonymous donor? And how there were plenty of clinics around offering sperm donors, and that her and Fen had decided to go for it. And no, last night wasn’t the first time they’d discussed it, and yes, they were sure.
‘You know how much I love Ro. If I could have a child half as gorgeous as she is…’
‘Yeah, well, being a mother’s not all that easy,’ Polly felt obliged to mutter. Because it wasn’t/isn’t.
‘I’m sure if you managed it, then I can,’ said Mel, giving her a determined look.
But Polly was thinking of how Mel didn’t know the half of it. How she’d not witnessed those horrendous ear infections when Rowan had screamed far into the night. How she didn’t know the toll that being dog-tired can take on you. How you can’t think straight. How your boobs go west; not to mention the stretch marks, haemorrhoids, the loss of libido, and the wondering where on earth you went.
‘Be happy for me. Can you at least be happy for me?’
‘Oh sorry, babe.’ She took her friend’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I was just considering it all. I mean, it’s a big decision. And yes, of course I’m happy for you.’ Polly dunked a Jammie Dodger in her hot chocolate. ‘Just getting my head around it, that’s all.’
‘I’ve been doing some thinking myself,’ continued Mel. ‘I’m thinking how it’s a shame Spike’s not here in Bristol, instead of poking you on Facebook.’
‘Eh?’ Polly shot Mel a look – she was in dead earnest.
‘Now hear me out,’ Mel said, as she twiddled one of Rowan’s hair ties. ‘It could have been perfect – if he was here. No, listen…’ (But Polly was way ahead of her by now, her mind boggling away.) ‘If Spike could… or more like if he would… somehow… you know.’ Mel spread her hands out wide like some Yiddish Mama. ‘Spike could be my sperm donor!’
What? What? Even though she knew what she was going to say, it was still mad. Stark raving mad. Did she seriously want Spike as her sperm donor?
‘That way,’ Mel was continuing, clearly getting up a full head of steam, ‘my child – that is mine and Fen’s child – would be Rowan’s half-brother or -sister. We could all be a proper family. It fits, yeah? Spike’s obviously got good genes, and you know how much I adore Rowan. So what do you think? Fab idea, or what?’
Fab? It’s the blinkin’ opposite of fab . But Mel looked so chuffed about the whole thing. She turned away and gazed out to where the garden met the incoming tide. It’s academic anyway, isn’t it? He’s halfway across the world in Australia, so it wouldn’t happen in any case.
‘Well,’ she began, ‘I can – umm – see some merits in your argument…’ (If this was an alternative universe where getting pregnant by your best friend’s ex-boyfriend didn’t mean anything at all!) She coughed and tried again. ‘And, of course, Rowan’s the best little girl in the whole wide world.’
‘See? I told you it would be perfect.’
Polly couldn’t help but see the desperation on her friend’s face.
What harm would it do if she gave her approval? It’s not like Spike could FedEx over a load of fresh sperm from Melbourne, now, is it?
‘I guess,’ she eventually said, ‘that it does make some kind of sense. In principle.’ She gave her friend a half-smile – not feeling up to a full one.
‘Yeah. Well.’ Mel’s shoulders dropped. ‘It’s neither here nor there, is it? In the absence of Spike.’ She grabbed a Jammie Dodger. ‘Looks like it’ll have to be a trip to the old anonymous donor clinic.’
‘I hear they’re pretty good these days. So,’ said Polly, keen to move on, ‘have you decided who’s going to be Mother?’
‘Me. Definitely me. If only because… and it’s just a niggling feeling, I mean, I could be wrong – but Fen isn’t quite as keen as I am.’
‘But you said you’d discussed it all last night.’
‘Yes… but… Oh, never mind.’ She got to her feet to place her empty cup in the washing-up bowl. ‘Dare say I’m imagining it. She came round in the end.’
Polly grabbed hold of her friend by the shoulders. ‘Now listen up. If you do ever end up doing this solo then you’ve always got me. We can be single parents together. I know, let’s make a pact right now that we’ll set up house together. If need be. But not in a lezzer way, obviously.’
‘How many more times?’ joked Mel. ‘You are so not my type. Ugh.’
‘Charming.’ Polly rested her forehead on her friend’s. ‘Seriously, babe. We could get a house, share childcare, housing costs, the whole kit and caboodle.’
Not that Polly was keen on communes, having witnessed them first-hand as a child with Suze. All lentil stews and rows over who’s-eaten-whose-food; plus passive aggression, house meetings, heated discussions on sexual politics, in-fighting and on-the-surface-but-not-really-tolerated infidelities. But this was Mel, and they were family, whatever happened.
‘So, do tell,’ said Mel, moving away and putting back on her I-can-handle-anything attitude. ‘Have you Facebooked Spike’s Profile yet? Who’m I kidding? Of course you have!’