Something Old, Something New. Darcie Boleyn
in the final year of my studies, I applied to do a Masters of the Fine Arts in Photography following graduation. Then things took an unexpected turn. I had to admit that I was feeling unwell, but for a while I tried to blame the pressure of my studies and my part-time job. I was exhausted and felt quite faint a lot of the time, even after a good night’s sleep. Things smelt funny, my breasts grew tender and coffee made me heave. I was, of course, pregnant. We were being careful and using condoms but nothing is 100% and we got caught out. I was terrified because it seemed to mean the end of our hopes and dreams. Evan was shocked when I told him but he swore that he’d support me, stay with me and care for the baby.
So we gave it a shot. For the baby. For us. For the dreams we’d shared.
I wonder now, with hindsight, if I was destined to destroy my own relationships; if my father bowing out as he did shaped who I would become. I’ve watched enough TV to know that it probably did. I desperately didn’t want to become a product of my upbringing, a kind of clichéd stereotype, but perhaps it was inevitable.
Ironically, in spite of my beliefs that releasing Evan from domesticity would allow him to realise his dreams, he didn’t become the rock journalist he thought he’d be – following an uncertain career where the income would have been unstable, a career that wouldn’t have suited parenthood. Instead, being an ICT whizz, he made his fortune in CGI for movies and games, and now, although he has one main employer, he travels all over the world to work with different gaming organisations and on movie sets. This means that he’s often invited to attend movie premieres that feature his work and, likewise, promotional events surrounding the release of new computer games. He makes regular and impressive maintenance payments for his daughter. I sometimes wish he could give her more of his time, instead of so much money, but she seems okay with it and besides, I’m not sure how the dynamics would work if he lived nearby.
Janis was an accident but one I cannot regret, even though having her changed the course of my life forever. I don’t think that Evan regrets her either but he also lives his own very busy life. I just sometimes wish Janis had come along a bit later on, when I was more prepared. That’s why having Henry then Anabelle was like a second chance; for me and for Janis, because it gave me the opportunity to build the family unit for her that I felt she deserved.
I run my hand down to my belly and feel its slightly squidgy flesh. Anabelle is four now and I haven’t exactly done what I could have to improve my body, but who has time for all that unless they’re a celeb? I’d love to be able to fit in more time for me but I can’t see how I can do it. There’s always so much else to do.
‘Mumma?’
I jump and look at the bunched up quilt next to me. I dig through the mound to find little Anabelle smiling up at me.
‘Morning Mumma.’
Her cute blonde head tugs at my heartstrings. My baby.
My poor baby… from a broken home.
‘Hey sweetie… when did you come in?’
‘In the dark. I was scared.’
‘Oh angel, there’s nothing to be scared of.’ I tell the age-old lie. There’s everything to be scared of in this life. Everything. Getting older, getting cancer, losing the person you love, getting divorced, losing your job, having no security…
I lean forwards and kiss her forehead. She smells vanilla sweet as always. She still has that baby aroma of custard and almonds. It probably has something to do with the fact that I still use baby shampoo on her but then it’s not worth using anything else because if it gets in her eyes… well, let’s just say that I don’t want passers-by calling the police again because they thought that we were all being murdered. That was an evening I never want to repeat. And that handsome young policeman turned up and caught me in my threadbare pyjamas with greasy hair and not a scrap of make-up. Just typical.
But this morning, underneath Anabelle’s sweetness, is a metallic tang that catches in my throat and stings my eyes. It’s not unlike ammonia.
I sit up and push my hair behind my ears; I mean business.
‘Anabelle… do you have something you want to tell me?’
‘No, Mumma.’ Oh that face and that cute little voice. Those big blue eyes so innocent and adoring. I would do anything for this child.
‘Are you sure, Anabelle?’
‘Mother!’ The scream shatters the silence of the morning like a china teacup hitting a tiled kitchen floor. No, make that ten china teacups. The dogs start to bark downstairs. I hear feet pounding across the landing and Janis appears in my doorway, holding her bedsheet aloft.
I look at my daughters. Thirteen years between them. One dark, the other fair. The older one clad in her fleecy pyjamas, the younger one dressed as a fairy princess. (Anabelle often swaps her wet pyjamas for costumes – she’d dress as a fairy or a princess every day if I let her.) Both beautiful, both highly intelligent. Both manipulative; competitive; mutually adoring; keepers of my heart. Behind Janis, Henry appears in a superhero onesie with the top pulled down so that the sleeves hang down around his waist. No doubt he’ll have been too hot during the night; he’s constantly like a little furnace. He rubs his eyes. ‘What’s going on?’
I shrug, accepting that another Monday morning of mayhem has begun. No chance of another ten minutes under the duvet now. ‘It appears that Anabelle has performed a nightly bed hop… again,’ I tell my son.
Anabelle crawls onto my lap, the comfort of her petite warmth marred by the nostril-stinging pungency of urine. I resist the urge to cover my nose and instead sniff her hair.
Henry sighs like an old man then heads for the bathroom, while Janis throws her sheet onto my bedroom floor, harrumphs, and stomps away. I hold my baby to my chest and sigh. Anabelle is having some trouble with staying dry at night. I, obviously, blame myself. My youngest also likes to cuddle all of her family in turn during the small hours. Since I got Henry a cabin bed, he’s been relatively safe, but Janis and I are often targeted. Trouble is, Anabelle invariably has an accident then moves on to the next dry bed. Last night, she must have wet her own then moved into Janis’ before a repeat performance, then finally ended up in mine. I took Anabelle out of those pyjama pants you can get—kind of a nappy for bedwetters that’s meant to seem like underwear—because I thought she might be relying on them, which in turn wouldn’t help her to stay dry. Anabelle does have a plastic mattress protector on her bed, but it’s not exactly fair to ask Janis to have one too. I just keep hoping that Anabelle will grow out of this and that it’s a phase all children go through, but I’m sure that my other two didn’t take this long. Yet as I keep telling myself; they’re all different.
The joys of motherhood…
But as Anabelle wraps her arms around my neck and plants a big kiss on my chin, I just don’t care. Sheets will wash. Beds will dry. The mattresses will just be a bit smelly until I attack them with a freshening spray.
And that will have to wait until this evening, because right now, hugs with my own little princess are more important.
A Lesson Learned
I shiver as I enter the chilly staffroom. It’s always dark and dank following the holidays, especially the Christmas break. The caretaker will only have turned the ancient heating back on this morning – about two hours before staff started arriving. I swear it takes a whole month to warm the school up and by the time the temperature’s just right, half-term rolls around again.
I check my pigeonhole and flick through the same old junk mail as always. Courses, form group attendance tracking sheets, meeting agendas from as far back as 2010 and a nice big sticky cobweb. I am flicking my hand back and fore, trying to dislodge the cobweb, when a warm hand lands on my shoulder.
‘Hello, sweetheart. How was your Christmas?’