Page 19

GRACE

The number-four bus inches along Seven Sisters Road. It’s late on a wet October afternoon, and outside pedestrians with umbrellas and hoods up hurry by, their gazes downcast as they brace themselves against the relentless rain.

Summer is but a memory. It’s been over seven weeks since David moved to the sleepy town of Bannock. I’ve left the flat we shared and found my own place, which is where I’m returning to now.

The bus is busy, with all the downstairs seats taken and a number of standing passengers. I was lucky enough to secure a spot near the back, and when I’m not looking out the window, my gaze is drawn to the woman opposite me. It’s evident she is pregnant, and a lot further on than my twelve weeks.

The last thing I want to do is stare, but the sheer size of her belly is almost unbelievable to me. It’s not as if I’ve never seen a woman who’s nearly full-term before, but before I fell pregnant myself, I wouldn’t have paid any more attention to an expectant mother than to any other stranger on a bus, except to give up my seat if no other was available.

Now, though, there’s a connection between us, even if she doesn’t realise that as I’m not yet showing. She and I are going through the same process, and I’m naturally intrigued—and concerned—about what is to come, especially since it seems that what is to come is my belly growing to a size I can scarcely comprehend.

The woman’s partner has an arm protectively slung around her shoulders. He notices me watching her, so I avert my gaze and open my handbag. Carefully I take out a photo that was captured just half an hour ago. Handling it like a fragile ancient artefact, and keeping it well away from my damp coat, I stare with wonder at the grainy black-and-white image of my baby.

My baby! This is the child growing inside me. Ultrasound is far from a new technology, but it really is amazing that we can see the tiny little person at this stage, when he or she is only the size of a plum.

My emotions have been all over the place in recent weeks, and I’ve constantly been questioning whether I’m a fool for going through with the pregnancy. But when I heard the beating heart and saw the image on the screen, I knew I’d made the right decision for me. I’m having this baby. I’m going to be a mum!

I’m not deluding myself—I know this won’t be easy. In the waiting room at Whittington Hospital’s antenatal clinic, I was the only woman there by herself, without a partner, a parent, or even a friend to accompany me. That’s because I’ve not yet told anyone my news. I was putting it off until after the scan, but now that’s been and gone, I’m still not sure I can do it. Not today anyway. Maybe tomorrow.

Raising a baby as a single mother will be a massive challenge, and although I’m anticipating the difficulties already, the reality of it will still no doubt come as a shock. But every time I feel overwhelmed by what I’m putting myself through, I remind myself that Mum did this before me, all by herself, and she gave birth to twins. As much as I want this baby, I was relieved when the sonographer confirmed there’s only one little being in my womb.

Mum may not be perfect, but she does have the most incredible can-do attitude, and I reckon I need to push aside my self-doubt and adopt a bit of her confidence. If she can do it, I can do it. I’ve always wanted to be a mother, and sure, this isn’t quite how I imagined it, but this is how it’s happening, and I’m going to own it. My child will be just as loved as any other kid.

The bus comes to a stop, and the pregnant woman and her partner stand.

“Congrats!” Smiling, the woman nods at my scan picture. “And don’t look so worried. You’ve got this!”

“Thanks.”

I want to say more—offer her well-wishes for the upcoming birth—but she’s already getting off. It was such a short and simple interaction, and yet just what I needed. A confidence boost.

The sensation is, unfortunately, fleeting. New passengers get on, including a fifty-something man who takes one of the vacated seats opposite, and whose stench of tobacco and stale body odour turns my stomach.

Maybe it’s rude to be so repulsed by an individual’s smell, but it’s something I have no control over. This could end very badly, so I press the stop button and put away the picture. Praying I can get off before long, I bow my head and place a finger against my nostrils. I don’t want to puke right here on this busy rush-hour bus.

When the doors open, I hurry out. I don’t waste time reaching inside my handbag for my umbrella. Instead, I let the rain strike me as I take slow steps along the pavement, urging my stomach to settle itself, no more wishing to vomit out here, in front of passing cars and pedestrians, than on the bus. Nausea has been a frequent visitor in recent weeks, and as I’ve discovered, the term “morning sickness” is very much a misnomer. It can come on any time of day.

On this occasion, thankfully, my stomach calms, and the sensation fades. Breathing a sigh of relief, I put up my brolly then set off for my flat, facing a longer walk than I’d expected, having got off three stops early.

My new home is . . . compact. That’s one way of putting it. Bloody tiny is another. It’s a studio flat, with the bed so close to the kitchen I could almost prepare my meals while lying down. There’s little in terms of living space—just a small table with two chairs—and the only other room is the bathroom. Although can you call it a bathroom if it doesn’t have a bath? Anyway, whoever fitted a toilet, wash-hand basin, and shower in that glorified cupboard must be a master of Tetris.

It’s not a lot to look at, this place, but it’s mine. Or rather, it’s the landlord’s, but it’s mine so long as I’m renting it. It’s clean, and it’s got everything I need. Personally, I’d prefer to be self-sufficient than live with strangers in a house-share, especially given the morning sickness and my regular need to pee, and since in six months I’ll have a screaming baby. No one would thank me for that.

It’s the arrival of my future flatmate that worries me the most. I can just about manage here, but it’s not somewhere to raise a child. Then again, how much space do babies really need? This place will be fine for my pregnancy and the first year or two. After that . . . I’ll just have to deal with it when it comes.

I make myself a herbal tea then settle on my bed, my back against the headboard, and turn on the TV. The wall-mounted screen is a little close for comfort, and the bed is no sofa, but it’s fine. Some nights, the walls close in on me, and I’m desperate to go out, but today—between exhaustion and the rain—I’m content to stay in. In a while, I’ll switch off the television and read my book instead, but right now, I’m too tired to concentrate. Pregnancy really takes it out of you.

Suddenly the buzzer goes.

Weird. I’m not expecting a visitor.

Getting up, I put my tea on the table and lift the entry phone. “Hello?”

“Grace, it’s your mother. It’s very wet, so let me in, please.”

Mum? Ugh, today of all days. I just wanted to relax after the hospital visit.

“Oh . . . of course.” I press the button that opens the door downstairs and take a few deep breaths, calming myself. Then I turn off the TV, grab a cardigan from my limited hanging space, and tug it on, tying the belt firmly. It’s stupid—I’m not showing yet—but the extra layer of protection offers me some comfort.