If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

re, as a symbol, like it’s nothing really it’s just a thing I would do for you.

He remembers thinking he was getting ahead of the situation by buying something like that so early, but he’d seen it by chance and he’d thought why not, he’d thought it would be good to have it around so he could make less of an issue of it, like here I’ve got some of this would you like some.

And he remembers that awestruck Tuesday night, trying on different clothes and making his room tidy but not too tidy, and he’d decided he should maybe try it out, see what it was like, make sure he knew how to use it, and he’d got a bowl of water and a towel and sat on the edge of his bed with his trousers rolled up. Paddling in hot tapwater, dabbling with the possible way of things.

The way he’d scooped out a handful of the cold grainy cream and rubbed it into the skin of his feet, circling across the arches and squeezing between the toes, enjoying the cold lick and tickle of it, pulling at the skin, working his thumbs along the lines of muscle between the bones, the way he’d varied the pressures, a fist twisted roughly into the hard skin of the heel, a finger running like a whisper along the tendons between ankle and toe. He remembers that evening, the excitement and fear and disbelief, sitting on the edge of his bed with his foot in his hands, thinking maybe soon it would be someone else’s foot, thinking maybe soon there would be someone else sitting on the edge of his bed, sitting beside him.

Lying beside him, sleeping beside him.

He remembers rinsing his feet in the hot water, padding damp footprints through to the bathroom, pouring the slow swirl of murky water down the sink.

He squeezes his eyes shut, he runs his knuckles along the open space between his lips.

He thinks about her, at this moment, in her house, a few thin walls away, packing her life into boxes and bags and he wonders what memories she is rediscovering, what thoughts are catching in her mouth like the dust blown from unused textbooks. He wonders if she has buried any traces of herself under her floorboards. He wonders what those traces would be if she had. And he wonders again why he thinks about her so much when he knows so little to think about.

Chapter 13

She doesn’t say anything, I wait and there’s only her breathing.

I can hear the television in the background, laughter, applause.

I’m not sure if she’s heard me, so I try to say it again.

I’m.

The words falter in my throat, all of the last few weeks trapped in the bottleneck of this moment.

I remember all the times I’ve thought about saying this.

I remember all the reactions I’ve imagined.

I say, mum, I’m pregnant.

There’s a pause, and I can hear the colour draining from her face.

It wasn’t going to be like this.

It hardly seems worth saying, but I’d planned it differently, I really had.

I was going to be ready, financially stable, emotionally prepared.

I was going to be living in a house by the sea.

I was going to be in a secure and loving relationship with a man who was creatively self-employed, a potter or a woodworker, somebody good with his hands.

I used to imagine the hands, strong, large hands crisscrossed with the scars and scratches of hard work, hands that would smell of fresh air and earth and wood.

I used to imagine long walks along wind-harried beaches, hand in hand, wrapped up warm, feeling the cold suck of salty air in my lungs and the bloom of a baby inside me.

I was going to be older than this.

That was mostly what I’d planned, being older than this.

She says congratulations you must be very pleased, and she sounds as though she almost means it.

I expected her to be shocked.

She says so when’s it due then, do you know, have you had a scan, are you eating plenty of green vegetables.