If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

I put my hand to my belly, imagining the knitting together of cells going on inside me, picturing the swelling of flesh and the stretching of skin, the shaping of limbs and fingers.

I imagine my body suddenly hollow again, a crying baby crushed hushingly against my face.

I imagine my baby’s first words, and they’re not spoken with a Scottish accent.

I wonder if perhaps I’ll become guilty about this, if I’ll feel obliged to teach my child about its heritage, if we’ll go to Scotland on holidays.

Perhaps we could live there, up amongst the long nights and hard rain and beautiful land, and I could raise a child with clean air in its lungs, and a broad accent, and a strong sense of place.

Maybe one day we could go to Aberdeen, and track down the waiter-boy, and I could say here, darling, this is where half the cells in your body have come from.

I find myself thinking happy families again, and I’m flooded for a moment with the taste of him, the feel of him, the delicious perfection of our passing moment.

And I scrub the image from my mind, like lipstick from a shirt, like graffiti from a wall.

I’m thinking about all this, sitting in my old living room, watching my dad watch the television, listening to my mother crash things about in the kitchen.

She offered to make a cup of tea, but I think really she just wanted to leave the room because I haven’t heard the kettle boiling for half an hour now.

I told her about him, about the boy in Aberdeen, and her politeness turned inside out like an umbrella in a storm.

Her face flushed hot and red and shiny, and I’m sure I heard the words you dirty wee something come gasping out before she clamped her hand to her mouth, and the words had a sharp accent running through them and she turned her face away.

She said, not looking at me, and have you spoken to him at all since then, has he been in touch?

I told her that he didn’t have my phone number, that I didn’t have his.

She said so that’s all it was then, a fling in the dark, a onenight stand and no precautions? and she made the last word rhyme with oceans.

I said mum, please, I’m not ashamed and I don’t want to apologise to you.

I said, but mum, I do need your help.

She looked at me then, when I said that, and he

r face softened and I thought I’d got through to her.

Oh but I thought you were an independent woman now she said.

I looked at her, and I realised that my jacket was folded across my lap, like a disguise.

Or like a shield.

I thought you were quite happily making it on your own she said, and her face hardened again as suddenly as a slamming door.

I didn’t know what to say.

I looked at my dad, but he was staring fixedly at the soundless television, his fingers scratching the arm of his chair.

She said how much do you need?

I said mum I’m not talking about money.

Nobody said anything for a while.

I looked at the ceiling and I blinked a lot, I swallowed hard, my eyes felt wet and I didn’t want them to.

I didn’t want my voice to wobble the next time I spoke.