Whatever it takes, p.7
Whatever It Takes, page 7
‘Six-fifteen.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Quite.’
In London the girls had all gone to the same primary school which was less than a mile from their old home and yet they’d always driven there. This was not something Eloise was especially proud of. Her excuse being that straight after drop-off she’d invariably go directly to the gym (or at least a coffee bar) and, besides, Erin had cello practice three times a week; dragging the instrument along with three (sometimes reluctant) children was a little like dragging a French aristocrat to the guillotine. She now saw that maybe she’d been spoilt. The proximity of their old school and the fact that she’d driven meant that the Hamilton females had been used to staying in bed until at least 7.45 a.m.
‘You must be insane, placing the girls at two separate schools and opting for a commute several times longer than the one you had in London.’
‘Maybe, but I fell in love with the inconveniently located Capcombe Primary School the moment I saw it, so did the girls. It’s warm and charming and the pupils seemed happy and laid-back.’
‘I remember it as a bit scruffy.’
‘Do you know that at Capcombe they have this tradition that every Friday the mothers take turns to make pudding for lunch?’ Eloise said, doing her best to ignore Sara’s slightly gloomy take.
‘You’ll hate that. There isn’t a Patisserie Valerie round the corner, you know. You’ll have to make something yourself.’
‘Well, only once a term. Anyway, Margaret will make it for me. She’s a great cook.’
‘Whenever I think of a country school, I always imagine a traditional building,’ Sara added. ‘You know, with a huge shiny bell in a tower and stone archways declaring separate entrances for boys and girls.’
The school was, in fact, a big old farmhouse that was built in the nineteen thirties and had become a school sometime in the eighties. Even Eloise had to admit that it didn’t look particularly special from the outside but the notable feature was that inside every single wall was painted in a different, but distinctly cheerful colour. It was very attractive.
‘The atmosphere is relaxed and fun. Do you remember the kids held open the doors for us to pass through when we were being shown around and the headmaster assured us that his greatest concern was for the children to feel safe and happy and valued? What’s not to love? Erin and Poppy are thrilled.’
Initially shy, when looking around last term, they’d soon un-furrowed their brows and slipped their hands out of Eloise’s; swapping her protection for the art corner and playhouse. They’d had an air about them that El had recognised from the years when she’d worked in advertising. She’d loved her hustle-bustle, sexy, high-profile job but there was nothing she’d liked more than coming home on a Friday and washing the city out of her hair, ordering a pizza and snuggling up in front of the TV with Mark. The relief of not having to try quite so hard and quite so constantly was fabulous. Providing her daughters with that Friday feeling, on a Monday morning, made her feel officially successful.
‘The children don’t wear uniform, I love that. It gives them the opportunity to be individuals.’
‘Or it gives them an excuse to pick on each other because so-and-so doesn’t have the latest pair of trainers.’
‘I don’t think that’s as important to the kids around here,’ El mumbled. ‘And you’ve got to love the fact that there’s a goat tethered up in the playground.’
‘Health risk,’ replied Sara.
‘It helps the children learn about responsibility.’
Sara simply tutted and muttered something about asking to see the books because the place didn’t look solvent.
Eloise understood why Sara could be so tetchy; being in the middle of IVF was stressful, but sometimes she just wished Sara would look on the bright side of things the way she used to. Eloise missed the Sara who would scatter reassurance and compliments throughout their conversations, like friends were supposed to. Eloise needed to believe it was all going to be OK.
‘So did you get as far down as Naples?’ Eloise asked, deftly changing the subject.
SEPTEMBER
6
‘Hello, it’s only me,’ Margaret called tentatively as she pushed open the back door and poked her head inside the kitchen. Margaret had knocked, but just once, very briefly and quietly. She didn’t really think family should have to knock but Mark said she must. She wasn’t actually expecting anyone to hear her anyway because they’d all be upstairs dashing about getting ready for school; she’d timed her visit carefully.
She started to clear the breakfast pots from the table, she scraped toast crusts into the bin, put lids back on the marmalade jars (noting that they ate an expensive brand and resolving to bring some of her own round), ran a big bowl of scalding water and started to hunt around for rubber gloves. Margaret could hear them overhead, rushing around the bedrooms, screaming for lost hair brushes or fussing about who was hogging the bathroom; the girls were always very dramatic and regularly threatened to kill one another. Margaret didn’t mind the noise. In fact, this domestic clatter was music to her ears. She heard Eloise’s footsteps on the stairs; she stayed at the sink, with her back to the door; this would give El a moment to compose herself when she discovered Margaret in her kitchen, which was better for both of them in the long run.
‘Gosh, Margaret, you made me jump out of my skin.’ Astonishment at finding her mother-in-law in her kitchen at 6.30 a.m. overrode any potential irritation Eloise might have felt.
Margaret turned and beamed at her daughter-in-law. ‘Sorry, my darling, I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought I’d pop by and give you a hand because Mark mentioned that this first month you’ve found mornings a bit of a stretch.’ Margaret knew that Eloise’s wish for everything to be perfect all the time meant that she was reluctant to ask for help; if you need help, you can’t be perfect, or so Eloise reasoned. That’s why Margaret hadn’t waited to be asked but had taken her prompt from Mark instead.
‘Did he now?’ Momentarily, Eloise looked vexed, insulted. No doubt she interpreted Mark’s comment as a judgement on her organisational skills, rather than what it was – a statement of fact. Margaret saw a rare burst of frailty and struggle exposed in her daughter-in-law’s irises. She knew it was wrong of her but Margaret wanted to do a little jig when she saw that flash of vulnerability because that was her opportunity to be a real help. Her only desire was to become indispensable.
‘Is Mark still in bed?’ asked Margaret.
‘No, he’s working really hard trying to get a handle on things. He’s already at the office, poor love,’ said Eloise dutifully.
‘On the other hand the office does give him a legitimate excuse to avoid the fractious, frantic family time,’ pointed out Margaret, smiling cheekily. Eloise saw she was not on trial and returned the smile. It didn’t ever take much to settle Eloise because of her deep craving for everything to be permanently OK. She put Margaret in mind of a cat, one moment content and purring, the next wary – hackles up – and then again, before you knew it, snuggled back on the mat again. They were both aware that their new close proximity was going to take some careful negotiating but both were determined to make it work.
Eloise was wearing leggings and a night dress. She had long blond curly hair that she’d carelessly scrunched up into a plastic clip. Yesterday’s mascara was smudged around her eyes which gave the impression that she was either a heroin user or that she’d done several rounds in the ring with some heavyweight boxer. Margaret knew the importance of standards. She never left the house without brushing her hair, dabbing on a bit of powder and checking her boots were clean, even when she was just going for a walk in her anorak. Margaret knew Eloise had standards too. Ones she was clearly struggling to maintain. Eloise seemed to be able to read Margaret’s mind because she admitted, ‘I am a bit behind this morning.’ She cast a glance around the kitchen and Margaret followed her gaze.
Normally Eloise’s home was a haven; calm, ordered and clean, but right now there was something littering every surface. Margaret knew El didn’t like the Formica tops but she doubted the chaos was a strategy to hide them. There were piles of old newspapers, an assortment of hair bands, books, pencils, empty sweet packets and recently purchased grocery shopping. The kitchen was littered with unfinished endeavours; a large jigsaw, sand pictures, paper doll dress designs and homework.
‘I know. Other people’s kitchens boast bread-making machines, juicers, toasters and espresso makers,’ joked Eloise.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ Margaret started to rinse out the cafetière.
‘I haven’t really got time.’ Eloise anxiously looked at her watch. Margaret started to prepare the coffee anyway, knowing Eloise wouldn’t be able to resist the smell of freshly ground filter beans, especially once she found out that Margaret had brought over chocolate-covered croissants from the bakery. Now where do they keep their coffee beans? Margaret wondered, searching in the cupboards, the fridge and the washing machine until eventually she found them in a canister. Margaret’s activity spurred on Eloise; she reached for the empty bread bag and put it in the bin, by way of a start.
‘Who put this plate in the bin?’ she asked as she delved in to retrieve a plate from the waste. ‘It’s Poppy’s breakfast plate.’ She turned to Margaret, bemused. Margaret stared back at her, equally perplexed.
‘I’ve never seen the plate before in my life.’
‘Look, and the marmalade. A full jar.’ Eloise reached back into the bin again and pulled out some knives, a teaspoon and another plate. Unfortunately the second plate was broken. She stared at Margaret, baffled.
‘One of the girls’ idea of a joke?’ Margaret suggested.
‘Weird,’ El muttered. She looked defeated and it was clear she hadn’t the energy to pursue the mystery. She put the crockery and cutlery to one side and then folded her slim body into a wooden chair; she’d found the only one that was clear of glossy magazines and school books. ‘I’m not sleeping too well,’ she mumbled.
‘Mark’s heavy breathing?’ Margaret asked. They shared a conspiratorial glance and giggled. They both knew Mark snored but he would never admit to it.
‘I suppose declaring you snore is a little like coming clean about Botox or even colonic irrigation, far too human and flawed,’ said Eloise loyally.
‘Has he had Botox?’ Margaret couldn’t hide her distress.
‘No.’ El laughed. ‘I’m just saying that I understand.’
Did that mean that Eloise had had Botox? Margaret couldn’t very well ask, but it bothered her.
‘It’s not surprising that he sleeps so deeply, our days here in Dartmouth are extremely physical. We get up earlier than we did in London, we walk further. Why hadn’t I noticed that Dartmouth is on a hill – several hills, actually? Steps, stairways, slopes and steeps are now a way of life.’ Eloise was trying to strike a note that would suggest she was laughing at herself. Margaret was fully aware of the saying ‘If you don’t laugh you’ll cry’.
‘On the bright side you’ll have buns of steel by Christmas.’ Margaret offered this phrase as she’d heard it used on TV. She liked it, and she thought Eloise would too.
‘Yes, if I can get past the stage where I simply have jelly legs that quake with fatigue. You’d think I’d sleep soundly after all that but, somewhat pitifully, the exertion simply leaves me ratty and exhausted.’
‘There’s bound to be a period of adjustment. You need to get used to the air and the darkness,’ Margaret said carefully. She handed her daughter-in-law a mug of coffee and the croissants. ‘There, I’ve put lots of sugar in, just the way you like it.’
‘But I don’t take— Thank you, Margaret.’ Eloise took the mug and smiled. Galvanised, she stood up. ‘OK, are you ready for the onslaught?’
Both women went upstairs and were immediately met by demands; Emily wanted help finding her homework, Erin had lost her Rubik’s Cube and Poppy wanted her hair styled in a French plait. Eloise hunted down the lost bits and bobs while Margaret persuaded Poppy that a French plait was a bit ambitious at this time in the morning and she’d have to settle for a couple of bunchies instead. Once that was done Margaret ushered Poppy downstairs and found Eloise and the other two waiting.
‘Wow, I love the hair, Poppy,’ El gushed.
‘Bunchies,’ declared Poppy proudly.
Eloise beamed. ‘OK, let’s go, here are your snacks and bags. Let’s get this show on the road. We might actually be on time today.’ At the door she stopped and turned to Margaret. ‘Thanks so much. You’ve been a treasure this morning. I couldn’t have done it without you.’ El blew a kiss and the girls copied her, even Emily.
Margaret thought that if she were to die that moment, she’d die a happy woman.
7
IVF was the acronym for in vitro fertilisation, the direct translation from the Latin ‘in glass’. Sara knew this, because – obviously – the fertilisation took place in a lab (think test tube), not inside the mother’s body. So, obviously, there was no sex involved – well, other than the thing Charlie had to do in a cubicle. Initially, Sara used to insist that he took a photo of her in there with him, now she didn’t care if his prop was a grubby, dog-eared magazine with pictures of women with implausibly large boobs, as long as it did the job. Charlie used to joke that IVF was a long, hard process in more ways than one but as time passed the joke had proven to be too painfully accurate to be repeated.
First, there were the injections, then there was the egg retrieval (to freeze or not to freeze – Sara’s big existential question). Once collected (retrieved, harvested, excavated – there were a number of euphemisms), the eggs were combined with sperm, left to culture and then transferred back to the woman’s womb for implantation.
Simple.
Really? Sara could quote the brochure without hesitation. ‘The collection of the egg takes place after the cycle has been closely monitored and prior to ovulation.’ It sounded straightforward and sanitised; Sara had discovered that a rough translation was that there were numerous scans, hospital visits, a bout of sedation and at least twenty minutes of poking around.
The mixing it up bit? Before they realised that they had a problem with making babies Sara used to imagine that somehow it would be possible to know which particular session had led to creating the new life. Of course, she knew this couldn’t always be the case, there were instances where girls and women gave birth and claimed they didn’t even realise they were pregnant until they’d found themselves in Superdrug with a bag of Pampers under their arms. However, there were a huge number of women out there who swore they were aware of the exact moment fertilisation took place. Eloise was one such woman. Eloise was certain that Emily had been conceived in a hotel in Brighton, during a romantic weekend break to celebrate the welcoming of the new millennium. Sara had heard her friend talk about fireworks exploding and huge cheers beneath the hotel window; she’d had to explain to El that both of those things were to do with the dawn of the millennium and not Mark’s impressive performance. Erin was conceived in Dartmouth, in the back of Mark’s father’s scruffy old Land Rover. Margaret and Ray had been babysitting Emily and, as a couple with a toddler and very little time to themselves, they’d both thought it was best to seize the opportunity while they could. Eloise had said it was so good that she’d almost been able to ignore the stench of the dirty crabbing buckets that Ray kept in his vehicle, almost. Poppy was the result of an inexpertly secured condom. They’d attended a boozy industry bash where Mark had impressed some important client or other; they were both high on his success and a considerable amount of champagne. El described the night of passion as one that was carefree and careless. She’d laughed when she’d said this and Sara would have laughed too, if it was her story. An unplanned-for pregnancy – some people had all the luck.
Sara had imagined that she and Charlie would conceive in a hot country while on holiday somewhere exotic and yet soulful. They’d have spent their day meditating, feeding one another kiwi fruit, pineapple and ackee and perhaps indulging in a couple’s massage. They’d have made love on the beach (a private beach, this wasn’t the moment to be an exhibitionist) with waves crashing in the background and the sun beating down on their bare skin. As things stood now, their baby would inherit the story that he/she was the result of an intracytoplasmic sperm injection (ICSI, between friends). Sara didn’t care! She didn’t care how it was done, her romantic dreams had been flushed down the loo (over and over again, every twenty-eight days for the past six years, to be precise), just please, please let it happen.
Sara was finding work slow today, which was a shame. She’d have preferred to have been busy, then time would pass faster. Really, all she wanted to do was go home, get into bed, pull the duvet over her head and wait. Wait. Wait. She didn’t feel safe being out and about with crowds of people who were all prepared to trample on their grannies for a few extra centimetres of elbow room in the Tube. Plus, everyone was coughing and spluttering; it might be late summer hay-fever or it might be the first bout of autumn colds and, while there was no evidence that a cold was in any way harmful to the IVF process, Sara didn’t want to risk it. She wouldn’t be in work except for the fact that Charlie had more or less pushed her out the door this morning. He was certain that lying around in bed wouldn’t help, and carrying on as normal was the best thing they could do. Sara was finding his common sense damned irritating.
Her thoughts were interrupted when her boss asked, ‘And how are you today, Sara?’
‘Fine,’ she replied, with the honed British reserve that excuses dishonesty. She couldn’t very well tell Jeremy that she was terrified, excited, expectant and full of dread; it was not something a managing partner of one of the big four London accounting firms expected to hear from his senior management. When he’d asked her how she was today the last thing he expected was a genuine answer.
