My Imaginary Friend

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I’m beginning to feel as though I’ve got an imaginary friend. I talk about him all the time, and require my friends and family to listen. I talk to him, although he never replies, and I don’t expect him to. I find him entirely fascinating, and am convinced that he’s uncommonly beautiful and talented, even though I’ve never actually set eyes on him. He has a name; but he didn’t tell me it, I just made it up.

I refer, of course, to my unborn child.

My burgeoning relationship with him has something in common with my relationship with my cat. “She thinks such-and-such,” I say, even though what my cat thinks is one of the great Known Unknowns of my life. Therefore, I feel as though I’m actually being anthropomorphic in the way I talk about my son – even though, if the scans are to be believed, he is quite literally human-shaped.

This, of course, is the way it’s got to be. If parents didn’t talk to their babies as if they could understand, none of us would ever learn to talk. If we weren’t obsessed by them and willing to cater for their every need, the human race would very quickly come to an end. (Which Gaia, beset as she is by her infestation, might deem a Good Thing, but my Selfish Genes wouldn’t agree. See? Anthropomorphism – a game everyone can play.)

I think the pre-birth construction of an imagined relationship is, actually, specific to mothers – in its intensity, at least. It’s the instinctive desire to be close to one’s children. Perhaps it’s partly due to the physical reality of having a small being booting you in the guts every now and then; some fairly intense psychological resetting is necessary in order to make you happy about that.

“Happy Fathers’ Day!” I said to Baby’s Daddy a couple of weekends ago.

“Jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you?” he said.

“You mean the paternity test hasn’t come through yet?” said his brother.

But I knew what I meant, and what he meant, and with a seven-month bump you aren’t a mother-to-be, not really. You’re a mother already. You just don’t quite know who your child is.

In Nick Hornby’s “A Long Way Down”, one of the protagonists has a profoundly disabled son who has no ability to communicate. She invents a character for him – desires, personality, preferences in sports and music – and decorates his bedroom according to what that imagined character would want.

Question is, do we all do that? And doesn’t it hurt when children don’t turn out to be as we imagine them, even if there’s nothing actually wrong with the way they are? After all, we hate to have to change what we think.  The cliché of the child who doesn’t meet his parents’ expectations is so embedded in our culture that decades ago Monty Python satirised it by imagining the Working Class Playwright whose son appals him by going into mining. Sometimes, the mismatch between the real and imagined reality is so great that parents have only got two ways out of it. Either they can reject the reality of their parenthood – throwing the child out of the house with the traditional dismissal, “You’re no son of mine!” or, more commonly, refusing to believe the reality of the way the child has turned out – becoming another cliché, the mother of an unremarkable man who thinks her son is a genius.

But maybe it isn’t generally that way. Much as we like stasis, we expect our children to change. Therefore we ought to be able to deal with a gradual transition in terms of how we see them, from the imagined, in-utero version, to, hopefully, something more grounded in reality. Since babies are, after all, genuine people, I suppose they can’t help but to start to think and act for themselves. And that ought to be a good thing for us.

Perhaps, every time they reject a carefully-chosen toy in favour of a paper bag, or start to beam and nod their little heads in time to “Nights in White Satin” (insert your least favourite musical offering here) our children are actually helping us to come to terms, bit by bit, with the world being the way it is, and not the way we’d like it to be.

 

 

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Being a Kidult

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I was a kidult in my thirties. My God! I excelled at it. As I’ve said before, I spent at least some of my time cracking up. When I wasn’t doing so, I put the same sort of boundless passion into singing and related activities; I somehow managed to employ the relatively well-behaved worlds of folk and choral music as vehicles for boozing and staying up late in strange places. (And I’d never been all that much of a wild child.)

Needless to say, I was a terrible employee. As well as the odd day wiped out by hangover, there were a great many bolshie fights with people further up the pile than me. This was at a time when most of my colleagues were either caring for their children, or for their elderly parents. But this just made me worse. They, I reasoned, had laudible and unselfish motives to be good and avoid getting into trouble; with no such responsibilities, I was as badly-behaved as I liked. I somehow managed to hang onto my job… until I packed it in.

I dressed out of charity shops, cooked scrappy meals from random things in the fridge, and consoled myself for their shortcomings with chocolate biscuits and wine. My constant prayer, if I’d had one, might have been the traditional supplication: “Oh, Lord, make me good…but not yet.”

After all this, what better way to rehabilitate myself (in my own eyes, at least) than to become a Mum? To put myself, rather belatedly, in the next generation up, giving myself absolute responsibility for another person’s physical and emotional wellbeing? Wouldn’t I be a grown-up then? (And, hey, it’s an obvious manifestation of some Adult Pastimes.)

Perhaps it was when my mother was chasing me round a beach squealing “Come out of there, now!” that I realised it doesn’t necessarily work like that.

It turns out that a woman in her first pregnancy is in a curious in-between stage, part child and part adult. She is, as I’ve said, welcomed into the fold of mothers with many open, practised arms, but in that context she is a novice and is treated as such. Second-hand cots and baby clothes come packaged in advice and travellers’ tales. She is cossetted, sometimes almost symbolically. Are you cold? Are you comfortable? I think it’s time you had a rest.

Am I complaining? Good Lord, no. Occasionally it can be irritating. There have been one or two social occasions where I’ve felt that I’ve been irrevocably relegated to the Women-and-Children corner and nobody is ever going to talk to me about anything interesting EVER AGAIN; and, being a chronological adult, I reserve the right to disobey any recommendation that I disagree with. However, to be honest, I like the attention, and it’s generally such a manifestation of love and positivity that it’d be churlish to grumble.

Besides, being treated as a child in an entirely positive way gives you carte blanche to enjoy behaving like a child. Sandcastles. Ice-cream. Silly games. The tendency to reject things because they’re “so babyish”, which we develop when we’re really still babies, is, it turns out, as limiting as the adolescent tendency to reject things because they’re not cool. It’s completely normal, and perhaps we need to do it, but it’s liberating to cast it off.

So to return to being chased round the beach. We were on a family holiday on the west coast of Scotland. My nieces, who seem to be made of asbestos, had splashed into the sea, the previous day, grinning broadly as they immersed themselves in the bone-chilling waves. Out of bravado and a desire not to be outdone, I said I was going to do the same, and I put on my borrowed maternity tankini and waded out. Bloomin’ heck, it was cold.

I was up to my knees when my mother started shouting “Come out of there, now! That’s far enough!”

“What’s the matter?” I said, wading back (I did intend to go back in).

“The sea’s FULL of jellyfish! Just look at them!” And she tried to seize my arm and pull me back out.

“They’re harmless!” I said, skittering away from her and giggling, “they’re moon jellyfish. It says so in the Spotter’s Guide to the Seashore.” I doubled back. She was too quick; she managed to grab hold of me and, to avoid a full-on wrestle, I had to let her literally push me back up the beach away from the terrifying depths with their nameless, threatening creatures waiting therein, while the rest of the family laughed their heads off. It was much too cold to go in properly, anyway.

What, after all, is being childish? What is being a grown-up? One of the greatest things about growing older is that you realise how much you’re allowed to pick and choose the good bits from any situation you find yourself in. So – yes, not having got there yet, I’m led to believe that mothers can’t re-adopt all childish tendencies. Utter irresponsibility, for example, and – well, I was going to say, “wetting yourself” but I’m also led to believe you don’t always get the choice. Never mind. However, maternity gives you the latitude to embrace the positive childish side that you didn’t think you were allowed any more: being silly, and finding delight and amusement in simple things; allowing yourself to accept other people’s care and love. Living in the moment, even though, as an adult, you know it’s transitory. Maybe, it turns out, in order to look after a child, you’ve got to learn how to enjoy being one yourself.

 

 

My Bump and the Bottle

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I miss booze – but only in a symbolic way.

I’d never have thought that it would be like this. For decades, my relationship with alcohol has been intensely affectionate and largely untroubled. Booze has been the slightly raffish friend who sometimes leads you into disreputable or ill-advised places, but whom you always forgive, because, after all, you’ve had such a good time together. When social gatherings threatened to become awkward or dull, I was always pleased to see it. When it wasn’t there, I missed it. Sometimes, affected by dire warnings, I’d keep my distance from it for a while, just to show I could; but I was always cheered by the thought that it wouldn’t be for long.

Tales of love for the bottle often end with messy regrets; but increasingly, my relationship with booze became cosy rather than dramatic. Like long-standing lovers, we could spend an evening together without fireworks or loss of sleep. I was as happy at home with a good book as I was propping myself up in a bar – well, happier, actually – as long as I had a glass of wine by my side.

So I’d always wondered, humanity being as fallible and weak-willed as it is, how on earth the medical profession has managed to make pregnant women give it up. I mean, look how badly they do with exercise! “Just twenty minutes three times a week,” they plead, “a short walk round the block – a little low-intensity yoga…the wafer-thin mint of physical activity…” and people sigh as they collapse back into their comfy chairs and say “Not for me. I haven’t got time.” If I ever envisaged myself getting pregnant, I couldn’t imagine giving up my constant friend for nine months. It would have felt like betraying it.

How strange it is that I don’t miss it! Isn’t it odd that, as never before, I can sip orange juice while others down pints? Provided, that is, that they don’t breathe beery fumes at me.

But I am of the culture I live in, and a drink isn’t always just a drink. A few weeks ago there was a Family Celebration. All the cousins I hadn’t seen for years were there with the children I hadn’t met, and we had a lovely laugh at things we used to think hilarious when we were teenagers, and everyone said “Ooh, you’re showing.”

When the tall glasses of fizzy wine came round I really wanted to take one, because then I’d be able to join in the drinking of toasts properly, instead of pretending, with the wrong kind of drink in the wrong kind of glass. But I didn’t want to have to drink the wine, because it would smell sharp and yeasty, and taste of corruption, and would make me feel tired and sick. Then, later, I might burp and taste it all over again, which would be even worse.

In “The Starlight Barking,” the sequel to “101 Dalmatians”, all the dogs on earth have been recruited by the Dog Star, Sirius, while humans fall into an enchanted sleep. The dogs have no desire to eat or drink, but are content merely to follow their leader. At one point, Missis, one of the protagonists, says to her mate Pongo that she misses peppermint creams. It’s not that she wants one, or would eat one if she could; what she misses is the desire to eat them.

That’s the way I feel about the sort of drinking that means something. I miss the delicious anticipation for the Friday-night beer that says Down Tools, or the glass of wine that says Special Dinner, or the pint in the pub at the end of a long walk that says “Well done!”

My body’s been good to me; for the sake of my passenger it’s liberated me from a desire that would always have been frustrated. But there’s something oddly disorienting about not wanting to join in with a rite of family or community, and I hope I get it back in the end.

The Sticky Embrace

I’ve never done anything as quintessentially female as this in my life. Any fool could have got him/herself a wedding dress, for goodness’ sake. And yes, I do sing quite high, but so do grotty little boys with scabby knees. Being with child, however, with very few exceptions in humankind, is entirely, earthily feminine. I’m blossoming, like the spring. Developing young hillocks.

The only problem is that I’m such an old bag. I’m in pretty good health for my age – hey, I seem to be functioning – but there’s very little of youthful bloom about me. I’ve got friends of about my age with grown-up children! Who were born when I was younger than they are now! Cripus. I feel rather less like this

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than this

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However, from everyone else’s point of view, that doesn’t really seem to matter. The other day I went to get my hair cut. I haven’t got a complicated haircut. My hair’s dead straight and rather fine, and it won’t grow long, and it works out better if I pretend that’s the way I wanted it. So I have it sliced off at jaw level. It should really only take a couple of strokes of the shears.

But when I left I saw that I’d been in there over an hour!

My first reaction was one of Puritan guilt. Hadn’t I got Stuff to Do? And.. surely I’m not the kind of woman who spends hours in the hairdressers? What on earth had happened to me?

I’d been welcomed into a feminine embrace, of course. Everyone in there was really happy to talk about all the pregnancies they’d known, how big the bumps were at given points, how the mothers had fared, etc. Whether they, the young girls of Psyche Hairdressing, thought they might have children themselves (yes, of course) and when (not now – not until they were twenty-two or so). I probably encouraged them to talk. I was enjoying my moment in the spotlight, enthroned like a pot-bellied Buddha, surrounded by women wanting to celebrate my fecundity.

Likewise, the mothers among my family and friends really wanted to take me with them. I understand that there is a wardrobe of maternity clothes which have been passed from woman to woman in my generation; they’re knocking around Hull at the moment, and when I get a bit bigger I will be entitled to claim them. Passing things on is rarely just about generosity, is it? Sometimes it’s a sort of statement of solidarity. The passed-on possessions carry an implication of shared identity. It would be simpler to give the clothes to Oxfam, but that wouldn’t help to reinforce the maternal group hug. Maybe that’s why you don’t find that many maternity clothes in charity shops.

Curiously, therefore, despite being described as “elderly” for the first time in my life, I’m also, for the first time in my life, defined as a woman not by how old I am but by what I’m doing. And there is something really quite hopeful about that.

Reaching through Despair

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A few years ago, I was staying at my aunt’s flat in Edinburgh. Probably, she was away for the weekend and I had gone up to check on my grandmother, who lives nearby. In the morning, I found that she had left some yoghurt and cereal for me, and instructions to pick some raspberries from her garden.

Outside, the morning sun struck through the spires of lavender, alive with bees. As I stepped through the french windows into the garden, the flags were warm underfoot. The raspberries were at blood-heat; crushed against my tongue, they tasted like a concentrate of summer. Bowl in hand, I flung myself down upon the grass and basked in the sun.

But, although every sense was gratified by that lovely, teeming garden, in the fullness of its midsummer glory, nothing could soothe or blind me to my ever-present distress.

I was an anxious child and a histrionic teenager. In my late twenties, the anxiety hardened into a paralysing despair. Concerns about climate change, the future of societies and, above all, artificial intelligence, obsessed me so much that I gradually withdrew from thinking too hard; it always led me to reiterate my despair. I came to fear any reminders of it, even though it was omnipresent. I was scared to read the news in case it featured a story about technology. I was scared to use public transport in case I ended up trapped next to someone using a smartphone.

Sometimes, during my thirties, I functioned reasonably well. I hung on to some of my old friends, and even made some new ones, which says a lot about the tolerance and kindness of the people I know. I did a lot of singing, and held down a proper job for a while.

At other times despair made me intemperate. Since I was constantly obsessed with hopeless thoughts, almost anything could make me break down entirely. Kindness and unkindness alike, and above all, music, would take away the last of my self-control, and I would weep and rage at anyone who would listen, and many who wouldn’t, perhaps, have chosen to. (It is a sad fact that nobody will ever be able to give a very depressed person quite as much attention as she is able to absorb.)

During those years, whenever anyone announced a pregnancy to me, I was hard pressed not to reply, “What on earth do you want to do that for?” What stopped me was not so much consideration for my friends’ feelings, as an unwillingness to give my terrors life by talking about them. Children represent the future; therefore, the idea of bringing people into the world who would be growing up in the terrifying, dark and insecure future of my imagining seemed too dreadful to contemplate. Certainly I didn’t think I would ever have children. I was haunted by the climactic event in Toni Morrison’s classic novel “Beloved”: the protagonist, Sethe, who has escaped slavery and knows she is about to be recaptured, kills her baby daughter, Beloved, to save her from it. It wasn’t, of course, that I thought my comfortable life had, or was likely to have, much in common with that of a nineteenth-century slave; what I recognised was the despair. We sometimes read sad little stories in the news of mothers who kill their children and then themselves. I feared for what the future might do to my hypothetical children, but I also feared what I might do to them.

What changed? It was a gradual rather than a sudden process. A lot of people did me a lot of good turns, and I had a couple of strokes of good luck, and my friends, family and husband showed their affection and care for me to be so resilient that I had to reassess my belief that anything good must be shifting and insecure. Last autumn I found myself, almost by chance, associating with various environmental campaigners and academics and having lots of fun talking and arguing about sustainable development – albeit not making all that much money. For the first time in decades I found myself in a position where thinking was  – interesting, rather than terrifying; laudable, rather than transgressive.

Which is probably why the effort needed not to get pregnant didn’t seem so important any more, because I wasn’t spending so much time in the pits of despair.  Which is why I became pregnant.

My reaction to this was, predictably, not jubilant; but nor was it appalled. I assumed that I would simply have the pregnancy terminated and that my life would return to the semi-stasis that I had decided was tolerable.

Then I dithered horribly.

“I’m more interested in you than I am in any other hypothetical person you might produce,” said my husband, “and I don’t want to be a father if you don’t want to be a mother.”

I didn’t know the answer to his implicit question. I asked carefully-selected friends what to do about it. Not happy mothers, oh, God, no. Hardly any parents at all. Childless people of my own age or older, mostly; nobody who I thought would be likely to undermine my determined nihilism. And, damn their eyes, they nearly all told me to keep it.

Or, perhaps, after all, that’s what I wanted them to tell me. Why? Because if they told me not to, they would be supporting and reinforcing my own despair. I realised that, while all the reasons for keeping the baby – a new phase of my own life, giving someone else a pitch at existence – were positive, the only reason I had for not keeping it – to avoid a horrific future – was entirely, unremittingly, negative.

(This isn’t, by the way, an essay about the redemptive power of rejecting abortion. It’s every woman’s right to decide what she wants to do with her own reproductive organs. It’s an essay about the redemptive power of rejecting despair.)

And so I came to cling, gratefully, to everything that my friends said that opened up the possibility of a new and more hopeful way of being: me believing that my child could have a happy existence.

I can’t remember the exact words one of them said to me, but it was something like this:

“But we never know how long we have in this world. What we know is that it’s here, now. And don’t you think – when you look outside – that it is so beautiful,  that it makes it worth living in, for however short a time? That maybe – that’s enough?”

I thought about that when, almost lightheaded with nausea, I took the train through the Tyne Valley to meet an old friend – one of the mothers whose advice I’d shunned. I was looking forward to telling her about the baby; and the weak winter sun, breaking through the clouds, lit up the grass in the sodden fields next to the curve of the river, and the slender graceful trees which fringe it. So much beauty and so much love for my child to bask in.

The Weeping Wall

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“I’ve got something to tell you,” said my mother, on the phone, “you remember my Auntie Shirley? She was at Nanna’s funeral.”

I remembered: a little woman, wrapped around in trailing layers of black drapery. Above her pinched face, a shabby fur pillbox hat, brownish and sparse around the edges. When I took her hand, it laid passively within mine; it was curiously clammy, as though she’d been wearing wet gloves. Close up, there was a wood-litter smell of damp.

“Yes, I remember,” I said.
“She’s died.”
“Oh.. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I didn’t know her very well. But there’s good news for you. Auntie Sylvia says she’s left the house to you.”

“What?” I looked around our tiny kitchen, with bills and junk mail and half-empty packets of biscuits piled on every surface, and the pans that had to live on the draining-board because there was nowhere else to put them. Janine said, once, “We can’t stay here. We need more space for the baby,” and I said, “Ok, short of winning the Lottery, you got any great ideas?”

“But doesn’t anyone else want it?” I said.
“Stephen, there isn’t anyone else. There was only Shirley and Nanna. Shirley didn’t have any children herself, of course. Then there was only me and Sylvia. And Shirley wouldn’t have left anything much to Sylvia. She was jealous of her.”

Auntie Sylvia spent the 1980s building up a modest cosmetics business whose value multiplied after the A-list discovered her Wonderfull Instant Lip Lift; she sold it to L’Oreal and bought an estate in the Cotswolds. You still sometimes see adverts for Wonderfull in airports.

“I dare say there’ll be some money to pay,” said my mother, “what-do-you-call-it, death duties or whatever. But anyway.. it’s not even very far from where you are now, so.. well, talk to Janine..”
“She’ll be over the moon,” I said.
“You don’t sound it yourself!”
“No.. it’s great news. Amazing. Totally. Just all a bit of a surprise. Might need a while to get my head round it.”

Am I making it up, or did I have an idea, even then, that it wasn’t as great news as all that? If I did, I couldn’t bring myself to admit it. I’d already shaken Janine out of her little cocoon on our bed, and I was telling her, wake up, listen, we’re moving house!

It wasn’t quite as simple as that, of course. There were legal hurdles to leap over, and things to sign, but eventually we got the keys to the house. Janine would have been about six months gone by then. We drove straight over, giggling.

It had been a wet summer and the street, with its trees in full leaf, had a dank, halflit air about it. The end house, with its slightly flaking olive-green door, was ours.

The first thing that struck me, once we’d got through the resisting door, was the cold smell of neglect. I remembered it from last time we were flat-hunting: the places where the previous tenant had flitted, or the owner had let it stand empty. Sometimes it’s masked by cleaning products, but it’s always there.

In the hallway, a snail trail snaked across the tiled floor. The once-floral wallpaper was beginning to peel away from the walls; one corner hung down like a dog-ear in a mistreated book.

“Needs a bit of an airing,” I said, “it’ll be fine when we’ve got the heating on.”
But there wasn’t any heating. There was one of those old-fashioned gas fires in the living-room, with jets in a grubby whitish matrix. After a bit of fiddling around it lurched into life, but only half of it came on.

Mum and Sylvia had removed anything they wanted themselves, and anything that was beyond use, so the place was sparsely-furnished. There was a sagging brown sofa in the living-room; an empty bookcase and a wobbly wooden bedstead in one bedroom; a tall, dark, coffin-like wardrobe and an iron bedstead, its springs deeply hammocked, in another. On the second floor, there were two more rooms under the eaves. In one, there was a bent-wood rocking chair, and a child’s bedstead with a painted motif on the headboard: a little boy, cartoonishly drawn with goggling eyes and two hot red spots on his cheeks, offering a bunch of lilies to a little golden-haired girl, who turned away, smirking.

“This can be the baby’s room!” Janine said.
“You reckon?” I looked around it. There were tangled clots of cobwebs on the window, and fingers of ivy reaching up to it on the outside, so that the room was half-lit. I tried to open the window, but it was stuck fast.

In the next room there was nothing but cardboard boxes, trunks and suitcases, piled high upon one another. They seemed to be full of books and loose papers, yellowing round the edges; a musty reek hung in the air.

“Let’s have a look,” said Janine. She’s a beachcomber; she looks under rocks, not because she necessarily thinks there’s going to be treasure underneath, but because it would be such a shame if there were, and she hadn’t thought to look. She was already on her knees, leafing through the first box.

“Gas bills.. boring. Christ, they go back years. Why do people keep all this rubbish? ‘Leccy bills.. she kept them down, didn’t she? Oh, God, she was one of those people who never gets rid of a receipt. I mean, who could be bothered? They just.. expand. Oh! Look, photos.”

She was holding up a dusty album, dark brown in colour, with black corners, and the word “PHOTOGRAPHS” embossed on the front. Over her shoulder, I caught glimpses of tall-haired women standing rather stiffly in formal clothes, next to vases of flowers; wedding parties with the bride, centre-left, a ghostly presence among her black-clad family. There was an ornate shop front, bearing the words “W.WRIGHT, GROCER”; before the window, a moustached paterfamilias, his wife with a baby in her arms, and men and girls in long white aprons. Nanna’s father’s shop.

Janine flicked on for a bit. “Oh!” she said,”is that your mum?”

She was pointing at a picture of two little girls, their bobbed hair rather severely parted and secured with hairbands of ribbon. The younger was smiling broadly into the camera; the older one looked sternly into the middle distance.

“Erm.. no, can’t be,” I said, “looks too early. Maybe it’s Nanna and Shirley.”

The next page showed a surprised-looking baby, perhaps a few months old. It had been propped into a high chair for the photo, but didn’t look comfortable. It was slumped over sideways, as old people in nursing homes sometimes sit.

“One of them?” asked Janine.
“Must be,” I said, “I bet it’s Shirley. She doesn’t look happy.”

There weren’t very many more photos in the album: a few more of the girls, carefully brushed and dressed; and then a picture of the shopkeeper, in the uniform we know from the films: Nanna’s father on his way to war.

“I don’t think he came back,” I said.

After that, there were a few blank pages before the end.

We moved in properly a couple of weeks later, when the lease on our flat expired. We bought a mattress and put it in the iron bedstead, but it dipped in so badly in the middle that Janine and her bump kept on rolling into me in the night, and we would wake up stiff and squashed, each of us trying to push the other uphill; so we put the mattress on the floor.

One morning, soon after we’d moved in, I woke up to hear the rain battering against the windows. They rattled in their frames. Janine, curled next to me, muttered “Nooooo!” and huddled within it again. A few minutes later, when she’d had to come up for air, she said,

“Look! The wall’s weeping.”
“What do you mean?”
“Weeping. Like a graze. Look -” she pointed over to the bottom of the wall, underneath the windowsill. In among the faded rosebuds on the wallpaper, there was a rough band of glistening droplets; as we watched,they seemed to grow fatter and heavier, like tears welling up, and two of them merged together and slipped away to the skirting-board.

“We’re going to have to do something about that,” said Janine. “If it’s like that now..”

She gets things done, does Janine, when she’s on form. She did a bit of googling and a bit of ringing-round, and that afternoon she’d got someone to look at it.

His name was Aaron. He was one of those men who looks like they’ve been stretched, and haven’t enjoyed the experience: all bones and knuckles, with dark lugubrious eyes gazing out of a long, semi-shaven face. Christopher Ecclestone painted by El Greco. Without explaining himself, he paced through the house, tapping on walls, and at times pulling aside the wallpaper to inspect the plaster behind. When he did so, a crumbly whitish substance fell off the back of the paper and scattered on the ground.

“Just bought it?” he said.
“Inherited. From my great-aunt.”
“Ah.” He went on his way without speaking – tapping, probing, feeling – up to the attic floor. We stood on the landing, wondering if we should follow him and potentially look mistrustful, or stay behind and look witless.

Eventually he reappeared. “Well,” he said, “it’s difficult to tell.”
“Tell what?” said Janine.”
“What’s the root of the problem. It might be rising damp; but depends if there’s a damp-proof course. If there is it’s probably not that. First thing is to see if there is. But the plaster’s damp throughout the house, so there’ll be work to do on it whatever. Might be coming through the walls or the roof or the windows. Won’t be cavity-wall insulation, this age of house.”

Change began quickly. Aaron returned with instruments which he stuck into the walls at various heights; he returned with a whole team of men and started stripping the plaster away from the walls on the ground floor. It fell away from the walls in slabs, and crumbled like stale biscuits. If anything, the house felt even damper.

“Soaked through,” said Aaron. “Probably been like that for years. No central heating. You want to get someone to look at that gas fire. Might be dangerous.”
He arranged for someone he knew to inspect the fire, who condemned it. Now, as the nights closed in, we shuffled from room to room, toting electric heaters. Our bed felt clammy, so we slept in tracksuits. We were slow and melancholy, and trailed blankets. We were turning into Shirley.

“That’s the thing about houses,” said my mother. “They stay the way they are as long as you don’t poke around in them. Then things come out of the woodwork.”

Things weren’t just coming out of the woodwork. Rain was weeping through the walls; ivy was pushing through the windows.

Janine developed a persistent cough; when she was struck by a particularly violent paroxysm her bump shook. “It’s making the baby jump,” she said. At night, her breathing was heavy and rasping.

The very next week, she went into labour. She managed very well, with much less swearing than you would have thought justified.

“Can we call him Peter?” she said. The two of them had been cleaned up a bit and were lying wrapped in fresh sheets; the baby looked more exhausted than she did.
“Don’t see why not,” I said, “any particular reason?”
“Oh, he just looked like a Peter to me. Don’t you think?”
“Peter,” said a passing nurse, “aah, that’s my dad’s name. You’ll be looking forward to getting home, won’t you?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Janine.

Within a couple of days of our return to Auntie Shirley’s, the place was full of washing. Tiny jumpers and sleep-suits and muslins hung over the banisters and the backs of chairs. Alongside its usual smell of mould, the house took on an extra reek of milk and urine.

Peter wouldn’t sleep; at night one or the other of us would walk him round the house. “This is going to be a nice, warm, tidy house when you’re bigger,” I told him, “and this” – pushing open the door of the attic bedroom with my foot – is going to be your room. Look at that funny bed with that silly boy on it! And this “ – taking him into the box-room – “is full of boring old paperwork, which you can’t read anyway, but it’s really boring if you can. But there’s some pictures in this book which you can look at. Look, here’s your great-Nanna and her sister –”

Peter howled as loudly as I’d ever heard him, and deafeningly close to my ear. “Ok, ok,” I said, “no need for that. No need at all. Let’s go back downstairs.” In trying to close the album, one-handed, I dislodged the baby photo, which landed face down. I picked it up and read, in pencil on the reverse, “Peter, 1938.”

For some reason – sleep deprivation, anxiety, whatever – this terrified me; I shoved the photo roughly back between the pages of the album, and then I took Peter, our Peter, downstairs, and to my relief he stopped crying almost as soon as we had left the boxroom.

The wall continued to weep. “If it was just the DPC you’d expect it to be getting a bit better by now,” said Aaron. “Might want to have a look at the windows. Could be leaking from the outside.”

So the plaster around the windows came off, too; beneath the ones in the attic room and our room, there were narrow gaps, only the breadth of a little finger, through which a cold draught ran. “I’ll have to have a look at that for you,” said Aaron. He looked mournfully at Peter, momentarily silent in Janine’s arms. “I’ll try to get it sorted quickly’s I can,” he said.

We moved our mattress to the other bedroom; when we lifted it, its underside was deeply stained with concentric patterns of damp, like sickly flowers.

That night Peter started to cough, too. It kept him awake, so it kept us awake, too. I found that he was calmer when held upright, so I sat in the bent-wood rocking chair in the attic room with him slumped on my shoulder, breathing heavily into my neck.

How was the water getting in, I wondered? Was something actually funnelling it through? Or was it slipping around the window-frame, somehow?

Clutching Peter to me with my left hand, I leant forward and reached into the gap below the windowsill. There was something there that wasn’t bricks, I could feel it: something smooth and flattish, pushed into the gap. I fumbled around for a bit and eventually pulled it out.

It was a little hardbacked notebook, its cover as damp as everything around it. Opening it, however, I saw that its pages were relatively undamaged, except at the edges. It was full of writing in a messy, childish hand. On the page where it fell open, I read:

“27th August 1938
Today Mummy took me and Martha to the park and we played on the swings.”

It was Shirley’s diary.
I sat back down in the rocking-chair, Peter gently snoring in my ear, and continued to read.

It was an angry little book. Some entries, like the first one I read, were dutiful accounts of family life, but they were short and sporadic: Shirley’s heart just wasn’t in it. What she really wanted to write about was conflict.

“6th June
Martha made us both late for school today because she woudnt put her shoes on. Mummy scolded us both. I said it was her fault but Mummy said I shoud have helped her because I’m bigger. So I must just be bad without having done anything bad because I didnt make Martha PERFECT.

9th July
I heard Mummy and Daddy quareling in their room after we were in bed. Daddy said Mummy was spending too much money on clothes. Mummy said but Ive got to look nice and Daddy said Well you can mend things carnt you? She dosent look nice in her new hat the bits on the side look like fruit salad.”

When she was particularly angry, Shirley would press harder with her pen and underline various words multiple times. Towards the end of the year, the focus of her anger shifted dramatically.

“29th September
I dont like Peter. All he does is CRY.”

Christ, I thought, hugging my child to myself.

“And he smells funny and we always have to be quiet when hes asleep even though he cries all nihgt.

15th October
Mummy dosent take us to the park any more she says its getting cold. I bet she takes Peter when were at school. Its not fair. And he wont even like it all he does is cry.

28th October
Peter always gets a fire in his room. Mummy says he’s delicate. All he does is cry and he wont stop coffing. I hate him.”

I didn’t quite have the heart to read any more. I carried my Peter, who had fallen asleep, thank goodness, back to our room, and managed to put him back in his carry-cot without waking him up.

The next day, Friday, was filthy. As I returned to our street at the end of the day, the wind was stripping half-dead leaves from the street trees and whipping them against my face.

Janine met me at the door, Peter in her arms.

“All he does is cry,” she said, “and he won’t stop coughing. He needs a doctor.”
“Can you get him an appointment tomorrow?” I said, keeping my voice as calm as possible. “If it isn’t better by then.”

It didn’t get better. We ate a takeaway in shifts in the kitchen, taking turns to hold him upright. Then we bathed him in the sink, thinking that might help; it didn’t. We finally got him to sleep, propped up a little, at about midnight, and Janine and I fell into exhausted, but fitful, sleep.

I was chipping away at the plaster upstairs, trying to find the source of the damp. But every layer that I peeled off revealed another one behind it. There were flat-bodied centipedes and worms between the layers, which slipped away like quicksilver. Each layer was darker and damper than the last; they overlapped like Auntie Shirley’s mismatching layers of black drapery. Some of them had writing on, and it said, “All he does is cry and he wont stop coffing.” I could hear the coughing close at hand. It would never stop.

I snapped awake; but I could still hear the coughing. Of course, Peter, my Peter, really was ill, right now. I slipped out of bed and picked him up; so as not to wake Janine, I took him upstairs to the attic room, and sat down in the rocking-chair, patting and shushing him until he calmed down a bit.

Some awful fascination led me to pick up Shirley’s diary again, even though its malevolence repelled me. I felt, I suppose, that a bit of the story was missing, and that I had to know what it was, however awful it might be.

“29th October
I heard Mummy and Daddy quareling agian. Mummy said But im so tired so tired and I carnt sleep for two hours together. Daddy said well why dont you take one of your pills then you never used to find that difficult. I know wich pills he means their the ones in the red box.

30th October
I took one of Mummys pills out of the box erlier and hid it. If Peter wakes me up crying tonihgt I know how to make him go to sleep agian.”

The rest of the page below that was scribbled all over with heavy black pencil, as though Shirley had written something else and then worked really hard to cover it from view. She had pressed down hard, so that the page was deeply scored and cockled.

The next page said:

“8th November
Since I did that bad thing Mummy wont stop crying. Nobody knows I did it. I want to tell Peter Im sorry but Mummy says dead peopole are in heaven and we carnt talk to them. I want to tell God Im sorry but I dont think he woud lissen because Im bad as bad.”

That was the last thing in the book; the other pages were blank apart from damp stains and foxing. I shut it and sat listening to Peter’s laboured breathing and the rain throwing itself against the window.

I heard footsteps; Janine was standing in the doorway, her hair dishevelled around her shadowed face.

“Give him to me,” she said, “you shouldn’t bring him in here. It’s too cold. And it’s – nasty. And there’s a hole in the wall.”

I passed him over. As I did so he coughed again, feebly. Janine put her ear to his mouth; then looked up, fear written deeply into her face.

“Didn’t you notice?” she half-yelled, ”he’s hardly breathing. And you just – sitting here – I’m going to call an ambulance.”

She disappeared next door, and I heard her panicky tones on the phone: “my baby’s hardly breathing.. been coughing a lot.. four weeks.. hasn’t been feeding.. just get someone here..”

Shirley’s book lay in a pool of light cast by the street-lamp outside. All else was dark, and the wind rattled the window-frame as if a frenzied intruder were trying to get in.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Shirley,” I said aloud. “You didn’t know what you were doing. You do now. You don’t have to do it again.”

There was a fresh assault on the window; it sounded like handfuls of gravel flung at the pane.

“You aren’t bad as bad, Shirley,” I said. “Nobody is. It’s just easier for you to believe you are, isn’t it?” The trees outside lurched and bucked in the gale, and the wind, passing through the gap under the windowsill, set up a low, unearthly note, like a groan of pain.

“You think that if you’re so bad you’re bound to kill Peter, my Peter, now,” I said, wildly, “that it means you didn’t have a choice about killing Peter, the other Peter, back then. Then neither’s really your fault. But I tell you, you always have a choice. You did and you do. And if you hurt my baby –”

God knows what threat I was going to make, but at that moment, the sound of sirens approaching, followed by flashes of blue light on the ceiling, told me that the ambulance had arrived.

It was bronchiolitis, they said; quite a common illness in children, but it might have been made worse by the damp. So, once Peter was better, we went to stay with Janine’s parents for a bit. Perhaps we stayed there longer than they’d have liked. But I had a dread of the place that could not be shifted until it had been exorcised – that is, when the musty papers were gone, and all the windows repaired, and the dark-spotted wallpaper and crumbling plaster replaced with dry, smooth walls, pink like sandstone in the sun.

On Punching Nazis

Many people expressed delight when footage emerged, a few days ago, of the American white supremacist and Trump sympathiser, Richard Spencer, being punched by a passer-by during an on-street interview. In some quarters, it’s been suggested that a failure to show sufficient jubilation at the incident is tantamount to expressing sympathy with his repellent views.

I say the opposite is true: that rejecting violence wherever possible is, in itself, a rejection of all that Spencer stands for.

Let’s be clear about what this was not. It was not an act of war in an existing armed conflict. Without going too far into the debate about whether there ever can be a “just war”, when George Orwell and Laurie Lee volunteered to fight Franco, and when my grandfathers fought Hitler, no other tactic but armed opposition seemed to have a chance of preventing totalitarian regimes from expanding their territory. Punching Spencer was not like that. It was not an act of self-defence nor a necessary response to a threat faced by another person, because, on this occasion, nobody was being physically threatened. The violence was instigated by the puncher.

Which begs the question of what the assailant hoped to achieve by his actions. One very natural human reaction is to say, “He deserved it, the bastard.” But the idea of retribution, and “paying someone back,” is problematic. It is a truism that “two wrongs don’t make a right.” No amount of punching can make Spencer’s repellent utterances unsaid. If he has initiated violence, that violence will always have occurred, even if he suffers as well. Additional violence heals nothing; it only adds to the total amount of pain and anger in this world.

Moreover, what the notion of retribution says is that the violence committed by A, while reprehensible in itself, is justifiable if perpetrated by B upon A. That just doesn’t make sense. If Spencer’s opponents were to retaliate by visiting upon him the same sort of prejudiced and hateful comments that he has dished out himself, then they would, I hope, be censured for it.

If the aim of the punch is not so much to punish Spencer, but to silence him, that’s even more problematic. Silencing by force, or the threat of it, has been a favourite tactic of totalitarian regimes throughout history. It means that the viewpoints that are heard are not the most defensible, but the ones expressed by the strongest.

What’s more, we shouldn’t need to silence people who are manifestly wrong. It ought, even in this difficult and dangerous political environment, to be more effective to refute them, and a desire to silence someone indicates a lack of confidence about doing so. Heretics weren’t laughed at as madmen, but burnt as threats. Trump isn’t silencing the scientists of the EPA and the National Parks because he can refute the science of climate change. He hates them, because he can’t.

Of course, it is more than possible that a Nazi, on being punched, might not accept it either as justified retribution or a warning to amend his ways. Being, himself, fond of violence and his own views, he might be less likely to say “It’s a fair cop, guv” (did anyone ever say that, in real life?) as to punch the assailant back. On a practical level, this could lead to an escalation of violence – street fights and worse. It also means that violence, whether to punish or to silence, will generally only be initiated by those who believe they are likely to win – that is, by and large, by strong men in their prime. A man (and it mostly has been men) saying how wonderful it is to punch Nazis is unconsciously demonstrating the privilege of his own physical strength.

I’m a woman in my 40s; I’m a shade under 5’4″, eight-and-a-half stone or so. Insurance statistics show that women are more risk-averse than men, and crime statistics show that we are less inclined to violence. In any philosophical debate whose outcome is determined by a physical fight, people like me will lose.

That, in fact, has been one of the most significant factors shaping the opportunities and rights of women throughout much of humanity’s history – and the way in which they have been regarded. Where it is possible for one group to subjugate another by force, the aggressors justify it to themselves by developing a concept of the natural, and global, inferiority of the oppressed. Thus, the class system, in part, developed because of mediaeval barons’ ability to suppress the underfed and outgunned peasantry; and white-on-black racism is a consequence of the fact that European traders, happening to possess, as Jared Diamond puts it, “guns, germs and steel,” were able to suppress native Americans and Africans. Societies which use violence beget prejudice, because they need it in order to justify themselves.

And, though etymology isn’t meaning, isn’t the term “fascist” a deliberate reference to the fasces, the rods of authority held by Roman magistrates? The symbol of exerting authority by force? Violence to control what is said isn’t just “what fascists do.” It’s what they believe.

The Suffragettes, who were being systematically discriminated against at every point, did not, by and large, punch people in the street. They acted by making their cause as visible as possible. They shouted, and marched, and smashed windows. They suffered assault, imprisonment, and forcible feeding, but eventually they prevailed. They prevailed not because men were scared, but because they were both the product and the beneficiaries of a society that had at last begun to distinguish might from right.

We should march, as women did on Saturday, against Spencer and all of his kind. We should refute his arguments wherever we see them. And, of course, we should leap to the defence of anyone who is physically attacked by anyone like him. But, if we really mean to oppose fascism, that cannot be done by espousing its tactics and attitudes. Punching Spencer may well be the only language he understands; but it shouldn’t be the language the rest of us sink to.