‘And he’s so practical,’ she’d say, ignoring the question. ‘Everything in this house, everything what was ever broke, he fixed it!’
It was true, too. The wobbly kitchen cabinet doors were no longer wonky. The S-bend under the sink no longer dripped. Even the bathroom heater worked, something that, until Rob’s arrival, had never happened in living memory.
There was something incredible about Rob’s energy levels too, something almost otherworldly, because he managed all of this – mending Mum’s council house and driving me back and forth to appointments; doing his day job of rewiring other people’s houses – while buying and fixing up his own new house in Cliftonville.
‘I’ll sell it,’ he said, when I asked him what the point of buying such a big house was. ‘If you don’t change your mind, then I’ll just sell it. I’ll make a packet. And then you’ll want to be with me, cos I’ll be rich!’
I laughed at that and told him I wasn’t going to change my mind. That I was never going to change my mind no matter how rich he became.
But Rob just shrugged and I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t believe me, or because he no longer cared. Despite my protests to the contrary, I hoped it was that he didn’t believe me. Because being cared about definitely felt good.
As my pregnancy progressed, I’d call round to his new house more and more often and sit on a box to chat while Rob sanded or painted or rewired. I’d take the Pretenders or Sonic Youth CDs that (thanks to Billy) I now listened to, and force Rob to turn off Radio One. Once or twice I even picked up a paintbrush or some sandpaper to chip in. Getting involved in Rob’s project felt nice, but – and I’m not sure if this will make sense to anyone except me – it felt nice in a melancholy sort of way. It was as if that time with Rob was a demonstration of what Icouldhave had if only life had been different. I’d wonder, inevitably, if Billy was also painting a wall somewhere, in another house in another town with another girl. I’d wonder if he ever thought about me.
* * *
The baby was due mid-June so, at the beginning of the month when I went to visit Rob, I was waddling more than walking. I’d remained super-skinny, so my pregnancy made me look like I had an exercise ball stuffed up my jumper. My back achedallthe time.
Rob was in the garden using an electric sander, and when he failed to hear the doorbell I went round the back to let myself in through the gate. He had the radio on and was singing along to Cher’s ‘It’s In His Kiss’, so I crept up behind him and then said loudly (intentionally making him jump), ‘Are yousureyou’re not gay, Rob?’ It had become our standard joke and, once he’d re-composed himself and switched off the sander, he gave his stock reply: ‘Nope, still not gay. And unfortunately, still in love with you.’
‘So what are we doing today, Rob?’ I asked in myBlue Petervoice.
‘Um, this,’ he said, waving the sander at me. ‘I did one without sanding it down, but it looked shite, so…’ His hair and eyebrows were white from the dust and it made him look as if he’d been disguised by a make-up team to look old. Despite myself I wondered if I’d still be hanging out with him when he was.
‘I’m assuming that’s not something I can help you with,’ I said. ‘So shall I just make tea?’
‘Tea would be brill,’ he said. ‘I’m gasping.’
As I turned to leave, I actually peed myself a bit, something that had happened from time to time since I was pregnant. I glanced back at Rob but he was lost to his sanding, and under the circumstances that seemed just as well.
I wobbled across the garden, picking my way between doors and power tools, and went straight inside to the bathroom, where I sat and did my best to wee.
Within a minute or so I began to suspect that something else was going on, and when a cramp stabbed at my insides it seemed to confirm my fears. But for a while, I didn’t move, just sitting there as if paralysed, waiting to see what would happen next. I’d thought this final episode of pregnancy would begin in another two weeks, and I’d expected a more dramatic opening too – something more tidal, not lukewarm wee dribbling down my leg.
Eventually I stuffed a wad of bog roll down my knickers and tried to stand, but things were speeding up and even Rob’s extra-soft three-ply wasn’t up to the job. ‘Shit!’ I muttered.Why here? Why now?
I grabbed a thick towel from the pile in Rob’s bathroom, regretting that they were all white, and rolled it and wedged it between my thighs before waddling back to the door, feeling scared – because I was early – and embarrassed, or rather mortified, by my uncontrollable leakage.
‘Rob!’ I called out, but my voice came out weaker than I’d intended and the sander was too loud for him to hear. ‘ROB!’ I tried again, but he still couldn’t hear me.
‘Jesus,’ I muttered, and I considered leaving through the front door; maybe calling for a cab and vanishing before he’d even noticed I was gone. But the truth was that a taxi seemed even more embarrassing than involving Rob, so I reached indoors and yanked the extension lead from the socket.
Rob peered at his sander comically before tracing the path of the cable to my hand.
‘Tea ready?’ he asked, then, noticing the rolled towel, ‘Oh! Are you OK?’
‘This is…’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It’s kind of embarrassing. But I need you to take me to the hospital, Rob.’
‘But is it…? Isn’t it…? I mean, isn’t this too…?’ he stammered, dropping the sander and jogging to my side.
‘Yeah, it’s too early, but I think this is it.’ I gasped, grabbing at Rob’s arm, as a stabbing cramp gripped my insides. ‘Oh God,’ I said when I could speak again. ‘I don’t know if this is normal, but if it is…fuck!’
‘Looks like the sanding will have to wait,’ Rob said, his expression ecstatic in a way that made him look as if he’d just found Jesus. ‘We’re going to have a baby!’
Even then, even in that state of fear and embarrassment and pain, I made myself correct him. ‘I’mhaving a baby, Rob,’ I said. ‘Notyou, notus… me.’
‘Sure,’ Rob said. ‘Whatever. I’ll get the van.’
* * *
