Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex: A Funny, Feel-Good, Romantic Comedy (15 page)

When we got to Catford, Ethel was waiting outside her nursing home, dressed beautifully in a black dress nipped in at the waist, high heels and black hat with a small lace veil.

‘You look elegant Nan,’ said Rosencrantz. ‘Where did you get your outfit?’

‘Enid Catchfly,’ she said.

‘Have you made a new friend?’ asked Adam.

‘No she died, poor cow. Superbug finished ’er orf.’

‘She left you her clothes?’ I asked.

‘No, ’er family took them all to the charity shop. I followed in a taxi… She ’ad some lovely stuff. When you’re thinner love you should try ’em on.’

I know, for once, Ethel was being nice, but it felt like a total drive-by.
I was too big for even dead old ladies’ hand-me-downs
. No one batted an eyelid. They changed the subject, chatting on about ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ whilst I sat in the corner. Fat.

Our car pulled up outside Rochester Cathedral. Streams of people dressed in black were moving across the courtyard to the entrance. Chris cut a forlorn figure by the steps, giving out the order of service with the family solicitor Mr Spencer. His blond hair was now a sombre
Just For Men
shade of brown and parted to one side. His earring now the tiniest gold stud, and to see him dressed in a morning suit with no quirks was startling. He looked,
middle aged
. Marika and Milan were waiting outside with Meryl and Tony, Daniel and Jennifer. As we entered the cathedral, solemn organ music played. Lord Cheshire lay in an open casket at the front, a bizarre waxwork of himself. He looked like he was just having a snooze. I felt weirdly obscene, attending a funeral in my condition.
 

‘Do I look really pregnant?’ I whispered to Ethel as we made our way down the aisle.

‘No, love you just look fat,’ she said patting my hand.
 

The Cathedral was filling up, and we didn’t find a free pew until we’d nearly reached the front. I let Ethel in first. An elegant older lady was sitting alone at the end, and she shuffled up to make room. She lifted up her order of service, and underneath was a muffler made from a dead stoat.

‘Jesus Christ!’ shrieked Ethel and walloped it with her handbag. There was a hush as the well-dressed people in the pews around us turned away in disgust. The elegant lady grabbed at her muffler in horror.

‘Ethel! Have you no manners? This is a funeral,’ said Jennifer leaning across everyone. We all froze in shock. A woman publicly chastising her mother-in-law is a brave act, but a girlfriend? Throw into the mix that this is Ethel, the ultimate monster-in-law. If Jennifer hadn’t had her card marked before, it certainly was now. We took our seats as the last of the mourners filed in. Finally Lady Edwina entered, with Rebecca and Chris’s other sister Sophia. Lady Edwina and Sophia seemed to be supporting Rebecca who could barely walk with grief. Chris followed and looked back, giving us all a weak smile as he took his seat at the front.

The funeral was a rather dry corporate affair as various captains of industry gave us their take on Lord Cheshire’s business acumen. The only nice part was when Chris gave a lovely speech about his father, what a generous man he had been, and how he hopes he can do his memory justice. Just as he finished, he was heckled by Rebecca, who shouted,
 

‘Yeah, we can’t all have a penis…’
 

We realised she wasn’t being supported in her grief when she’d arrived. She was completely plastered. Lady Edwina ignored her and stared stoically ahead.

When we had the opportunity to take communion, the boys didn’t want to go, so I went up with Meryl, Ethel and Jennifer. I could see Ethel was still stewing. When we reached the priest, Jennifer kneeled first to take the wafer.

‘The body of Christ,’ said the priest, and went to place the wafer on her tongue but Ethel put her hand over his saying,

‘Sorry yer worship. ’Ow many Weight Watchers’ points is a communion wafer?’
 

Jennifer looked stunned.

‘Ummm. Madam, this is the body of Christ,’ said the priest who looked just as surprised.

‘It must ’ave a calorie count though?’ went on Ethel. ‘’Cos this one ’ere, well, you can see she struggles with ’er weight. She’s the kind of girl, once she pops, she can’t stop…’

The line for communion wafers was backing up, and people were craning their necks to see what the hold-up was.

‘This is the body of Christ,’ repeated the Priest.

‘But will it give ’er the body of a supermodel?’ asked Ethel. Jennifer burst into tears and fled from the altar. The rest of us took communion in a stunned silence.
 

‘She needs to learn not to cross me. Did you ’ear ’er, telling ME to be quiet! Cheeky cow,’ said Ethel as we made our way back to our seats.

‘Ethel. This is a funeral, and she’s Daniel’s partner!’ I said.

‘For all of five minutes. Great fat lump. I didn’t like ’er the second I met ’er.’

‘You never like anyone Daniel goes out with.’

‘I liked you, didn’t I?’

‘Pull the other one,’ I said.

‘Well, you grew on me,’ she said. When we sat down, Daniel was comforting Jennifer.
 

‘Grassed on me, ’ave ya?’ said Ethel.
 

‘If you mean have I told Daniel about his vile mother? Yes,’ hissed Jennifer.

‘’Ow dare you! I ain’t vile, am I?’ asked Ethel. Thankfully the Cathedral was filled with choral music, and none of us had to answer.
 

Chris stood waiting outside the cathedral as the mourners filed past. We had to wait in line for a few minutes as people gave him their condolences.
 

‘What should we call him?’ whispered Meryl touching up her face with a powder compact.

‘Call him Chris,’ said Marika.

‘Aren’t there rules amongst the aristocracy?’ asked Meryl. ‘It would be like me calling the Queen ‘Liz’.’

‘He just wants people to be normal,’ I said. Looking back at my collected in-laws normal seemed quite ambitious.

‘Was it mahogany? Blue velvet lining?’ asked Tony when he reached the front of the line.

‘What?’ said Chris.

‘The coffin. I’ve got a frightfully good nose for a coffin…’
 

‘Tony! Don’t talk shop to Lord Cheshire,’ said Meryl.

‘I’m not talking shop, his dad was lying in one at the front, so it’s relevant.’

‘Yes, it was mahogany, and please call me Chris.’
 

‘Of course, Lord Chris,’ said Meryl.

‘Or is it Sir Chris?’ said Tony.

‘Just Chris.’

I was at the back of the line with Adam.
 

‘Are you coming back for the wake Cokes?’ asked Chris when we reached him. I could see the cars were lining up. Rebecca was sitting on the cathedral steps crying, Ethel was giving Jennifer daggers, Meryl was arguing with Tony, something to do with China.
 

‘Do you mind if we head back?’ I said. ‘I feel like I’m going to drop.’

‘Of course not. You look after this little one,’ said Chris patting my tummy. We gave him another hug and Adam and I took a car back to London.

Halfway home his phone beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket, looked at it with a resigned face and put it back.

‘Damn. Another company said no,’ he said quietly.

Monday 26th March

Today I had my twenty-two-week scan. Adam booked us a taxi to University College Hospital. This time we sat in the waiting room for an hour, and an hour is a very long time with a full bladder.
 
Babies were crying, and one of the fluorescent lights was flickering. Just before we were seen, a young couple emerged from one of the doors lining the wall; a short dark-haired woman was in tears, supported by her tall, thin husband. Everyone looked away.

I had been expecting our lovely lady sonographer from the last time, but we got a rather grubby man in his late forties. His greasy hair stood on end and big belly hung over his trousers.
 

He yanked the paper across the examination table and was a little impatient when I took my time hopping up onto it. Going as far as huffing when I got in his way pulling the machine over.

‘If you could get up on the bed please,’ he asked.

‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ I snapped easing my legs up.

‘She’s nervous,’ said Adam.
 

‘No, I’m about to piss myself,’ I said. The sonographer seemed to find this distasteful as he squeezed a dollop of gel on my tummy and then got cracking, smoothing away.

‘This is your twenty-two week scan,’ he intoned dispassionately. ‘Also known as the anomaly scan where I’ll be checking for major heart problems, a cleft palate, spina bifida, anencephaly, hydrocephalus, diaphragmatic hernia, exomphalos, gastroscisis, kidney and limb abnormalities and Down’s syndrome.’

With a flick of his wrist he changed direction with the scanner and peered at the screen sticking his tongue out. He continued staring, changing direction with the smoothing motion. Each time he did this he switched sides with his tongue. Minutes ticked by. I squeezed Adam’s hand and tried not to panic.

‘Why can’t we hear the baby’s heartbeat?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I muted it,’ he said, as if it were a repeat of ‘Midsomer Murders’
and not our baby’s vital signs.

‘Can we hear it please?’ asked Adam. The sonographer reached down, not taking his eyes off the screen and pressed a button. The same
whoomph whoomph
sound like a tennis ball in a tunnel came out. It was strong and vital like before.

‘That sounds healthy.’ I said. The sonographer said nothing. He flicked his wrist, and his tongue switched sides.

‘Riiiiight. Um, will you just excuse me for a moment?’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said. He got up and left the room. He’d left the scanner on the side of the machine so the sound of the heart had stopped. A breeze from under the door played across my stomach and made the gel feel even colder. The clock ticked.

‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

‘We don’t know that,’ said Adam.

‘He’s gone to get a doctor, there’s something wrong with our baby… I knew all that drinking and smoking in the first trimester was bad.’

‘Coco, please.’

‘No, we have to prepare for the worst. What if…’
 

I didn’t get to finish as the sonographer came back in. He took his seat, squeezed some more gel on my stomach and resumed smoothing. With his other hand he slipped a can of Tango out of the pocket of his scrubs and onto the counter beside him. The tongue switched sides once more.

‘Right. Everything looks okay,’ he said. With a quick movement he swung the screen round. It showed a face, a close-up face with eyes, a pouty mouth and a button nose. A little hand came up and our baby began to suck its thumb.

‘Are you sure? You’re sure everything is okay?’ I asked. overwhelmed to see our baby again.

‘Yes. All clear, spine is fine, skin all there, everything in correct proportion.’

He turned the screen round again.

‘Hey, we were looking,’ I said.

‘Other people are waiting too.’

‘Just one more minute…’

He actually huffed and turned the screen round, but he’d spoiled it. Our little baby wiggled about and waved his arms.

‘Do we get a printout?’ I asked. The sonographer huffed again and printed some images.

‘I really have to ask you to leave…’

‘Oh hang on, what about the sex, of the baby?’

‘It’s our policy not to reveal the sex due to wrong gender terminations.’

‘I don’t care what it is. I just want to know.’

‘I’m very sorry. I can’t tell you.’

‘But you know?’

‘As I said. It’s our policy not to reveal the sex due to wrong gender terminations.’
 

 
I noticed the can of Tango sitting on the side.

‘You went out to get a drink didn’t you?’

‘Here are your images.’

‘You left me here to get a bloody drink, didn’t you?’

He twitched his tongue from left to right.

‘Mate that is not cool,’ said Adam. The sonographer dropped his singsong corporate tone and got whiny.

‘I have set breaks but we’re running behind… I have no chance to get anything to drink.’

‘What do you think it did to my stress levels when you buggered off?’ I asked.
 

‘I’d mind your language,’ he said.

‘And I’d mind your etiquette. If you want to be rude and abrupt go and work in a bloody bank, not here. Now before you enjoy your Tango. Tell us what sex our baby is. ’

He did a weird smile and his tongue twitched again.
 

‘As I say, it’s our policy not to reveal the sex.’

I couldn’t hold my bladder any longer. I wiped off my belly and ran for the loo. I grabbed the first cubicle and, my God, the relief. When I came out Adam was waiting by the lift. When we were inside and the doors closed, he grinned.

‘We’re having a boy!’ he said.

‘What? How did you find out?’

‘The sonographer told me.’

‘How did you get him to?’

‘I nicked his can of Tango.’

‘Very funny. Did you threaten him?’

‘Yeah. I said he could only have it back if he told me.’

‘Come on, you must have threatened him?’

‘No, all it took was the Tango. It’s sad. He wanted that can so badly, enough to spill the beans. A boy!’

We walked along and found a Starbucks. Taking a seat in the window we talked excitedly about our new son.
 

‘What about names?’ I said. ‘I like Thomas. Tommy…’

‘Tommy Rickard? He’d sound like a simpleton. What about Richard?’

‘Ricky Rickard?’ I said.

‘Le Bron?’

‘No! I quite like Quintus,’ I said.

‘No, you’ve had your crack at obscure names with Rosencrantz.’

‘Phinaeus?’

‘No.’

‘Pablo?’

‘No! Why does he have to have some weird name?’

‘A name is like a brand,’ I said. ‘You have to choose something to set your baby up in life.’
 

‘Keith?’ said Adam.

‘Keith Rickard. No. He’d sound like some regional radio presenter.
Late Night With Keith Rickard…’