Second Chance (30 page)

‘Sad. She was only forty-three. An embolism in the brain. I'll get you the paper from the car.'

I hurried Paul away so that I could be alone. A fourth death. I felt sick and faint. It shouldn't be affecting me as much as it was. I hardly knew her; we'd only spoken for a few minutes. But I'd wanted her as a friend, felt she
was
a friend. And suddenly she was dead. And exactly my age. I studied her photograph, read an account of her life, her scholastic achievements, all the while shivering with fear and shock.

I wanted Rhydian, needed him. Life was too short for scruples. When the month was up and he phoned, I'd beg him to come to me. I don't mean for ever, I still didn't intend to break up his marriage, but he could surely visit Bleddyn for the occasional weekend and spend some time with me. Because I needed him. I needed him. I needed him as a bird needed the sky. I wasn't going to give him up. Not entirely.

About a week after this and a few days before Annabel's wedding, I woke up one morning suddenly realising that my period was late and that I might, that I just conceivably might... be pregnant. Until then, the possibility of such a thing had never occurred to me. As soon as it did, I was almost sick with excitement, realising that it was the one thing in the world which would make me really, deeply, truly happy. I felt it was my last chance and my best chance. To have deliberately set out to have a baby would have been selfish and irresponsible, I accepted that, but the possibility had never crossed my mind. If I was pregnant it was by some divine chance.

A brisk walk to the nearest chemist's. A pregnancy test, the kit with the most fool-proof instructions. A slow walk back trying not to think how I'd feel if the result was negative. I felt as nervous about the outcome as a woman who'd been having infertility treatment for years, as though all my life I'd been denied an inalienable right.

Yes, I was pregnant.
Yes
. And I felt as though I'd won the lottery prize. The big one. And much more besides. Much, much more. I was deliriously, insanely happy. Oh, if only it was a little girl. Or a little boy. I didn't really mind which.

Oh, I was going to be so careful. I was going to cook myself proper meals and drink gallons of milk and take proper exercise. And go to classes for breathing and relaxation and to clinics for advice about nipples.

I knew it would be difficult. But when, from the age of three, had my life
not
been difficult? I was obviously partial to difficult. If I'd wanted an easy life I wouldn't have become an actor, for a start. OK, I was old to have a first baby, but I didn't care; I was healthy and anyway feeling younger by the minute. I had a colleague who, pregnant in her early thirties, had been annoyed to be classified as an ‘elderly primigravida'. They could call me whatever they chose. I'd be forty-four by the time my baby was born but it suddenly seemed a marvellous age in every way. I was strong and determined, I had money and a fairly decent career and a family house with a cat. And I was going to have a baby with the only man I'd ever truly and passionately loved. That seemed a miracle in itself. Of course I wanted to tell him, but I didn't intend to at the moment. Eventually he'd have to know, but that would be when the stardust had settled. Yes, of course I'd manage to see him now and again. He was a part of my life and I was a part of his. Our affair had had a beautiful inevitability and would have a beautiful outcome. All day, my mind was full of shining words: baby, having a baby, birth, birth pains, baby-love, love child, cradle, nursery, lullaby, hope, hope for the future, woman, mother, fulfilment, destiny. The word destiny seemed to absolve me from much of the blame. Adultery was a hard word, but destiny was kind and forgiving.

Life was wonderful at times and this was one of the wonderful times.

That evening, still ecstatic, I had a phone call from a young director, Isabel Alexander, who'd been assisting at the Young Vic when I'd played Varya in
Cherry Orchard
. She'd become an assistant director at the Manchester Exchange and had been asked to direct a
Hamlet
there in March and was contacting me to see whether I'd be interested in playing Gertrude.

Gertrude? I'd be thrilled to play Gertude. It was a stunning part. It would be such a great challenge after the months of being the meek little nobody in the less than wonderful, what am I talking about, I mean the
pitifully poor
television serial which was limping on until the end of February. March. It fitted in beautifully. It couldn't possibly be more...

Except that I'd be gorgeously and wondrously five months' pregnant by March.

‘I'm so pleased that you're enthusiastic,' Isabel was saying. ‘You were my first choice. You've got such a presence. You're so bold and sexy. But so vulnerable, as well. You're exactly...'

Interrupting someone who's in the middle of singing my praises is usually the last thing I think of, but this time I did. ‘There's just one problem,' I said. ‘I'm pregnant. And I'll be about five months' pregnant by March... But I dare say a loose dress in some heavy, regal velvet would conceal it perfectly. Perhaps I shouldn't even have mentioned it. Only, you see, I'm longing to tell someone. It's my first baby. And I've only today found out.'

Isabel hid any surprise she may have been feeling. ‘I'm glad you did tell me. Congratulations. And you'll be fine. I can't see there'll be any problem... Anyway, why shouldn't Gertrude be pregnant? If she was, wouldn't that make Hamlet's jealousy even more understandable? And, hey, by the closet scene, we could pad you up so that you were looking really heavily pregnant which would be a cunning way to show the passing of time. And which would give an added poignancy to Hamlet's treatment of her in that scene. Wouldn't it? What do you think? Oh God, I think we could be on to something. Don't you?'

‘I'll be thrilled to play Gertrude. That's all I can think of at the moment.'

‘I wonder if a pregnant Gertude has ever been a feature of any production? I suppose so. You can't really do anything new with Shakespeare, can you?'

‘I don't think it's strictly necessary. But on the other hand, it might give the critics something to chew over. Have you got a Hamlet?'

‘I think so. Robin Furnival. He was marvellous in
Darnley
– did you see it? They're already calling him the new Ewan McGregor. Did you see the notice in the
Guardian
? An absolute rave.'

‘And what about Claudius?'

‘No, I haven't got a Claudius yet. Of course, John Thaw would be my first choice. He did a lot of Shakespeare, you know. In the RSC – '84 I think. I've contacted his agent. I suppose he could be in between television serials. What do you think?'

‘We could be lucky. I'd certainly like to work with him.'

I shivered again as I thought of Joanna Morton who was dead. And my mother, her sky-blue wedding suit still hanging in the wardrobe. And little Selena, whom I hadn't taken the trouble to get to know properly. But they passed like shadows across the sun of my joy. My intake of breath seemed to reach down to my womb. Already, I felt heavy with child.

I played Beethoven's
Choral
very loudly.
Freude. Freude. Freude
. And afterwards, as I cooked myself some eggs, I thought about Rhydian and his family; my Auntie Jane, so steadfast and loyal and Uncle Ted, a bit of a rogue, perhaps, but handsome and very likeable. And I suddenly remembered my mother telling me that Uncle Ted's grandfather had burned down tollgates in his youth and in old age become a famous poacher. In Wales, we're proud of our ancestors, particularly the rebels and eccentrics. Perhaps my child's great-grandchildren would one day boast about me: a middle-aged actor – and not a bad actor, either, in fact her Gertrude was said to be rather fine – who decided she wanted a baby. In her middle forties. Why didn't she walk across the Sahara, climb Everest, book a passage to the moon? Crazy or what? No husband, no partner, no lover in evidence – and that, apparently, quite unusual back in the twentieth century. And they say she never regretted it, that she revelled in all the pleasure and worry and work, grew fat on it.

I played the
Choral
again.
Joy. Joy
. It was the best day of the first half of my life.

Brought up and educated in West Wales, Siân James is the author of twelve novels, and two collections of short stories. She has twice won the
Yorkshire Post
Prize for fiction and her novel
A Small Country
was filmed as the award-winning
Calon Gaeth
. Her translation of Kate Roberts'
The Awakening
, is also published by Seren.

Other books by Siân James published by Seren:

A Small Country
“Simply told... a moving story deeply and imaginatively embedded in its Welsh background and Welsh ways.”

Return to Hendre Ddu
The tumultuous sequel to
A Small Country
. Once again Siân James' talent for character and dialogue weaves an intriguing tale of early twentieth-century family life in rural Wales.

Love and War
“Temptation, passion, adultery ... Siân James writes with gusto, humour and an undercutting, ironic intelligence.”

Storm at Arberth
A reunion in a small Pembrokeshire town triggers unforseeable events as past deeds are revealed and present certainties shattered.
Storm at Arberth
is a gripping portrayal of the nature of love, lust, friendship and treachery.

There is a lot of talking in your books, Siân,
and a lot of thought that is talk as well,
I am carried along by it and held by it
and sometimes it shakes me, takes a turn
I wasn't expecting, and I go with it, am taken.

David Hart