The Would-Begetter (20 page)

Enough of work; what about me? I like it here, but perhaps it’s time to be moving on? I’m never going to have a ‘career’ as such, if I stay. And what about the rest of my life, my so-called love life? I’ve had three boyfriends in the last seven years and not one of them turned out to be any good: Dave was terminally boring, Nick chucked me, and Jon was gay – what a pathetic record! Perhaps I’m not destined for passion after all? Maybe I’ll consult Hector, she thought. He always talks to me like a Dutch Uncle, and then at the same time I can try to find out what’s bugging him.

Jess and Hector had lately taken to meeting for lunch in the pub across the road, whenever they both happened to be in the office at twelve thirty. Sometimes Nigel or some of the Subs joined them, and occasionally Barry. Barry, however,
usually had some crisis which demanded his presence. It seemed he either had to rush off home to cope with his dreadful old mother, or go out shopping for his exhausted wife, or babysit one of his children. Four kids! Jess thought, good old Barry! I wonder, if he had managed to marry Wendy (and not Jackie) whether he would have had four with her? I wonder too why Hector and Wendy stopped after only one? It’s a little unwise to put all one’s creativity into one project, isn’t it? Still, Morgan’s a beautiful child; looks just like Hector, and life is certainly easier with no sibling rivalry. She sighed. I wonder if I’ll ever have any children. I’ll have to get a move on if so. But perhaps I haven’t got what it takes to be a mother.

‘Are you pubbing today?’ Hector asked, putting his head round the door.

‘Be with you in five minutes,’ Jess said. ‘You go on.’

When she got to the George and Pilgrim, she found Hector there alone, nursing a double whisky between his palms and idly swirling it around the glass as he stared vacantly into the middle distance.

‘Well that’s you well and truly scuppered for any actual brain function this afternoon,’ she observed, ordering herself a Britvic orange and lemonade. ‘You don’t usually drink spirits at lunchtime.’

‘No,’ Hector agreed.

‘So why today?’

‘Oh I dunno. I suppose I’m feeling rather fed up.’

‘Can I ask why?’ Jess enquired.

‘It’s Morgan,’ Hector admitted, looking up at her. ‘He’s having difficulties at school. He still can’t read properly, you know, at
seven!
At his age, I was devouring every book I could lay my hands on; it’s the best form of escapism there is! And his is the age to be doing it, after all; when he’s got all the time in the world and no responsibilities. I don’t know. Can’t understand him.’

‘Perhaps he’s a late developer.’ Jess suggested. ‘What brought this gloom on, anyway?’

‘Oh I got him
Scrabble
for Christmas,’ Hector said, ‘but can I get him to play it? And then when I finally do nail him down, he gets half the letters wrong, even upside-down! He
doesn’t even try! He doesn’t seem to have any ambition – well it’s either that, or he’s just bone idle.’

‘He’s still very young,’ Jess said.

‘That’s all very well,’ Hector said, ‘but it’s a tough old world out there. If you’re going to be successful, you’ve got to start young. We had a row about his thank-you letters too. I feel strongly about such things, even though it’s obviously much easier to telephone. But would he write any? Would he hell! Even when I typed them all out for him in words of one syllable, he couldn’t even
copy
them accurately – full of silly mistakes, made me wild! Anyone would think he was as thick as porridge, but they’ve just had IQ tests done at his school and he came top, so he’s got no excuse! I don’t know. I just don’t seem able to get through to him.’

‘Perhaps you’re expecting too much?’ Jess suggested.

‘Oh that’s what Wendy always says, but I’m convinced the more that’s expected of you, the better you do. I do have to admit it’s been bloody unrewarding so far, though.’

‘You’re surely not implying that the pleasures of parenthood are overrated?’ Jess teased.

Hector refused to rise. ‘Not at all. You should try it.’

‘I would if I could.’ Jess felt downcast.

‘Why the doleful look then, Jessy my old boot? I thought I was the only miserable sod around here.’

‘Oh I don’t know. I never seem to meet anyone; anyone that is, who’s not a) already married/getting messily divorced, or b) single-but-certifiable. All the best men seem to have been cornered, and I don’t fancy a reject.’

‘Quite right,’ Hector said. ‘You deserve better.’

‘Unfortunately, plain worthiness doesn’t necessarily attract any prizes.’

‘Never mind,’ Hector said. ‘You’ve always got me to fall back on, and I’ve got you. So when we get depressed simultaneously, we can drink together and have a good old moan.’ He put out a hand and squeezed her arm encouragingly. ‘Cheer up,’ he said.

Hector was thinking about Jess as he drove home that evening, and wondered why she hadn’t got married long since. She’s a lovely person, he thought, sympathetic and easy to talk to, but
at the same time absolutely all there; as bright as can be. Perhaps I should have chosen her myself? If she was just a little fatter, she’d be a very attractive shape and with more flattering, more feminine clothes well, who knows… we could have had several children too, perhaps?

Hector wondered whether in truth he would have wanted more than one. Maybe at the beginning he had cherished an unrealistic picture of fatherhood? He had envisaged a lot of doing things together; his son learning from him, emulating him, looking up to him. It hadn’t been like that at all, at least not so far. Morgan seemed to have spent half his life watching television. The only potentially creative thing he ever did was to draw endlessly repetitive geometric shapes which, as far as Hector could see, required no imagination at all. He hated to think such negative thoughts about his only son, but there was no getting away from it, the boy took after his mother. He was deeply boring.

Hector sighed. His marriage to Wendy was hollow at the centre too. Their sex life had never been the same since Morgan’s birth. Wendy seemed to have gone off the boil altogether, and had got very prissy about the whole affair. She’d ended up insisting on a five minute standard performance or nothing, so naturally Hector soon got fed up and had been obliged to seek short-term solace elsewhere. Time I had another no-strings-fling, he thought. I expect it’s frustration that’s making me so out of sorts, or maybe it’s because I’m nearly fifty. Either way, I need something to brighten my existence.

He got out his key and let himself in at his front door. He was late and Wendy was already giving Morgan his tea in the kitchen. Hector patted the top of the child’s blond head and pecked Wendy absentmindedly on the cheek.

‘How was your day?’ Wendy asked him, as usual.

‘Oh, so so.’

‘Daddy?’

‘Yes Morgan?’

‘I’ve got a joke. How d’you keep an idiot in suspense?’

‘I don’t know. How do you?’

‘I’ll tell you tomorrow!’

Hector laughed shortly. ‘Where did you get that one from, then? School?’

‘Yep.’

‘Not bad. Better than most of the rubbish you come out with.’ Hector turned to smile at Wendy, but she was looking miserable. Oh gawd, he thought. What have I forgotten? Anniversary? Birthday? No… He braced himself. ‘So, what’s up with you?’ he enquired dutifully.

‘You haven’t asked me about
my
day.’

‘Well all your days are much of a much-ness, aren’t they?’

‘Well they wouldn’t be if I went back to work.’

‘Oh let’s not start on that one again, Wendy. There’s no need for you to work, and much more important, I don’t want my son being a latch-key kid.’

‘Daddy? What’s a latch…’

‘Not now Morgan. Mummy and I are talking.’

‘Well go on then,’ Wendy said.

‘Go on what?’

‘Ask me.’

Hector sighed and went over to switch the kettle on to make tea. ‘Right then, how was your day?’ he said with his back to her.

‘I went to see Dr Johns,’ Wendy said, ‘and she says I
have
got to have a hysterectomy after all.’

‘Hysterectomy, eh?’ Hector said, putting a teabag into his mug and looking for the milk. ‘I see… Odd word that, isn’t it? I’ve often wondered about its origins. I mean, if an appendectomy is the cutting out of an appendix, then logically a hysterectomy must be the cutting out of hysteria, eh?’ he turned to face her, smiling, but caught on his left eyebrow the full force of the empty mug that Wendy had just flung at him. It fell on the floor and smashed into jagged pieces.

‘Aaaah!’ cried Hector, holding his face ‘Why on earth…?’

‘You don’t care!’ Wendy shouted. ‘I’ve got to have a
major operation
and you don’t give a shit!’ and she stormed out.

‘POW!’ Morgan sang out, looking down at the scattered shards with amazement. ‘Bullseye! How’d she DO that? She’s useless at throwing straight!’

A new year, Wendy thought as she made supper, big deal!
Will it be any better than the old one? I very much doubt it. Will Hector stop putting Morgan down? Will he be any nicer to me? Will he stop working such long hours and spend more time with his family (and would I even like it if he did)? No, she thought, no to all of them. Perhaps I would have been better off as a single mum after all, or even married to Barry?

Barry was quite clearly a model father. Hector called him ‘Poor old Poole the Puppet Pullet’, just to show how much he despised a man who would willingly submit to such hen-pecking. But, Wendy thought, Barry wouldn’t have been determined at all costs to buy such a big, draughty, inconvenient old rectory for them to live in, or to use up all her nest-egg from the sale of her own little house. Barry wouldn’t have wasted hours on the phone, scouring the country from end to end just to track down that horrible blue elephant wallpaper for Morgan’s room. Barry wouldn’t have insisted on putting up that irritating alphabet frieze, which was nothing more than a constant reproach to poor Morgan (who could never remember the order in which the letters went).

Oh dear, Wendy thought. I suppose I’ll have to explain to Hector about Morgan soon, but I know he’ll take it badly… I think I’ll put it off until after my operation…

The thought of her hysterectomy frightened Wendy, but if it helped to get rid of the pain she felt when they infrequently made love, then perhaps it would be worth it. Maybe their married life would improve, and they might even become close again? She clung to this hope as she stirred the white sauce round and round. Maybe deep down Hector was frightened of the operation too, on her behalf? Perhaps that was why he was making jokes? She shouldn’t have thrown that mug at him. She could have
blinded
him. Now, every time she saw his poor swollen face and his bruised eye, she would feel guilty and worry whether it was all her own fault for being a bad wife and not allowing him enough sex. Two salt tears dropped into the sauce and Wendy stirred them in.

Hector came downstairs, having just read Morgan a bedtime story. ‘Lazy little tyke,’ he said. ‘We had this agreement; I’d read two pages to him and then he’d read the next one to me, and so on. But when it came to his turn, he just pissed about. Don’t understand him. It can’t get much simpler than
D-O-G now, can it? A performing horse could manage that, but oh no, not our Morgan. “Bob” was the best he could come up with. Honestly, I despair of him. And to think that Peter Ustinov looked out of a bus at an advertising hoarding at the age of
eighteen months
and read the word OXO. Well!’ He shook his head.

‘So, what did you say to him?’ Wendy asked anxiously.

‘Told him straight. If he wants a story, he’s got to make an effort too. It’s fifty fifty or nothing.’

‘Oh Hector…’ The sauce was just thickening.

‘Don’t “Oh Hector” me Wendy. You’re too soft on the boy.’ Wendy took the pan off the heat and turned slowly to face him. Hector registered her tears with surprise. ‘So what’s the matter with you? If anyone ought to be crying, it should be me.’ He fingered his eyebrow, wincing.

‘I’m sorry about your eye, Hector, really I am. I never meant… I just…’ Wendy broke down and sobbed briefly into her apron, but when she had got herself under control again, she looked up at Hector. He hadn’t moved but she thought she could detect a gleam of compassion beneath the habitual irritation.

‘Oh for goodness sake, Wendy. I do care about your operation,’ he said gruffly. ‘Of course I do. I was just trying to lighten the atmosphere a bit, that’s all. So why don’t you tell me what the doctor said, eh?’

‘He says my womb is retro… something,’ Wendy said, sniffing. ‘It’s facing the wrong way and it’s crushing my ovaries and that’s why it hurts.’ She tore off a piece of kitchen towel and blew her nose. ‘And it’s full of fibroids too, so it’s got to come out. He says they do a cut across here…’ She made a sweeping gesture across the base of her stomach, and Hector winced.

‘Yes, well don’t let’s go into all the gory details,’ he said quickly. ‘If that’s what you need, then of course that’s what you must have, and the sooner the better.’

‘There’s a waiting list of about a year,’ Wendy said, ‘because I’m not an emergency.’

‘Well stuff that!’ Hector said at once. ‘You’ll go privately. They’ll have you in and out in a jiffy.’

‘Oh Hector, I’d rather not,’ Wendy said earnestly. ‘It’s queue-jumping and it’s not right.’

‘For Christ’s sake woman!’ Hector expostulated. ‘You need a major operation. You told me so yourself. Well I’ll tell you this for nothing, no wife of mine is going to hang about for a whole year, when she could perfectly well get it over and done with in a matter of weeks. Just put that ridiculously outworn socialist dogma behind you, once and for all, will you? I know full well your father was a Trades Unionist way back in the dark ages, but this is now. Things have changed. We’ve got the money, we’re paying for it. End of discussion.’

‘But it’s against my
principles
, Hector.’

‘Nonsense,’ Hector said. ‘You’re probably subconsciously trying to put off the evil hour because you’re scared. Quite understandable, but short-sighted. No, the sooner we get you sorted out, the better.’