Blue Monday

Chapter Eleven

‘Honestly, Alan, I don’t know why you have to be so secretive all of a sudden.’

It was after supper and Carrie had been flicking through the channels with the remote control, but now she turned the television off and turned to him, folding her arms. She’d been snappy and thin-skinned all evening. Alan had been waiting for this conversation.

‘I’m not being secretive.’

‘You’re not telling me anything that goes on in there. I was the one who encouraged you to go and now you’re shutting me out.’

‘It’s not like that.’ Alan tried to think of how Frieda had put it earlier that day. ‘It’s a safe place,’ he said. ‘Where I can say anything.’

‘Aren’t you safe here? Can’t you say anything to me?’

‘It’s not the same. She’s a stranger.’

‘So you can say things to a stranger that you can’t say to your own wife?’

‘Yes,’ said Alan.

‘What kind of things? Oh, sorry, I forgot. You can’t tell me, can you, because they’re secret?’ She wasn’t used to being sarcastic. Her cheeks were flushed.

‘It’s nothing bad. They’re not secret like that. I’m not telling her I’m having an affair, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘If that’s what you want.’ Carrie’s voice was tight and high. She shrugged and turned the television back on.

‘Don’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’

‘Hurt. As if I’ve done something to offend you.’

‘I’m not offended,’ she said, in the same clipped voice.

He took the remote out of her hand and turned off the television again. ‘If you really want to know, what we talked about today was us not managing to have a baby.’

She turned to face him. ‘Is that why you’re not well?’

‘I don’t know why,’ he said. ‘I’m just telling you what we talked about today.’

‘It’s me who can’t have the baby too.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m the one who’s been prodded and poked and who has to wait for my period every month.’

‘I know.’

‘And it’s not as if …’ She stopped.

‘It’s not as if it’s your fault,’ Alan finished for her wearily. ‘My fault. I’m the one with a low sperm count. And I’m the one who’s impotent.’

‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘It’s all right. It’s true, after all.’

‘I didn’t mean it. It’s not a question of fault. Don’t look like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘As if you’re about to cry.’

‘What’s so wrong with crying?’ Alan asked, surprising himself. ‘Why shouldn’t I cry? Why shouldn’t you?’

‘I do, if you want to know. When I’m by myself.’

He picked up her hand and fiddled with the wedding ring on her finger. ‘You have secrets from me too.’

‘We should have talked about it more. But I keep thinking it will still be all right. Lots of women wait for years. And if it doesn’t happen, maybe we can adopt. I’m still quite young.’

‘I wanted my own son,’ said Alan, softly, almost as if he was speaking to himself. ‘That’s what I was talking about today. Not having a child, it doesn’t just make me sad, it makes me feel wrong, like a botched piece of work. As if I’m unfinished inside – and then all these things rush in to fill the emptiness.’ He stopped. ‘It sounds stupid.’

‘No,’ said Carrie, although she wanted to cry out: What about me? My son, my daughter? I would have been a good mother. ‘Go on.’

‘It’s not fair. Not fair on you either. I’ve let you down and I can’t put it right. You must wish you’d never met me.’

‘No.’ Though of course there’d been times when she had thought how much easier it would have been with a different kind of man, confident and with sperm that could swim right up her, like salmon up a river. She winced. The two things seemed to go together, but she knew that wasn’t right. It wasn’t Alan’s fault.

‘It all came pouring out of me, things I didn’t even know I’d been thinking. She’s quite a scary woman, but somehow you can talk to her as well. After a bit, it wasn’t even like talking to a person. It was like walking around in a house I’d never been into before, finding things, picking them up and looking at them, letting myself just wander around inside myself. And then I found myself saying this thing …’ He stopped, passed his hand across his forehead. He was suddenly feeling a bit sick, a bit out of breath.

‘What?’ asked Carrie. ‘What thing?’

‘I have this picture in my mind – it sounds daft. It seems so real, as if I’m looking at it or remembering it or something, not just imagining it. Almost as if it’s happening to me.’

‘What’s happening? What picture, Alan?’

‘Me and my son together. A little five-year-old, with bright red hair and freckles and a big grin. I can see him plain as day.’

‘You see him?’

‘And I’m teaching him to play football.’ He gestured towards the small back garden that he’d been neglecting recently. ‘He’s doing really well, controlling the ball, and I feel so proud of him. Proud of myself, too, being a proper dad, doing what dads do with their sons.’ His chest was tight, as though he’d run a long distance. ‘You’re standing at the window looking at us.’

Carrie didn’t speak. Tears were running down her cheeks.

‘Recently I haven’t been able to get the picture out of my mind – sometimes I don’t want to, but sometimes I think I’ll go mad with it. She said, did I think it was me as a boy that I’m seeing, or the boy inside me or something, and wanting to rescue him in some way? But it’s not like that. I’m seeing my son. Our son.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘The one we’re waiting for.’

It’s always like this. There comes a moment when you just know. It’s as simple as that. After all these months of watching, of waiting for the tug on the line and the bait to be taken, of being patient and careful, of wondering if this one is possible or that one, of never giving up or getting downhearted, then suddenly it happens. You just have to be ready for it.

He’s small and skinny, maybe young for his age, though it’s hard to tell. He hangs back from his classmates at first; his eyes dart around, to see where he’ll be wanted. He’s wearing jeans that are a bit too big for him and a thick jacket that’s almost down to his knees. He comes closer. He has round brown eyes and round copper-coloured freckles. He’s wearing a grey woolly hat with a bobble on it, but then he pulls it off and his hair is a flaming red. It’s a sign, it’s a gift, it’s perfect.

So now it’s just a question of time. You’ve got to get it right. There’ll never be another as perfect as this.