Who Needs You with Baggage?

Who Would Want You with Baggage

Are you certain, love?

Helen covered her mothers hand with her own and smiled softly.

Mum, I love him. And he loves me. Were getting married, and everything will be all right. Well have a family, you see?

Her father pushed aside his plate of untouched cottage pie and stared gloomily out the window. A heavy silence hung for several moments, though to Helen it stretched on endlessly.

Youre only nineteen, he finally spoke, his words careful. You should be thinking about your studies, about a career, not marriage.

I can manage, Dad. Helens voice was calm, though inside she burned with the desperate wish to convince themto make them see what she saw. James is working, Im studying. Were not asking for you to keep us. We just want to be together. To be a family.

Her father shook his head but said nothing more.

They didnt approveHelen could tell by the tense set of her fathers mouth and the way her mother nervously refolded the napkin. But they didnt forbid it either. Perhaps they remembered themselves at her age. Perhaps they knew forbidding would only make her more determined.

The wedding was held in May, a modest affair, yet so warm that Helen still remembers it with a glow that fills her heart. No grand hall with two hundred guests, no stretch limousines or flurries of doves. But they were happy.

Their honeymoon was spent in Brighton. Just a weekthey couldnt manage more, as James had work and money was tight. Even so, to Helen, that week felt like a bubble of magic, cut off from everything else. They woke up late, breakfasted on the tiny hotel balcony overlooking the grey-blue sea, wandered the pier until dusk, shared chips and battered cod from the stand, laughed, kissed, as if the world itself might end tomorrow.

And then real life beganwithout the veil of romance. A rented one-bed flat, where the winter draughts snuck past old sash windows and the neighbours upstairs rattled the fixtures. James left for work at dawn, Helen hurried to lectures, meeting again in the evenings, tired and hungry, warming up leftovers, falling asleep almost at once.

But even in that quiet exhaustion, there was something right and true.

Six months on, her parents called, asking them to come round at the weekend. Helen worriedher mind raced through all the dreadful possibilities. Instead, they simply sat her and James at the kitchen table, poured tea, and slid a thick envelope towards them.

This is for you, her father said, eyes averted. For a flat. Even if its only a little one, at least youll own it. Enough of this paying rent.

Helen stared at the envelope, her throat constricted, eyes stinging.

Dad she started, but he dismissed the protest with a wave.

Take it, dont be daft. Consider it a wedding presenta belated one.

They found a place within a month. Twenty-eight square metres in a concrete block, third floor. Windows out onto a scrappy bit of green, tiny kitchen, combined bath. To some, nothing at all. To Helena new world. She picked the wallpaper herself, oversaw the workmen, hung the curtains, brightened the place with market flowers in pots.

A year on, just as she began her third year at university, a peculiar illness overtook her. She thought shed eaten something off, or perhaps she was just worn out from finals. She bought a test only to banish the thought from her mind. The two pink lines appeared at once, clear and undeniable.

Helen sat on the edge of the bath, staring at the scrap of plastic that had just turned her life on its head. Third year. Graduation in two years. Theyd only just started to find their feet. Why now?

James came home from work and immediately sensed something amiss. Helen handed him the test in silence, words abandoned.

He stared at the result for long, endless moments, then looked up at her. His eyes held something that made Helens heart catch.

Well keep it, he said quietly but with certainty.

James, Im in my third year. How on earth?

Well keep it, he repeated, enclosing her trembling hands in his. Youll take a break from uni. Ill carry on working. Well cope. Helen, hes our baby.

She cried into his shoulderfrom fear, from uncertainty, from hormones perhaps, but there was happiness in it too, breaking through the dreadthe first push of grass through icy tarmac.

Arranging the deferment from university was no problem.

Michael was born in March, when the city snow was still grimy but you could smell spring coming. Seven pounds, twenty inches. Helen gazed at the tiny bundle in her arms, the scrunched, rosy face, unable to believe ither son. Hers and Jamess.

The happiness was immenseit seemed almost her ribs would crack from the fullness of it.

But the changes crept in quietly, like the first autumn chillone day warm, the next your breath comes out in frosty clouds.

James started coming home later. At first by half an hour, then an hour, then time slipped Helens count. He walked in, dropped his coat onto the hook, and passed right by Michaels cot, hardly so much as glancing inside. He had always greeted Michael first, lifting him up, kissing his hair, blowing silly raspberries on his stomach. Nowthere was no child at all.

You might at least say hello to your son, Helen snapped one evening.

James pulled a face, as if she had said something distasteful.

Hes asleep. No sense in waking him.

Michael wasnt asleep. Michael lay in his cot, watching his father with dark, serious eyesthe same eyes they shared. But James didnt see. Or didnt want to.

Then came the comments. At first, offhand, easy to brush aside, and Helen convinced herself it was nothing, just her nerves.

Youre wearing that out? he remarked one morning, eyeing her from top to toe.

Helen looked downordinary jeans and a jumper, nothing remarkable.

Whats wrong with it?

Nothing, just… never mind. He grimaced so obviously it needed no explanation.

Each day it grew worse. There was no longer any attempt at subtlety.

Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror? he snapped one night as Helen changed for bed. Youve let yourself go. You look fifty, not twenty-two.

The words sucked the air from her. Helen stood in her old nightshirt, unable to breathe. Yes, shed put on weight after Michael was bornwho wouldnt? Butwas it really so awful?

James, I only had the baby not long ago. Her voice was frail, even to her own ears.

That was a year ago. A year! Other women are back in shape after three monthsyoure still waddling about.

He broke off with a wave, left the room. Michael woke crying, startled by raised voices.

Go and settle him! James shouted from the kitchen. Hes always screamingI cant sleep!

Helen took her son up, pressed his soft hair to her cheek. Tears slid down her face, dripping onto Michaels tiny head. He calmed, soothed by her warmth, but she stood in the shadows, rocking himand herselfback and forth.

There was no one to confide in. No one, really, except her parents. But every time Helen reached for the phone, she saw her fathers face. Youre nineteen. You should be thinking about your studies. They had warned her. Theyd known. She hadnt listened, thought she was cleverer than all the rest, that love conquered all.

And now? Limping back to them, tail between her legs, admitting shed wrecked things, that theyd been right after all? Helen pictured that conversationher mothers tears, her fathers heavy silenceand always put down the phone. She had made this mess; she would have to clear it up.

One day, as usual, Helen took Michael out for a walk. They circled the courtyards, stopped by the little green square where battered benches sat beneath the shedding sycamores. While rummaging through her bag for wipes, she realised shed left Michaels snack behind.

She turned back.

Entering with her own key, intending to grab his yoghurt and leave, Helen noticed unfamiliar shoes in the hall. Womens shoes, red and glossy, perched on thin high heels.

Her legs carried her deeper into the flat, though her mind screameddont look, dont go, turn around.

The door to their bedroom was ajar.

She saw enough. More than enough. A strange woman in her bed, tangled in her sheets. And Jameswho didnt even bother to cover up, or concoct an excuse.

He looked at Helen with irritation, as if she were an annoying fly intruding on his peace.

What did you expect? he muttered. Youve let yourself go. Dyou really think I should put up with it? Im twenty-five, in my prime, and I come home to a wife no oned look at twice.

Helen gripped the doorframe, knees threatening to give way. The woman in the bed pulled the covers up, staring determinedly away.

Out. Helen barely recognised her own voice, low and hoarse. Get out of my flat. Now.

The woman scrambled into her clothes and scurried out. James watched with a sour smile.

Dont start, he said, as the door closed on the other woman. Its not a tragedy. Everyone does the same, but they get on with it. Its normal.

Normal?

What? You think your mothers father was faithful? You think its only me? Most men do it, and their wives stay, because who else would have themespecially with a kid. He pulled on his jeans. No sense making a big scene. Nobody wants a woman with baggage. So lets not have any drama. Let that be the end of it.

Helen didnt recall how she ended up back in the hall. Didnt remember zipping Michaels coat or calling a cab, telling the driver her parents address. The whole way, she stared blankly out at the city as she stroked her sons back, empty inside.

It was her mother who answered the door. One look at Helens face, and everything was clear. She simply stepped forward and folded her into a tight embrace, the way shed done when Helen was little and came home scraped and sobbing.

Mum, I Helen tried, but her mother shook her head.

Later. Everything later. Come in, love.

Helens father emerged from the kitchen, saw daughter and grandson in the hall. His face turned to stone.

Whats happened?

Helen told themhalting, tripping over words, tears soaking her story. The barbs, the coldness, the red shoes. The bitter whod want you with baggage echoing in the hallway.

Her father listened in silence, then rose, slipping his jacket from the peg.

Were going, he said.

Where? Helen asked, confused.

To him.

Dad, no, I can

Leave Michael with your mum. Come on.

James answered the door as if nothing had happened. Helens father strode in, looked around, then turned to face his former son-in-law, voice so calm it was frightening.

Youll pack your bags and go. From my daughters flat. The one her mum and I bought with our money. Youre done here.

James mumbled something about shared property, his rights, but Helens father cut him off ruthlessly.

Rights? Lets talk about rights. Like your right to treat my Helen the way you did. To humiliate her. To bring God knows who into her home. Step out of line and Ill have the police hereand I assure you, I can afford solicitors to make your life miserable. Now go.

James left, slinging his things into a bag and walking out without comment. Helen leaned against the wall, watching the door swing shut behind him.

Why didnt you come to us sooner? her father asked, when all was quiet.

I thoughtyou told me, Dad. I thought youd say Id brought it on myself.

He turned to her. There was something in his gaze that brought the familiar prick of tears to Helens eyes.

Youre our girl. My daughter. You understand? You can always come home. Whatevers happenedalways.

Helen moved into his arms and wept, just as she had years before. She cried long and hard, washing away all the long-held pain.

Two years later, she sat on the floor of that same flat, watching Michael carefully build a tower of coloured blocks. Her university degreeearned remotely, with honourslay nearby. Her phone pinged, a maintenance payment had arrived.

Michael looked up and smiled, just as his father once smiled. But it no longer mattered.

Mummy, look!

I see, love. Its a wonderful tower.

The evening sun shone golden across the room. Helen watched her son, her heart quiet and full. It all worked out. Not quite as she once dreamedbut it worked out all the same.