Birth in Suburbia - Carol Falaki (well read books txt) 📗

and make sense of things.
She directed her thoughts back to their meeting earlier that day, in the restaurant.
Lost in thought, Debbie was attempting to recall Chrissie’s words when just in front of her a small boy, aged about four or five, was knocked off his feet by an exuberant collie chasing a ball. Debbie struggled to her feet as quickly as she could; although it was impossible to move with any speed.
She reached the boy and leant over him.
“Are you all right?”
He looked up at her and she could see that he was struggling to hold back the tears pooling in his astonishingly clear blue eyes.
“Let me help you. I’m sure that dog didn’t mean to knock you over he was so busy having fun.”
The boy nodded and attempted a smile while raising his arm for a lift up to his feet.
Debbie smiled back, then, when he was standing ruffled his black hair while resisting an urge to hug him.
“Any damage?” she asked; he shook his head but rubbed his arm nevertheless. The boy eyed Debbie with curiosity.
“Have you - have you got a baby in there?” he asked. His small hand moved towards Debbie’s stomach.
“Yes I have.” He looked up with wondering eyes, gazing over the span of her stomach into her face, and asked,
“Can you tell me something?”
“Of course,” Debbie replied.
“How did the baby get in there?”
Debbie was speechless. Her wordless mouth opened and closed more than once, while a number of explanations swam through her thoughts, only to drown during their faltering attempts to surface. Finally she decided that avoidance would save her.
“I’m sure your mummy will tell you if you ask her,” she said.
“My mummy is in heaven.”
Again the boy had confounded her. Debbie was unsure how to respond but managed a whispered.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ll explain it to you, Jonathan - later.”
The voice, very close to her, startled Debbie. She hadn’t heard his approach on the soft sand. She turned to look at the man who had come to join them, to discover she was at a disadvantage; she was standing in his shadow. He was tall and the sun was in Debbie’s eyes. She tried to make out his features. His hair was dark and his eyes smiled. This much she could tell.
“What do you say to the kind lady, Jonathan? I’m Michael Powel, Jonathan’s father.”
“Debbie, Debbie Johnson.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.”
As they shook hands he held Debbie’s briefly. He seemed to be studying her. For a moment Debbie felt uncomfortable with this, but he seemed pleasant enough and the discomfort vanished quickly.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Thank you,” Jonathan whispered. Michael Powel turned his attention to the boy.
“Are you all right, did you hurt yourself?”
“No, erm, just my arm a little bit.”
He bent down to look at his son’s arm and gave him a hug. Debbie smiled down at Jonathan. Scooter nudged her leg with his dry nose.
“Goodbye Jonathan,” she said and then to his father,
“Goodbye Mr Powel.”
She turned and walked away, then smiling back at them and waving casually she waddled in the most graceful way she could, shoeless, on the soft sand, and 37 weeks pregnant, conscious of two pairs of smiling eyes following her. She collected her bag and shoes and waddled off the beach. Scooter walked after her.


Chapter Three


Sean


As Debbie walked back from the beach with Scooter trailing behind, her encounter with Michael and Jonathan Powel forgotten, she knew why she felt uneasy. Was it possible that Sean could be having an affair? Her stomach dropped like a stone in still water.
She took a deep breath, patted her bump for reassurance and was given a small responsive kick from her baby, but this had the effect of making her feel more vulnerable. There was more than just her future alone to consider.
Once inside, the house was pleasantly cool. It was, always, perfectly clean and tidy with nothing out of place; and today smelled faintly of lemon surface cleaner and peach soap. Scooter dunked his face into his water bowl drinking thirstily and leaving small wet puddles on the floor. Then he sank onto his bed where his customary snoring began almost instantly. Debbie took some chilled fruit juice from the refrigerator. The kitchen clock chimed four. She took her drink into the living room, sank back on the couch and soon drifted into a dream-filled, restless sleep.
Waking with a start she became aware the light was fading and the room was dim. Then she noticed the curtains had been drawn, the clock on the wall declared six thirty. Sean must be home. He would be sitting at the computer working, she thought. Debbie wandered into the kitchen and filled the kettle.
“Hi love,” she called up the stairs.
“I’ll be down in a moment,” Sean called back. “Put the kettle on.”
A few minutes later he came into the kitchen, fastening a clean white shirt, his hair was wet from the shower and the familiar scent of his cologne breezed in with him.
“I hope you don’t mind love, but I’m having a pint with James.”
James Seagrave was Sean’s boss and Debbie didn’t like him, although she had made an effort for Sean’s sake.
“I don’t trust him or his motives,” she'd told Sean once. “And he has such a superior attitude. He makes me feel like an idiot, and I’m not. God knows how his poor wife manages.” Now she said:
“We hardly have any time together lately, Sean.”
“I have to go Debbie, It’s a business meeting.” Sean explained. “I’ll get a bite to eat while I’m out. You look after yourself. You don’t mind do you?”
Debbie’s heart was sinking; trying to avoid sounding selfish she replied:
“What sort of business? You need a rest, not more meetings after work.”
“He wants to discuss a development, a project of his. It’s important, Debs. Do you remember when Bob English took me on a tour of his site, the block of flats at Beachside?” Debbie nodded.
“Well, something came up and it needs clarifying. I told James about it and now we need to discuss it further. You know James, nothing’s simple. I won’t be late, I promise.”
“Fine, it’s fine,” Debbie lied, hiding her despair and trying to resign herself to another evening alone. This was becoming a regular thing. He caught her expression.
“This is something that needs to be sorted love.” Debbie nodded again. What could she say?
He pecked her on the cheek.
“See you later. There’s a good movie on Channel 4 tonight, 9 o’clock,” and he was gone, closing the door carefully behind him. He had taken one sip of his tea.
Debbie sat at the kitchen table taking comfort from the warmth of her teacup. Lost in thought, she gradually became aware that the telephone was ringing. She blew her nose before answering. It was Helen.
“Hi Debs.” Helen always managed to sound happy and this had begun to make Debbie feel inadequate. It didn’t take much. Helen was lucky. Nigel treated her like a princess.
“Hi Helen, are you okay?”
“Are you okay, more to the point Debs? Have you been crying?”
“No.”
“You sound like you have.”
“Well,” Debbie tried not to sound upset, “Sean has gone out and I just felt a bit lonely.”
“Well don’t. I’m going to my mum's for an hour. Why don’t you come with me?”
“Oh no, I’m okay Helen. Thanks.”
“Come on Debs, I need you. You know what my mum’s like, and she’s been worse this past couple of months.”
Debbie accepted, reluctantly. She realised she needed to be with someone, and Helen would do rather than anyone, except Sean.
“Okay then. What time are you going?” she asked.
“I’m leaving soon, so I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
There was just time to have something to eat, a snack. No time for a shower, but Debbie washed and changed, and this helped lighten her mood; until she tried to wear a top which had fitted a couple of weeks ago and now stretched around her breasts like a size six lycra straitjacket.
“I’m not going to make a mountain out of a molehill, I’m making assumptions, there is no evidence, it’s just my imagination,” Debbie told herself in the mirror and she was almost convinced. By the time Helen arrived she managed to greet her cheerfully and without feeling she was trying for an Oscar.


Chapter Four

Retail Therapy


Helen’s mum was called Anne. She was seventy-one years old.
Anne dressed well, she was always immaculate. She didn’t own a pair of trousers, wore her white hair in a neat bob and low-heeled shoes and stockings in the house, never slippers. She refused to wear her eye-glasses out of the house, could smile like a politician, and was a difficult woman to say no to.
Her house was large, but Anne used just a few of the rooms except when entertaining, which she seldom did since the death of John, Helen’s father.
“Hello darling, the kettle’s on. Do help yourself.” Anne greeted them, “I am just in the middle of an important deal,” and rushed off into the lounge.