Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (read book txt) 📗

for Daniel, and I don’t want to keep punishing him for it. I have seen the way he cringes when he sees me bending to wipe dust off the expensive new carrycot in the hallway, or haul kettles of hot water upstairs for a bath because they’ve had to turn the water off. But as I get bigger and heavier, the pile-up of small miseries gets harder and harder to bear. The hideous layer of filth over everything. The constant unsettling presence of strangers in our home. The head-splitting sound of drills. Sometimes I even hear it in my dreams. Then, I wake up to find the noise was real, that it has started again.

When I told Daniel I was worried about being stuck at home alone for weeks on end because of my early maternity leave, he’d rolled his eyes at first. ‘Oh, come on, Helen,’ he laughed, through a mouthful of toast. ‘It’ll be great! Watch daytime TV and eat biscuits.’

Then when he looked up and saw my face, he stopped eating. Reached out, put his hand on top of mine. ‘Oh, love, I’m sorry. I’ll have a word with the builders, OK? Make sure they keep the noise and mess under control.’

But there is little evidence of that happening. On the day of the next antenatal class, I arrive with yet another headache from the drilling. It is so intense that it feels as if it is pressing against the sides of my brain, the insides of my eyes. I arrive at the pub early, slump down at a table by the door to catch my breath.

‘Helen! You’re here!’

It’s Rachel, standing at the bar. She is wearing a short denim dress which is clearly not designed as maternity wear, the buttons straining over her bump. Her feet are clad in lime-green flip-flops. She walks over to the table and sits down next to me, without asking first. She is holding two glasses of orange juice in her hands. Up close, I can see she has slightly misapplied the blusher on her cheeks. It gives her face a lopsided appearance, like a badly hung painting.

‘Finally got you that juice you asked for, ha! Only a week late. Look, I’m having one too. Being good. Don’t worry, I promise I haven’t spiked it!’

I smile awkwardly and take the drink. ‘Thanks, that’s really kind,’ I say. The glass feels sticky, as if she has been holding it for a while.

‘How’s things, anyway, hon? How’s it all going with the mega-basement?’ Rachel leans in towards me, resting on her elbows, sincerity etched on her face. It is almost as if she has been genuinely looking forward to receiving an update on the progress of our extension. When I don’t reply, her smile wilts a little.

‘What’s up?’ she asks, cocking her head to one side. ‘Why is Daniel not here again?’

I look down at the juice, then at Rachel, and to my horror I feel my throat tightening in the face of her kindness, the sting of tears in my eyes.

‘Helen?’ She frowns. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m sorry … It’s just … it’s just …’

There is no stopping it. I’m a trembling mess of sobs, my face hot and wet in my hands. I’m causing a scene, but I can’t seem to calm down.

I don’t think I’d realised until now how upset I was about Daniel. At first, he tried to blame work. He’d been left holding the fort with a project that was at risk of falling apart – Rory having announced that he and Serena were going on an impromptu holiday, a ‘babymoon’, they called it. He was struggling to get out at eight at the moment, let alone in time for the classes at six.

‘I’ll read the books,’ Daniel had said. He was avoiding eye contact. ‘I promise, I’ll learn it all. Do we really need the classes?’

That’s when it had dawned on me. He didn’t want to come to the classes at all.

‘Is this really about work?’

I’d looked at Daniel, still not meeting my eye, fiddling with his watch. And I’d thought then about what the counsellor had told us, about us grieving at different rates. How she had made me understand that his grief was not less, but different. I couldn’t understand this, for a long time. My grief is raw and bloody, tearful and surfacing often. It is kinetic, feverish, greedy. It makes me impatient, makes me clutch at hope, at progress, at the anticipation of the new baby, the expectation of healing. Daniel’s is the opposite. A sort of paralysis of the heart. It makes him withdraw. Makes him terrified to hope, to plan, to believe in the future.

And then I’d thought about how he’d spent all weekend putting flat-pack nursery furniture together, crawling around the house on his hands and knees covering all the plug sockets, getting the baby monitor we’d bought working. How he’d gone, without complaint, to the post office to collect the huge breastfeeding pillow I’d ordered, and arrived home with a packet of prawn cocktail crisps after I told him I’d been craving them.

But for me, this is all part of it. Sitting in a circle and talking about the opening of the pelvis, like all first-time parents do. I want to be able to tell funny stories about it, like other mums. And Daniel just doesn’t seem to understand the impact it has, having to do everything connected with the baby on my own because he can’t face it.

Rachel has been an enthusiastic listener, her eyes wide open, her head nodding like a toy dog.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, shaking my head, searching for a tissue in my bag. ‘I feel ridiculous getting so upset.’

‘Not at all,’ Rachel says. ‘I’d be annoyed too.’ She passes me a napkin from underneath the glass of juice. It’s rough and papery and sticky from the juice, but I take it gratefully.

As I blow my nose, two of the other mothers arrive with their partners, heading