Run, Mummy, Run (8 page)

I
t was soon, very soon, of that Aisha was sure, for she remembered thinking,
Isn’t it a little early? Why the rush?
Indeed, if she thought hard enough, she could remember saying it.

On their return from Dubai – which had been everything it had promised to be, and more – Aisha moved into Mark’s house. Mark had said it made sense for them to use her father’s money towards paying off the mortgage on his house rather than sell it and buy another jointly. Aisha had agreed. Mark hired a van and moved all her belongings in the weekend they returned from holiday. Now, on Monday morning they were in their bedroom getting ready for their first day back at work as a married couple. Aisha was zipping up the skirt of her grey office suit while practising her new surname.

‘Mrs Williams. Mrs Williams, some letters for you to sign,’ she said out loud and laughed. ‘It still sounds so strange,’ she said. ‘I won’t know who they’re talking to.’

‘Oh, you’ll soon get used to it,’ Mark said. ‘Then it will be time for you to leave.’

‘Leave?’ She paused. She was now hunting through the boxes that they hadn’t yet unpacked for a file she needed for work and was only half-listening to Mark.

‘Yes, to start a family,’ he said. ‘You surely haven’t forgotten?’

She straightened. ‘No, of course not. But I’ll have enough time to learn my name. We’ve only been married two weeks. There’s no rush, is there?’ She moved to the next box.

‘True,’ he said, watching her. ‘But we can’t leave it too long. A woman is at her fertility peak during her early twenties. After that there’s a steady decline. It would be dreadful if we missed the opportunity.’

‘Yes, it would,’ she said absently. ‘You haven’t seen a blue A4 folder with the bank’s emblem on the cover? I need it for a meeting this afternoon.’

He shook his head. ‘No, it could be anywhere. Look, we need to go now or I’ll be late, and that won’t create a very good impression on my first day back at work as a married man.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, and quickly closed the box. She grabbed her jacket and briefcase and followed him out of the bedroom. There was always the possibility, she thought, that she’d left the file at the office.

She followed Mark down the still unfamiliar stairs and out of the front door. They were going together on the tube as far as Moorgate and then would separate – him going on to Gresham Street and her to Lombard Street. If they timed their return correctly, they would meet up again at Moorgate at the end of the day, otherwise they’d agreed the first one home would start the evening meal as they were both working. It really was all so new and exciting, Aisha thought, even the commute to work.

‘Check you’ve got your keys,’ Mark said as he Chubb-locked the front door. ‘We don’t want you being locked out.’

Aisha looked in her bag. ‘Yes, they’re here,’ she said and smiled. It was nice and safe having Mark to look after her, after so long alone; it made her feel warm and secure.

On the pavement, she fell into step beside him. How proud she felt walking with her new husband. She wondered if the neighbours had noticed that Mark now had a wife. The street they lived in was mainly renovated Victorian houses, similar to the one her parents lived in four miles away. She hadn’t seen or spoken to her parents since Mark had moved her belongings the previous weekend; there just hadn’t been the time. Now she suddenly realized she was missing them after seeing them every day when she lived at home. She made a mental note to phone them as soon as she got to work, and invite them over for tea on Sunday. They hadn’t seen the house yet, and she knew they would never just drop by now she was a married woman.

‘You know, I’ve been looking into it and there are measures we can take to increase your chances of conceiving,’ Mark said, returning to the previous conversation.

Aisha glanced up. ‘Oh, yes?’

‘A multivitamin supplement is a good start, apparently,’ he said. ‘It’s important that you’re in tip-top condition prior to conceiving, as well as during pregnancy.’

‘Yes, I can see that’s important,’ she agreed.

‘If we take your temperature every morning we can identify when you’re ovulating. Apparently there is a small but perceptible rise in temperature just prior to ovulation. We don’t want to leave anything to chance. Women ovulate mid-cycle – fourteen days after the first day of your last period. You are regular, aren’t you, Aisha?’

She looked up at him slightly bemused by all this information, and embarrassed by his directness. Her father would never have talked of ovulation or periods to her or her mother; discussion of ‘women’s things’ had always been considered for women only and was taboo in male company.

‘Yes, I am, more or less,’ she said in answer to his question.

‘Good. And just in case you’re wondering what I’ll be doing in all this, I shall wear cotton boxer shorts and take a tepid shower night and morning. Apparently sperm thrive in a cool environment, which is why they’re stored outside the body. Did you know that?’

She nodded and, laughing, linked his arm. ‘It all sounds a bit clinical. I thought babies just happened naturally. Do you think other couples go to this trouble?’

‘If they’re well-informed, yes,’ Mark said flatly. ‘Which on reflection probably excludes the majority.’

She laughed again and affectionately squeezed his arm. Clearly her new husband was going to be as knowledgeable and disciplined in this as he was in all other aspects of his life. And while her initial reaction, when Mark had raised the subject of starting a family, had been to wonder why the rush, she could now see that there was very good reason not to delay.

So every morning Aisha was woken by the alarm clock at six o’clock, and Mark would pass her the thermometer he kept on his bedside cabinet. He’d carefully explained that it was critical she took her temperature before she moved; had she taken a sip from her glass of water or gone to the toilet, it would have altered her temperature slightly and rendered the reading void.

Mark produced graphs of the results: little black crosses joined by a pencil line, each labelled with the day of the month. It was like a schoolboy’s maths project, neat and precise, as he plotted the rise and fall of her cycle for four months, so they came to know when she would ovulate to within twenty-four hours. Then, having abstained from making love for a week (to allow the sperm to multiply, Mark said), they had made love the next night. Mark withdrew straight away and then, with one swift movement pushed a pillow under her bottom and bent her knees up to her chest. Aisha cried out in alarm for he hadn’t warned her or explained, and she had hoped she’d lie in his arms after.

‘The angle is necessary,’ he said, placing a gently restraining hand on her legs. ‘To stop the sperm seeping out. They are too precious to be lost in the bed.’

Aisha pulled the duvet up to cover her and then lay there with her knees bent double, feeling exposed, for what seemed like hours but was only fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes exactly – Mark timed it with his wristwatch which he also kept on the bedside cabinet for this very reason. When the fifteen minutes was up, Mark lowered her knees, kissed and petted her, then snuggled into the small of her back and went to sleep. And so the pattern of their lovemaking continued.

Aisha confessed each month to the four periods that followed in much the same way as a child admits to breaking a precious vase – its discovery inevitable and she weighed down by guilt. Mark accepted the first two confessions with resolve, had been openly disappointed by the third, and was ready to apportion blame by the fourth.

‘I simply don’t understand it,’ he said, spreading the graphs out on the dining-room table and studying them. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my calculations. I can see exactly when you are ovulating. Here.’ He prodded the graph with his finger. ‘I think you had better go to the doctor for a check-up, Aisha, to make sure there’s nothing wrong.’

‘Perhaps if we stop trying so hard,’ she suggested hesitantly. ‘Perhaps if we just relax and forget about it for now. I think some things are beyond our control.’

Mark looked sideways at her with a scepticism she had seen on her father’s face when, as a child, she had said something ridiculously naïve when she should have known better. ‘You’re surely not suggesting babies are made in heaven?’ Mark said, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. ‘That a quick turn in the confession box and a few Hail Marys will get you pregnant?’

‘No, of course not,’ she said quietly, chastened, ‘and I’m not a Catholic. But I think all this is taking over. We talk about nothing else. We’ve got each other and have so much to be grateful for. I want us to enjoy our time together – our lovemaking – not rely on a calendar.’

Mark immediately softened and, folding away the graphs, drew her to him and held her close. He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m sorry, my little love, I didn’t mean to upset you. Why don’t we keep trying with this for another three months and if we still haven’t had any luck we can consider something else? There’s always artificial insemination or even IVF, private if the NHS won’t fund it.’

It wasn’t exactly what Aisha had meant and she was beginning to think that Mark hadn’t fully appreciated her concerns. But she was also aware that no couple saw eye to eye on everything all of the time, and compromise was essential for a good marriage so she agreed to his suggestion. It was nice that Mark was so committed to having children.

Another month passed with its bloody reckoning and Aisha began to accept the possibility that it was her fault and she should go to the doctor. There was clearly nothing wrong with Mark – he had already proved his fertility by fathering two children, and his silence at her next admission seemed to confirm this. He didn’t say a word, but with a slight shake of his head walked away and began tinkering in the garage.

A week into her next menstrual cycle, Aisha took an hour off work, telling Grace she was popping out and that if anyone phoned, to tell them she was with a customer. The ‘anyone’ Aisha referred to was more specifically Mark – she never knew when he was going to phone her at work, only that he would, at least twice a day and often more. Aisha wasn’t going to tell Mark of the visit she was about to make, either now or in the future; it would remain her secret, probably the only one she would ever have from him. For so much did she love him, she was going to explore every avenue, and leave no stone unturned, even if it meant going behind his back and doing something she knew he wouldn’t have approved of.

Slipping out of the side door of the bank, Aisha quickly crossed the road and turned the corner. The streets were relatively empty at three o’clock, with most of the City workers having returned from lunch to their offices. She passed wine and coffee bars, with their pavement tables and chairs, then went down a short alley where she turned right. A little further up, she stopped outside a heavy oak door which was blackened by car fumes and engraved with lovers’ initials. She passed it every morning on her way to work and, until recently, had only given the notice on the sandwich board outside a cursory glance. Now she felt its message applied directly to her:

She turned the wrought-iron handle and slowly opened the creaking door. Once inside, she stood for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust. It was cold and dank smelling, but it was also mercifully empty.
Not much call for God in the middle of the Square Mile
, she thought, which was probably what Mark would have said as well had he known where she was.

There was a small stained-glass window above a simple altar at the far end, the colours in the glass vivid in the gloom. The image showed Christ nailed to the cross in the last throes of his death agony, with Mary at his feet. The only other church she had been in recently was the one near her parents’ house – the one they’d used for the blessing after their wedding. This one was much smaller, older and less prosperous than the church where her parents worshipped.

Keeping her eyes on the stained-glass image, Aisha went slowly down the centre aisle and to the front. She slid into a pew in the second row from the front and knelt on the threadbare cushioned kneeling pad. Clasping her hands together and with her eyes open and still concentrating on the stained-glass image, her lips began moving in silent prayer.

‘I really don’t know if I believe,’ she said. ‘My parents do, but I can’t be sure. It’s not out of selfishness I come, but for my husband. Well, for us both, really. You see, we love each other very much, and this is so important for us both. I’m not a hypocrite, I genuinely don’t know what I believe. Please, God, put aside my doubt and hear my prayer. I’ll be a good mother, I promise. I’ll make you and Mark very proud of me. And my parents will be overjoyed. If it’s within your power and you think it right, please grant me this. I promise I won’t ever ask for anything again. Thank you.’

She stopped, her hands still clasped together, her lips becoming still. She didn’t know what else to say. It seemed unsavoury to start talking about sperm and conception in a church. And if there was someone out there listening – she tried to minimize the ‘if’ – if there was an omnipresent being who saw and understood everything, then he would know what she wanted and understand her need.

She finished with the Lord’s Prayer, which she had learnt by heart at school, then stood, slowly, moving into the aisle and crossed herself, just as her father always did. Looking at the image of Christ above the altar, she said out loud, ‘Thank you, God, whoever you are. I’ve tried to be honest, which I’m sure you prefer.’ Crossing herself again, she turned and walked back up the aisle, then paused at the offertory box by the door and dropped in a two-pound coin.

When she got back to the office, she found Grace taking a second call from Mark, who was asking exactly where Aisha was. Aisha motioned for Grace to switch the call through to her office. Taking a deep breath, she went in and, sitting at her desk, picked up the phone.

‘I’m here, love,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I got called away.’