The Janus Stone

Nelson hesitates. Ruth waits for him to say ‘because it’s a poof’s name’ but supposes that, even for Nelson, this is a step too far.

‘I suppose you think I should call him Harry,’ says Ruth.

‘Harry? No. Ever since Harry bloody Potter that’s been a nightmare. But couldn’t you name him after… What’s your dad’s name?’

‘Ernest.’

‘Well, maybe not.’

‘I could ask Cathbad.’

‘Jesus. He’ll want to call him Jupiter Moon Grumbleweed or something. Why not just give the poor kid a normal name. Like Tom.’

‘Or Dick. Or Harry.’

She and Nelson are never together very long without arguing, reflects Ruth. But all the same she is happy, almost exhilarated. Talking about the baby, discussing names, has made her pregnancy seem more real than at any time since the first scan. No, it’s not the pregnancy that seems real, it’s the baby. Or rather, it’s the idea that the baby will grow up to be a child, a person, someone who will eat Marmite sandwiches, make finger paintings, play football, jump in puddles. She realises that she is grinning.

They are on the ring road now. Nelson is driving too fast as usual. Ruth sometimes thinks he only became a policeman to avoid speeding fines.

But it seems that he also has been thinking. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it,’ he says, overtaking a lorry, ‘we don’t know each other that well, but we’re having a baby together.’

‘We’re not “having a baby together”,’ says Ruth.

‘Yes we are,’

‘But we’re not “together”. You’re not going to come to parent-teacher evenings, are you?’

‘That’s a bit of a way off, Ruth.’

‘I just mean, I’m having the baby on my own but you’re the father. That’s all.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You should be pleased I’m not making all sorts of demands.’

‘You should be pleased I’m not running for the hills.’

The ridiculousness of this exchange makes them both laugh.

‘What about your parents?’ asks Nelson. ‘Are they supportive?’ He says this as if he is proud to have thought of such a PC term.

‘Not exactly,’ says Ruth, ‘they’re Born Again Christians. They think I’m going to burn in hell.’

‘Nice. They might come round when the baby’s born though.’

‘They might, I suppose.’

‘Have you got brothers or sisters?’

Nelson is right, thinks Ruth, it is odd that they can be having a baby together when they know nothing about each other’s lives. She has no idea if Nelson has brothers or sisters either.

‘I’ve got a brother. He’s OK but we’re not close. He lives in London.’

‘Has he got children?’

‘Yes. Two.’

Toby will have cousins. That has never occurred to her before either.

‘Are you going to carry on working?’ asks Nelson.

‘Of course. I’ve got to support the baby, haven’t I?’

‘I told you, I want to help.’

‘I know, but realistically, if you don’t tell Michelle, you’re not going to be able to do very much. That’s OK though. I don’t want help. You can buy him a bicycle or something.’

‘His first football.’

‘You’re not going to insist he supports some ridiculous northern team are you?’

‘Blackpool. Of course.’

‘What if I want him to support…’ She wracks her brain for the most annoying choice. ‘Arsenal?’

‘Then I’ll apply for custody.’ After a short silence, Nelson says, ‘What will you tell about me? I don’t want him growing up not knowing who his father is.’

‘I don’t know,’ says Ruth. ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’ But the bridge looks more like a rickety plank across the Niagara Falls. If Michelle doesn’t know, how can she possibly tell her baby that Nelson is his father?

They are on the Saltmarsh road now. The tide is in, forming sparkling blue pools between the islands of long grass. Ruth opens her window and breathes in the salty sea smell.

Nelson watches her. ‘You love this place, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then there’s no point in me saying it’s an isolated spot to bring up a baby?’

‘No.’

Nelson parks outside Ruth’s cottage. ‘Do you want to come in?’ she asks.

He looks awkward. ‘I ought to get back. I said I’d take Michelle to the garden centre.’

‘Oh, all right.’

Ruth gets out and scrabbles in her bag for her key. Nelson watches her from the car. For some reason, the sight of her standing there on her doorstep in her crumpled shirt, a bandage over her left eye, makes his throat constrict.

‘Ruth!’ he calls.

She turns.

‘Take care.’

She waves and smiles and then, finding her key, disappears into the house.

24th June Fors Fortuna