The Secret Diary of a Pregnant Bengali, page 18
There’s a buzzing sound, then Rory flinches. Carmen presses the button again. Another flinch from Rory. Another glint in Carmen’s eye.
“In a sense, it’s replacing one form of pain with another,” says Rory, between shocks.
“Sort of, yes,” says Carmen, pressing the button harder.
What fresh hell is this? Why would you, when you’re already in pain, inflict more pain in a bid to deflect from the initial pain? Who wants to electrocute themselves? No, thank you. Not for me.
“Okay, the session won’t be much longer as I imagine you all want to get home. I’ll just cover a few more aspects of birthing. The next time you come in, we will be exploring the stages of labour and possible after effects, such as perineum tears,” says Carmen, as though it’s nothing at all.
4th February, An obligatory call
“I tell you something and you no be angry, okay?” says mum.
This doesn’t sound good. “Go on,” I say, with trepidation.
“Your auntie Jusna call. She been pestering me so long to get your number.”
“Why does she want my number? Since when does she care to call?”
Mum huffs. “You know, soon as you get married, your value rises. Then pregnant and value go up even more. Suddenly she all caring auntie. More like nosey lady want to know everything about your business. Hmmmph!”
“Of course she does. You didn’t give it, did you?”
Mum goes silent.
“Mum! Did you give her my number?”
I can’t see mum’s face, as we’re speaking on the phone but I can just feel her doing a lip grimace. “You see, she kept asking. In the end, how could I say no? How bad it look? So maybe just speak to your dad’s sister this one time? You only have one.”
“What? Are you guilt tripping me about only having one auntie? She’s a bloody nosey one!”
“Dooro!”
“You said it yourself! She’s nosey.”
“When I say that?” Mum goes all defensive.
“Literally just now, mum. You’re always saying she’s nosey. I can’t believe you gave her my number.”
“Okay, okay. But what I supposed to do? She act like she might die if she never get to speak to you. Anyway, you have nothing to hide. Just tell her that you’re okay. Keep things short and simple. Maybe no mention about your work. Don’t tell her you got own business.”
“Mum, I’ve never understood that. What’s wrong with me having my own business? It’s still in the field I built my career in. It’s not like I’m sewing knickers or something.”
“You forget what she like? She make it sound small. As if you run coffee shop or worse... being beautician.”
Mum utters the last profession as though it’s a dirty word. I should inform her that Asian makeup artists charge a fair whack for bridal makeovers. Eyebrow threading isn’t cheap, either.
“Fine, I won’t say anything about my job.”
And I definitely won’t say anything about my husband’s lack of job, I think to myself. That would really get the rumour mill going.
“Good, good. I better go because she call you now.”
“What? Now? Mum, I’m not ready. I need to think about what I’m going to tell her when she asks me 101 questions.”
“No need to be ready. Just your auntie, remember?” I’m getting whiplash from mum’s flip-flopping. “Also, no need to mention about renting, either. If she does ask, say you just waiting for right house.”
“What’s our housing situation got to do with anything?”
It’s too late. Mum has hung up and, like clockwork, my phone rings again. I brace myself.
Me: “Salaamalaykum, how are you?”
Auntie Jusna: “Walaykum Salaam Warahmantullahi wa barakatu. I be okay but you forgot about me! Do you know who I am anymore?”
Me: (Laughing): “Sorry, I’ve just been busy.”
Auntie Jusna: “Yes, your mum tell me you’ve been very busy. Still working? When you going to take time off now you having baby?”
I laugh nervously.
Auntie Jusna: “I’ve no stop thinking about you. I been so worried. How are you coping over there, all alone? With no family to help you?”
That hurt a bit.
Me: “I do have some support. My uncle Tariq and auntie Rukhsana aren’t too far away. They sent food over last week.”
Auntie Jusna. “Oh yes. Uncle Tariq be your mum’s cousin? They the ones who daughter married English man?”
Me: “That’s the one.”
Auntie Jusna: “And what of their sons? They have two boys, no? Are they married?”
Me: “I don’t think so.”
Auntie Jusna: “You don’t think so? How you live near them and not know?”
Me: “I mean, I do know. They’re not married. It’s just they don’t live at home. They work elsewhere, I think.”
Must stop saying ‘I think’. I’m giving her more ammunition to dig holes.
Auntie Jusna: “What your plans when baby born? Are you going to come to your mum’s for stay?”
Me: “I’m not sure. We haven’t made any plans yet.”
Auntie Jusna: “You mean your mum not ask you yet? I spoke to her other day. I said: ‘You must tell your daughter to stay. First time baby, she can’t be alone over there in London’.”
Me: “They might come and stay with me.”
Auntie Jusna: “Stay with you? In your small flat in London? They no be able to cope without proper kitchen. And my brother won’t be comfortable there. I can’t believe she not ask you. I told her to. Let me ask her again.”
I never knew my dad’s sister would be a conduit between myself and my mother.
Me: “I better go. I’ve got some work to do.”
Auntie Jusna: “Oh yes, of course. I know how hard it is for you. You must go. And tell your husband make more money. Work harder! You need to take your rest.”
Me: “Will do. Anyway, I-”
Auntie Jusna: “I know, I know. Young people are very busy. Never got time to talk to old auntie. How much you pay in rent?”
Well, that wasn’t a natural segue.
Me: “I think...... About £1800 a month?”
Damn, I said ‘think’ again. Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing, as it suggests M covers the rent, which is why I’m vague.
Auntie Jusna: “Only £1800? That cheap? Hassna husband has family in London. They live in... I think... West London? You hear of Kensington?”
Me: “I have heard of Kensington, yes.”
Auntie Jusna: “They say rent in that area be £3000 a month. Can you believe? For small flats?”
I spy an opportunity.
Me: “Property prices are crazy. How much do they pay, then?”
Auntie Jusna: “Heh? Who?”
Me: “You said Hassna’s husband has family in Kensington. How much are they paying?”
Auntie Jusna (mumbles): “Line keeps going funny. Can you hear me?”
Me: “I can hear you fine, auntie. You were saying that property prices are around £3000 a month in Kensington. Is that how much they’re paying, too?”
Now it’s auntie Jusna’s turn to laugh nervously.
Auntie Jusna: “No, they in council flat.”
Me: “Sorry Auntie? What was that?”
Auntie Jusna: “I say, they live in council flat! I’m just glad my Hassna bought her house when she did. Now, there’s no way they could afford a four-bedroom semi-detached house. Anyhow, you keep working. But remember to take rest, okay?”
And with that, my beloved auntie hangs up and I, for the first time in my life, feel satisfied that I got her all tongue tied.
16th February, I hate shopping
Shopping is only fun when it’s hypothetical.
When you’re doing it for real, exchanging real money, it’s a different ball game. We walk straight past the golden egg highchairs and head to the clearance section of the department store. I’m not proud.
“Those throne type baby chairs are a bit ridiculous, anyway,” says M.
“Hmm,” is all I can respond with.
I know he’s right. They are ridiculous. It wasn’t even about the highchairs. It was about wanting more for baby H2 than I had for myself. Just like mum wants me to buy new things for the baby, because she wasn’t always able to. I get it. I understand where she’s coming from. Growing up, my sisters and I were used to making do with less. Not having the best trainers or the nicest new coats. We expected our fashion to be a season behind our friends in school. I wanted better for H2.
I worked so bloody hard my whole adult life to be able to do more. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to be rifling through the sale section in the hopes of finding a newborn outfit.
Yes, I’m stingy by nature. Yes, I shop in the sales but for my little girl, I wanted more. At least at the beginning. I wanted to give the best start to level the playing field for her when it was so imbalanced for me.
M, however, is less frugal. He is admiring an oak effect cot, with a matching cupboard and chest of drawers.
“What do you think of this?” he asks.
“It looks nice. How much is it?” I have to ask the million dollar question.
M goes hunting in search of a price tag. There isn’t one. We need to ask the saleswoman, readying our best poker faces for when we learn it’s way out of our budget.
“Do you need any help?” The smiley, mousey-haired saleswoman asks, inching towards us.
“We wanted to see how much this set is?” says M.
“Or just the cot?” I add.
The girl examines the priceless cot with as much confusion as we do. “Ah ha,” she says, having an epiphany. “It’s ex-display. That’s why there isn’t a price tag. I’ll check on here.” She taps into a device attached to her hip.
Her eyes widen in surprise and I’m not sure if it’s genuine or all part of the sales pitch. “This is actually reduced quite heavily because it’s previously been on display and it’s the last one. So the full set is £595. Ordinarily, it would be £999.” She looks to us, expecting gasps in shock and awe.
M is impressed and so am I, to be honest. It’s a pretty good deal, especially given that the golden thrones were the same price.
“Do you think we should get it?” I ask M. “We weren’t planning on getting a full nursery set, were we? Don’t we just need a cot?”
“Yeah, but it is a nice set. And she’ll need somewhere to put her clothes, won’t she? Our cupboards are full and our flat pack drawers are bursting. They are probably more useful than the cot, to be honest with ya. She’ll probably end up in our bed.”
“No she won’t! I’m not going to be one of those mums who doesn’t put her baby in the cot,” I bite back unintentionally aggressively.
“Well, it’s still worth getting the set.”
“Can we afford to, though?”
M laughs in disbelief. “Course we can. Why wouldn’t we?”
Does he really need me to spell it out?
“The fact that you’re out of work,” I say, lowering my voice. “And that I’m barely working so between us, things are pretty grim.”
M’s eyes dart from side to side. I can see the look on his face. It’s indignity. I went too far. I don’t mean to hurt him. I don’t mean to emasculate him. It’s just... I don’t know where we’re headed. It’s hard enough being out of work in London when it’s just the two of us but with a baby on the way? I can’t be as relaxed as M. I can’t.
“I suppose we need to get something and it’s a good price,” I say.
After the incredibly lengthy sales process (which seems unnecessary. The store really ought to rethink that), M and I get the bus home.
I suggest we look for some more essentials, like a pram and a car seat. M says it’s worth waiting for that. There is still time, according to him.
“I’ll get back on it, work-wise, this afternoon,” M declares. “I need to email those recruiters and give them a kick up the arse.”
“Shall I chase Julia about the job at Miles’ place? I’ve not heard anything back yet.”
“Don’t bother,” says M. “There will be plenty of other opportunities. Things might be a bit quiet at the moment because of the time of year but they’ll pick up. Anyway, we’ve got more exciting stuff to look forward to. Haven’t you got your doctor’s appointment?”
“Oh yeah, I’m going to listen to my new favourite sound, baby H’s heartbeat. But look, as it’s at 4 ‘o’clock, you might as well head back to the flat and get on the case with the recruiters. I can do this appointment by myself. We are in the safe zone now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll keep the baby cooking in the oven and you can fill the pipeline.”
“Or should that be the piping cream line?” M laughs.
“Huh?”
“It’s just you said about a bun in the oven, so I thought I’d continue the baking theme. As in piping the cream on the cake. Now that I say it out loud, it doesn’t work.”
I frown. “Not one of your best jokes.”
“DID YOU MANAGE TO GET a urine sample?” asks the doctor.
I pull the small plastic tube out of my bag. “Always.”
I no longer flinch at peeing on my hand, as it’s become so synonymous with this pregnancy. I do feel that my ick threshold has greatly increased over these past months.
The doctor takes the warm sample of wee and dips a stick into it. After swirling it round a couple of times, she concludes that all is well.
“Now let’s have a look at your blood pressure.”
As she pumps away, expanding the armband and squeezing my bicep, she raises an eyebrow. “Hmm. Your blood pressure is a little high. Nothing major but it’s just something to be aware of. Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Not really. I’m not that comfortable these days.”
She sighs. “I know. It’s a nightmare, isn’t it? I’ve had three children. They’re still terrible sleepers. Is there anything else? Have you been stressed out lately at all?”
I don’t think that dishing all to the doctor about M’s work situation is going to help matters. I mean, what is she going to do, offer him a job? There is no cure for worry, is there? I just have to ride this one out. “No, nothing in particular is stressing me out.”
I lie on the examination table for the umpteenth time. I know the routine off by heart now. Piss sample, pressure check, prod baby bump.
I wince in discomfort as the doctor presses her fingers sharply around my stomach to feel the baby’s head. “Sorry about that,” she says, continuing to dig away. “There we are. The baby’s head is where it should be. The back seems fine. There’s the little feet.”
“How can you even tell?” I ask. “Isn’t it all like one big blob?”
The doctor laughs. “It comes with practice. When you’ve done it as long as I have, you learn to make out the body parts. Okay, would you like to listen to the heartbeat?”
I close my eyes. “Yes, please.”
Throughout all of this pregnancy, H2’s soothing, pulsating heart beat has been medicinal. It always sounds a little quick but the doctor assures me, every time, that it’s perfectly normal.
I thank the doctor as I leave, comforted by the fact that I am inching closer to having the baby and there is less and less chance of there being any problems. Dare I say, I’m starting to enjoy the pregnancy. If only I could continue to keep that niggle of worry at bay.
The low winter sunshine bathes my face as I head out into the cold. I pop in my earphones and load up the audiobook that Sophia recommended on hypno-birthing. The narrator, a birthing doula, has a nasally, shrill voice. It’s not the most pleasant of listens, but I persevere.
You’ll have an amazing birth. You will have an amazing birth, she repeats like a chant. She’s giving me ear worm but I am trying to focus on her words, instead of her delivery. It’s helping ease my worry and wash away negative thoughts around M and his work situation.
Speaking of which, I enter the flat to find that my husband is lying down on the sofa, watching TV.
I don’t want the job hunt to be the first thing I ask about. I sit on the adjacent sofa. “What are you watching?”
“Tipping Point.”
M looks forlorn, dejected. He watches so much TV these days. I’m worried. He should be working now. As modern minded as I like to be, I well and truly believe that men need to be outdoors working. I think it comes down to the notion that is as old as time. Men go out hunting and bring home the spoils, while women stay home to cook it. I believe that, fundamentally, in our DNA, we haven’t changed much since the cavemen times. Men still do the lion’s share of work. Women, even if they hold down a full-time job, do most of the housework and parenting. It’s not fair but who made the rules? It seems that’s always been the way.
Despite having my own money, I am all too aware that I am the one that’s going to be birthing a baby and staying at home, raising it for the first year, at least. Seeing M like this, sluggish on the sofa, only cements my belief further that this isn’t his natural state. He needs to be out there, hunting for animals. Or the modern day scenario, earning money to buy halal meat so I can cook it.
“Any news on the job front?” I finally ask. I can’t take the suspense anymore.
“No,” he replies, still looking at the TV. “I called a couple of recruiters while you were at your appointment. One didn’t answer and the other one told me that the job I applied for a few days ago has already been taken.”
“Oh. Have they got anything new on their books?” I feel like I already know the answer.
M is still fixated on his programme. It’s like every other daytime gameshow. The formula remains the same, only the people are interchangeable. It’s like watching the same thing, over and over again, with only the slightest variable being altered. “No, it seems really quiet at the moment.” His voice is monotone, like he’s resigned himself to this. He’s giving up.
I get up off the sofa and head to our bedroom. I close the door so M can’t hear me cry.
