Page 21 of Forgive Me Not
She yawned and struggled to keep her eyes open, despite rain spitting on her face. She’d been feeling much more tired lately. When she woke up, the afternoon was drawing to an end. Normally, at this time on a Monday, a tide of commuters would sweep in. But the bank holiday painted a different scene full of families and friends, and arms full of bags after a successful shopping day.
‘You ought to get a job,’ said a man who stopped in front of her and shook his head.
‘And you ought to mind your own fucking business.’ Mum would have told her off for saying the F word.
She looked up and watched heads bobbing along Market Street in the distance: Brazilian blow-dries, bald patches, peroxide blondes and throwback quiffs. She was just about to head over to the burger bar and badger the nice staff for a free coffee when her eyes narrowed. Her sleeping bag fell to the ground as she jumped to her feet, and she did a double-take at the sight of dirty-blonde hair.
No. It wasn’t possible. But what if…? She stood on tiptoe, trying to find the familiar-looking figure again through the army of umbrellas.
Joe? Nah. He’d gone to London. She was being stupid. But the hair came into view again, on top of a slight frame carrying a burgundy-coloured rucksack. Emma threw her sleeping bag over her belongings and began to run, shouting at people to get out of her way and ramming into a woman’s shoulder as she headed past a group of street entertainers. She skidded through puddles, and every now and again stopped to jump up and spot the distinctive hair. Soon she came to the Arndale entrance and the escalator leading up to the food hall. She could see Joe just ahead, about to cross the road that led to Marks & Spencer.
‘Joe!’ she called. ‘Joe! It’s Emma! Wait!’
A grin spread across her face. She and Joe were meant to be together. He’d realised that and come back. Her friendship was worth it after all. A burst of excitement drove her legs and finally she caught up.
‘Joe!’ She grabbed the familiar slender arm.
The arm was yanked away. Joe spun around. Emma’s smile dropped.
‘It’s not you,’ she said weakly.
The man’s frown disappeared. ‘Sorry, love. Tim’s the name and I’m late for my shift.’ He headed off.
Emma didn’t move. She could hardly breathe; her lungs felt as if they’d been ripped out of her chest. A couple of teenage girls stared and pointed.
‘What you looking at?’ she snapped, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
Giggling, they hurried off, whilst Emma numbly turned around and began the long trek back to the bank. She’d often wondered how she’d react if the dad who’d abandoned her as a baby suddenly turned up. Would she run with open arms just like she had for Joe? Would her anger melt instantly at the prospect of finally feeling whole?
She stood for a moment, and stared vacantly in the window of Boots. When she finally focused, she found herself transfixed by baby merchandise. She leant up against the glass and studied the plastic potties and cute babygros. An image came to mind of herself pushing a pram. She’d have her life sorted then, with a home and a good job. On days off she’d meet fellow mums for coffee and always know just how to stop her baby crying. The other parents would ask her advice.
That vision of her future seemed further away than ever. She kicked a can on the ground and built pace as she went back to her patch. How could she have left her belongings? Primark came into view, and relief flushed through her system as she spotted her sleeping bag. Her rucksack was still underneath. She dropped to the wet pavement. The coffee cup containing a few coins had gone.
Emma sat hunched as darker clouds gathered and the breeze lifted. Joe wasn’t coming back. She had to face that truth. Her head dropped onto her raised knees and she gazed into darkness. Yet even though Joe was out of her life, she still felt, just very slightly, that unfamiliar sensation that had appeared during recent months. It brought to mind phrases such asturning point,enough is enough,this can’t go on.
A stray dog wandered over. Emma had seen it several times before. She stroked its head, reached into her rucksack and gave it the remnants of a sandwich. It peed up against a nearby bin and then wandered off.
Could she ever be brave enough to admit to people she’d messed up? She thought back to the chemist’s window and the tiny babygros. She lifted her head as the word chemist gave her a jolt. She searched in her bag again and pulled out the goodbye present from Joe. Her throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow. She hadn’t needed to use the tampons since he’d left. Perhaps her period was just late. But hairs stood to attention on the back of her neck. She had been feeling especially sick lately, and worn out.
No. It wasn’t possible. Her body was in such a state of disrepair. She never ate properly, nor got enough sleep. Occasionally her periods were a bit erratic. It was no big deal.
There was no way she could be pregnant.
A few days later.
Emma pulled her anorak tighter as the skies opened. It tugged slightly across her stomach. She rubbed a hand over her abdomen. Was that distension imaginary, or due to her risky lifestyle? Funny how the prospect of creating a new life seemed more scary than losing her own.
Somehow she’d managed to put aside a tenner and buy a pregnancy test. It remained, unopened, in the bottom of her rucksack. Every time she walked down the street, prams seemed more prominent. Hungry bawls and jingling rattles drowned out the city sounds, as if there really was something in the proverbial water – or rain – that had made every woman in Manchester suddenly give birth.
A man walked past accompanied by a little girl wearing glittery trainers. She was skipping and tugging on her dad’s hand to get his attention whilst he had a conversation into his phone. She caught Emma’s eye and stuck out her tongue. Emma pulled a funny face. The girl waved as her dad finally slid his mobile into his pocket.
Emma had always assumed she’d have children one day, whereas Andrea was adamant that looking out for a little sister was more than enough. Emma didn’t believe her. Nor did Mum. Oh, she never played with dolls and preferred plants to the animals… except, that was, when one of them gave birth. She hand-reared a lamb once, feeding it religiously through the night. Andrea was better than anyone else at getting the milk bottle angle just right.
Emma, though, had already worked out every detail of her motherhood by the time she was eleven.
‘I’ll have two girls. Like me and Andrea,’ she’d declared to Bligh when they were paddling down at the stream one day. ‘They’ll be called Holly and Ivy after my favourite time of year. I’ll be a vet. The girls will have their own ponies. We’ll all play Animal Crossing.’
Emma liked the idea of mending people’s pets. She’d be needed. Respected. She’d become a part of the owners’ lives.
