Non Pratt - Trouble

I close my eyes and wonder if this is just another exam-based nightmare. Then I try turning the page.

Hannah’s on to the next page already? I know the first lot of questions are pretty straightforward but…

Hang on. She’s turning the next page. And the next.

My heart goes out to her. If she can’t answer the first question then she’s screwed.

Whatever’s going on with Hannah mustn’t distract me. One of the concerns about moving was that my grades might slide. I’ve got to get at least a B in Maths or Dad will kill me — Mum will hand him the knife.

I finish the first page and move on to the next. Harder questions and I get quite involved in one of them, so much so that I don’t realize it’s taken me fifteen minutes to get an answer and I’m not entirely convinced it’s the right one. I’ll check it later.

I glance over to Hannah, wondering how she’s doing, hoping she’s found something to answer. It’s all about getting started. Once she answers one question she’ll get in the zone, get calmer and the things that floored her at first won’t seem so daunting.

She’s not looking at the paper, which is pushed to one corner of her desk and threatening to slide off the edge. She’s simply staring straight ahead.

As I look, I see a tear trickle down her cheek. She sniffs, really quietly and presses the sleeve of her shirt to her nose. She can probably feel me looking, so I turn away, back to my paper. It’s not as if there’s anything I can do to help her.

It is 11 a.m. I have an appointment for my first scan in fifteen minutes’ time.

My life is such a mess. The only person on this planet who knows I’m pregnant, apart from the doctor and the midwives who’re always sucking the blood out of me and then checking the pressure to see if I’ve actually got any left, is my gran. My eighty-three-year-old gran, who lives in a semi-residential home and has to book trips out two days in advance, who is on so much medication I’m surprised that hugs from her aren’t on the list of banned substances for pregnant people.

The thought of telling Mum proper terrifies me now that I’ve left it so long — it’s like a rock at the bottom of my stomach. Last week I heard her talking to Robert whilst they watched the news. I was sitting in the dining room trying to jam something useful about Citizenship into my head, but the door was open and Mum talks loudly when she’s off on one.

“These politicians should come down to the clinic — see what it’s like on the frontline. Kids get no sex education any more — no wonder they’re all at it like rampant rabbits without a thought about the consequences. They need educating, by the system, by their parents. So what if the teen pregnancy rate is falling? It’s still the highest in Europe.”

“At least it’s going in the right direction.”

But Mum carried on like Robert hadn’t even said anything. “Do you know that some of them treat abortion as back-up birth control?”

“Rather that than there be no choice.”

“ Of course .” I could almost hear the shudder in her voice. “If everyone who got themselves in a fix went through with the pregnancy…”

My ears started ringing, the blood rushing to my head in horror. But Robert was saying something and Mum’s rant changed direction.

“…no thought about what happens next. All they know is what they see on the Internet. Porn directors have taken on the role of parents, who just dodge the issue completely.”

Robert laughed and I only caught the last part of what he said. “…so hard trying to tell Jay.”

“Same with Hannah. Thank God those two have their heads screwed on.”

I cried myself to sleep that night.

Of course, there is also the issue of the Father. But whilst we’re on the subject of dads, there’s always mine lurking in the background to add a little turd to the icing on my fucked-up cake of awfulness. I got an email from him part-way through the exams.

Dear Hannah, here’s wishing you the best of luck in your exams. I know you’ll nail them. Luv, Dad .

And there was an e-card with a four-leaf clover where the leaves peeled away to reveal a leprechaun dancing a jig with “All the luck o’ the Irish” in a speech bubble over his head.

Seriously. WTF?

“I know you’ll nail them” — really? Have you spoken to Mum recently? Have you seen my reports? Nail them in the sense of literally taking in a hammer and pounding the sheets to the desk with a nail?

“Luv” is a word used by boys when they’re too chicken to come out with the real thing on a Valentine’s card. It is not OK to use it to express fatherly affection at the end of an email.

The card. There are no words.

From where I’m sitting I can see the seconds ticking away and watch as the minute hand jerks forwards towards fifteen-minutes past the hour. I stare at the hand as it edges round until it’s nearly reached twenty past.

That’s when I look down from the far end of the hall to the English paper on my desk, a half-started sentence about Macbeth scrawled on the top of my sheet of paper. I have failed these exams and now I’ve failed my baby.

“So are you coming out tonight or what?” Tyrone clamps a hand on my shoulder so hard that I have to suppress a wince. He has been uncomfortably nice to me since Rex’s party. I mean this in the most literal sense. I’ve endured nearly two months of regularly having his arm thrown round my shoulders, my back slapped, arm punched… Tyrone’s love hurts — and it’s earning me envious looks from the people who wish they had it. If only I could tell them that he’s doing this because he doesn’t like me, then the basketball lot could stop giving me death stares and go back to ignoring me… And then what would I do? Read books in my lunch hour and hang out with Neville until he falls asleep on his cards?

I don’t know. That sounds like a slippery slope to me. Better to have fake school friends than none at all.

It seems the way that everyone celebrates the end of term around here is much the same as they celebrate the end of a week. By going to the park. Joy. I pitch up late, having helped Neville seal and stamp his Christmas cards. There were more than I expected and I asked who they were for.

“Family,” was the gruff response, but after a little coaxing — and some of the Jack Daniel’s I’d planned on taking to the park — he warmed up and told me more.

“This one’s my brother. Greville.” I bit my lip and he nodded. “I know. Long story — and a boring one. You don’t need to worry about these two.” Both a “Mrs”, both in Scottish cities. “This one’s for my niece, Bea and her husband. Nice couple. This one’s for her ex-husband. Not a good husband, but a great nephew-in-law. He married the woman he was banging the day his kid was born.”

I looked suitably scandalized and Neville gave me every detail as if it was a lead story in today’s tabloids. The way his memory works is fascinating. I thought the elderly became vague about everything when they hit the seventy mark, but Neville is sharp as a razor on things like this and he’s pushing ninety. Knowing the difference between his dressing gown and his mac on the other hand…

“And this lot are all my favourite students.”

That brought me up short.

“You know I used to lecture History, don’t you?” And he filled in an answer in the empty crossword of his past. It explains why he’s such a pain to watch films with — in future I’ll bring ones set in a period he’s not an expert on. Like the future.