Who Would Want You With Baggage?

Who Would Want You With Baggage?

Are you certain, love?

Helen laid her hand over her mothers and smiled.

Mum, I love him. And he loves me. Were getting married, and it will all work out. Well have our own family, youll see.

Dad pushed aside his half-eaten shepherds pie, frowning at the garden outside. He was silent for a long momentlong enough that it felt endless to Helen.

Youre only nineteen, he said at last. You should be thinking about your studies, about your future, not getting married.
Dad, Ill manage. Helen spoke calmly, though inside she ached to prove herself, to convince them, to make them see what she saw. James has a job, Im at university. Were not asking for support. We just want to be together. To be a family.

Her father shook his head but said nothing.

They didnt approve. Helen saw it in Dads tight lips, in the way Mum fussed with the tea towel. But nor did they stand in her way. Perhaps they remembered what it was like at her age or maybe they knew that forbidding it would simply push her further.

They married in Maya small, gentle affair that Helen still remembered as being wrapped in happiness. No fancy hotel for two hundred, no white Rolls-Royces, no doves. Just the two of them, immersed in joy.

Their honeymoon was spent in Brighton. It was only a week, because James couldnt get any more time off from work, and there wasnt much money anyway. But that week, to Helen, felt like escaping reality. They woke late, ate breakfast on the balcony of their tiny room, gazed at the sea, strolled the pier until it was dark, ate fish and chips from paper, and kissed as if there was no tomorrow.

And then real life started. The proper kind, stripped of any romance. A rented bedsit where the draught sneaked through the windows in winter and the neighbours upstairs stomped so much the lightshade rattled. James was up for work at seven; Helen dashed to campus. Evenings, theyd meet exhausted, microwave something, and fall asleep the moment their heads hit the pillow.

But even in that weary routine, there was something right about it. Something real.

Six months in, her parents rang and asked them to visit over the weekend. Helen worried what could have happened, her mind rushing through disaster to absurd. But all they did was sit James and her down in the kitchen, pour tea, and slide an envelope across the table.

This is for you, Dad said, looking away. For a flat. Even if its just a little one, at least its your own. No sense chucking money away on rent.

Helen stared at the envelope, unable to make herself take it. A lump in her throat, her eyes stinging.

Dad she began, but he waved her off.
Take it. Dont make a fuss. Consider it a wedding gift. Just a late one.

Within a month, they found a place. Twenty-eight square metres in a block on the third floor. Overlooked the communal gardens, tiny kitchen, combined bathroom. Nothing extraordinary to most, but to Helen, it was a whole universe. She picked out wallpaper herself, called the workmen, hung the curtains, arranged market-bought pot plants all with a fierce delight.

A year later, as Helen went into her third year at university, she started feeling unwell. At first, she thought she had caught something, then blamed exhaustion from exams. She only bought the test kit to tick it off in her mind.

The two blue lines appeared instantly, undeniable.

Helen sat on the edge of the bathtub gazing at the bit of plastic that had just turned her world upside down. Third year. Two more years to her degree. Theyd just got settled. How? Why now?

James came in from work and knew Straightaway something was wrong. Helen handed him the test wordlessly; she had no idea what to say.

He looked at the two lines for ages, then met her eyes with a look that took her breath away.

Well keep it, he said quietly but resolutely.
James, Im in my third year. How can I
Well keep it, he repeated, taking her hands in his. Youll take a break from uni. Ill work. Well manage. This is our baby, Helen.

She cried against his shoulder. From fear, from the unknown, from hormones maybe, but partly from the happiness fighting its way through the anxiety like grass through a pavement crack.

There were no problems arranging a year out at university.

Michael was born in March, with dirty city snow piled outside and a faint hint of spring in the air. Seven pounds, twenty inches. Helen gazed at the tiny bundle in her arms, the wrinkled, red little face, unable to believe this was real. Her son. Hers and Jamess.

Happiness was so vast she thought her chest would burst.

The changes crept up slowly, like the first frostsone day it was still warm, the next you saw vapour in your breath.

James started coming home later. First half an hour, then an hour, until Helen lost track. Hed come in, throw his coat over the bannister, pass the cot without so much as a glance. He used to scoop Michael up first thing, kiss his head, make silly noises at his tummy. Now it was like there was no baby at all.

You could at least say hello to your son, Helen blurted out one day.

James winced, as if shed said something rude.

Hes asleep. Why wake him?

Michael was awake, staring up at his father with big brown eyes so like Jamess. But James didntor wouldntsee it.

Then came the snide remarks. At first, they flickered past, and Helen convinced herself shed misheard, misunderstood.

Are you really going out in that? he asked one morning, giving her outfit a once over.

Helen glanced downplain jeans and a jumper, nothing special.

Whats wrong with it?
No, nothing. Just He didnt finish, but the sneer said enough.

Every day, it got worse. He no longer bothered with hints.

Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror? he said one night as Helen changed into her nightdress. Youve ballooned. Look at the state of you. You look fifty, not twenty-two.

The words knocked the wind out of her. There she stood, in her old worn nightie, and couldnt breathe. Yes, shed put on weight since Michael, not managed to get back in shape yet, but surelythat wasnt fair.

James, I just had a baby, her voiced cracked in a whisper.
A year ago! A whole bloody year! Other women are back to normal after three months, and you

He broke off, waved her away, stormed out. Michael started crying, woken by their raised voices.

Shut him up! James shouted from the kitchen. Hes always screaming. Cant get any sleep in this bloody house!

Helen picked up her son, clutched him close, breathed in his soft hair. Tears ran down her cheeks into his. Michael slowly quieted, soothed by her warmth as she stood in the dark, rocking him and herself.

She had no one to talk to. Or rather, her parents were there, but every time Helen picked up her phone to ring Mum, she pictured Dads stern faceYoure nineteen, you should think of your future. Theyd warned her. She had thought she knew better. That love would conquer all.

How could she go back, tail between her legs, admit theyd been right and she, a naïve girl, had made a mess of her life? Helen imagined the conversationher mothers tears, her fathers stony silenceand each time, put the phone aside. I made this mess. Ill sort it.

One day, Helen took Michael out as usual. She did a lap of the gardens, walked to the little park with benches under the shedding sycamores. It was only when rummaging in her bag for wipes, she realised shed forgotten his snack.

She had to go back.

She let herself in with her key, meaning to dash in and out. But there, in the hallway, was a pair of womens shoeshigh-heeled, patent, bright red.

Helen found herself moving through the flat before her brain caught up. Dont go in. Dont look. Turn around. Leave. But she couldnt help it.

The bedroom door was ajar.

She saw enough. More than enough. A stranger in her bed, under her sheets. And James, who didnt even attempt to hide, to cover up, to lie.

He looked at Helen with irritation, as though she were a fly, an unwelcome interruption.

What did you expect? he said. Youve let yourself go. Am I supposed to put up with it? Im twenty-five, in my prime, and my wifes a wreck.

Helen gripped the doorframe, legs made of jelly. The stranger tugged the duvet up and turned away, as though unaffected.

Get out. Helens voice sounded foreign, low and harsh. Get out of my flat. Now.

The other woman scrambled to gather her things. James watched, smirking.

Stop being dramatic, he said when shed gone. Honestly. Its not the end of the world. Everyone does it. Its normal.
Normal?!
Yes. You think your mums dad was faithful? Its what men do. And their wives put up with it, especially once theres a kid. Whos going to want you now, Helen? With baggage? So less of the soap opera, yeah? Have your rant and let it go.

Helen didnt remember bundling Michael into his coat, or phoning a taxi, or giving the driver her parents address. The whole way there, she stared out the window, absently patting her sons back, with a hollow emptiness inside.

Mum opened the door and with one look at Helens face, understood everything. She didnt say a word, just wrapped her in a tight hug, as she had when Helen was little with grazed knees.

Mum, I she began, but Mum just shook her head.
Later. Come in, love.

Dad came out of the kitchen at the noise. He looked at his daughter, at his grandson. His face set like granite.

What happened?

Helen explained, stumbling over words, choking back tears, describing the criticisms, the coldness, the red shoes. About whod want you with baggage. Dad listened silently, then grabbed his coat.

Lets go.
Where? Helen asked, confused.
To him.
Please, Dad, dont, Ill do it myself
Leave Michael with your mother. Come along.

James opened the door, acting as though nothing was amiss. Helens father stepped in, looked around, then turned to James and spoke in a voice so low it sent a chill through Helen.

Heres how it is. You gather your things and you leave. This is my daughters flat. We bought it with our money. Youre not wanted here anymore.

James tried to arguejoint property, his rightsbut Dad cut across him.

Your rights? Lets talk about rights. About how youve treated my daughter. How you humiliated her. Bringing who-knows-what into her home. Dad stepped forward, and James shrank back. If youre still here in half an hour, Ill call the police. And trust me, Ive got the means to make life very unpleasant for you. Now out.

James left. Packed up his bag and went without a word. Helen stood, watching the door close.

Why didnt you come to us sooner? Dad asked once they were alone.
I thought you told me not to rush. I thought youd say it was my fault.

Dad turned to her, and in his eyes was something that made Helens throat fill up once more.

Youre our daughter. My little girl. Always. You can come home to us, no matter what.

Helen flung herself into his arms and weptlong, bitter tears, washing away months of pain.

Two years later, Helen sat on the floor of that same flat, watching as Michael carefully built a tower with colourful blocks. Her university diplomaearned through distance learning, with honourslay next to her. Her phone buzzed: child support had just come through.

Michael looked up and beamed at her, such a familiar smile. It didnt trouble her anymore.

Mummy, look at my tower!
I see, darling. Its wonderful.

Outside, the sun was setting, bathing the room in warm orange light. Helen smiled at her son. She had made it, after all. Not as shed once imagined, but shed made it.

If Ive learnt anything, its this: the people who truly love you never stop being your home. And whatever they say about baggage, my son is my treasurenever a burden.