Cloud Forms (365 Ways With Words)

Out of the mind, a cloud forms—

They didn’t have a particularly close relationship, sharing a bed like sharing the shopping. In her mind he was a casual friend who she happened to live with because it was convenient. He considered her a regular girlfriend, unless he was out at the weekends alone.

They often privately wondered about all of this, but between them nothing much was spoken. The lack of precious lovey-doveyness gave them each a freedom from over-attachment, a robust approach that allowed for late-night work appointments, guiltless travel and any number of things that a proper couple would have to first negotiate and then navigate.

Their flat, a nice little upper floor flat with sea views, was comfortable without being pretentious. Their shared furniture (his sofa, her mattress, their table, etc) was modest; most of their money was given over to interests, both separate and mutual. She enjoyed spas and weekend breaks with her girlfriends, he took his mountains seriously and was in the middle of systematically bagging every Munro—that is, every mountain in Scotland over 3000 ft.

She was happy enough when he left, and every time enjoyed seeing him return, bedraggled and steaming, sometimes fit and ruddy-cheeked. It was at that moment they enjoyed the best sex.

He similarly anticipated her homecoming from any number of spas across south-eastern Scotland, or maybe further afield. She’d laugh, holding out her new fingernails, a mane of soft hair exuding the most gorgeous scents imaginable.

To many they seemed like the most contented couple, but others knew the more sparing truth. Smiles in photos and arriving and leaving together from a party, mean different things to different people. But they were not planners, at least not of the long-term variety. They even holidayed separately, she returning year after year to St Lucia to be steeped in beachside luxury, him in recent years taking in many of the peaks of Switzerland, Bavaria, Norway and Italy. It wasn’t that they wanted to be apart, but were mature enough to realise that their respective interests meant vacationing together would be a disaster.

On those weekends as much those longer breaks they would both find others. It was not that they sought them out, so much as they allowed things to happen. He’d find a similarly minded female climber at the bar of the loch-side inn that was his accommodation that night, she’d be surprised by a handsome masseur taking his time with her body and would suitably rise to his hands.

And so, during the week, they slept together, usually without sex or anything other than the bare bones of intimacy. They went to work and did what they had to do without guilt, prejudice or jealousy. It appeared they had all they wanted, at least temporarily. And indeed they had, until one summer Monday morning she was sick. She leapt out of bed straight for the toilet. It was an impulsive retching from the pit of her stomach. He came over and did the polite waiting at the door thing while she dabbed at the side of her mouth and blew her nose.

“I’ll make a cup of tea.” he said, and headed for the kitchen already lit with the healthy rays of the July sun.

They sat giving thought to her horrible vomiting, but put it down to the evening’s pub food where she’d had the fish.

Their tea consumed, they busied for work and the customary departure time of 7:55.

Their evening was spent before the TV, but she was asleep by 9 and he watched something about badgers. The next morning, the same thing happened, and their minds turned serious.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?” he suggested over the old 1930s kitchen table.

“I can’t be!” she returned, somewhat dismissively, “I’ve been on the pill for three years.”

“Nevertheless, hadn’t you better check?”

She added sugar from the cupboard, to try to remove the acidic sourness from the top of her tongue. On her way back from work she stopped off at the chemists beside the bus stop. Before he got home she did the test. It was positive.

She didn’t understand. How could this be? Surely the doctor had prescribed the right pill. She sat on the lid of the toilet staring at the plastic indicator before her. They didn’t want this; that was for sure. They were moderately happy, not unrealistically ecstatic, but just enough to make each year together as pleasant as pleasant could be. And now this would change. He’d react badly, run off, leaving her to deal with this on her own. Maybe not. She’d never made demands, but bringing up a baby was a job for a couple. If he did stay around, and they had a baby, it would be costly. They’d have to move up to get a bigger place. He’d have to earn more because she’d be expected to take time off. And the biggest question of all; would it change their relationship? She’d seen how unhappy her parents had been for most of their lives, chained to each other out of convention and good manners and promised only to enter a relationship with someone based on amicability alone. And she’d had it, until now.

He knew, somehow. The long uphill ride home on the bike told him that things had better change now. Perhaps they should get married. Perhaps he should seek a promotion, or they should move away—to London, perhaps, or even abroad. He’d thought of parenthood only in vague future terms, perhaps even with another person, where everything felt right and where the obvious passion of a new love would seek a means to bear fruit. For one ghastly moment he considered both their parents, each couple staid and steady, rock solid in kirk and standing, seeking harmony and respectability at all costs. There was no way they could live like them, even for the sake of a baby. No, they had to do it right, whatever the costs.

She heard his key in the door downstairs and was about to call out his name, but felt her tongue shrivel in her mouth. The most she could come up with was a quiet, dry ‘huhg’ that sounded more like a plea for help. He brought the bike upstairs and left it on the landing by the front door. He sat down next to her, the rivulets of sweat and roadway dirt patterning his sunburned crow’s feet. She held out the test for him to see.

“So.” he replied, as if that was all required. They stared for one moment in each other’s eyes. He wasn’t sure if she’d been crying.

“So,” she echoed, before taking a deep breath, “it’s positive.”

He nodded. “And what…?”

“What do we do? I’ve been thinking about that all day.” She paused, tapping the table with her beautiful fingernails. “I don’t know.”

He nodded again and stared at the view out of the window. “I mean…”

His words dried up. They were useless and artificial, an interesting juxtaposition considering his recent handiwork. And then he had a thought.

“Is it mine?” He instantly regretted saying it.

She looked at him, at first a little taken aback, but recovered. “Yes, yes. It is. You’re all right.”

He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that.

“So, what do we do, then?” He removed his bag and cycling shoes and getting his solving head on.

She shrugged the shrug of someone who has yet to get all the facts. “What do you want to do?” She admitted to herself her laziness.

“The way I look at it, we have three options: keep it, give it up or abortion.”

She didn’t like the sound of any of them, especially the last one, but nodded the long nod of the ponderer. He got up and made tea, but this problem was not going to go away in the next five minutes. Whichever way they went, she questioned whether this something they could survive?

“And what about us?” Her words stopped him dead. He had thought the very same. The pressure of a baby, not just of nappies and changing, but also of school, growing up and 18 years commitment; it just wasn’t something they’d ever considered as an option. And yet here it was, ready-made.

Those were the last words they spoke together for the next half hour. The man in the flat downstairs came up to discuss the leak and there was a phone call from the Manhattan branch which he had to take, by which point she had opened the balcony doors to sit with another cup of tea. He came over.

“Hey!” She acknowledged him with a pained glance. He stood arms folded, leaning on the doorjamb.

“Sorry.” He tilted his head.

“But it’s not your fault.”

“No, I mean about the call.”

She shook her head.

“That too. But we’re are both at fault. No smoke, and all that…”

She smiled, but inside she was a little numbed. “Have you thought?”

“I have. Do you want to do this?”

She was thinking the same thing. “Nobody knows yet.”

He barely nodded. “And we could carry on, as before.”

“It’s not like we’re in a relationship with it, or anything.”

“No, I mean it’s not even a baby yet.”

She froze. He’d used the word. For a baby, a real live baby, is to be protected, to be nurtured and provided for—it’s unconditional. There was an instant upwelling of bitterness and self-loathing. Could she do this? How could he even think this? And yet, how could they not?

That night they slept poorly. It was hot and they floated naked under the sheet on the coals of their combined turbulent unconsciousness. In the morning, she rushed to the toilet just in time. She did not want to be sick, but could not help it. This time he patted her on the back. She shrugged him off.

Perhaps they should have a baby, he thought all that day. After all, people have to change, and the change of a baby is a positive one. He thought of taking a young boy up the hills, spotting deer in the bracken, camping beside streams, of picnics in the park. The undeniable pleasures of parenthood wafted in on untested clouds to deposit their pleasant rains on untested ground.

She called in sick and in-between sleeps spent the day online checking out websites for local clinics, for planned pregnancy centres, Marie Stopes, even for local hospitals.

That evening as they ate spaghetti they went through their options with very serious intent. It was not easy: as soon as one thought positively, the other reacted negatively.

She had set a target of three days to make up their minds, before the week was out, Friday night beckoned and their expected attendance at a friend’s eldest’s First Communion. She could not work, they could not sleep, and their time together became dominated by this sole discussion. They were sick of it. In bed she told him that she’d made an appointment at the clinic.

“Are you sure?” his came back had a ring of uncertainty.

“No. But we have to do something.”

He desperately wanted more time, the one thing they really didn’t have. And even if they went ahead with it in principle, would they be able to carry it out at the end? Could they walk into a building to do this thing?

He held her hand, supporting her decision whatever it was. She gripped him, then squeezed him, then began to sob, to grieve and to howl. Right then she knew; she wanted him more than anything else and would do anything for him.