Lifeboat

2. The Lifeboat

"Listen up girl..."

Here we go. Yet another instalment from my father, of the same old story.

"I know you think this is the only option you have at the moment but you've got to see it from a broader perspective, right? This isn't the time for this. For goodness sake child, you're barely an adult yourself. How do you suppose you're going to be able to bring another human being into the world?"

My father took his time, slicing up potatoes into perfect discs, ready to fry for dinner. A Friday night treat along with the eggs my sister would have received for her week's work at the old people's home.

"I'm not asking you for anything, Pappy." I brushed away at the traitorous tears which had forced their way into my eyes. "I know what I'm doing. Why don't you trust me?"

My father put down his well-worn knife with a thud on the driftwood table. He glanced up, giving me such a sad expression that I shifted the weight onto my other hip and relaxed the fists I'd made against my skirts.

I stood across the table, arms folded, hoping to portray the vision of a strong, independent young woman. My trembling knees promised to betray me at any time.

Pappy's dark brown eyes flickered for a second, and I wondered if he secretly wanted me to catch on to the misgivings he must be having towards his strict stance on my situation.

He sighed heavily, pushing away his thick fringe of grey hair and smiled at me. A sad, loose smile.
"We've been over this so many times, Poll. Can't you see what I'm trying to do for you here? If you really want to live a fulfilling, useful life then you have to - I mean have to - forget about this insignificant moment in your story and get rid of the problem."

"You mean, get rid of the baby."

My father's gaze dropped and he picked up the knife again to resume his work. He whispered his response to the vegetables on the table.
"Yes, Poll."

Now I wanted to push his buttons a little bit more. How dare he even consider understanding the calamity that had taken hold of my world? Him, with his steady fishing job, healthy lifestyle and happy new wife. How dare he think himself qualified to even comment on my situation? How could he ever imagine what I was going through?

Turning my back to him, I placed my hands around the tiny bulge of my abdomen. When I spoke, my voice rang out ultra calm and low. A creature of its own control, nothing to do with the storm within me.
"I believe you have no intention of helping me through this. I don't think I'm going to give this baby up. I will never ask you for anything ever again. I can do this on my own and you and Lucinda will never have to worry about me embarrassing you anymore."

I turned around to take note of the effect my little speech might have had on him and delighted in the result. He looked like he was ready to cry. His slicing action paused in mid-stroke, his bottom lip quivering slightly.

A rush of warmth spread throughout my body. So, he did care after all.
"Goodbye, Pappy. I hope you're happy with the fact that you'll never know your grandchild."

And with that, I tossed back my long, black, mess of curls and stomped from the wooden shack I had called home for the past fifteen years.

*****

Three weeks before, my saviour had appeared to rescue me from a dreary and dismal future of housewife servitude or loyal, dutiful factory worker. A life of tinning up the sprats and herring along the assembly line, maybe stuck in a bleak, endless routine of early morning shifts and family maintenance dinners and house cleaning.

He had been my ticket out of this backwards existence. With his slicked-back blonde hair, dark navy sailor's uniform and cheeky, comforting grin.

He'd caught me on my way back home after school. Well, when I should have been at school. I'd spent the day with my socks off, dangling my toes in a rock pool on the far end of the beach instead.

If people were meant to suffer heat stroke while putting up with the horrendous equations of pythagoras, then surely they would have been born with pillows already to be slept on poking out of their skulls? Or at least provided with such apparatus in a maths class. Maths left no room to dream.

That fateful day, I'd been hurrying back for the afternoon preparation of dinner with my new 'mamma', who happened to be only ten years older than me and far less pretty. When a strapping, bulldog of a man jumped out from the doorway of the village's only pub, and blocked my path home. His stocky, navy-trousered legs swayed like the motion of the sea.

Such beautiful, memorable words of love were spoken on that first meeting, the likes of which I will never forget.
Burrp! " Well, there missy, miss, miss, you, there, you, lovely little..." Burrp.

As you can imagine the entrancing effect of this sailor's eloquence and delightful conversation hardly had me at a disadvantage. I did, however, see an immediate opportunity for a quick and hopefully somewhat pleasant way out of my current situation. So I linked arms with the purple-cheeked young man and guided him happily back into the pub, towards his room on the third floor and up onto his hard-mattressed bed. I then tore off and tossed his long, shiny black boots across the room, making the roaring open fire flicker as they flew past.

He almost lost consciousness for a while, even before I'd managed to get my dress over my head. I prodded him awake and was rewarded with a knowing wink and dribble of saliva. He hoisted himself up, ran his hands down the front of my body and fell forward, nose first into my chest.

Wow. This one was a keeper.

I pushed him back onto the pillow and began to unbutton his uniform. Typical World Union State attire, dull, boring and forgettable, much like their politics.

He did manage to open his rather attractive blue eyes for the first few minutes of our sexual liason. Thank goodness I knew what I was doing at least.

Once the deed had been done, I got off the bed and finished up the remains of his meal, which hadn't been cleaned up since lunchtime. His hat sat perched on the back of one of the two dining chairs. I glanced inside to look for a name.

Licking my fingers, I checked to see if Tom Martin had woken up yet.

No, no chance of that. I sighed and brought out the letter I had prepared for such an occasion. I balanced it between the metal salt and pepper shakers on the grubby, round table. The sweaty dark skin on my right wrist reflected the patterns of the glowing fireplace. The birthmark shone obvious and unavoidable. The number, eight.