Chapter 3 – Anywhere

I sat in the green chair and swung one leg over the arm as I usually did in such a chair. Huge mistake! My belly and back weren't too keen on such a move, sending shooting pains through my back and hips.

"Ooof!" came out as I swung my leg back into what seemed to be the required maternity posture – feet flat on the floor and back upright. I took a deep breath as I pondered my next move, and it wasn't about how to sit.

My mouth engaged and words came out. "Louisa, what are you going to do?"

"Well, I suppose I'll just get a bit to eat, have a nice lie-down later and go to the interview tomorrow."

"Just like that then?"

"Yes. Exactly like that."

"Well, it's getting late and you'd best be going to supper."

"Yes, you're right."

"So get a move on then girl and do it. Eat something!"

"Alright, I'll just go downstairs, then."

I stood awkwardly, feeling my shoulders naturally move rearward to counterbalance the weight of the baby. Martin could have told me the nearly exact proportion of the weight of fetus, placenta, uterus, various bodily fluids and extra breast tissue for a six month pregnancy. I did not know the distribution, but I did know that it totaled around eight-and-a-half kilos, or almost nineteen pounds as older people reckoned it, based on the last time I weighed myself. It felt like it was concentrated as a solid football just behind my disappearing belly button. Not painful, just uncomfortable; that is compared to my normal body.

I poked around on the floor with my feet and slipped my flats back on, brushed my hair and straightened the dress in front of the wall mirror, then went to the door. I opened it to the sounds of laughter and noise coming straight up from the pub. I went into the hall, pulled the door to, locked it and walked to the head of the stairs.

I tucked my lower lip between my teeth and decided to brazen it out. I felt certain that about half the women below would feel pity for poor pregnant Louisa Glasson. The other half would snicker a bit behind their pints; maybe even thinking they're glad it's not them. There may even be one or two who might be jealous and perhaps one who might come over to me and offer a word of comfort or support.

And the men? Some would laugh, or look away, or even mutter things like 'that tosser Doc Martin,' or 'look what Louisa's got – does the Doc know?' Lots of thoughts like that poured into my head. I didn't think I get much sympathy from the men downstairs.

There was no doubt in my mind that most would properly put two and two together and know that this baby was Martin's. Oh, there might be a few that doubted the obvious, imagining this baby was from some London lothario.

I held the railing firmly and willed a leg to move and lower myself to the top tread. This happened after a minute or so, and I finally stood with one foot on the hall carpet, the other on the top step. I stayed right like that. My hands grasped the railings in white knuckle fear. My ears and eyes were on hyper-alert waiting for a step below or a voice to head my way.

I knew an awful lot about the gossip of villages. In London I was one of the faceless masses, just another pregnant woman in the tube or on the street. Portwenn has 936 residents, well, 938 if you count me and this baby. The too many times I faced nasty things said about my mum and dad flew into my mind.

Mum had run away when I was about twelve. Some thought it was my fault or my dad's, and they might have been half right. Yet mum had her own silent ways of letting me and dad know that she felt trapped in Portwenn. The way she'd sigh when I asked for help with schoolwork, or dad was late getting home, or such. She even said aloud that she was trapped by me and dad both. Then one day - boom - she was gone.

Terry Glasson was no super husband or dad. His gambling was legendary and he had a reputation of being unreliable at the odd jobs he managed to pick up from time to time. His lifeboat fund money caper years later was just as I was going to university, and at least I only had to deal with the aftermath in dribs and drabs on school holidays.

Yet to this day, eighteen years later, people might have a sly look as they stated, "You're Terry Glasson's daughter…" and I knew what they were thinking; that I too was a thief and a gambler like dear old dad or a bolter like mum.

Now this. The tension as Martin and I had any number of calamitous dates, his unexpected proposal, the big build up to the wedding, that awful day when we called it off; and then I bolted to London. Now five-and-a-half months later, here I was, up the duff in spades, afraid to descend to a room filled with people that I knew. Because I knew, oh yes, I knew, how mean some people could be.

I don't know how long I stood frozen like that. Sweat broke out on my back and under my arms and breasts but when a salty drop slithered down my forehead and dripped in my eye that was the end of it. I snuck into my rented room and with my back to the door stood there as I gasped for air. My hands held in front of me were shaking, and my whole body took up the quiver.

The bed called to me, so I went. Two pillows went between me and the headboard as I laid back and the third I tugged against my face to deaden my bitter sobbing. Right then I would have given almost anything to be anywhere else.