Reginald And Wendy Talk About Being Pregnant

Reginald and Wendy drove in silence. Reginald felt a strange calm, overlying a deep terror.

“I think that…” started Wendy, then stopped. She bit her lip and felt a rising bubble of tears. Her brain was repeating the inevitable mantra of all addicted to self-pity: this is not how it is supposed to be. She felt that a special moment had been torn from her by her brute of a husband, that he was denying her something that was her just due. She turned and stared huffily out of the window, watching the rolling granite, the turning buildings, the families walking hand in hand. They always get what they want. I never get what I want. Wendy settled into her seat. A depressingly pleasant shiver ran through her body. So, this is how the afternoon is going to be spent. I shall be offended, and then he shall be offended… It was horrible, to think of how sad it would be – and terrifying, to think that it could not be stopped.

Wendy and Reginald had reached a phase in their marriage – an inevitable phase, probably, called ‘armed blame.’ They needed the same things from each other, at the same time, but these things could not be two-way. She needed comfort, he needed comfort. He needed sex, she needed tenderness. She needed to be listened to, he needed to be listened to. They both needed unconditional love, but they were neither each others’ parents, so it was impossible. They both needed, but never received enough to satisfy, to assuage, to comfort and bring to heel all the discontents of daily living. They both needed, but never received. Neither could imagine that this was because their demands were irrational. It could only be because the other was withholding, punishing, manipulating. They were maddened by thirst, and could not stir from an oasis whose imaginary water forever turned to sand in their mouths.

Reginald parked the car, and they went inside.

They went inside, and suddenly saw their flat, and stopped in the hallway. Books were everywhere (‘Don’t touch them!’ Reginald always shouted. ‘They’re in order!’). Clothes from the sudden lovemaking of a fortnight past were still at the foot of the sofa. Cups of old coffee and plates with the detritus of toast sat on the side-tables, half-covered with half-finished crosswords. The carpet was vaguely mottled, vaguely crunchy. The cushions on the sofa were uneven. Three and a half pairs of shoes were scattered across the floor. The glass on a picture hanging on the wall had been cracked two months ago, but had not been repaired. The angle had been corrected, but badly.

A wave of depression swept over the couple. They stood, half a foot apart, feeling like they were children who had been playing at ‘house’ for far too long, and it was high time some adult came in and took charge...