A few days later, I try wrapping pictures for a forthcoming show at the Royal Exchange, but can hardly stand. It’s rather pathetic. End up just sitting, watching, while Julian does everything. Feel sorry for him and he’s a bit fed up with me.
The doctor says I’ll be better in a week. Thinks it’s a virus, possible arthritis, and prescribes me Brufen – an anti-inflammatory. I’m so glad it’s nothing more serious. But the next day I can hardly straighten my legs. A bath might soothe them, but that idea’s useless – I can’t get my legs under the water. Decide to leave Julian in peace and go home to my parents. It is nice spending time with my mum and dad at home, Mum spoiling me. I’m not sure how good a house guest I am – apparently I’m allergic to Brufen and throw up all over her carpet! Sorry, Mum.
Return to Wales after ten days, feeling I can walk further, but by the end of July my hands, knuckles and arms have started to hurt. What a state! I can just about manage to go to work, but have to sit down. I even find washing my hair and taking a bath wipes my energy out. The doctor tries another medication to help with the pain, but I’m sick again. Worse than ever. That evening we hold a private viewing for the opening of our new studio. Julian has achieved miracles; it looks so professional. I’ve been no help, nothing but a burden.
By September, thank goodness, I feel pretty much back to normal. Like a fairy has waved her magic wand. The doctor still detects a definite weakness in my legs, but is not sending me for tests. I put the whole illness to the back of my mind.
In October, I start teaching printmaking on a degree course one day a week. A great job, but it’s a 90-minute drive away. Crossing the Welsh hills in a clapped-out car, through rain, sleet and snow, is certainly taxing. Feel like I’ve done a day’s work before I’ve even started.
November 1988. Felt queasy. I was pregnant. You’re never too sure if it’ll happen straight away, but it did; aged 26, we thought it a pretty good time to start thinking about a family. I organised a surprise meal for Julian (who had absolutely no idea I’d got pregnant that quickly); after the food, I handed him a gift. He unwrapped the nappy pins and pink fluffy pig, and the card saying, ‘Guess who’s coming to stay July ’89.’ I was on the edge of my seat anticipating his reaction, but needn’t have worried. Although shocked, he was ecstatic.
Everyone was thrilled with our news. Mum said, ‘It’ll put a spring in Dad’s step and a twinkle in his eye.’ My pregnancy kicked in and I felt surprisingly well; Julian and I looked weekly in the baby book at the stages of babies’ growth, attended Mabel’s NCT classes and had all the attentiveness that time allows for first babies. We began to nest-build, making alterations at the lodge.
One evening while watching TV, what a shock! There was one of my pictures, All Set for Tea, on the set of a BBC sitcom. That was quite fun, but on the negative side interest rates were cripplingly high. I suppose the first thing you stop buying when times are tough is artwork!
At eight months pregnant, home alone one summer’s day, I heard a knock at my back door. I assumed it was my friend Stella, but instead it was the eccentric farmer who lived with his long-suffering wife on a smallholding, down a muddy track nearby.
Driving past our lodge on his old grey tractor, which he did numerous times a day, he’d wave, and if I was in the garden I’d wave back. They were quite a couple of characters, he and his wife. The tractor was their only form of transport. He’d take his wife shopping, with her clinging to the back of the tractor for dear life, wearing her oversized man’s coat tied together with baler twine.
Anyhow, on that particular June day, stood at my back door, he wanted to know if I’d like some new potatoes.
‘Yes, please,’ I said.
He was very hard to understand, having such a strong Welsh accent and more spaces in his mouth than teeth.
‘I hear you’re going to be a father! Do you want a boy or a girl?’ he shouted, with peculiar incorrect use of gender.
He started to feel my tummy. This all seemed friendly enough, but then he lifted my shirt to grab hold of my trousers and see how tight they were, like he’d never seen a pregnant woman before. He mentioned my belly button, pulling my trousers further for a better look.
I said, ‘Oh, yes, all normal, thank you very much,’ pulling away.
I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and remain civil. But before I knew it, he’d lifted up my T-shirt and squeezed the end of my tit!
Why did I let him! God knows. It happened so fast. He was treating me like one of his cows. I tried not to be rude, but had had enough of these shenanigans. He must’ve realised I wasn’t going to be pawed any longer, and just marched back to his tractor.
Once he’d gone, I felt a real fool. When I relayed the story to Julian, he thought I should’ve slapped his hand or face. Looking back, I agree, but the farmer was offering potatoes, and was maybe not the sharpest knife in the drawer! After that experience I decided I definitely wasn’t going to wave to him any more, in case he thought I was encouraging him.
I didn’t know at the time, but he was notorious for this sort of thing and really needed stopping. The trouble is, when you’re pregnant, people feel at liberty to touch your bump, so I felt at a disadvantage.
A week later, getting up late having had little sleep (a combination of heartburn and the baby kicking most of the night), I decided to have a nice, relaxing bath. Luckily I locked the back door. Had the radio on, was enjoying soaking myself, watching the baby move in the water.
I heard marching on the gravel, followed by thumping on the back door. I’d been splashing around, so whoever was standing literally just two feet away knew exactly where I was. I lay as still as can be, my heart beating ten to the dozen, and the handle of the backdoor slowly creaked. Someone was trying to get in – not just pushing the handle once, but rattling it repeatedly.
Livid, I jumped from the bath (allowing for me being eight months pregnant), grabbed my dressing gown and, dripping wet, yanked open the back door ready to have a full-on confrontation with whoever was standing there.
I couldn’t believe my eyes – it was the farmer! Arm outstretched, offering me some more bloody potatoes.
‘Did I wake you?’ he asked.
‘No. I was in the bath. Catching cold now.’
‘Are you OK?’ he bellowed.
‘Yes, but I must go,’ I replied.
Leaning forward, he grabbed hold of my hand, clutching my dressing gown, saying he’d look after me!
Bugger that, I thought. No bloody way! I just slammed the door in his face, re-locking it and sliding the bolts.
I waited for the tractor to start up again, but reckoned he was on foot. Felt quite upset. He seemed to come when Julian was at work. Shut all the windows, rechecked the locks, got back in the cold bath and washed my hair.
We were such easy targets, living in a ground-floor lodge, but, as it was such hot weather, I liked opening the windows. From then on, I was locking everything. I decided that if he came round again, I’d be extremely rude. Eventually he’d get the idea. He never did call again; it’d done the trick. Quite unsettling, even so.
The rest of the long hot July passed by peacefully and the days dragged into August. My due date came and went, the midwife becoming a familiar face. Unfortunately reached 14 days overdue, so I was induced, even then enduring 17 hours of labour. Why do they call it labour? Mmmm. The doctor arrived, saying as he bustled into the room that he needed size 7 gloves