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Sure Blue by Norma Harman
‘You'd better sort this lot out before your mother comes down, else you’ll get what for.’ Paul slammed the door behind him and the ketchup-smeared plates and dark-dribbled cups rattled in the sink.
Jess sat at the kitchen table, staring at a stain of drying coffee at the bottom of her mug, twiddling a loose strand of hair round and round a finger. A feeble ray of sunshine filtered through the grimy window. It glimmered on her ponytail and the hoops in her ears, both gold. At last he’d gone. She listened to his muffled curses as he kicked aside the rubbish that sprawled across the garden path, leaving the sound of a rolling beer can after the gate had clicked shut.
The time had arrived.
She pulled her handbag towards her and took out a paper bag, some cigarettes and a lighter. She would have a cigarette, and then do it. As the yellow-grey smoke curled in the lazy slice of light she stared at the bag laying there; silent, accusing; holding her future in the long, thin box inside.
Jesus, this couldn’t be happening to her. Wasn’t her life shit enough already?
She had bought the test on the way home from school the day before, marching poker-backed into the chemist, self-conscious in her school uniform. As soon as the assistant handed her purchase to her, the world had tilted. The crisp paper bag seemed to scream - ‘This is real, Jess. This is actually happening.’ She had been trying to forget about it, trying to make it go away. Perhaps she would come on during the night? If she took a hot bath? If she took a cold bath? Drank a pint of gin? But she hadn't, and she was now more than three weeks late.
She blew a long stream of smoke and watched it drift and swirl across the kitchen. She licked her dry lips. To stop her free hand shaking, she pressed it against her concave stomach, running her finger along the butterfly belly-bar that Chris had bought her for their three-month anniversary. She wanted to smile when she thought of him, her lovely Chris, but somehow the corners of her mouth just wouldn’t turn up.
The tip of the cigarette brightened and dimmed, brightened and dimmed; it was nearly finished.
She had wanted to get this over with first thing, but Paul had been ferreting about in the bathroom. No way was she going to risk him finding out. It was bad enough being on her own with him - How’s school Jess? How’s your boyfriend? You look proper lovely today, you gorgeous little girl. He said it gawgeous not gorgeous. Sidling closer and closer. He was the worst bloke her mother had ever had. She was still upstairs, of course, snoring away in her filthy pit.
Jess stubbed out the red-hot filter of her cigarette in a saucer. Stab, stab, stab. This was it. She picked up the crumpled bag, determined now, but then heard a movement upstairs on the landing. She stuffed the test back in her handbag and was pushing aside the pile of washing up in order to wedge the kettle under the tap when her mother shuffled in.
‘You got my paracetamol?’ The woman coughed wetly and helped herself to one of Jess’s cigarettes.
Jess shook her head and crashed the two remaining clean mugs down on the side.
‘Keep the noise down for Christ sake, I got a right stonker.’ Jess’s mother pulled her tatty dressing gown round her and dragged deeply on the cigarette, her cheeks concave with effort. ‘Paul’s gone to work then, bloody miracle. Wonder how long this job’ll last.’ She flicked the cigarette at the floor, although no ash fell. ‘You going to school today or what?'
Jess turned to her mother and gestured, stone-faced, at the clothes she was wearing. Her mother looked her up and down, only now noticing the jeans and hoody.
'Oh right. Do us a favour and get us some baccy will you? You can have some if you go.'
Jess tossed the teaspoon onto the teetering pile in the sink, grabbed her handbag and walked out, the teabags still cold and dry in the mugs and the kettle about to boil.
Stuff. Off. You. Bitch.
'Don't you bloody ignore me, missy! I’ll wipe that snotty little look off your face.’ The shouting gave way to a cough like churning gravel.
Outside, the grey dampness of the day swallowed Jess and she gave herself up to it. She wandered the back streets; past broken fences and smashed windows, tipped over wheelie-bins and a few cracked pots of last year’s dead flowers.
Would having a baby be so bad? After all, what else did life have to offer? Art college, her dreams answered. Your fantasy, your ambition, your future. Oh crap, what a stupid idea, she might as well want to go to the moon. She could picture her mother’s face if she even mentioned it! A corner of her mouth twitched up, and then down. Then down a bit further.
She turned into the park and sat on one of the swings in the deserted playground. Pushing herself to and fro, she put up her hood to keep out the bitter wind that chased the rain-filled clouds across the sky. She wanted the loo again, but was trying to keep it in - was wee-ing all the time a symptom? Part of her was numb, not really believing it could happen to her, and part was screaming with terror. The terror was getting the upper hand. She pushed her hands deeper into her pockets, feeling for the comfort of her mobile and letting the wind pull and tug at stray wisps of hair. If only she had somewhere to go, someone to talk to. If only her phone would ring…
But there was no-one. Strange how families who’d allowed her round to play when she was small had not been so keen once she was older and not so controllable. And strange how none of the girls on the estate wanted to be friends with her after her she had won Chris.
To and fro, to and fro.
She didn’t even know how to find out about having an abortion if that was what Chris wanted. And if she did have one, she’d have to live the rest of her life knowing she’d killed her own baby.
She hopped off the swing and kicked at some swirling leaves.
Please, please don’t let it come to that!
A woman walked towards her pushing a pram. The hood was up, but the screaming from the baby inside was piercing. The woman’s haggard face was clenched.
Why is the baby doing that? Is this what you have to do to stop them; go out in all weathers, walking and walking until the wailing stops? She didn't know anything of babies, not a single thing. How could she possibly be going to have one when she was so ignorant of them? It was a ridiculous idea!
She was desperate for the loo now, and made her way to the park toilets. It was a relief to step inside out of the cold wind, which now carried stinging drops of rain. The damp concrete walls smelt of disinfectant and ammonia.
It might as well be here.
She took the packet out of her pocket with clammy-cold fingers. Sure Blue. Nausea rose like a column in her throat as she ripped the spatula out of its wrappings and read the instructions – hold in stream of urine for five seconds, then wait two minutes. A blue line means you’re pregnant, if it’s clear, you’re not.
She went into a cubicle, held the thing by its 'easy grip' handle and peed on it. Oh my God, it was so humiliating already. It went all over her fingers and she got drips on the seat and down one of her thin, almost blue thighs. She shook the excess off and balanced the spatula on the greasy top of the cistern while she tried to dry her hands on a scrap of thin toilet paper. The spatula began to slide off and she only just caught it in time, cracking her knuckles on the cold porcelain. She unbolted the door and went and stood outside. The wind was whipping the steady drizzle into little sheets of pins.
Two minutes. She checked her watch, her dad’s watch, a big old-fashioned man's watch with a large second hand that went round far too slowly. She started counting the seconds - one, two, three.
Oh, how happy she’d be if it were negative! She’d go to school every day and start working. She would go to her form tutor, have a serious talk about her future. Maybe even speak to Mr Bryant about how to get into art college without her mum having to do anything! She’d never be horrid to anyone or steal anything ever again!
30, 31, 32.
Although of course if she was pregnant, she wouldn’t have to worry would she? It would all be decided then. A flat away from her mother and her assortment of pervy boyfriends. Benefits. Or maybe she’d be put into care until she was 16 next spring. Giving birth in a children’s home, that would be nice. She’d be cosy and looked after. She wondered what Chris would want to do, keep it or not, be delighted or furious. No, no, no, she could hardly bear to think about it. She knew he loved her, of course, he was always telling her. That’s why they hadn’t used anything that time, because he loved her so much. And as well as the butterfly belly bar, he’d bought her a ring. And he’d given her some flowers once - no-one else’s boyfriend gave them flowers.
48, 49, 50.
It was just that he hadn’t wanted to be with her on his 18th birthday, and then there was that thing with the earring…
80, 81, 82.
She wondered when he’d get round to putting some credit on his phone. It was two days now since his last text.
84, 85, 86.
How could two minutes, which normally pass without being noticed, become such a huge part of her life? Alone in a public park, her future being dictated by a small plastic stick with an easy grip handle resting on a filthy toilet.
Jess lit a cigarette and shook the pack to see how many were left. A lady with a round hat and a poodle walked slowly past. Pikey girl, she’d tell her friends, hanging around the park toilets, up to no good, waiting to cause trouble. Doing drugs probably. She wouldn’t give a second thought to what Jess was going through. And why would she care anyway?
101, 102, 103. She wanted to look now. Only a few seconds to go. She wondered how many times her heart would pump her blood round in that time, and was it already pumping for two?
105, 106, 107.
Her heart began to race and she gave up counting, just stared at the watch face, which became huge, overpowering. She could not see or hear anything else.
Tick, tick, tick.
Blue for devastation, clear for yes, you've still got a life.
Tick, tick, tick.
120.
The second hand reached its zenith and the time was up. She wished it could stop there, stick at that point forever, but it carried on into the next minute as if that period of time had meant nothing.
Please, oh please, let it be negative.
Tick, tick, tick.
She went back in and opened the cubicle door. She looked into her future.
A clear blue line.
Blue for a boy.
She had always bloody hated that colour.
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The story builds well line by line without to get in the way. The weakest point is the mother being a bit two dimensional- maybe that's how the girl sees her but the reader needs just a bit more. It ends with the reader finding out that the girl is pregnant but not what she plans to do? Though we get a strong hint- blue for boy: this suggests she will have the child. Does this strengthen or weaken the story? Some of the judges thought it might have been even stronger if we hadn't found out yes or no. What does anyone else think?