Grace and Serenity

By Annalisa Crawford

Living on the streets is terrifying and exhausting. Grace's only comforts are a steady stream of vodka, and a strange little boy who's following her around.

At nineteen, Grace has already had a child and endured an abusive marriage. But she's also had her baby abducted by her vengeful husband and been framed as a neglectfu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vine Leaves Press
• Release date: Jul 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781925965339

Annalisa Crawford

Annalisa Crawford lives in Cornwall, UK, with a good supply of moorland and beaches to keep her inspired. She lives with her husband, and canine writing partner, Artoo. Her two sons have flown the nest, but still like a mention.Annalisa writes dark contemporary, character-driven stories, with a hint of paranormal.She is the author of four short story collections, and her novels Grace & Serenity (July 2020) and Small Forgotten Moments (August 2021) are published by Vine Leaves Press.

Book preview

12:01 a.m.

How did I get here?

Stock-still in the middle of my room, hypnotized by faint blue flashes of light and a sporadic siren weaving through slumbering streets and housing estates toward the hospital. An eerie sound, resonating on the crisp January air like a cat fight.

A moment ago I was fifteen, lying on my bed watching Rihanna and Katy Perry on YouTube, my legs swinging in time with the music.

A moment ago I was meeting Neil for the first time, at some stupid party.

Run, run away.

Mum said I shouldn’t wear such a skimpy dress—a flimsy red thing I had to keep pulling down my thighs, and which hugged my 34Bs into a deep cleavage. She made me change into jeans, but I hid the dress in my bag and slipped it on before I got to the party.

Should’ve listened, you stupid girl.

He watched me from the moment I stepped through the door, this guy who looked like Robert Pattinson and had brooding, bottomless eyes like Daniel Radcliffe. Janie and I were separated in the squash; sixth-form girls with perfect makeup and sky-high stilettos sneered at me, while I fussed with the hem of a dress I didn’t belong in.

If I could stop time, I’d stop it here.

A moment ago I was sixteen and invincible, the way only sixteen-year-olds can be.

Run, run away.

But it was already too late.

A moment ago I was seventeen and telling him I was pregnant.

Gracie-Lou

1.

You remember the little things, don’t you, when big things happen.

The first flurries of snow settling on the window ledge. The kitchen tap drip-dripping into the sink. The Christmas lights, looped around the banister, making our faces green and blue and red as Neil backs away from my outstretched hand and calls me a liar.

You stupid bitch. He glowers at the blue line of the pregnancy test. His lip curls; his eyes dart from me to it.

We’re frozen, statuesque. I hold my breath.

A smirk creeps across his face and he shrugs. It ain’t mine.

It’s almost a whisper; I lean forward to hear him. This close, I smell his reassuring woody aftershave and see the tiny hairs on his neck raised. I wait for him to kiss me, one hand on the base of my skull like he usually does, but he straightens up and takes another backward step.

It. Ain’t. Mine.

Of course it is.

You can’t prove it.

Prove it? What do you mean? You’re the only man I’ve ever been with.

Yeah, right. You’re a fucking whore, and that kid ain’t mine.

Still edging backwards, almost at the front door. He stumbles and bounces off the wall.

No, I promise. There’s no one else. It’s your baby. I grab his hand, clinging to him, but he snatches away as though I’m toxic. Tears trickle down my cheeks, burning. We’re having a baby.

I didn’t expect him to be happy; I’m not. Last night I cried myself to sleep and woke far too early. But I’d hoped he would hug me and comfort me, sit in a devastated stupor with me. Face my parents with me, promise them he’d look after me. Not this. I wrap my arms around my stomach to protect the child inside.

You’re trying to trap me. You’ve done this on purpose.

Trap you? No. It was an accident.

I’m supposed to be going to university. I’m supposed to be revising for my A-Levels.

You’ve been sneaking off—I’ve seen you. He thrusts his finger into my face, stopping short of gouging into my cheek. I flinch.

No! Please. Please love me. Please love our baby.

We’re done. Finished. Slut!

His hand raised, I push against the banister, bracing myself. Then, nothing. He’s gone. Kicking walls, slamming the door so hard it ricochets off its frame.

I sink to the floor, numb, unable to hold myself up.

Drip, drip, drip.

My hands green and red and blue.

I lean over and vomit on Mum’s brand new rug.

2.

That party where I met Neil? It was the first time I’d done anything rebellious, and even then, it wasn’t really. My brother was the one who snuck out to meet girls, who came home late, who bunked off school sometimes. Me, I was Miss Goody-Two-Shoes in comparison. I was dragged along by Janie, who had a huge crush on one of the sixth formers; I don’t remember what happened with him.

I hated that red dress. Do something wild, Janie said. So I bought it, and immediately regretted it. I should have stuck to my jeans.

Squashed in the corner, wishing I was anywhere but there, Neil saved me. He sauntered over and draped his arm around me, and the sneering sixth-formers walked off with disdain. I thought myself so grown up when he handed me his can of cider to swig from and we left together.

He wasn’t like the boys at school, they were just kids. Neil was nineteen, enigmatic, and didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him. And I was special when I was with him; other girls scoffed with envy, but I didn’t care. I meant something now. He hung his jacket around my shoulders and fought boys who looked at me disrespectfully. He hated being away from me, he wanted me all to himself.

We were immediately inseparable. Like Danny and Sandy. We’d go to see his friends play gigs in small, dark bars or sit in his house drinking beer while he played on his PlayStation with them. As the days slid toward the evenings, someone would pass me a joint, but Neil always tenderly took it from me and shook his head.

He didn’t like my friends. He called them babies. I hung around the mall with Janie or went to the cinema when Neil was busy. Sometimes, there’d be lots of us, but when Neil realized the group included boys, he’d ask why I wanted to spend time with them instead of with him, so I stopped going. When we were on our own, we’d spend all day in bed. In that manner, the whole summer melted away.

Neil came with me to get my GCSE results. I shrieked in delight at the flurry of As and Bs.

Didn’t have you down for a swot. He leaned against the wall, blowing cigarette smoke into the air with a frown.

I shrugged. Just worked hard. I wasn’t sure what else to say—wasn’t he supposed to be happy for me?

You’ll be off to college then?

No, I’m staying here for A-Levels.

What’s the point? You’ll end up in a shop or summat—everyone does.

My dream of going to university, of traveling flashed before my eyes. I’m going to be a journalist.

Yeah? He checked his watch dismissively. Said I’d meet the lads. You coming?

I waved the results slip in the air. Got to phone Mum and Dad.

Can’t keep mummy and daddy waiting. And he sauntered away.

He’s always walking away, it seems. I open the front door in case he’s waiting for me to run after him and beg him to come back, but the garden’s empty. Icy air swoops around me; snow settling on walls and flowerbeds, on car bonnets and rooftops. I hold my hand out to catch flakes, gazing in wonder before they melt in my palm and run along my wrist.

My stomach trembles. It’s been doing that recently; the baby moving around, I guess. I’ve looked at pictures online to imagine what it looks like. It could be a tiny bean, or already have hair and fingers and toes. It could already be smiling and hiccupping.

It’s getting harder to hide the bump. I should have told them months ago, but I thought it would go away. I didn’t think I’d actually be pregnant.

I text Neil, but don’t send it. My words swim through a flood of tears. I’m afraid without him; I can’t do this alone. I thought he loved me. He said he did. Last week he promised we’d always be together.

I phone him, but it goes straight to voicemail.

3.

They come home together. Twice a week their hours coincide, and they meet at the garden gate. Mum shakes out her coat and sits on the bottom step to take off her shoes. Dad hangs his keys on the hook and rifles through the post I left on the side. He’s concluding a story about a colleague—I don’t catch the name—and Mum laughs. Oh dear, I bet they’ll think twice next time.

I listen wistfully to these reliable, homely sounds before I go down to wreck everything.

Gracie, we’re home. Do you want a cuppa?

Mum, I’m pregnant.

I don’t know what to do, Dad.

I stand in front of them in the kitchen. Mum…

Her eyes flicker to my stomach straight away.

We sit at the table while Mum pours the tea.

I’m sorry, I say because no one else is speaking.

The silence folds on top of us. If we don’t break it, it’ll grow larger and impenetrable.

Oh, Gracie, I just… She shakes her head. You don’t have to make any decisions right now, but there are options. This doesn’t have to— She cuts herself off. Doesn’t have to ruin your life, I think she was going to say.

I push my mug away. The milk tastes funny.

Does Neil know? she asks.

My face crumples. He—he… doesn’t…

She squeezes my arm. It’s okay. We’ll forget about him for the moment.

Dad snorts and Mum shoots him a hard warning glare.

What do you want to do? she asks.

My finger traces the pattern on my mug. I don’t know.

How far gone are you?

My clothes are tight; I’ve stopped wearing my jeans altogether. I don’t even know why I bought the test; when I look in the mirror, sideways, the solid shape is obvious. Yes, I do—to show Neil, to make it real. I feared what he would say. And yet I still love him, and I still wish he was here.

I don’t know. I sink down into my chair, shamefaced, letting the adults take over and make all the decisions.

Mum blows through pursed lips. Well, that’ll be the first job.

This isn’t how today was supposed to go. I was going to post my university application and revise for my English mock. This evening, Neil and I were going out for his mate’s birthday. He’ll be there already, I expect, getting wasted and not giving the baby a second thought.

For how long, exactly, are we forgetting about Neil? Dad asks, spitting out his name as though it’s something hideous.

Mike. Not now.

Then, when? They glare at each other, with Mum making comically pointed head-nod gestures toward me.

It’s okay. I know you’ve never liked him.

That’s not true, Mum says.

And I know it’s not. Because he was clever—he brought Mum flowers or chocolates when he came for tea. He watched football with Dad occasionally. Later, we’d laugh at how far he could push his charm.

I rest my hand on my stomach. Already it feels so much bigger than it did this morning.

4.

Mum takes me to the midwife. In the waiting room, there are women of all sizes. Some alone, reading battered copies of Woman’s Weekly and National Geographic; some sitting with partners who hold their hands proudly. A couple is besieged by toddlers, and the ones without children look horrified at the bedlam. I’m the youngest by far. I slouch and avoid anyone’s eye.

The midwife says the baby’s due in May, only four months away.

Oh God, Mum says in shock. Are you sure?

The midwife smiles grimly, sympathetically. The options Mum was talking about dribble away. She runs her hands through her hair, and I watch a robin land on the fence outside the window, flitting about for a few seconds before dashing away.

The midwife presses the monitor firmly into my stomach and the heart beats around the room, rapid and insistent.

Mum wipes a tear away, a soppy smile plastered to her face. That’s my grandchild, she says redundantly.

I’m hypnotized and terrified. It’s real. Not a mistake or a fantasy. Not a dream.

The midwife talks cheerfully as she makes an appointment for the ultrasound I should have had weeks ago.

I’ll see the baby?

Yes, love. And you can find out if it’s a boy or girl, if you want to. She wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm, and types notes onto her computer. Perfect. Is there anything you’d like to ask? Anything you’re worried about or not sure about?

I shake my head and shrink back into the chair. Why me, I want to ask? Why not Janie or Ali, or anyone else but me? Why weren’t we more careful? Why does Neil get to walk away?

Mum asks questions in a bright, clear voice to indicate I should be listening. But I’m not. I let her voice fade away while my world, my plans, disintegrate.

My exams are in May, I whisper, although loud enough to interrupt their conversation.

They look away clumsily. Of course, I won’t be taking them, I know that. My place at uni will go to someone who didn’t get pregnant and I’ll be home changing nappies and sterilizing bottles. Neil thought university was a ridiculous idea; he’ll laugh when he realizes what he’s done.

You can re-take your A-Levels next year, when the baby’s a bit older and you’re more settled, Mum says on the way home, reading my mind. We’ll make it work. I can rearrange my hours at work to fit your classes.

Her words are a blur. I watch the pavement disappearing beneath my feet. Everyone’s staring. Everyone knows. I hunch forward to cover my bump.

I can’t do this.

She squeezes my arm. Okay… She sucks in air. Have you considered, thought about, giving the baby up for adoption? She doesn’t look at me when she says this. I have no reply.

The baby flutters inside me. I shudder. It feels like someone’s dragging their finger across my skin.

5.

I leave school unexceptionally, simply by not going in one day. I don’t say goodbye. My so-called friends watch me in wordless discomfort—judging me, laughing at me. They know Neil’ finished with me; they’re all thinking the same thing. Murmurs and gossip follow me.

I’ll be the girl parents use as an example. You don’t want to end up like Grace Newman, do you?

I’ll be the girl who walks down the road to a chorus of censure.

My bump will grow, and people will point and gawk, or yell obscenities from the safety of the busy road between us.

The house has a different feel during the day—a secret life. It’s cold and stagnant, apart from creaking radiators and the hum from the fridge. I coast with an ominous sense of being watched, as though the house is rejecting me. I have the urge to keep doubling back to check. Even the road that’s so busy during the school run is forsaken.

I make tea and eat leftover Christmas cake. Mum’s written a list of chores for me. Not fair; I deserve a couple of days’ respite. My life is utterly screwed up, and she wants me to dust? I push the note under the toaster and pretend I haven’t seen it.

I stand at the window. Harassed mums push heavy prams; gray-haired men plod with their newspaper tucked under their arm. Sometimes they bump into each other and say a few words. Miss Price has that thing where she’s terrified of leaving her house—she lives right opposite, and she’s looking out of her window at me looking at her. I don’t know if I should wave or not. She gawps impassively then slides back into the gloominess of her front room.

The TV’s on for the noise, to hide the humming and creaking and lack of sound from outside. I lie on the settee, feet up to stop them swelling, and stare at the ceiling. There’s a cobweb in the corner of the room, stretching from the curtain pole right across to the framed family portrait we had taken a couple of years back. I watch it wafting as the heat rises from the radiator.

Janie texts. I try to chat for longer, but she stops replying—it’s two o’clock, she’ll be back in class. I insert myself into the long resonant corridors, sit at my desk in the history room, imagine the drone of Mr. Solomon’s voice.

I fetch the duster and attack the cobweb.

Janie kicks off her shoes at the front door and calls out, Hey, I’m here. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?

I’ve opened a packet of Custard Creams. They’re in the barrel.

I’m on it.

Five minutes later, she’s handing me a mug and a plate of biscuits. I heave myself into a sitting position. The baby objects and seemingly burrows her head into my pelvis. Janie presses her palm against my belly.

It’s just so fascinating. I love the way they move around. She sits back. You’re glowing, by the way.

Yeah? I don’t feel it. I’m itching all over and my legs ache all the time. No one tells you that stuff—they really should. I twist myself around, trying to get comfy. How’s school? God, I’m turning into my mother already.

She shrugs. I still can’t get used to you not being there.

Have people stopped talking about me yet?

Um… She glances at her phone and smiles, setting it back down on the floor.

Great.

It’s not like that. They’re concerned. They ask about you.

I bet they do. And then laugh for good measure. I know I’m being grumpy and horrible. I blame my hormones.

She checks her phone again.

Everything okay?

I’ve just got… I’m meeting someone later, he was just—

He? A boyfriend? You kept that quiet.

She blushes. No, not really. It’s only been a couple of weeks. I would have told you, but you’re busy being… She gestures my whale-sized body.

Being pregnant isn’t a job. Who is he?

Andrew Lakey.

No way, he’s gorgeous. Lucky cow.

You’ll have to come out with us, he’s got a mate— Her sentence skids to a halt. Ahh. Her eyes brim with tears. It’s never going to be the same again, is it?

It never would have been. We applied to different uni courses—we’d have drifted apart.

How are you so calm about it?

Calm? That’s funny. On the inside, I’m screaming, but people have stopped listening. My parents are so busy making plans and pretending they’re cool with this sudden about turn in our lives they’ve forgotten to ask how I’m doing. It’s all about the baby; the girl who stares at me every morning in the mirror, looking exhausted and puffy-faced and bewildered, is just bumbling along wishing this was all a dream.

I shrug in reply, and Janie’s already forgotten her question.

6.

Mum’s taken to looking at me. Sitting across the table, across the room, passing me in the hall when I go to pee again. She glances sideways when we walk down the road together, and I realize I can’t remember when I spent so much time with her. She’s swapped shifts at work to come home earlier, as though I’m incapable of being left alone.

When I am alone, in the mornings and over lunch, when the hours drag and the walls play with boredom, I imagine any number of ways to escape—from here, from the baby, from the future which doesn’t include Neil.

I text him, watching the words fuse into permanence on the screen, without response. I keep my phone close, checking, re-checking.

I spoke to your head of year today, Mum says before hello.

Why? I continue to scroll—Facebook then Twitter, back and forth so I don’t miss anything.

She says you can take your A-Levels next year instead. That’s good, isn’t it?

What’s the point? I won’t be able to do anything with them. I gaze into that bleak spot in my future which is entirely empty. The baby squirms—no, not empty, ballooning.

Of course you will. We’ll make it work. Maybe not Brighton, but Plymouth… Falmouth maybe? It’s all possible.

No. I rub my hand across the bump and wince as although I’ve been pricked with a needle. "This is my life now. When the baby’s older, I’ll get a job, a flat for us. Her and me."

"This isn’t what I wanted for you. You had plans, dreams—you were