I’m Frances Dunning. How are you today?
OK, thanks.
Good.
An odd question, given the circumstances. Inside the office Rachel explains that she is pregnant. She knows the conception date. She has taken a test, knows how many weeks. It is the first time she has said this out loud and it does not seem quite real.
I have a urine sample. Do you need it?
No. That’s OK, I trust you.
The doctor looks over her records.
I don’t have any old notes for you.
I just moved back to the UK.
How are you feeling generally?
Alright. A bit sick. I’d like to talk about the options.
The doctor glances up at Rachel and then out of the surgery window at the playing fields beyond. A grey ceiling of cloud has begun to form: the promised rain. She asks Rachel the date of her last period and then calculates on the ob wheel.
Yes, you’re right. Twelve weeks or thereabouts. So we need to think reasonably quickly about everything.
The pregnancy was unplanned. I meant to sort it all out sooner.
Is this your first?
Yes.
Frances Dunning turns in her seat and faces Rachel fully. She has shadows under her eyes. A weekend locum, perhaps.
Might I ask why you delayed a termination?
I just moved back from America. It’s a bit complicated. The state where I was living brought in a new mandate — you have to have an ultrasound before having an abortion. The clinics are mostly pro-life.
Oh, yes, right — tricky. Are you decided?
Rachel moves uncomfortably in her chair. This is the question. The answer should be simple and easy, and yet.
I think so. I don’t think I want to have it. I’m not. . a hundred percent sure.
Not sure you want it, or not sure you don’t want it?
Both. I don’t know.
Doctor Dunning nods.
Well, there’s a little time. A termination procedure is slightly more complicated after fifteen weeks — it’s not a straightforward evacuation. You’d probably have to go down to Lancaster. Would you like to speak to someone about everything?
Rachel shrugs.
I’m speaking to you.
Would you like to speak to a counsellor?
No.
The doctor nods again. Her shirt is a bright, ugly green — distracting. Between the two prescriptive lenses of her bifocals it is hard to see her eyes properly. She is probably the same age as Rachel. There’s a silver framed photograph on the doctor’s desk, of a girl and a boy, perhaps eight and ten years old. Planned, no doubt, to fit with her life. Rachel moves in her chair again, begins to feel foolish. What are you doing? she thinks.
Doctor Dunning prompts gently.
Are you in a position where you might want a child?
Rachel does not reply. She doesn’t want a baby. She has never wanted a baby. A baby would be ridiculous. But how can she describe the feeling? The strange interest in it all, now that the situation pertains to her specifically. The mercurial days: fatal mornings when she is sure she wants rid of it, nights when the certainty evaporates. It’s as if some rhythm — circadian, immune, hormonal, she does not know which exactly — waxes and wanes and, with it, her rational mind. How can this be explained to the doctor?
I just didn’t think it would happen, she blurts. I’m not young.
Frances Dunning shakes her head, smiles very subtly.
You seem very healthy. And the commonly used data on fertility rates is a little past its sell-by, I’m afraid.
It was one night, Rachel says. I don’t have relationships. Just sex. I’m usually more careful when I–I wasn’t expecting this—
Doctor Dunning leans forward slightly and tilts her head. The confession, this new information, is clearly worrisome.
How many partners have you had in the last year, would you say?
Five, maybe. Six.
Last sexual health check?
A couple of years ago.
OK. We can discuss the pregnancy options again when you’ve thought a little more, but shall we do a few tests now? Just to be on the safe side.
Yes, alright.
I’ll buzz for the nurse.
She presses an intercom and they wait.
I know none of this is ideal, Rachel says, almost apologetically.
She feels annoyed with herself, and like an undergraduate. The doctor turns to face her again.
Well, it’s true. Children are life-altering. You’re right to think it all through.
Her hands are held close together, turned slightly outward and upward, as if holding something — an imaginary baby, perhaps.
If the pregnancy continues, she says, we’d need to think about booking you in with the midwife, and a first scan around now. And possible screening. But I’m not going to push you. You’re on our system, which is good.
There’s a knock on the door and a uniformed nurse enters the room, carrying sterile swabs. They move into the curtained section. Rachel strips below the waist and lies down on the paper-covered table. The lamp is repositioned. The speculum inserted, swabs taken. It is a brief, inoffensive examination. The nurse hands her tissues and leaves. She re-dresses. Doctor Dunning is typing up notes on the computer. Rachel sits and waits for her to finish.
I’ll get those sent off, she says. The results will take about a week. But why don’t I call you in a few days, if that’s convenient? Where do you work — can I reach you there?
The Annerdale estate, and yes.
Lovely.
I’m managing the reintroduction project.
Oh, the wolves. I read something in the Gazette about that. It’s all going ahead then?
It is.
Will it be open to the public? My kids would love to go.
Possibly, once they’re settled. Though it’ll be more a programme than a park.
Rachel feels slightly redeemed; she is not a complete mess, not without professional skills, she would like that known by the woman sitting opposite. The doctor glances discreetly at the clock on her desk. She would probably like to continue the conversation, the subject is unusual, but she is running behind. Twelve minutes have passed.
OK, Rachel. Have a think. Here are some leaflets, with advice lines, just in case.
She hands Rachel a sheaf of pamphlets.
We’ll speak in a few days?
Yes. Thanks.
Rachel stands. If she had anticipated resolution, here and now, backed into a moral or medical corner, it has not occurred. If anything, the meeting has left her feeling more confused. Frances Dunning moves to the door and opens it courteously.
These decisions are not easy. Best of luck. By the way, where are the wolves coming from? The paper didn’t say.
Eastern Europe. They arrive next month.
Goodness me! That’s amazing. Probably no need to ask, but you are up to date with your rabies vaccinations?
Rachel smiles and nods.
Yes, the doctor says. Of course you are.
In the car she sits and tries to think it all through, logically, while rain drums on the roof of the Saab and patients limp in and out of the surgery, closing and opening the blades of umbrellas, clutching paper pharmacy bags. She cannot imagine a baby, certainly not in relation to herself as its mother. She has barely ever held one, let alone changed a nappy. But here she is, delaying, ruminating, caught between states. Shouldn’t she know what she wants: what to do and how to do it?
She starts the car, puts it in reverse, and pulls out of the bay. She thinks of Moll and Tungsten, all the past animals she has worked with. They know. Or some part of their system knows and there is no thought. Year after year, she’s witnessed the behaviour of the reproductive females, in their oestrus periods, the sequences and solicitation, prancing, rolling on their backs. Even the naïve ones understand how to act when the time comes. Instinct activates, makes them turn their tails to the side, help the males mount them. Parenting is intuited. The loss of belly hair. How to nibble away the thin membrane surrounding the newborn pups. They have no choice.