But it had been nearly a month now and he was recovering perfectly well. It was just the rest of their situation that was suffering. And that made what he was about to suggest so much worse...
Resigned, Jim cleared his throat.
‘You know, I think we’re just going to have to bite the bullet on this one.’
He glanced across at his wife, trying to gauge her reaction without obviously scrutinising her as he leant back against the arm of the couch. Erin was stretched out at the other end, her feet tucked under her and a plate of spaghetti bolognese half-balanced between her ever-growing bump and the solid mass of a sofa cushion. She twirled her fork distractedly amongst the twines of pasta, chewing her lip; then her dark eyes rose and she surveyed his plaster cast pointedly.
‘I'm not sure, Jim. I mean... what with the accident... something might still come up...’
Her tone was half-hearted; she knew he was right. Placing his mug awkwardly down onto the carpet beside his empty plate, Jim reached stretched out his uninjured hand and gently slid her feet onto his lap, rubbing her soles as she relaxed into him.
‘I know - the accident was a setback we could have done without - '
'A setback? Jim, you could've died!'
'The guy ran a red and turned the corner at the wrong moment - at least I was going slowly enough for it to be a minor collision.'
'Minor? The car had a god damn dent the size of a meteor! You fractured your wrist and had serious concussion! The stupid tosser almost buckled the entire door off!'
'Erin, love - I know, okay? I know - and I'm so sorry it scared you. I'm sorry it scared me too, but it's over and... I'm still here, yeah? We're still here - and we've got to think about what will happen next, because - basically - things are a bit fucked.' Erin swallowed hard, face closing up. Jim sighed, his skin itching beneath the bandages. 'I'm sorry, but I just don’t think we’ve got another choice, love. I mean – we haven’t had any viewers for a good while now and the moron's insurance company is barely going to shell out enough to cover the car repairs, let alone compensation...'
'That accident wasn't your fault, Jim - I can't believe he's just going to get away with almost killing you and not - '
'Love - I know. But there's nothing we can do. Plus in another two months, you’ll almost be at thirty weeks. That’s seven months pregnant, Erin! By the time the due date gets any closer, there’s no way you’re going to be able to manage moving house, even if we were in a position to.’
At that she smiled tightly, spearing another meatball.
‘If it meant having our little house, complete with garden and a stunning nursery for the twins, I’d find a way to manage, Jim, believe me...’
‘But that’s the other thing, Erin – we’re having twins. We’re having twins! It’s brilliant for us – I can’t even begin to describe how excited I am – but the bank aren’t going to see it the same way... They were down on us before about the instability of our incomes whilst your on maternity leave – can you image Nadia Dawson’s face if I tell her we’re now having twins? Financial nightmare!’
Grimly, they both realised the truth of his words. They had no money; not really. The bank wanted a clear-cut deposit of twenty thousand pounds before they could even consider buying a house, whether they sold their flat or not – at that moment, they had only saved fifteen. And with the surprise of twins, not to mention the beat-up mess of the car after the accident, it looked like a good chunk of those savings was about to be rerouted.
Erin sighed, pressing a hand to her bump consolingly.
‘You’re right. I know you're right - it's just... so unfair. He could have killed you...'
'I know - but hey, I'm still here.'
'I love you so much, Jim - I was so scared! And now he's just walking away scot free and it looks like we’re staying here forever in tiny old Flat 25, with no money and...’
Her face crumpled and Jim wished he could wrap his arms around her - both arms, not this stupid sling - and brush the tears away. It made him so angry - all this crap, day in and day out, but what did they have to show for it? A battered car and a fractured arm? A miniscule flat and loyalty to a bank that readily took their money, but really couldn't care less? Where was their dream house, their mortgage, their nursery, ready and waiting for the twins to grow up in?
As if reading his mind, Erin sniffed and looked up.
'So... we're just going to have to make do again, huh?'
Desperately, Jim tried to force a smile, swallowing down the fury.
‘We can do up the middle room, make it perfect for when the twins arrive. We can re-paint; get some nice pictures, lots of teddies... I’ll even take out that awful plasterboard fake-ceiling – we’ve wanted to do that for years anyway, right? We can put in some nicer lights – really turn it into a proper nursery. Come on, love...’
She answered with the tired, but still dazzling smile he loved. Putting her plate down beside his, Erin shifted herself round and curled up against her husband, resting her head on Jim’s shoulder. He slid his uninjured hand across her rounded stomach, the forced cheer evaporating as he realised, with unutterable tiredness, that they were fast approaching Hell.
‘Everything will work out, Erin, I know it. It has to.’
...Three Weeks Later...
Erin slowly traipsed down the street, winding her way wearily towards the garage. The phone call she had received from them three hours earlier, regarding their battered car, had not filled her with hope – more with a leaden weight that approximated somewhere in the region of three to four hundred pounds.
Literally.
The mechanic, however well-meaning, had blinded her with science and engineering jargon, like suspension completely obliterated and brake pedals gone and front tyre tracking warped... Not to mention the crumpled door, shattered wing-mirror, and Christ only knew what other damage that idiot in the Mercedes had caused. But the three to four hundred pound bottom-line - well, that had slapped Erin down the phone-line no problem. She was still pretty impressed – especially given her particularly hormone-heightened state – that she had managed to refrain from cursing like a drunken sailor on leave until after the mechanic had hung up.
Jim hadn’t exhibited the same restraint when she called to pass on the news however. This, on top of everything else so far over the last few weeks? Erin didn’t wonder at her husband’s frustration, nor at the air turning blue while they’d discussed which already severely battered credit card they would need to whack this charge onto. She was beginning to feel pretty blue herself.
Three to four hundred pounds.
God damn slimy insurance bastards.
They were as bad as the bank - worse, in fact.
She couldn’t remember, through the haze of shock, whether the mechanic had said that the price included service charges... And what about VAT? No, Erin reasoned, he must have included them. She remembered him saying the phrases quite distinctly – she just couldn’t remember whether he had said the words “with” or “without” in front of them... It must have been with, Erin prayed feverishly. If they bled any more money, they'd be drained completely dry...
But at least we’re blessed with two babies, Erin chided herself, pulling her jacket closer around herself and her bump – more for the comfort of feeling cocooned than from the need for actual warmth. And at least the car wasn't a complete write-off... And Jim - well, you can’t put a price on life. After all, it’s only money...
The clichés rolled on, as desperately consoling as the familiarity of the streets around her; the retirement home, the converted bedsit, the row upon row of red-brick Edwardian terraced houses. They flanked her progress down the road, towering above Erin like smart-fronted guardsmen, mocking her with their homely frontages and cosy little gardens. Eight years in that fifth-floor flat; Erin dreamt of even the smallest of four-by-four straggling, grassy patches leading to her front door...
She sighed and picked up her pace, m
ore clichés mopping up her melancholy. It’s not about the building, Erin – home is where your heart is.
Perhaps it was because of the clichés that she noticed it at all in the first place.
Or maybe it was simply because, trying to avoid the tantalising sight of all the homes surrounding her, she had her head now permanently bowed towards the pavement, eyes fixed on the concrete blurring under each step.
Either way – there it was, lying on the pavement: a dull, glinting penny, tails side up, slap-bang in the middle of her path.
Erin saw it, but actually continued on two steps before it fully registered. Pausing, she turned, eyeing the unsuspecting coin thoughtfully. Find a penny, pick it up; all the day you’ll have good luck...
Well.
She and Jim could definitely use a little luck.
Stooping, Erin picked up the penny and rolled it between her thumb and forefinger, feeling its dull, rusting surface scraping between her fingertips. When she was a kid, she used to love collecting surprise pennies like this one, gathering them up in her piggy-bank like sudden windfalls, until she finally had a couple of pounds saved that her Mum would swap her for, so that she could go and buy an ice cream or a packet of space invaders. Pennies were gold to little children; she hoped her twins would one day feel the same.
But suddenly – standing there in the middle of the street, surrounded by houses of which any would be like a dream come true for her, on her way to collect a car that was going to tip them into tighter and tighter straits after an accident that wasn't even their god damn fault! – suddenly, Erin felt faintly silly to have such faith in a dirty penny lying in the street.
Nonetheless, she slipped it into her pocket and headed on towards the garage, smoothing her growing bump beneath the folds of her maternity jumper and jacket. You can’t put a price on life, she reminded herself.
The bell above the garage office door tinkled as she entered, before another bleep sounded farther back, announcing her to the various mechanics clustered in the workshop. Erin hovered by the counter, waiting as the owner bustled in, smiling warmly at her.
‘Hello, my dear – sorry that I have to be the bearer of bad news.’
Erin steeled herself, praying once again that she hadn’t got it wrong, that the three to four hundred pounds included the service charge, the VAT... With a sympathetic look, the mechanic pushed the bill across the counter to her – and Erin felt the blood leech from her cheeks. So the amount quoted on the phone earlier had been without the extra service charges after all.
Shit.
Swallowing hard and attempting to keep her face neutral, although inside a small voice was screaming, Erin double-checked the figure printed at the bottom of the invoice, just to make sure she hadn’t hallucinated.
Seven hundred and eighty-two pounds.
Quite a bit more than three to four...
Could the service and VAT charges really make that much of a difference?
Her rapid-fire mental maths quickly worked out that they could and they did.
The garage owner watched her anxiously; he had just noticed her pregnant belly and was quite obviously panicking that the cost of the repairs might cause her to faint – or worse, go into labour. He'd probably be even more horrified to know that she was actually taking a moment to imagine throttling the life out of the little dirt-rat who had so recklessly driven straight into her husband's car. And every single one of his slimy insurance representatives. Why not throw in his arrogant little attorney too?
Grimacing out a smile, Erin cleared her throat and tried to see through the red fog of fury clouding her brain. When she finally managed to speak, she was amazed at how calm she sounded – perhaps it was a delayed reaction and, given another minute, she’d instead start sobbing hysterically into the man’s overalls?
‘You take credit cards, right?’
The garage owner nodded; at least he had the decency to look guilty, although Erin couldn’t blame him for this...
Can’t put a price on life, Erin.
As he moved to the till to start inputting the details, Erin took the car key from where he’d lain it behind the desk and fished a hand absently into her pocket for the rest of her keys, distractedly aiming to thread it back onto the bunch while she waited - anything to keep her mind from contemplating the truth of the situation: they were so deep in the red now, it was definitely the fires of Hell.
As she pulled the key-ring out, her fingers brushed something else –
The lucky penny.
Erin stared down at it, hysteria finally welling up like tidal wave.
Well, a fat lot of good you did me.
She weighed it in her palm for a second, the other hand pressed once more against her the curving bump of her stomach; the movement was becoming quite a comfort-tic now, part of her still unable to believe that she was carrying two little lives deep inside of her own body. It was the one good thing that she clung to... The thought was still lodged dimly in her mind when the garage owner turned back to her, pushing a chip-and-pin machine in her direction, the inordinate figure blazing from its tiny backlit screen. The device came to rest beside a yellow charity tin, the label studded with happy, smiling faces looking up at Erin appealingly from within a distinctly hospital setting: Children with Cancer UK.
Pressing her hand more firmly against her bump, Erin’s numb thoughts finally slammed into focus. As she fumbled her purse out of her other jacket pocket, she flipped the penny into the charity tin without a second thought, before reaching for her credit card.
Our future might be screwed, but least my kids will have a home, she thought with a sigh. So you might as well go to someone who isn't so lucky... Besides, our problems number somewhere in the thousands by now...
They were going to need a lot more luck than one single penny could bring.
...Three Weeks Later...
'Erin, get back in the lounge!’
Jim ducked, using the weight of the sledge-hammer to swing himself back out of the way, coming to rest with his feet still on the ladder and his shoulders angled backwards against the wall. Ceiling debris crashed onto the plastic sheeting that covered the floor, huge chunks of badly cracked plasterboard fragmenting as they tumbled from his efforts to destroy the warped decorating skills left behind by the previous owner.
‘Perhaps we should have gotten a professional,’ Erin murmured, doubtfully, ignoring him. She was hovering just outside the doorway, munching her way through a sandwich-box of raw carrot sticks and cherry tomatoes. The twins were quite large now and Erin seemed to live in a various array of brightly coloured and extremely baggy knitted cardigans, craving raw vegetables every five minutes.
Jim swung the sledgehammer onto the step above his feet and sighed.
‘Believe me, I’d have liked nothing better – but you know we can’t afford it right now, love.’ He risked another glance at the half-demolished ceiling. It might not have sounded like the best idea – smashing the plasterboard ceiling when they lived in a block of flats; knowing their luck, the tenants above them would come crashing through in a bath-tub.
But then again, what he was demolishing wasn’t a real ceiling. For some inexplicable reason, the previous owner – a rather odd elderly man, according to the estate agent, who lived there for nigh on thirty years and had refused to move until he finally collapsed of a heart-attack – had decided to plasterboard in a new ceiling about a foot below the original. Jim could think of absolutely no reason why anyone would want to do this – it seemed like an unnecessary amount of fuss over something that achieved absolutely nothing in relation to the room. And it looked utterly abysmal – the plasterboard had been developing cracks when they’d first moved in; now it hardly took any effort at all to smash into it and bring it down. Jim couldn’t believe they had left it for so long.
The old man was a little eccentric, according to the family; Jim remembered the estate agent’s slightly patronising tone of voice, as he gazed on the fruits of h
is labour from the security of the ladder. Not quite with it anymore... Apparently, he just kept saying he liked the room smaller...
Poor guy was probably rolling in his grave now then, Jim reflected absently. Already over half of the false ceiling was littering the floor, sandy patches of long-forgotten dust floating down to shower everything with its scratchy, sneezey presence. Erin paused halfway through a carrot, her nose wrinkled at the chaos.
‘Please, Erin - just go back in the lounge, okay? It isn't safe,’ Jim shouldered the sledgehammer once more and descended the ladder, ready to shift to a fresh patch of plasterboard. 'At least the old ceiling will widen the room out again.’
Erin smiled at him, slightly forced but still full of ready agreement. What mattered most now were the twins and Jim was determined to do the best they could to prepare for them. That was why they had decided on the middle-room; it had never been used for much anyway – what with the dodgy ceiling and the way it only had one window. It was sandwiched in between their bedroom, which was at one end of the flat, and the open-plan kitchen and dining room on the other side; for the last few years, they had just stuck the desk and computer in there, along with a couple of shelving units, unable to think more imaginatively of what to do with such a small, cramped space.
But now it would work pretty well as the nursery – close to their room, and a reasonable size for two little children, to whom everything would seem giant for at least the first few years. And with the false-ceiling now almost fully ripped out, Jim was right: the room already seemed bigger, lighter, airier...
Christ only knew what the old guy had been thinking.
Anyway – now that he was finally getting it sorted, they could redecorate the room with what little savings they had left, then slowly put away what they could whilst the twins got settled – and maybe try and turn things around next year...