‘Idiot.’
‘And don’t forget your dinner date,’ he tells me.
I freeze on the spot. Shit. ‘That’s tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Balls. Big giant balls.’
That shop assistant who was tutting before gives me an evil look, I guess because I’m holding an infant. I could be talking about any balls: tennis balls, beach balls, disco balls. I’ll have to get on a bus. What are the queues at the tills like? Seriously, balls.
‘Good luck,’ Will whispers before hanging up.
By the time I get home, I am bang on time but sweaty and the colour of beetroot from fighting my way onto a bus with the pram, shopping stuffed into the lower basket. I clamber into our block of flats and struggle to navigate the buggy through the corridor. The front door opposite ours opens, and our neighbour emerges looking slightly perturbed at my levels of sweatiness.
‘Was your marathon today then?’
Paddy. I would laugh if I had the breath. He opens his door fully, and I see he’s standing there in a blazer with a buttonhole. I smile. Oh my. He’s dressed up and I’m wearing cut-offs and a yellow stripy T-shirt. I feel awful but he smiles broadly. I don’t suppose he’s too surprised. Paddy is our garden flat floor neighbour and we share a corridor in our block, home to his wonderful ferns, our buggy, an old Christmas tree base and a few pairs of really old stinky trainers. Every day since Joe was about a month old, he knocks on our door so we can have a cup of tea. I won’t lie, it’s become a highlight. He’s even sometimes done the washing up and helps me fold clothes. It gives me some routine in an otherwise unstructured day – and company. I also feel indebted to him as some of the noise Joe has created over the past months or so will have travelled, no doubt. However, today is different. No tea. We are out to dinner and I am super grateful for Will’s reminder. Paddy fiddles with the handkerchief in his top pocket.
‘You forgot, didn’t you? You’re such a dopey mare.’
This is also why I keep Paddy in our lives. For all his gallantry, he also is good comedy value.
‘I didn’t forget. I’m just running behind.’ I forgot.
He shakes his head at me and rolls his eyes mockingly. ‘Come on, you go sort yourself and I’ll take the young ’un.’ He holds his hands out and Joe goes over willingly, as Joe does. The lad isn’t picky which makes me worry he’s the sort who’s likely to be kidnapped easily. He likes a cuddle and the variety of a new face that isn’t mine. I try and feign enthusiasm with Paddy, hoping it may mask my guilt. You see, today would have been Paddy’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. His wife, Betty passed a few years ago and he’s been on his own ever since. I’ve never heard a man speak so affectionately of a woman. So affectionately that every time her name is mentioned or he shares an anecdote with me, I usually burst into tears (that’ll be the hormones and lack of sleep). Once he told me about the time he proposed outside a bookshop, the one where their eyes first met over their shared love of Graham Greene, and I actually lactated. I didn’t want him to be alone on today of all days so I suggested we go out for dinner. Nothing fancy (Betty would have hated that) but she liked fish and chips and a half of shandy to wash it down. So the pub it is – and we’ll raise a toast to his love. Except I’m a dopey mare and I bloody forgot.
‘Come on through.’
He wears a light slack and a smart navy blazer. I want to hug him but I don’t given I’m slightly balmy. I may need to have a quick refresh with the baby wipes.
‘Excuse the mess as always.’
I do a quick scan as he enters. Paddy has seen all sorts lying around, from bags of nappies to bras drying on the radiator but he always seems to turn a blind eye, once telling me he’d seen worse in the war which made me feel marginally better.
‘And how are you? How’s little man?’ he asks.
I kick a box of pantyliners behind a sofa.
‘As usual. Sleep is kind of getting better, I think.’ My haggard face probably tells a different story.
‘Well, you’re doing a sterling job,’ he says, eyes glancing over at the kitchen where last night’s chicken pie sits there on the counter, a fork in the dish where I’ve been picking away at its cold carcass over the course of lunchtime. Paddy always says this without even a hint of sarcasm. We all know different but it’s like he’s telling me to keep on keeping on.
‘How was that new bridge thing? Did you go this morning?’ I ask.
‘I did. They were a bunch of old arse hats though. It’s the same faces you see all the time; allotments, woodcraft, all those classes they put on in the community centre. I’m just sick of seeing the same mugs. And turns out the bridge is all recreational too, no playing for money. Not sure why you’d bother? I can play poker online.’
‘But it’s the social side of things, no?’ I ask.
‘Maybe. But that’s why I have tea with you.’ He puts a hand to my shoulder. ‘How long do you think you’ll be?’
He scans the puffy outline of my mousey blonde hair. I try to think if I own any hats.
‘Ten minutes. I promise.’
He gives me a look. What stands before him would take a makeover show at least three days and some industrial threading action. But I’ve done it in less. That time I forgot a health visitor was coming round, I managed to brush my teeth, put on a hoodie and deodorant myself in a single thirty second action. I smile as he makes Joe laugh by turning his hand into a bird. I spy a wedding ring and smile broadly.
‘You look really nice by the way,’ I tell him.
‘You hitting on me? Is Will not doing it for you these days?’
‘It’s the blazer, I’m a sucker for a blazer.’
‘If I’d known, I would’ve worn it more often. Did my house slippers not give you the fanny flutters?’
I laugh, loudly. ‘It’s the tartan, makes you look well old.’
He turns to my infant son. ‘Joe, your mum’s a bloody cow, did I ever tell you that?’
My son seems to laugh in agreement and I shake my head at the two of them.
‘Well, Joe and I will make ourselves useful while you get ready,’ he says. ‘It’s recycling day tomorrow.’ He gestures over to my recycling bin which is a Jenga-style configuration of tins, card and junk mail that we pile in the corner. I shuffle over in my shame to assist.
‘Did you see that new muppet in flat five?’ Paddy asks. ‘He keeps putting takeaway boxes in the recycling. No foil, I told him, and he called me an old nosey git.’
I wince. ‘Really? Is it worth the fight?’
‘It is. More like that and next time, I’ll steal his sweet and sour pork balls.’
‘Paddy!’
‘We’re a family in this block, we look out for each other. You play by the rules. Have you seen his cat too? Miserable looking sod, just like his owner.’
As I tie a bin liner full, Paddy looks around the mismatched cupboards and counters that line my messy galley kitchen.
‘I’m sorry about—’
‘— the mess, I know,’ he replies, laughing cheekily. ‘Come on, little lad, let’s do a quick sweep in here for your mum. You looking forward to your first pint in a bit?’ he says to Joe.
He opens all my cupboards to put dry washing up away and looks confused by all the mismatched mugs and biscuits. Many biscuits. He chats to Joe like some old mucker he’s met down the pub and I smile. Is it terrible that I think Paddy may be my current best friend? Aren’t I supposed to have a mum friend whom I meet at baby tai chi lessons once a week? Her name should be Laura and she should wear Joules. Instead I have a septuagenarian standing in my kitchen, wondering why someone would use their oven to store their entire collection of saucepans. He turns to me.
‘I love you, Beth, Joe does too. But we’re not going to the pub with you looking like a fricking tramp. Get a wriggle on.’
‘Harsh.’
‘But true.’
Track Three
‘Too Young’ – Phoenix (2000)
I can’t q
uite remember why we moved to Surbiton. Will and I both knew we wanted to stay in South London to be near family but that we also needed somewhere commutable and within budget. This suburb is the place where people come to shed the skins of their young selves and grow up. Before here, we’d been in Brixton which was once up-and-coming and trendy but through the eyes of parents-to-be suddenly looked unsafe and polluted. So we begged, borrowed and ploughed our minimal finances into our flat in this leafy commuter belt and we got it at a bargain price given it hadn’t been renovated since the seventies. This didn’t faze us. It was retro, a style statement. We could peel back the shag pile and do some of the work ourselves. Except we didn’t have any money left. So the shag pile and the avocado bathroom suite stayed. And instead of cool cafés and bars that served trance with their cocktails, we now drink at sensible pubs that play Adele and give you crayons so you can help your little ones colour in their menus.
‘Bitter shandy, a lemonade for the lady and two fish and chips,’ Paddy tells the barman. We’ve opted for one of the pubs on the high street. It’s not one of those newfangled wine bars that serves sweet potato substitutes. Paddy is in the mood for chunky chips which is another reason he’s an ally.
‘What are you having, Joe?’ he asks.
‘Vodka tonic?’ I suggest.
The barman is a serious sort so doesn’t take too kindly to the joke. He glares at Joe almost as a warning that he’s not allowed to cry in here or he’ll bar him. Paddy smiles as he goes to retrieve our drinks.
‘Ignore this fool, go get us a table, pet,’ he mumbles.
I smile. I do love a pub but they are alien places to me these days. Now I come equipped with a buggy, bags and a small human who may at any given moment explode with poo, cry or demand food. Leaving the house, therefore, always puts me slightly on edge.
Negotiating the pub, I find us a table by the window (hitting a row of bar stools as I do) and park the buggy next to us. Joe looks around. Where are we now? This is new? It’s not the supermarket or our front room. I’ve made an effort with him in his best baby jeans but see that he’s lost a sock somewhere. I spot my reflection in a nearby window. Christ on a bike, who’s that bird? I looked vaguely presentable in my bathroom mirror. I put in some dry shampoo, slicked my hair back into a bun, threw on some mascara and found a maxi dress that covered my bumpy, misshapen body. I thought I had a sleek minimalist mother look to me. I don’t. Why does this dress suddenly look like a holiday kaftan? Why am I so sweaty? I try and blot the worst of it off with Joe’s muslin.
There’s a strange clientele in here today: the people sitting around us seem to be single, older men drinking away their sorrows. One table away are a group of people in some sort of meeting; they’re well heeled and engage in animated chat over a sharing platter that involves cured meats and calamari. Why does this feel so strange? Maybe because I won’t be drinking. Or maybe it’s because I just want to curl up on this bench and have a nap. Paddy approaches and puts our drinks down.
‘Love, I ordered you some mushy peas too.’
I smile. The truth is I don’t like mushy peas but now I breastfeed, I eat everything. My appetite knows no bounds. No one told me this was a side effect of breastfeeding to the point where I can smell the calamari on the other table and am thinking about ways I can brush past the table and steal a piece.
‘Is the pub OK? I didn’t know. I think it’s nice. The murals are a bit wanky but I can look past them,’ he says.
‘It’s fine. So tell me, what else have you done today?’
‘Apart from bridge, I went up to Betty’s grave. That was nice.’ Don’t cry, Beth. ‘And spoke to my boys on the phone but you know how it is, they’re working and I didn’t want to trouble them.’
I put my hand on his. ‘I’m sure they know today means a lot. You’re wearing your wedding ring, I’ve never noticed that before.’
‘I’ve always worn it. Never taken it off.’
I tear up slightly.
‘Just shows how observant you are,’ Paddy jokes.
‘I miss most things. I’ve just had a baby.’
‘Crap excuse.’
Before I can retort, a flurry of women exit what looks like a function room to the side of the bar. I recognise two of them and they clock me immediately, looking a little embarrassed.
‘Caroline, Nas… Hi!’ I say reluctantly.
‘Oh, Beth…’
Both Caroline and Nas were in my NCT group, another bizarre ritual of early parenthood, where I was expected to be the best version of me and attach myself to others with babies, while in reality I was at my physical and mental worst. Hi, I’m Beth and this is Joe. He is a baby. You also have a baby. Let’s be friends forever. NCT was supposed to be the perfect way to make fellow parental friends. Let’s sit in this community hall, our chairs in a circle, set up like we’re about to either chat addiction issues, pray or play musical chairs. And let’s get our bumps out and discuss the impending excitement of parenthood. Except our group never really gelled. Will and I knew why. After years of IVF, Caroline didn’t take too lightly to the fact our pregnancy wasn’t planned. That said, we also didn’t quite take to her husband, who spent most of those classes buttering up Will to do free architectural consultation work on their converted rectory house. Also, when Nas hosted a coffee morning in her five-bedroom detached house with a kitchen bigger than our whole actual flat, we knew they were out of our league. Could you imagine them coming to ours? Will said. People would have to spread out and sit on our bed.
The rest of the parents were just a strange mix of individuals: a really young mum who was nineteen, who came with her mum and Snapchatted constantly through the sessions, and then there was Alison who was fifty-five. She already had three kids, the youngest of which was fifteen. She was going through the menopause so had been attending some acupuncture sessions, the side effects of which were increased fertility and thus she got knocked up. Alison knew more than the NCT tutor but I especially liked how her and her husband would sit there mumbling about how they’d thought they were done with this shit. You wait until the baby’s teething, and it then starts throwing tantrums, won’t eat anything and will speak more to people on YouTube than it will to you. And you used to see half of the mums clutch their bumps protectively like it’d never happen to them. Will and I thought all these people were nothing like us: too old, too organised, too highly strung, too young, too boring. We used to stride in there thinking we were the cool cats. The baby would just follow us around like a trendy accessory. He wouldn’t even cry because we’d be that laidback. It’s just parenthood, chill out. Yet seeing Caroline and Nas now only reinforces how different our approaches to parenthood really are. They appear so effortless and preened, whereas this is something that doesn’t come to me naturally. Both of them have their babies swathed in slings and are dressed head to toe in exercise wear. Joe eyes them curiously. He is not familiar with this style of dress.
‘You’re both looking really well.’
‘So do you?’
I’m sure there was a question in that. ‘How are Valencia and Leonard?’ I ask.
Paddy chokes a little on his lager.
‘Thriving. We were actually in a baby yoga class. It’s so good for the babies,’ says Caroline.
‘We would have invited you but we didn’t know your number,’ mumbles Nas.
They do know my number. I smile while their eyes scan my thrown-together kaftan dress look. Nothing’s changed with them. I’ve been to all-girls’ schools so I know the score – for all the ways we convince ourselves that putting women together can form some sense of sisterhood, it can also summon up the worst sorts of bitchery. I am wise enough to understand these dynamics to not be hurt – yet I’m also relieved. I lent off the bed the other day to get my phone and I think I displaced my spleen. Yoga would break me.
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ I reply. ‘Not really my bag anyway.’
Little Valencia pops her head from over the sling and glares
at me, the scrunched-up face of a young cub. Paddy looks perturbed by the aggression in her stare.
‘Joe looks well,’ Caroline says, trying to drum up some civility.
‘He is. I wish he’d sleep but he’s doing great.’
Next to us, Leonard kicks his legs out, his face starting to curl into a cry. His mother placates him with a dummy.
‘Oh, Leonard and Valencia have slept through since week six. Didn’t you follow the links to the sleep schedule that Lolly put on the WhatsApp group?’
Paddy looks confused. Did someone pick all these names out of a hat? Lolly was our fearless NCT leader who had convinced us all that motherhood was something that could be run with a combination of hypnosis, timetables and letting them cry. It’s all about the babies letting you know how they feel, apparently.
‘I guess Joe’s a little different.’
Their smiles and silence say it all: We came to this pub for well-meaning baby activity, glowing and fit and handling this like pros. You’re here to eat chips with your baby in a supermarket clothes range.
‘Are you the proud pop-pops then?’ Caroline says, turning to Paddy.
‘You what, love?’
‘She thinks you’re Granddad,’ I tell him.
Paddy laughs. ‘Oh no, Will’s not in the picture anymore so this is a date. We met on Tinder.’
I close my eyes and try to hold in the laughter. They both look ashen at the scandal. They didn’t get that, did they?
‘This is Paddy. He’s my neighbour.’
‘I’m her bestie.’
‘Oh… that’s lovely,’ says Nas, still getting to grips with our humour and the fact I have an old man as a best friend. ‘Well, we must be going. It’s nearly feeding time here.’
‘It was good to see you both.’ It wasn’t but I am loath to carry this conversation on any further. ‘Take care and say hi to Pete and Greg too.’
Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner Page 4
