He hesitated for a second, then got into the car and drove away, and she picked up the baby and turned towards the door, to find Harry standing there looking after his uncle with those bottomless eyes.
‘Come on,’ she said gently, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder and steering him back inside, closing the door behind them. She could hear Dickon and her father in the kitchen, and she ushered Harry in there and introduced him to Archie, who was busy washing Dickon’s face.
Now, she thought, was probably not the time to point out that it wasn’t a good idea, and anyway, on balance it was probably just what the little boy needed. It would probably do Nick a power of good, too, but he was out of her hands for the moment and the baby was waking up.
‘Harry, do you know what time Maya was fed?’ she asked, but Harry shook his head.
‘Just feed her. If she isn’t hungry, she won’t have it,’ he said logically, and Georgie could have hugged him for that injection of common sense into this fraught and difficult situation.
‘Want to give me a hand? I’m not too great with babies.’
He gave a careless shrug, and started to look in the bag. ‘Here—you have to heat it in the microwave for one minute and give it a shake and check it on your arm. It mustn’t be too hot or it’ll burn her mouth.’
So much wisdom. He must have been all of six years old. He handed her the bottle—tiny, to suit the tiny baby—and she heated and tested it as instructed, while her father and Dickon were making drinks and putting a ridiculous number of biscuits out on a plate, to make a pattern.
Well, Dickon was making the pattern. Her father was watching, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed together firmly, as if he was struggling. Georgie could understand that. She was struggling too, the now suckling baby snuggled against her breast, tiny starfish hands clutching the bottle and kneading rhythmically.
It should have been her mother’s breast, she thought sadly. Oh, little one, what have you lost? What have you all lost? And what will become of you?
She looked up, to find that Harry and Dickon were settled at the table with her father, deep in conversation about diggers. Well, her father and Dickon were, and Harry was listening, but Georgie guessed it would take a little longer to draw him out.
‘You have to burp her,’ Harry said, and she realised she had no idea how to burp a baby. Oh, she’d seen it done, but she’d never really taken the slightest bit of notice—
‘Here, let me do it,’ her father said, and, taking Maya from her, he sat down again, settled her on his knee and with his big, thick fingers cupping her chin he placed his other hand gently on her back and rubbed, slowly and rhythmically, until the baby obliged with a deafening burp that made them all laugh, even Harry.
It was easier after that. Harry found a nappy and the changing mat and showed Georgie how to change her nappy, and she marvelled at this little boy, so self-possessed. How was he dealing with the loss of his mother? It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘You’re a star,’ she said and hugged him, and for the briefest moment he clung to her, then got to his feet and went over to the window.
‘Do you think Nick will be long?’ he asked, his gaze fixed on the drive.
She met her father’s eyes. ‘Some time longer, I think,’ she said cautiously.
‘I wanted to go to the funeral. We saw a funeral in India—they put flowers in the river so they’d float away. It was pretty.’
‘Will they do that with Mummy?’ Dickon asked, looking up from rearranging the remaining biscuits. ‘Float her away in a river?’
‘No. They’re going to dig a hole and put her in, and they’re going to plant a tree on her. Grandma said she was worth more than a cardboard box, and she cried. I heard Uncle Nick telling Tory,’ he added, answering Georgie’s unspoken question. ‘But he said Mummy wanted that, and so she should have it. Are we staying here for lunch?’
‘Oh, I expect so,’ Georgie said, heaving a sigh of relief that the conversation had moved on. ‘What would you like?’
‘Bacon sandwiches. Mummy’s vegetarian, but we like bacon sandwiches, don’t we?’
Dickon nodded. ‘Uncle Nick gives them to us all the time. And triple-choc-chunk cookies. They’re yummy.’
And not a portion of fruit and veg in sight, Georgie thought, but decided the day of their mother’s funeral wasn’t the day to worry about that, and anyway, she was only babysitting them briefly.
‘We haven’t got any bacon,’ her father said, his brow puckered.
‘No, but we could go for a walk. It’s a lovely day, and I know just the place for a bacon sandwich. And they sell ice cream, and you can play on the beach for a while if you like.’ She looked at her father. ‘Are you feeling up to it?’
He nodded. ‘Sure. I’ve got to have my walk today anyway, so a little trip down to the beach sounds like fun. I can always lean on the baby’s buggy.’
‘What if Uncle Nick comes back?’ Harry said, his insecurity showing again, but Georgie patted her mobile phone in her pocket.
‘He can get me any time. He knows my number. Fancy it?’
They nodded. ‘Can we go in the sea?’ Dickon asked, but George shook his head firmly.
‘No. It won’t be warm enough yet. But you can play on the sand. Georgie, can you find that old bucket and spade?’
And so, a few minutes later, equipped with a bucket and spade that she remembered from her childhood, and the old striped windbreak, they set off, Georgie pushing the baby in her buggy with the emergency kit stashed under the seat and her father leading the way, a small boy attached to the end of each arm as they straggled down to the beach.
Harry had Archie on his lead, and for once the little dog was behaving as if he’d seen the inside of a training class, trotting along beside Harry as if he’d been doing it for years.
‘Lunch first?’ she suggested as they reached the café on the prom, and with Archie tied up outside they squeezed up to the end by the window, the buggy with a sleeping Maya tucked into the corner and the boys squabbling over the menu until Georgie took it away from them.
‘I thought you wanted bacon sandwiches?’ she said.
‘But we need a drink,’ Dickon said with his wide, guileless eyes, and she met her father’s eyes and smiled.
‘How about a milkshake? I think they do strawberry or chocolate.’
‘Chocolate,’ Dickon said promptly, and Harry frowned at him.
‘I wanted chocolate.’
‘But I said it first—’
‘You can both have chocolate, it’s not a problem,’ Georgie said, cutting off the argument. ‘Do you want squirty cream on the top?’
They did, of course, and fidgeted until the drinks came, then just as the sandwiches arrived the baby woke and started to cry, and Georgie had to ask for the bottle to be heated, and then it was too hot, and then Maya’s nappy needed changing, and by the time she’d come back from doing that her coffee was stone cold, her bacon sandwich was starting to congeal, the boys were getting restless and she was wondering how long it would be before Nick came and took them away.
Too long, she thought, eating the sandwich anyway because as usual she’d skipped breakfast and was starving. She couldn’t cope with this. No. That was rubbish. Of course she could cope. She just didn’t want to have to.
‘Can we go now?’ Dickon asked, the moment the last morsel went into her mouth, and, laughing at his impatience, she drained the dregs of her coffee, pulled a face and stood up.
‘Come on, then. Let’s go and hit the beach.’
And her father sat on the sand with the baby on his lap, trying to bring up her wind while Georgie built sandcastles with the boys and taught them how to skim pebbles and wondered how Nick was getting on.
‘Nice having children round again,’ her father said later, as she sat beside him watching the boys building a fort while Archie dug a huge hole beside them.
‘Don’t. I’m not getting involved with these kids, Dad. I can’t do that a
gain.’
‘I wonder what he’ll do about them?’
She’d been wondering the same thing herself, but hadn’t come up with anything sensible. After all, he was a man, a bachelor, with a bachelor lifestyle to match, and she couldn’t imagine the kids in his Dockland apartment any more than she could picture him living in suburbia with two-point-four children.
And the point-four chose that moment to screw up her little face and strain, and Georgie’s heart sank. Another nappy. They only had one left, and she had no idea when Nick would get back.
‘We ought to walk home through the town and pick up some stuff for the baby,’ she said to her father. ‘She’s running out of nappies, and she’s only got one more feed in the bag. If he gets held up…’
So they rounded up the tired but reluctant children, put the dog back on his lead and headed up the beach towards the building site just above them on the other side of the road.
‘It’s looking good,’ her father said, tipping back his head and admiring the renovated house with its new slate roof, crisp white windows with their gleaming panes, its freshly painted walls glowing pale cream in the afternoon sun. ‘You’ve done a great job.’
She warmed to his praise, but there was still a lingering disappointment. ‘I wanted that tower,’ she said wistfully, and her father shot her an odd look.
‘You might get it yet.’
‘I don’t think so. Especially not if the equation has just shifted to take in the two-point-four.’
George looked down at the children and smiled wryly. ‘You never know, you might get used to it—’
‘Dad, no. Please don’t start. I know you miss Jessica and Emily, but I can’t do it again, and anyway, it might not even be on the cards. It’s far too soon in all sorts of ways. Don’t go jumping the gun.’
‘We’ll see,’ was all he’d say, and he held out his hands and called the boys, and they ran to him, tucking their little hands in his and chattering nonstop all the way to the shops, their earlier reticence now gone. They picked up a few bits from the little supermarket for the baby, and then made their way home, by which time they were all looking weary, her father particularly.
‘Why don’t you three sit down and find something on the television to watch, and I’ll make us all something to eat?’ she suggested, and to her surprise the boys didn’t even put up a token protest, but snuggled up on George’s lap, one each side tucked into the crook of an arm, and they settled down to watch the children’s programmes while she took the baby in the kitchen, fed her again, bathed her a little nervously in the sink and then dressed her in fresh clothes and settled her down in the buggy for a nap.
It was four-thirty. Hours after she’d expected Nick to return, and there’d been no word from him. She looked down at the baby, so tiny, so defenceless and helpless, and felt a wave of overwhelming sadness.
How would her grandmother be coping? Nick had said very little about her injuries, but they were obviously severe enough to keep her in hospital for more than a week, and on top of that she had to cope with the loss of her daughter and the worry about what would happen to the children. From what Nick had said there wasn’t anyone else to take care of them, not one of the fathers on the scene, and with his mother out of action, who did that leave?
Nick.
She swallowed the sickening wave of disappointment.
No. They were getting on so well, or they had been, and she’d begun to believe that things might even develop into something serious.
Not this serious, though. Not in a million years. But maybe it would only be temporary, until his mother was better.
Suddenly needing to be busy, she scoured the fridge and cupboards for something the children would eat and that would keep so she could offer some to Nick when he turned up, and found a jar of Stroganoff sauce and a few frozen chicken breasts.
Onions in the sauce? The children might not eat them, she thought, and then remembered that Lucie had been a vegetarian. Should she give the children chicken and go against their mother’s principles? What about the bacon, come to that? It was a bit late to worry about Lucie’s principles.
She looked again. Mushrooms, peppers, courgettes, carrots—she could do a vegetarian version for the children if necessary. She’d ask them, she decided, and put her head round the sitting-room door to find that they were all fast asleep—her father, his head lolling and a soft snore coming from him, with the dog out cold at his feet and the boys likewise, Harry cuddled into him, Dickon sprawled on his back, mouth open, looking far too small to be an orphan—
No. Stop thinking about it. And of course it doesn’t matter if they eat chicken. What they need is love and food and for today, at least, they’d get it. What happened after that would take care of itself, and she wouldn’t be a part of it.
She heard the scrunch of tyres on the drive, and went to the door, opening it just as Nick cut the engine and sat there, his eyes meeting hers through the windscreen.
He looks awful, she thought as he climbed out of the car and walked heavily towards her.
‘How are they?’ he asked.
‘Fine. They’re sleeping. We went to the beach.’
His shoulders dropped a fraction with the release of tension. ‘I was worried about you all.’
‘No need, we’ve been fine. How about you?’
‘Dreadful. I didn’t think Mum would get through it—’
His voice cracked, and she looked at him searchingly. He was still holding it all together, she realised, hanging on, doing everything for everybody else and not thinking about himself.
‘Come in a moment,’ she said, and drew him inside, putting a finger to her lips and showing him the boys asleep on her father. His eyes were open now, and George smiled at Nick and looked down fondly at the boys.
‘Busy day,’ he mouthed, and Nick nodded.
‘Can you cope for half an hour?’ Georgie said softly, and he nodded assent.
‘Baby all right?’ he whispered.
‘Just fed her and put her down.’
He nodded again, and, leaving the door open so he could listen out for Maya, she led Nick back outside, put him in her car and drove him to the now deserted building site.
‘What are we doing?’ he asked as she cut the engine outside the site and unlocked the gates, then opened his door.
‘What nobody else has done yet—given you time out. Come on.’
She took him by the hand, led him into the site hut and shut the door, then put her arms round him and hugged him.
‘Georgie, no…’ he protested, but she could feel the tension vibrating in his chest, the ragged breathing, the pain all lined up waiting for a chance to be freed if he’d only let go.
‘Yes. You need a hug. You look awful,’ she murmured, cupping his cheek gently. ‘Was it dreadful today?’
He nodded, swallowing hard. ‘It was such a lovely day, it just seemed all wrong—’
He broke off, his jaw working, and she slipped her arms round him again and hugged him gently. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, and she felt his ribs heave under her hands. He moved away from her, turning to look out of the window with sightless eyes.
‘She was such a crazy girl. A real one-off. She was my baby sister, Georgie. I just can’t believe she’s gone—’
And that was it. His shoulders heaved, and she turned him back into her arms, holding him fiercely as the wave of grief tore through him and left him spent and exhausted in her arms. Finally he lifted his head and stared at the ceiling, sniffing hard and letting out a ragged breath.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. That’s why I brought you here, so you could get it out of your system out of earshot of the children.’
He rummaged in his pocket for a tissue, still immaculately folded and untouched even after his hellish day, and while he mopped himself up she put the kettle on and found some clean mugs.
‘Tell me about it,’ she said, and he dropped into a chair and stared sightlessly a
t the floor.
‘There were so many people there,’ he said wonderingly. ‘Friends of Mum’s and Lucie’s, old school friends—I got hold of Lucie’s address book and gave it to Tory. She did a bit of a ring-round and they passed it on and everybody came. It was a green burial—Mum hated it, but it was what Lucie had always talked about, and really it was beautiful. I think Mum would have hated it whatever, just because it shouldn’t have been happening.’
‘The boys were talking about it—what would happen at the funeral. They heard you talking to Tory about the coffin and your mother’s reaction.’
His head jerked up and his eyes met hers. ‘Really? Damn. What did they say?’
‘Just that she thought Lucie was worth more than a cardboard box. They were talking about funerals in India and planting a tree on her and things like that. All very matter-of-fact—I don’t think they really understand.’
‘I don’t know. Harry might. Dickon’s much more accepting, but he’s asked me when his mummy’s coming home and I don’t know how to tell him…’
His face contorted again, and he looked away, cleared his throat and apologised.
‘Don’t be silly. You don’t need to pretend with me, or hold it together. I know what grief’s like, I’ve done it. Tea or coffee?’
‘Brandy?’ he said wryly, and she smiled.
‘We’ve got some at home. Do you want to stay the night?’
He stared at her. ‘Do you mind? I’m just exhausted. Tory’s gone back to London to try and sort out the chaos in the office—the receptionist’s been off sick and we’ve had temps in.’
‘I know. I’ve left messages with three different people in the past few days.’
‘Oh, Georgie, I’m sorry. I didn’t get any of them. I should have rung you, but I was afraid if I saw you or spoke to you I wouldn’t be able to hold it together, and I had so much to do—’
‘It’s OK. I understand. I can remember what it’s like.’ Then she took a deep breath and voiced the question that had been troubling her all day, ever since he’d arrived that morning with the children in tow and left them with her.
‘So—what happens next? Are you going to take the children back to London?’
The Tycoon's Instant Family Page 8
