by Imari Jade
I spun around. “Please don’t tell me you are still going to play golf?”
“Sweetie, I told you, and you did agree.”
“Yes, but that was when you had your head between my legs and before Wendy called. No, Steve, I can’t let you leave me alone with Josh.”
We then had one of those strange fights that are conducted in a whisper, where hand gestures are emphasized, just so we would not upset the baby. Steve tried to get around me with false promises of bubble baths, wine and Johnson’s Baby Oil when he got home, to which I pointed to my nephew, who sat chuckling in his play pen, obviously thinking that auntie and uncle were putting on some kind of skit for his benefit.
“Really, Steve, if you think after leaving me here, on my own, that sex is going to happen tonight, think again.”
Steve took me in his arms, kissed me and turned my head to Josh. “Look at him. What can possibly go wrong? He’s a little angel. Trust me, Polly, you will be fine.” With that he heard a car horn outside. “That will be Sam. Love you.” Steve left waving to Josh, leaving me standing, helpless.
It was a nightmare. No sooner had Steve left, Josh—who had been quite happy sitting in his playpen, gurgling and laughing while Steve played peek a boo—began howling. I had taken note; I’m not completely stupid. Steve had made him laugh with a green frog. Picking it up I began trying to imitate the same frog noises that I had heard Steve make, however, mine sounded more like a frog belching, not croaking, and Josh didn’t seem to find it funny at all. In fact he howled even louder.
“Ok, ok, how about the...” Pulling the string bag of toys to me I delved in. The felt bell thing. “Listen Josh, listen to the bell.” I rattled it vigorously.
Josh now had a blotchy tearstained face that was becoming redder by the minute. I tried every toy in the bag, but nothing pacified him. Exasperated, I had no idea what to do next. Walking around the lounge, covering my ears from the noise, I wondered, what did this child have for lungs, bellows? Jean downstairs must have thought the same thing as she banged on the ceiling of her flat. Normally, this only happened late at night when Steve and I played our music too loud.
“You see, this is exactly why little people scare the hell out of me. How am I supposed to know what he wants?”
Turning around I looked at Josh. He now had his arms outstretched. Timidly, I bent down to pick him up, trying to recall if I’d ever held him before, wondering if I held him too tight, would he burst, or if he struggled to free himself, could I drop him on the floor? However, Josh seemed to know the protocol, wrapping his chubby little arms around my neck, his little legs automatically seeming to cling around my waist. Suddenly the howling stopped, just a slight sobbing. As he sucked his thumb the sobs stopped and he placed his head in the crook of my neck.
I began to walk around the lounge, stepping over the mass of discarded toys. I don’t know why I began softly shushing, it just seemed the logical thing to do. Surprisingly, I felt my nephew beginning to relax, so much so, that within a few minutes he had fallen asleep. For another fifteen minutes, I walked around the flat, shushing, not daring to put him down, in case he woke up again, I don’t know about Josh being exhausted from all that crying, but it had tired the hell out of me. I felt physically drained. How did Wendy do this every day? Eventually the weight of Josh was bearing a strain on my back, so with great care, and bated breath, I lowered him into his travel cot that Brian had put up in our bedroom, (how thoughtful!), and then I collapsed on our bed, praying that Steve would be home before Josh woke up.
* * * *
After an hour, my head had cleared. Tiptoeing to the kitchen, I was in need of a drink. Forcing all my self-control not to pour myself a large glass of chardonnay, I opted for an herb tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I picked up Wendy’s lists of notes, lists being the operative word since it was like a bloody epic. I had written short stories that had less of a word count than this. It seemed, as I skipped through the list, that a whimpering cry meant he just needed picking up. The uncomfortable cry, he needed changing. The hungry cry, the “I need sleep” cry. What the heck was all that about? Surely, a cry is a cry?
Then the time table: I thought Josh was a human being but it seemed Wendy had a robot. Breakfast at seven, lunch at one. I glanced at my watch. It was gone three. Never mind it said tea at four, I decided to just double up, trying not to see the capital letters at the bottom saying ‘PLEASE STICK TO THE ROUTINE.’ I was contemplating the “don’t let him sleep too long in the afternoon” note when the doorbell gave out its shrill ring, followed by some persistent knocking.
As I ran to answer the door, cursing the person on the other side, I was sure I heard Josh cry. Opening the door, there stood Marjorie my Avon lady, in her brassy voice shouting, “Avon calling.”
“Shush, he’s asleep.” I motioned to the open bedroom door.
“Sorry, love, I thought Sexy Steve would be at the match? So he’s here then?” She strained her double chin and saggy neck to see into the flat. Marjorie, in her mid-forties but looking a tired fifty something, would have passed more as an old fishwife than a representative of cosmetics. Poor thing had a massive crush on Steve, and when she had realised that he was the voice on the radio she swooned over every morning, the poor cow became a gibbering wreck around Steve, laughing and fluttering her overly made-up eyes, and pouting her cerise pink lips,.I don’t know who I am more embarrassed for, her or Steve.
“It’s my nephew, actually. The first time I’ve ever had him,” I whispered.
“Got a bit of the jitters have you? Well, you’ll be fine, it comes natural to women, the maternal instinct. Bet by the end of today you will be begging Steve for one of your own.”
“I doubt it. I’m not cut out at for this mother malarkey, and all that pushing and shoving.” I shivered at the thought. Right on cue, Josh began whimpering from the bedroom.
“Sounds like a hungry cry to me.”
“You know what that cry means?” This was amazing. Did women have a seventh sense transplanted in them when they gave birth?
“Should do, love, I’ve had five. After the second one it’s like shelling peas. On the last one I said to the young whipper-snapper of a midwife not much older than my eldest, it’s coming. She said not yet, Mrs. Glover. I said, you’d better get down there and catch the little bugger. Before she could say push, out she flew.” Josh gave another cry. Marjorie tilted her head like a wise old owl. “Yes, sounds like he wants feeding. I’ll let you get on. I’ll call back in the week, ‘bye love.”
I was sorely tempted to ask Marjorie to stay. Five children, well, she must be an expert, but she was already tottering down the corridor.
Closing the door, I wanted to kick myself. I should have lured her in on a pretence Steve would be back shortly. Or why hadn’t I just admitted I needed help, that this whole situation was well and truly out of my depth, and what was it Marjorie had said? It comes natural to women, the maternal instinct. As far back as I could remember, I’d never had a maternal instinct in my life. Perhaps I was a freak. Suddenly I pictured myself as a sideshow freak, at Nottingham Goose Fair. Steve in his candy stripe waistcoat and straw boater shouting, “Roll up, roll up, see the woman with no maternal instincts.’ People pointing fingers at me disgusted, shaking their head in shame.
As I walked into the bedroom, feeling sorry for Steve having only half a woman, Josh gave me a big grin, whereupon something weird happened to me. For one second—just one second, mind—I was sure my heart turned to putty.
Taking Josh from his cot, I softly said, “Come on you, let’s have something to eat.” I brushed his curly blonde hair back off his face, at which point, my nephew wrapped his arms around my neck and placed an open, wet, slobbery kiss on my cheek. “Now then, don’t get all soppy on me.” I choked back a tear, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.I had to admit, perhaps it did suit me. Oh no, don’t think I’m getting all mushy, my clock’s ticking and all that crap. It all soon changed.
&nb
sp; The reins on the high chair seemed to be an exercise from the Krypton Factor. It seemed common sense that they would fit like a parachute harness, not that I’d ever been parachuting, but I was beginning to feel like I was about to be pushed out of a plane without a parachute.
Both Josh and I began to sweat as I tried this way and that trying to bend his little arms. Eventually, with more luck than judgment, Josh was safely strapped in.
Josh obviously knew there was some gastronomic delight about to appear in front of him as he excitedly banged on his tray with his plastic spoon, while I read my feeding instructions. Hearing the ting of the microwave, I took out the contents and tipped it into the bowl. “Ye gods, what is this?” It smelt like mashed potatoes and veg, with gravy, but looked like something a dog had thrown up. Placing it in front of Josh, he seemed to think it looked appetizing. “Bonne appetite. And for dessert, yummy strained apples.” I grimaced.
Thinking now Josh would be happy, as he had food, I decided to grab myself a sandwich. I was about to turn around to the fridge, when the bowl came hurtling over in my direction, splattering all down the front of my t-shirt. Salvaging what I could, and adding to what was still in the bowl, I placed it back down in front of him, only to have a repeat performance. Josh was chuckling, thinking he was very funny.
“No, this is not funny. Here.” I shoveled a mouthful of slop into his mouth and, hungry for more, he opened his mouth again. I pulled up a chair, and sat in front of Josh and asked, “You like this?” From nowhere, my voice became soft, and gentle, as I smiled at my nephew. “Open wide. Here comes another. I think I’m getting better at this, don’t you?” I spoke too soon, as Josh picked up the bowl, and promptly deposited it on my head.
* * * *
This was not me. I am Polly Wilkins, the independent career women, a free spirit, who never lets anything get the better of her. Yet knowing it still did not stop the tears and mashed potato falling in globs from my chin, as I pulled congealed dinner out of my hair. All I wanted to do was lock the bathroom door, draw a hot bubble bath, and try to forget about today, in the hope that when I emerged fresh and revived, I would find Steve starting to prepare dinner and that it had all been a very bad dream. But I couldn’t. I left Josh, much as myself, covered in food, yet as happy as a pig in muck, grinding a rusk into the remains of his dinner on his tray. Shoving my head under the shower, I quickly rinsed my hair, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around my head.
* * * *
As I walked down the hallway, it hit me like a smack in the chops. “Oh my God, what is that smell?” Had old Mr Thompson’s cat sneaked into the flat again? Or worse, Mr Thompson himself, both renowned for roaming the corridors, and wandering into any flat where they found the door unlocked? I’m not saying Mr T., like his cat, left a steaming package in a corner, or peed up a chair leg, let’s just say a quick hello to Mr T. left your eyes stinging from the pungent ammonia pong. Only last month, I had padded naked out of the shower to find Mr T. sitting on the sofa watching another grueling rerun of Murder She Wrote. Needless to say, that social call not only cost us an arm and a leg in steam cleaning, but now left me trying to avoid Mr T., who, when he looked at me, obviously only saw me naked.
Wandering around the lounge, I could not find any cat poop, and the smell definitely was not as strong in here. When I retraced my steps back to the hall, it seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Strangely, as I got nearer to Josh, the smell got increasingly worse. I didn’t need to be Einstein to know, seeing the strain on Josh’s face, what was happening down there in the depths of his nappy.
I looked up to the heavens above, hoping that someone up there would know what to do in this moment of sheer need. “Please, if you really have any feelings for my weak stomach, Steve will walk through that door right now.”
I looked at the door, willing it to open. I had to think fast on my feet. After all, wasn’t that what mothers did in emergency situations like these? They would spin around, and turn into Wonder Mum, or in my case, Blunder Woman. Whatever. I had to get Josh out of his cackey nappy, not only for my sakethis was surely a hazard to the environment. It was then I spied my rubber gloves. “Good, now those will come in useful, it’s bound to be messy down there.” Just thinking about it made my tummy churn. Then, like resolving a mathematical equation, I pulled open a kitchen drawer. Rifling through, I found what I was looking for: a surgical mask. Steve had bought each of us one for our trip to Asia, when the scares were on about bird flu. Togged up in my rubber gloves and mask, I took Josh to the changing mat, holding him way out at arm’s length. Josh had a worried look on his face, not quite making out what was happening, and why his strange aunt seemed to resemble the masked person who had brought him out into the world. Perhaps he thought I was about to push him back. Believe me, if Wendy had walked into the room then, I would have.
Things were going fine. Josh seemed happy to lie there, as I took off his trousers. Then, peeling back the little plastic tabs, and opening up his nappy, I took one whiff, and instantly began to retch. “This is definitely not what I have just fed you. Dear god in heaven, what does my sister feed this child, fertilizer?” I began to pull the nappy away from Josh. “Yuck, yuck, yuck,” I whined, trying not to look, but at the same time, trying to roll the nappy, yet the sticky tabs just would not stick. The last thing I wanted was it to unfold and... “Oh! I can’t bear to think what is inside.” Grabbing Steve’s golfing magazine, I wrapped the nappy inside. “There, that will teach him to leave me.” And then it happened, something that I was not expecting: a fountain of pee shot into the air. Jeeze, could this day get any worse? Josh, with a load off his mind, was visibly enjoying his freedom, his little legs kicking in glee—well, let’s face it, how would you like to walk around all day with a cowpat stuck to your bum?
Through the gagging and the heaving, I was managing to clean his bum, when the telephone rang. “You just stay there,” I instructed Josh, keeping one hand firmly on his tummy, as I reached for the phone.
“Hi, it’s me,” my sister said. By the sounds of her happy, slightly slurred voice, she’d had a pre-dinner sherry. “Just thought I would call and see how things are going.”
“Oh, it’s all tickety-boo here.” My response sounded more sarcastic than I’d planned, but hopefully Wendy’s one sherry had numbed her perception.
“Sorry, Polly, this is a really bad line, you sound muffled. Perhaps it’s being overseas.”
Yes, the Croft’s Original had kicked in. I had forgotten the furthest Wendy had dared venture on her travels was Jersey, and then she had worried about drinking the water, and if the food would be different.After all, Jersey had French connections. Fighting to take my mask off, my towel fell over my face in the process. My hairnow felt like cardboard, from not washing all of the food out.
“So I thought I would just say goodnight to my little munchkin.”
My heart skipped a beat as I looked around frantically. Josh had disappeared off his changing mat. “He’s not here, because...” Come on, think, Polly think, what would Wonder Mum say? I had now jumped up searching for my nephew under cushion covers, behind the sofa, “...because, he’s already asleep. You know, after a full day playing with his aunt Polly, the little darling is knackered.”
“Oh, bless his little cotton sock. So give him a big kiss from me when you see him.”
“Oh, I certainly will. ‘Bye,” I said, and abruptly ended the phone call.
I scanned the room for the little fellow—well—he could hardly have gone far, but in the next few minutes he’d made it far enough to make my lounge look like a war zone. There was a mighty crash, and the tower of CDS fell to the floor, followed by a chortle. I dashed over to find Josh, crawling over Steve’s pride collection, making his way towards my bookcase. Before I had a chance to stop him, he began pulling out my cherished books. He picked up my treasured copy of Little Women, and began sucking the cover. In all the excitement, and nappyless, I could not help and smile as Josh peed on Steve’s
autographed copy of Tony Jacklin’s autobiography.
* * * *
This was the hardest day’s work I had done in my life. The next time an editor rings me up gnashing their teeth down the phone, wanting the article yesterday, I will hold my artistic temperament back and think of today. No amount of verbal abuse and threatening to sack me, because I was inadequate, could possibly be as daunting as that day, and it was by no stretch of the imagination over yet. I did not have a clue where to start. Josh needed to be cleaned up, from his dinner/ tea, the lounge needed blitzing, the kitchen, well, I wasn’t even going to think about the mess that was in, and I hadn’t even begun to consider what I was doing for dinner.
I collapsed on the sofa, in need of adult stimulation. Switching on the television, a tacky game show was about to begin. As the music started, Josh tossed aside my now desecrated book, and crawled towards the telly. He began clapping along to the cheesy music. I had to laugh, as I just knew if I didn’t I would break down and cry from exhaustion. When the music ended, Josh became bored. He crawled towards me, grabbing a plastic book on the way in his chubby fingers. Placing it on my knee, he pulled himself up.
With a heavy sigh, I picked him up and sat him at the side of me. “What do we have here?” I flicked the book over and read, “My first book of letters. A is for apple....” Josh wriggled until he was sitting on my knee.
* * * *
Steve’s key turned in the lock. As he walked through the door, he gave his usual greeting, “Hi honey, I’m home.” This normally put a smile on my face, but as I heard that familiar comforting voice, that until today I took for granted, an effervescence of mixed emotions bubbled through my entire being.
“Polly, we didn’t stop at the pub. Sam said we should have a beer at...bloody hell, Polly, what’s happened?”
Steve looked around the living room; no doubt, thinking we had been robbed, or even worse a siege had taken place at 27A Sherwood House. Then he noticed me, sitting in a helpless state on the sofa. My soft curly blonde hair had dried stiff, with tiny globules of mash resembling a very bad case of dandruff, and a stiff Gucci t-shirt that looked like I’d been wearing it for weeks. Steve had come home to find the female version of Mr Thompson.
