You Be Mother

by Meg Mason

  ‘The winter of our discontent, finally done with,’ Phil said, watching on.

  In Abi’s experience, it was generally better not to contradict Phil, but winter had been in many ways the happiest, most purposeful time of her life. There had been books and furniture, a baby who could sit in his highchair and make mumming noises while mashing banana into his jumper, a boyfriend who seemed to be slowly but surely coming around. Half a packet of Marlboros sat unsmoked in their packet on top of the high cupboard, and although her hair had grown out to chin-length it only found its way into her mouth when she watched very late reruns of Masterchef or got stuck on a bit of essay.

  Winter had been a friend. ‘I haven’t really minded it, to be honest.’

  ‘Ah well, no, quite. I suppose it’s only that this time last year, Fred and I were in the Dordogne, with all of Polly’s lot. How quickly things can change. Perhaps that’s what I mean.’ Phil rested her cup on the arm of her wicker chair, and got up to deadhead a large flowering shrub.

  ‘And you, Abigail. Where were you a year ago?’ Phil tossed the dead blooms into a dark patch of garden.

  Standing on the loo in the Highside bathroom, halfway through her pregnancy and trying to shovel swelling breasts into a sports bra she’d been forced to shoplift from Debenhams, although she was careful to pick the cheapest one they stocked. There would be no way it could be returned later, but in compensation she’d committed to choosing Debenhams over John Lewis when she was able to shop as a regular customer.

  ‘All the normal things. Working mostly. Bit of shopping. Anyway! I should probably get going.’ Abi stood up and brushed grass off the seat of her rolled-up jeans. It was hotter now than she’d realised, and she felt momentarily light-headed. ‘Stu is coming over this afternoon, before work. He says he’s going to start teaching Jude to swim. He got a DVD from the library on how to do it.’

  ‘There’s a good sign if ever I saw one,’ Phil said. ‘Although do be careful, the water will be Baltic until we’ve had a real run of sun. September can be full of false promise. Goodbye now dear. I suddenly need a little zizz.’

  * * *

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Abi asked, wrestling Jude into a pair of too-big swimming shorts Stu had bought somewhere. A stiff wind blew straight off the harbour and the afternoon air was chill.

  Stu waded in to his waist, and huffed into cupped hands. ‘All right. Here I go.’ He dived under and came up again, shaking off the water like a labrador.

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t too cold for him?’ Abi said, feeling deeply uncertain.

  ‘It’s fine. It’s good for him. Toughen him up.’

  ‘I don’t know if nine-month-old babies need to be toughened up that much. I think they’re allowed to stay quite soft.’

  Stu returned to the edge. Reluctantly, Abi lowered Jude into his father’s outstretched arms. The moment his little feet touched the water, he let out an ear-splitting wail.

  ‘It’s too cold for him, Stu.’ Abi stood as near as she could to the edge, flapping her hands and hopping from foot to foot. ‘Give him back. We can do this later on, when it’s properly summer.’

  ‘He’ll get used to it.’ Stu carried him to the deep end and lowered him to his tummy. Jude’s feet pedalled furiously under the water, as though he was trying to climb back up his father’s torso.

  ‘This doesn’t feel right, Stu. Did the video say anything about how warm the water should be?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Watch this though.’ He counted to three and blew in Jude’s face. Jude took an automatic breath in as Stu took them both under, face to face with his son. A second later, Stu emerged looking triumphant. Jude, slippery, shiny, hair plastered to his head, came up already screaming.

  ‘That’s enough. Stu, that’s enough.’ Abi stepped down onto the platform, soaking her jeans to the knees, and held out a towel.

  ‘He’s like the Nirvana baby,’ Stu said, giving him to her. ‘Although maybe I will wait till it warms up a bit more before we have another go. It probably is a bit fresh.’

  Abi rubbed Jude vigorously with a towel then swaddled him like the Christ child.

  ‘All right if I come upstairs and change?’ Stu asked, boosting himself out. ‘Then I’ll head.’ He looked at Jude, only his round face visible from inside the towel.

  ‘Sorry mate,’ he said. With purple lips and tears still wet on his cheeks, Jude drew his mouth into a half-smile. ‘See, babe, he’s already forgiven me.’

  60.

  Crying, Excessive

  Jude whimpered miserably in Abi’s arms while Stu banged around the flat, showering, changing, packing his bag. The more she patted him, bounced him, rocked him, the unhappier he became. By the time Stu left, Jude was crying in dry, angry yelps. Abi kicked the front door shut and began pacing in tight circles around the room.

  Jude’s face became a furious pink as he arched his back, throwing his entire weight away from her.

  ‘What’s wrong, Jude?’ Abi asked, switching him from one side to the other, trying to hold his rigid little body against her chest. ‘What’s wrong, little boy? Mummy’s here.’

  She took him to the kitchen and ran the tap, usually his favourite entertainment. Still, he cried. She felt his forehead, ran a finger around his gums in the hope of finding a tooth. Saliva ran out of his open mouth and down his chin as he lurched away from her again.

  She tried the television, then the window, speaking all the time in a soothing singsong.

  ‘Look Jude, can you see Phil’s garden? What can you see? Birds? Can you see the birds?’

  Phil’s garden was quiet under the gathering dusk. Her saucerless teacup remained on the arm of her empty chair. Abi longed to be down there now in the perfect calm. Phil would know how to soothe an upset baby, most likely without breaking her stream of chatter. In her day, Phil once told her, it was perfectly all right to leave an infant outside in the pram, and for the briefest moment Abi wished that was still the case.

  She could feel the tiny bird beats of Jude’s racing heart against her chest. With one hand, she stroked his hair, now damp and curling with sweat, as his pitch continued to rise. ‘Stop it, Jude, stop it,’ Abi pleaded. ‘Stop crying. It’s all right.’ She put him to the breast but he turned his face away and redoubled his cries. With panic rising, she carried him around the flat offering a banana, a wet flannel, house keys. Nothing worked.

  In the index of First Year with Baby, she found ‘Crying, Excessive’ and opened to the short chapter, only to discover she had already tried every one of its suggestions. In her desperation, she texted Rae to ask what to do but her mother’s reply offered nothing: ‘not much of a one w babbies, me. it looks like Pat will be having the leg off.’

  Jude cried on and on as evening came. Abi’s T-shirt was soaked with his tears and her own. Her arms burned with the weight of him. From below came the machine-gun rap of a neighbour banging on their ceiling with a broom handle.

  Abi looked again at Phil’s, wondering if it was too late to go down for help. All the lights were off. Jude roared. The broom handle came again and Abi felt her grip around Jude’s body tighten. Then, the impulse to shake him. Just once. Just to make him stop. Terrified, she dashed into the bedroom and lowered his hot, damp, writhing form into the cot, releasing him too soon so that he bounced an inch as he landed. Without looking back, she ran and shut herself in the bathroom, running every tap. But still, through coursing water, came the sound of Jude’s cry. Abi curled up on the floor and covered her ears. ‘Stop,’ she cried. ‘Stop it, Jude, stop it. Please stop. I can’t do it. I can’t do this.’ When he did not stop, and she started to worry he was dying, she forced herself out, snatched him up and flew down the stairs towards the road.

  The crying did not cease when she climbed with him into a taxi. It did not have a baby-seat but Abi could not wait for another. She held him on her lap, her breathing shallow. The radio played feverish Middle Eastern string music she knew from every mini mart in Croydon. The dri
ver was murmuring into a headset and did not break his patter when Abi begged him to go faster. Every nerve in her body had been shredded and she squeezed Jude so tight that he could not struggle against her. It was too tight, she knew. ‘Be quiet,’ she said, again and again. ‘Stop it. Stop crying. Please.’

  When they reached the pub, Abi tossed all the money she had onto the front seat and dashed inside, pressing Jude’s writhing body to her chest. As she forced her way through the crowded bar, shoulder first, she tried to ignore drinkers turning to stare at a wild-eyed girl and her screaming red-faced baby. It was only then she realised she had not stopped to put shoes on before she left and she felt their burning gaze move to her bare feet. Jude wore nothing but a white vest and nappy, and his curls were matted with sweat.

  She bounded up the stairs to the bistro, relieved to find it mostly empty, just as Stu appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘Babe, what’s happening? What’s going on?’ He hurried over and wrapped his arms around both of them.

  ‘He won’t stop crying. He’s been crying since you left and I didn’t know what else to do. I got really scared. I tried everything in the book, but I’ll be fine, sorry. I shouldn’t have come while you’re working.’

  ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry.’ He lifted Jude carefully out of her arms so she could collapse into a nearby chair.

  ‘There you go. You’re all right mate. There you go,’ Stu said softly as he carried him away to the kitchen. Abi put her head into her hands, listening to the ringing in her ears.

  After a time, Stu reappeared with Jude asleep over his shoulder and a large glass of lemonade in his other hand. ‘It may have a small amount of gin in it,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘I can’t be sure. Hey, I just asked and I can finish now because it’s so quiet.’

  The lemonade had a strongly medicinal flavour and Abi drank it quickly, finishing with a tiny burp.

  ‘Right,’ Stu said. ‘Let’s go then, babe.’

  Jude slept the entire way home on the bus.

  ‘Hey, what do you say about me staying over?’ Stu said as Abi’s head lolled against the back of the seat. ‘You know, going forward.’

  ‘You don’t have to just because of this. I’ll be fine. This was probably just a one-off. I promise I can manage.’

  ‘It’s not just because of this. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I was going to ask you tomorrow anyway, when I took you out.’

  Abi heard Phil’s voice in her head. ‘When he does finally relent, for Lord’s sake don’t be soppy about it. A firm yes will suffice.’

  ‘Well. All right then. That would probably be okay. Why are you taking me out though?’

  ‘Um, because it’s your birthday?’

  ‘Oh, so it is.’

  ‘Twenty-three, eh? Getting on a bit.’

  61.

  Something with explosions

  They slept, a tangle of three in the bed, Jude starfished between them, until late the next morning. Abi did not want to get up, but as soon as he woke up Stu’s energy began to fill the flat like so many bees in a jar, and the day developed a momentum she was unable to halt. He made eggs, burned toast, decided suddenly to move the sofa to the other side of the room. He sang ‘Happy Birthday’ on continuous loop as the television boomed and Jude lobbed enormous fingers of jam toast out of the highchair. When Abi eventually came out for a glass of water, she stepped in a clot of jam on her way to close the fridge, wide open for no reason.

  Abi did not want the day. She did not want to go out that night. She wanted to take Jude for a long walk and a look at the pool, then go to bed as early as she could so the day would be over sooner. If there had to be a celebration, it would involve a king size KitKat and being left alone to smoke half a packet of Marlboros in bed, instead of out the window.

  But plans for the evening were already made. Elaine would fetch Jude and take him back to Gordon for the night, because Stu said for sure they’d be out way past her Pacific Highway curfew. Early the next morning, they would train up to Gordon and collect him since Elaine had an early start on Sundays, indispensable as she was to the soprano section of the St Luke’s Lindfield choir for the 8 a.m. Sung Eucharist. She made no secret of the fact that young families taking over the 10 a.m. service, and insisting on modern music, had blown a hole in her Sabbath.

  Throughout the day, Abi made pleas to stay home. They could get pizza. They could watch whatever he wanted on DVD. Something with explosions. But Stu was unmoved, and as evening approached, Abi accepted her fate and went to wash her face.

  At precisely 5.58 p.m., she heard the distinctive sewing-machine whir of the Daihatsu engine in the driveway. While Stu showered, she carried Jude down and buckled him into the back seat, heavyhearted, then passed his little overnight bag and a cooler that contained her entire archive of frozen milk through the passenger window.

  Elaine kept both hands on the wheel. ‘Well, happy birthday then, Abi,’ she said, to move proceedings along. ‘Many happy returns. We’ll be off now because I’d rather not have to take the Northbridge way at this time of day.’

  Abi leaned into the back seat a final time and kissed Jude’s forehead, hoping to feel a temperature – mild but sufficient to warrant calling off the sleepover. His skin was smooth and cool. ‘I will see you tomorrow, Jude. Mummy loves you so much.’

  ‘You wonder how much babies really understand of what we say, don’t you?’ Elaine said, shifting the car into drive.

  Abi watched the Daihatsu turn out of the driveway with a swift seven-point turn then walked back upstairs alone.

  Stu was standing in the living room, wet-haired, with two cans of beer already open. ‘What you need, birthday girl, is to get properly munted.’

  ‘I don’t think I do,’ Abi said. She felt miserable. ‘I’m not supposed to drink anyway. It says in First Year with . . .’

  ‘First Year with Baby can go fuck itself. You need to have some fun and the contents of that cooler should last him until he starts school. Just bin the next lot. Come on, get your gear on. I’m taking you into town.’

  Reluctantly, Abi changed and found her only lipstick. There was a dead mosquito stuck to the end and she applied a dash of Jude’s Vaseline to her lips instead. Stu wandered into the bedroom, still holding the beers, now with a small wrapped gift tucked under one arm. He let it drop onto the mattress and Abi scooped it up.

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s dumb,’ he said, sheepishly. ‘You don’t have to like it or anything.’

  Inside two layers of creamy tissue paper, Abi found a small cardboard sleeve with the words ‘Precious Prints’ written in silver cursive. Glancing at Stu, she peeled back the tab and found inside a thin chain with a silver disc, stamped with a small fingerprint.

  ‘It’s Jude’s,’ he said. ‘It’s Jude’s thumb. We did it once when you were at uni. You send away for a kit and do it in plaster and then you mail it back to them and they make it up and then you get it back again.’

  Abi turned it over and over between her fingers. ‘Thank you so much, Stu. I really love it. Thank you. Some of the mothers at that playgroup I went to had these. The real mums.’

  ‘Great. Cool.’

  Abi put the necklace on and pressed the disc to her sternum. They smiled at each other awkwardly until Abi couldn’t stand it anymore. ‘Stu, what is happening? What are we doing?’

  ‘Just . . . I don’t know. I’ve missed you and Jude so much but I just thought, I don’t know. You seem like you know what you’re doing with Jude and don’t really need my help. I feel like an idiot whenever I try to get involved. And then uni is so full-on, and I thought I needed a break but going home was so weird and boring and Mum’s on my case the entire time. And then when you turned up at work last night, I felt like, I don’t know, maybe you did need me.’

  Abi bit her lip. Had he really not known that? Did he really think she preferred to be entirely on her own?

  ‘I guess I have to figure it out. Anyway, take this.’ He p
assed her one of the beers and she held the frosty can with both hands. ‘I’ll get us a drink for the bus,’ he said as he jogged off towards the kitchen where, Abi knew, he would empty two more cans into a sports drink bottle, a nod to economy she had first experienced on a bus from Kingston to Clapham High Road. He was back in a moment. They were going out.

  62.

  My hands is very sticky

  After they boarded an express to Wynyard that had been idling outside the ferry terminal, Stu handed her the bottle and she drank. ‘There’s a girl,’ he said. ‘Nice long sip.’ Abi made a squeak of protest as he lifted the end higher and higher with a finger. ‘There we go. That’s better.’

  Abi wiped her chin and handed it back, resting her head on his shoulder as the bus charged along the expressway.

  ‘Right. This is us.’

  There was a pub, already loud and full, a short way up. Stu steered her through the crowd inside, holding her by the back of her arms and speaking into the back of her hair, a long, continuous monologue she couldn’t really hear although the vibration of his voice and the warmth of his breath made her shiver. At the bar he paid for schooners and tequila shots, and they found a standing table in a corner.

  ‘Oh my gosh, I don’t know,’ Abi said, watching Stu drop the shots into the beer. ‘I’m someone’s mother now. What if Jude goes mental again and I have to go and get him from your parents, drunk? That wouldn’t look good on an embroidered pillow. “Home is where your son’s girlfriend turns up trolleyed from her night out.”’

  Stu laughed. It was clear he’d never consciously registered the collected wisdom of Elaine’s soft furnishing and could locate it now in the recesses of his mind. ‘I made Mum promise to ring if Jude looks like he’s going to lose it. But I know from experience you can get yourself from shitfaced to convincingly sober in the time it takes to train it from the city to downtown Gordon. You’ll be fine.’