by Jenny Colgan
Polly smiled.
“And your grandma, God rest her soul, I mean, she never learned to drive. So we took a cab, an old Cortina, stank of fags. I couldn’t bear the smell. When we got to the hospital, she checked me in but then left me. She had to get back, or she felt she should, or Dad needed his tea or . . . well. I don’t know why. I never did really. Maybe she was worried she’d bump into one of her friends or something. They were supportive, they were, truly. We lived with them for a few years, until this house came up. And they never told me off. I mean some girls, they got thrown out. Some got sent away, you know. The Catholic girls, the things that happened to them were unbelievable. And recent, too.”
She took a long sip of her tea.
“So. Anyway. I had to . . . I had to do it all by myself. All alone. They weren’t very interested, the nurses. They were too busy chatting to the nervous husbands and the doctors. They hadn’t much time for a little scrubber like me. When it hurt, one of them said to me, well, you should have thought about that, shouldn’t you?” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry,” said Polly.
“Not your fault,” said her mother.
“Was it awful?”
Her mother looked at her.
“Well, yes,” she said. “Until . . . until I saw you.”
They fell silent. The swell of the carols on the television grew louder. They were singing the Coventry Carol. It was beautiful.
“I didn’t even get to hold you for very long . . . they used to whisk babies off in those days. You know it was even suggested that I give you up. That was perfectly common, perfectly normal.”
“Did you consider it?” said Polly, feeling daring even for asking. Her mother frowned.
“Of course not,” she said. “Of course not. I mean, no disrespect to women who felt they had to, none at all. But no. No, I couldn’t. And I had my parents, even if they weren’t . . . It took my dad a little while to come round to you . . .”
Polly stiffened. She had the fondest memories of her kind, reticent, pipe-smoking grandpa.
“. . . five whole seconds, I seem to remember.” She smiled to herself. “You were born with that hair,” she said. “You looked so very like your father, straightaway. But I loved you . . . I loved you fiercely. Everything else in my life had gone so wrong, was so awful. You . . . you were so right. Maybe that’s why I’ve fussed over you . . . worried about you too much.”
“No you haven’t,” said Polly uncomfortably.
Her mother shrugged.
“You were . . . you are . . .”
The rest of the sentence hung there in the overheated room. Now the singers were bawling out, “Hail, thou ever blessed morn! Hail, redemption’s happy dawn! Sing to all Jerusalem! Christ is born in Bethlehem,” as the clock ticked over, and it was practically dawn on Christmas morning.
“I’m sorry. I just always wanted you to be safe, and happy,” said Doreen. “By having a bit of money and a bit of freedom and some security. I mean, every parent wants that. And I never had that for you.”
Polly nodded.
“So when you dash off buying lighthouses and giving up sensible careers and demanding that I come down and appreciate the sea air and wander about in the country and things . . . I do get scared. I do. I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” said Polly.
“But don’t disappoint that lovely boy,” said her mum. “Don’t let me or anybody else stop you from that. Ever. I’m telling you now. Forget what happened to me. You marry him and have babies and live on fresh air if you have to. Be happy. I was never brave enough to be, never brave enough to step out there. But you could be. You can, Polly. Please, please, do it for me.”
Polly nodded, and tried not to sigh.
“Okay,” she said.
They got up to go to bed.
At the door, Doreen stopped.
“Did you see . . . did you see your father in the end?” she asked.
Polly shook her head.
“No, Mum,” she said. “You’re my family.”
Doreen swallowed hard.
“I’ve been too proud,” she said. “I know that. It’s hard . . . It’s been such a long time. But if you wanted to . . . well. I can’t see it would make much difference now.”
Polly nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks. And happy Christmas.”
They embraced, and Polly winced a little at how thin her mother was, and vowed that next year she would get her down to Mount Polbearne more and insist, despite her protestations, that she sit outside the bakery with a cup of tea in her hand, and no telly, and instead enjoy the sunshine and get to say hello to the passers-by, and if she didn’t want to live her own life, necessarily, then she ought to share more of Polly’s. And that would be her Christmas gift.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Polly slept better than she had in weeks, back in her childhood single bed, with the posters of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kevin from the Backstreet Boys on the walls. Reuben had texted to say they were all staying at the Exeter ground. It was something about being back there, back home, and something about not having to get up and work the next day for highly demanding American guests and also something about the fact that it didn’t seem to matter how late she might lie awake wondering about Huckle, it wasn’t going to make a blind bit of difference, so there wasn’t really any point.
Plus, she was beyond exhausted.
She woke to, amazingly, the scent of bacon and eggs frying. Was her mother actually cooking? This was unheard of. She checked her phone. Nothing except a quick text from Reuben saying that nothing much was going on, this was super boring and rubbish, please could she make some doughnuts and bring them to the hospital, and make enough for the nurses too, please, and tell Huckle to call him because he hadn’t heard from him at all.
Polly was just starting to worry seriously about Huckle when he called.
“Where are you?” she said crossly, when in fact she had woken up rested, happy to be reconciled with her mum and all prepared to be sweet to him and make it up.
“Plymouth,” said Huckle.
“Plymouth? Why?”
She was suddenly filled with panic that he was waiting for a train to London to catch a flight back to the U.S. He couldn’t be. Surely. No. No he wouldn’t, would he?
“Why? Are you flying home?”
“What? What are you talking about? No!”
There was a long pause, then, “Polly . . . Polly, I thought I had a home.”
“So did I,” said Polly miserably.
“No . . . I’m just. Polly, you understand, don’t you? I feel awful about all of this. Awful for Kerensa, awful for Reuben. I’m just . . . I’m just away working for a little while so I don’t come and put my foot in it, or say something awful, or just get upset . . . so we don’t fight. Do you understand?”
“Not really. What are you doing?”
“I told you, I’m working.”
“It’s Christmas Day. How can you be working?”
“It’s a city,” said Huckle. “It’s a totally normal day for loads of people here. You’ve been out of the loop for too long. I have a meeting with a Jewish beauty consortium.”
“Okay,” said Polly.
“Also, I thought you were working today?”
“Apparently so,” said Polly, glancing at the phone, which was lighting up with more orders and messages. “Wish me luck with my mum’s oven. I don’t think it’s been used since the Royal Wedding. The first one.”
“You’re at your mum’s?”
“Yes,” said Polly. “The baby’s coming, and I don’t want to risk the tides.”
“The baby’s coming?”
“Look at your messages!”
“Yeah, well . . . But you’re still working.”
“Reuben wants catering,” said Polly.
There was a pause.
“I can’t get down,” said Huckle.
“Well, I don’t think it’s imminent. I th
ink first babies take ages.”
There was a silence.
“Okay,” said Huckle finally. “Well, I can tell you’re busy.”
Don’t let me be busy, Polly tried to silently beam to him. Come back. Whisk me out of this. Make everything lovely and fun again.
“I guess you’re busy too,” she said.
“Oh, you’d better believe it,” said Huckle.
There was another long pause.
“How’s Neil?”
“Not here,” confessed Polly.
“You left him alone on Christmas Day?” said Huckle.
“I know, I know. I’ll make it up to him. Can puffins eat chocolate?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The triumphant text message had arrived before Polly had a chance to heat up the fryer for the doughnuts. She offered to take her mother, who’d declined, but nicely, and said she’d see her in a few days.
Polly walked down the hospital corridor, all nerves. The swanky private wing was, she was slightly aggrieved to note, nicer than most places she’d ever lived in. Oh well. Even so, the Christmas decorations seemed a little forced. Someone had made a gigantic star out of cardboard bedpans. It was kind of revolting and charming at the same time. The nurses were wearing Santa hats, as were several of the patients, which looked rather sad.
She found the right room without too much trouble, partly because it was covered in hundreds of absurdly gigantic blue helium balloons, and a line of muffin baskets that stretched out the door. Americans, Polly remembered, liked to celebrate this kind of thing.
She took a deep breath, and knocked gently.
Inside, it was chaos. Kerensa was sitting up in bed looking exhausted and anxious but tender and strange all at the same time. Reuben was jabbering into his mobile by the window.
“Yeah! Yeah! He’s perfect! He’s awesome! Seriously, I’m telling you, you wouldn’t get a better child than this. We’re seriously considering getting him a special tutor, because I’m telling you now, this kid is smart. I mean, better than smart, I mean super smart . . .”
“How are you,” mouthed Polly, as she gingerly tried to embrace Kerensa without accidentally whacking the baby on the head with her handbag.
Kerensa smiled tiredly.
“Well, that was interesting,” she said.
“By interesting do you mean heartily disgusting?” asked Polly.
“It’s really, really disgusting,” said Kerensa. “I don’t know why anyone does it. Honestly. It’s rubbish.”
Her voice went a bit wobbly and Polly thought she was about to cry, so then, of course, they both did start to cry.
Finally Polly plucked up the courage to look down.
He was just . . . he was just a baby. Dark fronds of hair on his head, eyes tightly shut, looking like an astronaut who’d just landed from another world and taken his suit off but still carried the faint aura of other-worldliness and stardust.
Polly blinked.
“He’s beautiful, Kerensa.”
“I know!” said Kerensa, snuffling.
Reuben was still hollering into the phone and wasn’t paying them any attention. Polly took Kerensa’s hand and squeezed it very tightly. Then she offered the baby a finger, and he grabbed on to it without opening his eyes.
“That’s amazing,” she said, feeling his tiny grip. His little mouth worked, looking for something.
“Oh don’t be hungry,” said Kerensa. “I tell you, breastfeeding is also disgusting. And impossible.”
“Keep at it,” said Polly.
“Oh, I will,” said Kerensa. “He’s obviously loving it. Plus Reuben says it gives you a bunch of IQ points, and we’re already raising the greatest genius the world has ever known, obviously.”
Polly smiled.
“Hey, Polls!” said Reuben, finishing his call. “Meet my awesome son, huh! Awesome son, going to take on the world, blah blah blah.”
His face went uncharacteristically soft for a moment and he lowered the phone that was usually superglued to his fingers. He moved away from the window and stared deep into the baby’s face. Polly found she was holding her breath. He put his hand on the baby’s head.
“Huh, dark hair,” he said. “Normally the Finkels have, you know . . .” He indicated his own ginger locks.
“That’s just cowl hair,” said Kerensa incredibly fast. “It’ll come out. It’s not his real hair.”
“No, no, it’s cool, I like dark hair,” said Reuben, gazing at the baby. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he, Polly? Don’t you think he’s the most beautiful baby there’s ever been? And super smart. He totally aced his Apgar test. First exam he ever had, and he aced it.”
Polly blinked.
“Yes,” she said. “What are you calling him?”
Kerensa and Reuben exchanged glances.
“Ah,” said Kerensa.
“What?” said Reuben. “Herschel’s a great family name.”
“Herschel,” said Kerensa. “Herschel Finkel.”
“Ohh,” said Polly, putting a polite expression on her face. “That sounds nice.”
“Hershy? Hersch? Herscho?” said Kerensa. “What’s wrong with Lowin?”
“That’s lovely,” said Polly.
“Yeah, right,” said Reuben. “Way to get him bullied at school.”
“Oh and Herschel Finkel isn’t?”
“Nothing wrong with it,” said Reuben stoutly.
“We’ll get around to sorting out the name,” said Kerensa.
Just then Rhonda and Merv burst into the room with huge shopping bags full of clothes and, absurdly, lots and lots of toys, which, given that the baby was at the moment not much more than a floppy fish, was a bit hard to understand.
“Here he is! The most beautiful boy in the world! Aren’t you! Aren’t you, my gorgeous? You’re going to be a true Finkel, aren’t you? You come to your bubbe!” And the new grandmother bent her teased, backcombed head and covered the tiny face in kisses, leaving bright pink lipstick traces wherever she went.
Polly noticed that Kerensa was trying hard not to cry; she was obviously exhausted, and the weariness made her lovely face droop. Rhonda looked at her.
“Are you feeling depressed?” she asked in what she obviously regarded as a low whisper and thus was only audible to the next four rooms down the corridor. “Because you know you can watch for that.”
“I’m fine,” said Kerensa. “Just tired.” She crossly wiped away a tear.
“There there,” said Rhonda, stroking her cheek. “Don’t you worry. Any help you need, any doctors you need, anything you need, we’ll sort it for you. You’re our family now. You are my daughter now too, huh? So. Anything we can do we will do for you, for you are the mother of the most beautiful Finkel man ever known.”
Kerensa couldn’t speak but nodded quietly. Rhonda got up and indicated to Merv.
“Come on!” she hollered. “Leave them alone! They clearly need a bit of peace and quiet.”
This felt a bit rich, seeing as how Merv had just been staring quietly at the baby and beaming with happiness, but he started moving toward the door anyway.
“We’ll be back soon,” he said.
“We will!” said Rhonda. “Oh, I can’t bear to leave him! My first grandchild!” She gave him one last lipstick kiss. “That beautiful boy,” she added. “That beautiful, beautiful boy. My grandson!”
Her mascara started to leak a little.
“I know,” she said to Kerensa, “I know that to you this little bundle is everything. But can I say that to us too . . . to us it feels exactly the same. That we are carrying on, that our family is carrying on into the future, and it is the most wonderful feeling on earth.”
Merv passed her a large handkerchief, and she blew her nose noisily.
“So you look after yourself, huh? Because you have done a wonderful thing for us. A wonderful, wonderful thing. Now, Reuben, you show us where this restaurant is. We have to eat, yes? Everybody has to eat. We’ll come back soon. Give your wife some
rest and stop taking photographs. You’ll damage my perfect grandson’s little eyes, I’m sure it’s dangerous . . .”
She kissed the baby and Kerensa once more, then, still talking, bustled her husband and son noisily out into the corridor.
The room was very quiet after they’d all left, just the gentle bleeping of a machine here or there in the distance. There were so many flowers, it looked like a greenhouse. Polly went to the window and gazed out at the garden outside.
“It’s weird,” Kerensa said, her voice completely flat. “There’s all those people just walking about out there, getting on with their daily business, without the faintest idea that everything in here is just . . . well, glorious and awful all at once.”
“I wonder how many people looking out of these windows feel that,” said Polly, her heart heavy. She turned round. “Oh KEZ,” she wailed.
“Why are you so sad?” said Kerensa. “You’re not the one sitting here with a dark-haired baby.”
Polly burst into tears.
“What? What’s this about?”
“It’s Huckle,” said Polly.
“What?” said Kerensa, looking alarmed. “Why isn’t he here? What’s happened to him? I thought he’d be the first to come and see Reuben’s baby. I thought you wouldn’t be able to keep him away.”
She stared at Polly as the truth dawned on her.
“You didn’t . . .”
“I had to,” said Polly. “He knew something was up. He knew there was something I wasn’t telling him. It was tearing us apart.”
Kerensa blinked.
“So now what? Where is he? Calling Reuben?”
“I don’t think so,” said Polly. “I think he’s wrestling with his conscience. Also, I think he might be breaking up with me.”
“He can’t be,” Kerensa said. “He can’t be. Not you two. Not Polly and Huckle. Who’d get custody of Neil?”
“Me,” said Polly quickly. “But that’s not the point.”
