by Aimee Horton
With that in mind, I turn off the monitor and pull on my clothes. Dragging my soggy hair into a ponytail, I make my way downstairs to apologise and explain to Henry why I was so upset.
He’s snoring on the sofa in front of the TV, while George is sleeping soundly in his Moses basket next to him.
As I stroke my baby’s face, I notice a nearly full glass of wine precariously balanced on the arm of the sofa. I pick it up and head to the kitchen. The iPad is laying on the breakfast bar, so I sit down and swipe at the screen, bringing it back to life. Our curry is only fifteen minutes away.
I should wake Henry up.
But sitting at the breakfast bar, hands wrapped around my wine glass, I can’t stop thinking of the baby monitor. It’s still upstairs, and that’s where it will stay.
Though I really should check on the kids.
I tiptoe upstairs and check on my sleeping children before going to retrieve the magazine I never even started.
The monitor is still on my bed, switched off, and I can’t help wondering who was having sex.
God, it sounded energetic—too energetic for this time in the evening.
I pick the monitor up to take back to George’s room.
I must not switch it on again.
But standing at George’s bedroom door, I can’t bring myself to cross the threshold.
I suppose I should find a different channel so this doesn’t keep happening.
Without giving myself a chance to change my mind, I swoop back to the kitchen. I switch the monitor on and hear a shower running, a crackling radio and a baby grunting.
Sipping the last of Henry’s wine, I try to remember which neighbours I’ve seen with a baby. None spring to mind.
I flick the switch to change from CHANNEL A to CHANNEL B and listen. Nothing.
More nothing. Then I hear a TV in the background. I hold the monitor close to my ear, trying to work out what the person on the other side is watching—anything to give me a clue as to who it could be.
“Hey you, what are you up to?”
I nearly drop the handset. Switching it off quickly, I turn to see a sleepy-looking Henry at the door.
“Nothing! Nothing at all!” I say, desperately wishing I could hide the evidence. Just then the doorbell rings. “That must be dinner.” I stand up and nudge him towards the front door before stuffing the monitor into a random drawer.
~~~~
Who has a baby on this street?
I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m curled up on the sofa after a big fat curry. My eyes are on the television, but my brain is trying to work out who I’d caught in a naughty act and who had been watching television.
The woman opposite doesn’t have babies. I’ve never seen her other half.
“More wine?” Henry asks, and I nod distractedly, holding my glass up.
The woman a couple of doors down is heavily pregnant, so it can’t be her. In fact, she looks fit to burst so, baby aside, I can’t see any sex going on there.
“Chocolate?” Henry is standing up, holding an empty wine bottle, and I shake my head and rub my full stomach.
Next door. Next door with the blonde curls, she has a little girl. That must be it!
So next door are the ones having sex. Good on them. But what about the one I heard with the TV. Who is that?
“Dottie? Dots?”
I blink a few times before realising Henry is standing in front of me and must have been talking.
“Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t more supportive earlier, but you have to see the funny side of it.” Henry plops down on the sofa and takes my hand. “I’m sorry.”
It must have looked like I was ignoring him on purpose.
Perhaps this will guilt him into car shopping.
“That’s OK,” I say, because it really is. “Now that I’ve cooled down, I realise the main reason I was so angry was the snub from the girls from the street.”
Henry squeezes my hand. “I’m sure it was a misunderstanding,” he says, and while I want to scream, It wasn’t! She looked me in the eye and drove on! I don’t, because Henry doesn’t think about things like that. Instead, I change the subject back to the green children.
“Well!” exclaims Henry, obviously pleased that the matter is closed. “I was Googling while you were in the bath.” He whips out his phone and thrusts the screen in my face. “Look! It was recalled a few weeks ago for staining. The manufacturers recommend anti-bacterial gel of all things!”
“I’ve got some in my bag. Shall we try it now while they’re asleep?”
5.
Why don’t men aim for the toilet instead of just in the general direction?
“What do you mean you’re going away again?” I wail, flinging myself on the bed and glaring at my husband.
“I told you the promotion would come with a lot more travelling.” He throws me an apologetic look as he undresses, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor. “It’s only for two nights, and at least the kids are back at school this time.” He grabs a baby wipe and scrubs what looks like ketchup off his tie.
Only two nights? ONLY two nights! I’ll go crazy!
I stay silent as he pulls on an old pair of jogging bottoms. He wanders into the en-suite and starts to do a wee.
“Look, I know last time was hard, but you know you made it harder what with the decorating and the green goo…” he says, but I’m not listening. I’m too busy wishing he’d bloody concentrate on the task in hand, so to speak.
JUST GET IT IN THE BLOODY TOILET, WILL YOU?
“Maybe get Jane over again? That helped, didn’t it?”
But he’s forgetting that Jane works and has enough on her plate. She doesn’t need to look after me.
It was so much more fun last time I was on maternity leave.
That’s the problem. Last time it wasn’t just me. A friend from work shared the exact same due date I’d had for Mabel, and then there was a mum at the local baby group who had a kid the same age as Arthur. I can’t face baby groups with Mabel as she is.
If only the girls on the street were a bit more friendly.
I tried to say “hi” to my curly blonde next-door neighbour the other day. She sort of smiled and scuttled off. Then, the pregnant one from down the street spotted me approaching and jumped in her car. She nearly left her handbag on the pavement she was so keen to get away from me.
What have I done to offend them?
“Come on, love, it’s not until Wednesday. We’ve got tonight and tomorrow night together.” Henry smiles at me. “Let’s go get a glass of wine, shall we?” Grabbing my hand, he pulls me up off the bed, and together we admire George asleep in his Moses basket. “Fancy trying this bad boy out in his nursery until bed time?” Henry whispers, picking up the wicker handles that I’m never convinced are entirely secure.
I waver. It would be nice to have an evening just the two of us. Plus, when Henry does go away on Wednesday, it would be nice to have the TV volume at a decent level.
“Come on Dots. Let’s try those baby monitors out for something other than walkie talkies, shall we?” I tense up guiltily. I haven’t told Henry about hearing our neighbours through the monitor.
“OK, let’s do it!” I say before I can change my mind. Together we place George in his basket carefully into the cot in the nursery. We sneak out, switching the monitor on as we do, and close the door behind us.
In the kitchen, Henry turns on a handset. Not a sound. I wonder if we’re picking up another house. We lean in closer, listening for a sigh or a grunt, anything really. Even after fiddling with the volume, there is still only silence.
“Quick, you nip upstairs and make a noise, and I’ll listen down here,” Henry says. I’m reluctant to leave him in charge of the monitor, but I tiptoe upstairs anyway. George is still sleeping peacefully in his basket. I lean towards the base unit and chirp like a bird.
“Cacawww, cacawwww,” I call. Sniggering to myself at the Friends reference, I make my way downstairs again. Back i
n the kitchen, I find Henry laughing.
“Nutter,” he says, as I pull a bottle of wine out of the wine rack and pour us two large glasses. Before I pick mine up to toast the children being asleep, Henry pulls me in for a cuddle, and I rest my head on his chest.
“You’re going to be OK while I’m away, aren’t you?” he asks, stroking my hair. I sigh.
“It’s not what I thought it would be,” I whisper into his chest. I can’t decide if it feels better or worse to finally admit it out loud. “I’m really lonely.”
He pulls back and looks me in the eye. “Come on, Dots. This isn’t you! You’re a playground whore, a nursery natterer. You’ll talk to anyone!”
He’s right. I’ve never been lonely before. I’ve always prided myself in talking at people until they break and realise what a nice person I am.
“Find something in common, and you’ll break them down,” my husband, who is always so confident in my abilities, says as he takes a swig of wine.
Right then George hiccups into the baby monitor, and just like in a cartoon, a light bulb of an idea flashes into my mind.
~~~~
Full of excitement for my new #FriendGatePlan, I race home from the school run. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and George is snoozing happily in his pram. As I approach my house, I take a quick look around to see whose cars are parked in their drives before dragging the pram and George inside. The door slams behind me, and my sleeping baby wakes with a low wail. Quickly, I jiggle the pram up and down the hall making “shh-ing” noises.
Please go back to sleep. Please go back to sleep.
Eventually he does, and I dash into the kitchen, flick on the kettle, dash back out into the hall and take the stairs two at a time to the nursery. I check that the baby monitor base unit is off, then head back downstairs.
I make my tea with a shaky hand, dumping my teabag on top of the two on the counter Henry had left earlier. Nearly tripping over myself in excitement, I turn the baby monitor on and wait for a sound.
Please please please.
Nothing. I bring my mug and the monitor into the conservatory, and as I sink into my favourite sofa, I change the monitor channel from A to B, still listening hard.
Almost at once, the room is filled with laughter, and my stomach does a flip.
We’ve got something.
I lean in, holding my breath. The laughter is replaced by voices. They get louder and louder until I feel like they’re in the room with me. Three different voices; one of whom I recognize as the woman opposite.
She only has a boy Arthur’s age. Why does she need a monitor?
I sip my tea and listen. Absorbed in their opinions on the latest episode of Breaking Bad, I learn that the lady opposite is named Tina, and she works at NEXT on the retail park on the outskirts of the city. The other two interject from time to time, but the steady flow of conversation tends to come from Tina.
I wonder who’s who?
In the hall, George begins to make snuffly hungry noises, and not wanting to miss anything, I dart to his pram and scoop him out. Hurrying back to the conservatory, I sit back down and clamp him to my boob, and he’s instantly quiet.
They’re talking about their husbands now, and as George and I sit in the conservatory listening, I relax. Soon I’m laughing at their jokes and feeling annoyed for them at their little stories.
So it’s not just me who is fed up with cleaning piss off the floor.
Every now and then I forget we’re not all in the same room. I start to ask questions like “does he always…” and “don’t you find that…” then catch myself as I remember it’s just George and me in the conservatory.
We could be friends.
“Right, I better get this one back, it’s nearly time for lunch and her nap.” A voice interrupts a miniscule moment of silence. Stumbling, sounding keen to get the words out.
“I’ll walk you out,” echoes the loud voice of Tina, vibrating off the windows in my conservatory.
“Izzy, you don’t mind if I don’t get up? I’m not sure I can!” comes the third voice, which sounds like it’s smiling.
She must be the pregnant one from down the street.
“Of course not!” comes Izzy’s quiet response. I hear air kisses and a small child grumbling.
“Bye, Lola. See you soon, pudding,” the pregnant voice calls, before sighing into the probably empty room.
As quickly and quietly as I can, I heave myself and George out of my seat and rush into the hall. Reaching the window next to the door, I lift the blind just in time to see Tina from opposite waving goodbye to curly blonde Izzy and baby Lola.
I love that I have names.
As Izzy and Lola disappear across the street, Tina shuts the door, and from the conservatory I can hear it slam, and her voice echoes into my hall.
“Another coffee? Or water? How about a squash?” Her pregnant visitor accepts a squash, but before she can say anything else, Tina starts speaking again, getting herself almost out of breath.
“Don’t you think Lola is getting fat? And don’t you think she has a vacant look in her eyes? Like she’s not all there?”
Bitch! Babies are meant to be chunky!
George starts to fuss. While I listen for the response from the pregnant one, I set George in his bouncy chair and fasten him in. Sticking it on vibrate, I offer him a few brightly coloured toys and smile as he tries to reach for them.
At least she can’t say George is vacant.
I must have missed something, because all I hear is Tina.
“Oh well, I’m sure you’ll discover soon enough when you have yours… Any names? Oh, did I tell you about this girl at work?” She launches into a random story, and I get bored. I really should turn the monitor off but flick it to the other channel instead.
Instantly, the room is filled with singing—and not very good singing. I crease up my forehead, trying to work out what song it is. It’s only when the voice stops and is replaced with a hacking cough that I hear Adele in the background.
“You OK, bubba? Sorry I fibbed. I know it’s bad, but Mumma just needed an excuse,” comes Izzy’s clear quiet voice.
An excuse to get away?
Izzy goes back to singing until the song is finished. I can’t help listening as she chats to Lola about everything and nothing, but feeling a twinge of guilt, I attempt to switch it off again. But I can’t help myself. I switch back to channel B where Tina is still going strong.
“Going so soon, Penny?”
Penny. Now I have all their names.
“Let me help you up. Oh gosh, you are getting big. Hard to think you’ve got another two weeks to go. I think you’re having a girl; you’re quite fat on the hips, aren’t you? Did you know the crazy new woman from across the street had a boy?”
Crazy woman?!
“Not surprised, though. She carried up front, not like you; you’re all over, aren’t you? Right… OK… Bye.” Her voice is getting quieter, and I realize they’re heading for the front door.
I’m already at my little window by the time Tina’s door opens. I press the baby monitor close to my ear as Penny waddles towards her house a few doors down.
My mobile phone ringing makes me jump, and as I reach into my pocket to retrieve it, the baby monitor clatters across the tiled floor.
Not even looking at the screen, I answer the call, chasing after the monitor as I do.
“Mrs. Harris?”
I distractedly grunt in acknowledgement as I kneel on the floor trying to rescue the monitor from under the sideboard.
“This is Mrs. Anderson from Sunny Day Nursery. Are you planning on coming to collect Mabel today?”
Hearing my daughter’s name, I blink, totally confused.
“Sorry? Is she ill?” I frown, wandering back to the conservatory to check on George.
“No, it’s just that pick up is at noon, and it’s currently a quarter to one.” She pauses. “I take it you’re on your way?”
~~~~
“Do not tell Daddy I was late to pick you up, OK?” I say to Mabel as I wipe ketchup off her chin after tea.
“You were late picking up Mabel?” Arthur pipes up. His fork is hovering between his mouth and plate, and I try not to focus on the bean juice dripping from it onto his white polo shirt for school.
I should really start making him get changed after school.
Before I can change the subject, Mabel butts in.
“Yesh,” says Mabel in the lispy voice she seems to have developed. “Mumma late, had to have lunch with the others. It was yucky.”
I wince. Mabel had been given a spare lunch: a ham roll and an apple, two of her least-favourite things. But at least they’d given her something. She gets highly strung when she’s hungry.
“Why were you late, Mummy?” Arthur asks, wiping his nose on his arm as he scoops up a dollop of mashed potato.
“Mumma was ashleep,” Mabel answers for me.
Why do they keep asking questions but not wait for me to give them a bloody answer?
“Yes, Mummy fell asleep with George, didn’t she, George?” I sing-song, as George looks back at me through unblinking, judgemental eyes.
“You should have put your alarm on your phone, Mummy. That’s what Daddy does when he naps!” Arthur then picks up his plate and licks it.
Where the hell has he learnt to do that? Wait… did he say Henry naps when he has them?
Casually, so as not to draw attention to myself, I take the plate from Arthur and place it back on the table, before turning to Mabel and feeding her some more potato.
“So Daddy naps when he looks after you?”
“Yeah, Daddy puts Monsters Inc. on the big TV, and then we sit on the beanbags on the floor. Daddy lies on the sofa and sets his alarm. We have to be quiet because he is very, very tired.”
“He shnores,” Mabel helpfully adds, before opening her mouth and pointing at my hovering fork.
