by Gil McNeil
‘What gander?’
‘The light’s green: drive, you moron, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Are you in the car by any chance?’
‘Yes, so speak up, darling, I can hardly hear you. This handsfree thing is complete crap. Has he called yet?’
‘No, and the photographs haven’t arrived yet, either, but it’s fine. Actually, I think I’d almost prefer it if he didn’t ring, in a way.’
‘Oh yes? And what way is that? The tragic I Have No Life way?’
‘No, the I Have a Lovely Life and I Don’t Want to Fuck It Up way.’
‘You might be right. I think he could be a tiny bit too high-maintenance for you, arty types always are. You want a nice background boy, off making shedloads of money, who’s a bit shy, but brilliant when he gets going.’
‘Oh yes, and do you know anyone like that?’
‘Not really, and if I do spot one I’m ditching Harry and keeping him for myself. But if he’s got a friend I’ll let you know.’
‘What’s Harry done now?’
‘Gone off to Dublin for a two-day jaunt with his mate Pat. He rang last night and he was so pissed I thought he was a heavy breather at first. Fucking taxis, same to you, wanker.’
There’s the sound of a car horn being pressed repeatedly.
‘You know, what I really need is an air horn like lorries have, the ones that are so loud they make your seat vibrate. Do you know where I can get one?’
‘No, but I’m pretty sure they’re illegal in cars.’
‘I won’t use it on police cars, darling, although I’d like to see their faces if I did, bastards. Forty-two miles an hour in a thirty, like there’s nothing more important going on in London at ten o’clock at night. Talk about wasting police time. I should have made a citizen’s arrest.’
‘I don’t think citizens’ arrests are for traffic policemen when they stop you for speeding.’
‘Well they bloody should be. God, I wish I’d thought of it at the time. The papers would have loved it, and I’d have probably got a one-hour special out of it.’
‘True. And Jeremy Clarkson could be your new best friend.’
‘There is that. Still, every silver lining has its cloud.’
‘Talking of which, Mum rang me last night.’
‘How was she?’
‘Still sulking. She’s talking about coming over for a visit in the summer, because she says she misses the boys, not that she’s ever missed them before, and Vin’s still not speaking to her. So that’ll be ten years with half the family not talking.’
‘Oh dear.’
Vin and Mum had a huge row on the last day, and he stormed off to the airport straight after breakfast, because Mum had started having little digs at Lulu.
‘She’ll never change, you know. Mothers don’t. They just get worse and worse. What am I meant to be, fucking psychic? Indicate, you wanker.
‘I’m sure your mum didn’t mean it.’
‘She bloody did. She spent the whole time going on about how much she’d like a grandchild before she was too old to lift the fucker up, and then when I told her she was really freaking me out she pretended she didn’t know what I was talking about. There’s a bus lane, you wanker. Bloody go in it and stop blocking my lane.’
‘Ellen, wouldn’t it be better to get a cab to work?’
‘No, it bloody wouldn’t. If I want to sit in a car with some man droning on for hours, I can go out for a drive with Normal Neil. At least I won’t be paying the bastard.’
Neil is Ellen’s latest co-anchor, who crawls round management all the time and gets lot of fan mail from middle-aged housewives who think he’s lovely, although perhaps not quite as lovely as his boyfriend does. His wife seems oblivious, or maybe she just doesn’t care, which is Ellen’s theory.
‘So how’s it going with Mr Smarm, then?’
‘We’re putting espressos in his decaff now, so his hands keep going shaky. It’s really freaking him out, it’s brilliant. What time do you want us on Saturday?’
‘Any time that suits.’
‘Great, because I’m really knackered, so I want to have a lie-in and then go for a swim.’
‘You want to go shopping, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s fine. Will Harry be back from Dublin?’
‘Yes, although God knows what state he’ll be in.’
‘Does he know I’ve got the in-laws for lunch on Sunday?’
‘No, I thought that could be a nice little surprise for him. Oh, and if I bring his jumper down with me, could you fix it? One arm’s definitely longer than the other, it’ll make him look deformed.’
‘Sure.’
‘Great. Lift the fucking pole up. Yes, I’m talking to you. Thank you. God knows where they get these security people from, they’re all morons. Talk later, darling.’
Blimey, I’m almost feeling sorry for poor old Neil.
Betty comes downstairs with another fairy cake and a cup of tea.
‘Here’s another one finished, love. The tea cosies look nice, don’t they? That blue one’s like the one my mum used to have. We always had a proper tea on Sundays, you know, with cake, and we’d sit and listen to the radio in the front room. I can remember it like it was yesterday.’
Gran’s made a blue-striped tea cosy, and Elsie’s just finished one with ruffles in pink and cream, and I’ve made a couple of more minimalist ones in cotton. They hardly took any time to knit but they look rather fetching, especially the one with pompoms.
‘I’m nearly ready to start putting them in the window.’
She puts the fairy cake next to the others on the counter, on one of the glass cake stands from Venice.
‘These plates are pretty, and these cakes would make nice little pin cushions you know, not that there’s much call for pin cushions nowadays.’
‘The Victorians used to make them as presents for new mothers, but they didn’t put the pins in until the baby had arrived safely. Isn’t that sweet? I’ve been reading about it as part of my research for the school knitting thing.’
She smiles. ‘Your gran says you’re off to see Grace Harrison later. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought I might knit something for her, for the baby, but I wasn’t sure what to make. I don’t expect she’d think much to a pin cushion though, would she?’
‘Probably not, but what about one of your shawls? Although she’s got quite a few things already.’
Betty makes lovely baby shawls, and she knows all the patterns off by heart, just like Gran does.
‘I’d like to make her something, it can’t be easy for her, being on her own like that, with everyone wanting to know what she’s doing, it doesn’t matter how rich she is. I’ll get some wool before I go; I like having a bit of knitting on the go, it keeps me busy in the evenings.’
‘Well don’t forget you get staff discount now, so it’ll be a third off. And I can always sell them in the shop, if you want to make more. I’ll give you the wool, and I’d pay you for your time.’
‘Elsie won’t like it, you know.’
‘Let’s not tell her, then.’
She smiles.
‘You’re a good girl. Now, drink your tea while it’s still hot, love.’
It’s raining as I’m driving to see Grace, and one of the wipers isn’t working properly so there are smears all over the windscreen, and then I get stuck behind a gritting lorry which sprays grit all over the front of the car. I park as far away from the black jeep as I can and Maxine comes out, looking anxious.
‘She’s in a terrible temper.’
‘Oh dear, why?’
‘I’m not really sure.’
‘Shall I see if I can cheer her up a bit then?’
She smiles. ‘Please. We’d all be eternally grateful. But be careful: she hates being Handled.’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
I’ve never really seen Grace in a temper, although it’s obvious to anyone wit
hin fifty yards of her that she’s used to getting her own way: she’s always been completely charming to me, which probably means she’s never been that relaxed, which makes me feel rather sad.
She’s lying on one of the green sofas looking very pregnant and very annoyed.
‘Oh, it’s you. Great. Could we have some drinks, Maxine? If it’s not too much trouble, of course. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your telephone calls.’
Maxine looks at her feet.
‘Water for me, and not that plastic crap, and I’d like a bagel. Toasted.’
‘I’m not sure if we’ve got bagels, but I can—’
‘Well, go out and get some, then. You’re my assistant, right? So assist me. Or send Sam. I don’t really care.’
‘Of course. I’ll get right on it.’
Maxine closes the door, and Grace turns to look at me. She’s very pale.
‘What’s the matter?’
She gives me a surprised look. And rather a terrifying one too, if I’m completely honest.
‘You seem a bit upset.’
‘That’s because I fucking am.’
‘Can I help?’
‘No.’
‘Can anyone help?’
‘No.’
‘It’s not anything to do with the baby, is it?’
There’s a small hesitation.
‘No.’
She turns her head away from me, like Archie does when he’s sulking.
Bless.
‘Does your back hurt? When I was having Jack I had terrible backache. You get so uncomfortable by the end, nothing really fixes it for long, does it?’
‘No.’
‘I remember feeling very panicky, too. I don’t think you ever feel completely ready for something like this, do you?’
‘No.’
Her shoulders are heaving now, so I think she might be crying. Or maybe she’s just laughing at my pathetic attempts to be reassuring.
‘I was just as bad with Archie, too, and then he ended up being an emergency caesarean because he was getting distressed – although not half as distressed as I was, I can tell you. And I remember thinking, when they handed him to me, that they’d give me a quick look and then hand him over to someone more sensible to take home, someone more like a proper mum.’
She turns round, and sniffs. ‘I didn’t realise you had a caesarean.’
‘Yes. And I bloody wish I’d had one with Jack too.’
‘Really? Don’t you think natural childbirth is better, then?’
‘No, I don’t. I think all that too-posh-to-push stuff is rubbish, I don’t think it’s better at all, it’s just cheaper. When I was in with Archie there were three doctors having babies on my ward, and they’d all had elective caesareans, so that’s got to tell you something.’
She smiles. ‘So you don’t think it’s a cop out?’
‘No. Natural births aren’t always flute music and getting your breathing right, you know. And having your baby delivered by forceps isn’t exactly ideal, especially for the baby, or having the poor little thing dragged out with one of those horrible plastic suction cap things so it gets a pointy head. And what’s so natural about crawling about in agony on all fours for hours, anyway, that’s what I’d like to know. It can’t be very nice for the baby, can it, all that yelling; I’ve always thought it was pretty daft spending nine months playing the poor little sod Mozart, and then for its introduction to the world all it gets is yelling and screaming and hearing its mum telling everyone to fuck off’
‘Did you tell everyone to fuck off then?’
‘Oh yes, and I punched Nick so hard he nearly fell over. It was brilliant, and it really made the midwife laugh, and she’d been a bit of a cow up to then. He was meant to be massaging my back but he just kept sort of prodding and it was annoying me.’
She smiles.
‘Seriously, Grace, if men gave birth do you really think they’d do it with a bit of gas and air and a bloody bean bag?’
‘But what about breastfeeding? Someone was telling me it’s harder to get going with that after a c-section.’
‘I didn’t have any problems. I mean, it’s really weird at first – you can’t quite believe it works – but everyone gets that. Who was telling you it’s harder?’
‘One of the midwives at the hospital.’
‘That’s because most of them hate c-sections, because they don’t get to be in charge. It’s like asking a member of the Countryside Alliance for an impartial view on hunting: they just start frothing at the mouth. And you’ll be different. You won’t be having an emergency caesarean after hours in labour so you’re so exhausted you can hardly see straight, let alone have a go at breastfeeding. You’ll be fine.’
‘But what if I can’t cope – when it’s out, I mean? What if I’m just totally fucking useless?’
‘Of course you’ll be useless; everyone is at first.’
‘That’s very bloody encouraging, thanks. You were almost helping there for a minute, but now you’ve totally blown it.’ She’s smiling.
‘Grace, nobody feels ready for this, and if they say they do they’re either thick or lying. But do you know what’s clever? The baby doesn’t know you’re making it up as you go along. They just know you’re their mum. They look at you, and you become sort of invincible.’
‘Well, I don’t feel invincible, I can bloody tell you. I’ve been in tears half the fucking morning. And if you say it’s hormones I’ll throw something at you.’
‘You’ve got yourself into a right old frazzle, haven’t you?’
‘A what?’
‘A frazzle. It’s a technical term for someone who’s eight months pregnant.’
She smiles. ‘I’m not even nesting, and all my books go on about nesting.’
‘I didn’t either. Lots of people don’t; I think it’s called anti-nesting.’
‘What did you do, then, when the baby was born?’
‘Sent Nick out emergency shopping, with my friend Ellen, and she sorted it all out for me.’
‘Does she have kids?’
‘No, but she’s very good at shopping. It’s her specialist subject.’
Maxine comes in with a tray and puts it down on the table. ‘Sam’s gone to get bagels. He won’t be long.’
‘Thanks, Max. And I’m sorry, about earlier.’
Maxine looks surprised. ‘That’s fine.’
She winks at me as she passes me my tea.
‘I bloody saw that.’
‘I’ll bring the bagels straight in, shall I?’
‘Yes. Thanks, Max.’
Maxine curtseys, and goes out.
Grace smiles. ‘So, tell me, how was Venice?’
‘Great. I got some lovely new wool for the shop. I’ll show you, if you like.’
‘I’ve nearly finished my blanket. Do you want to see?’
‘I’d love to, and I’ve found a pattern for a sweet little baby sleeping bag, which I thought you might like to try next. It would be handy for car journeys.’
‘Do they like sleeping in cars?’
‘At the risk of frazzling you even more, sometimes it’s the only place they’ll sleep, as long as you keep driving.’
‘Looks like Bruno’s going to be busy, then.’
‘Mum, Mum, quick, get up, it’s snowing. Look.’
Archie is jumping on my bed, at half past seven in the bloody morning.
‘You’re supposed to play quietly in your bedroom until the big hand is on the eight, Archie.’
‘Yes, but it’s snowing:’
I get up and look out of the window, and he’s right, it is. But it’s not really settling, thank God.
‘Can we go out and make a snowman?’
‘I don’t think there’s enough snow for that yet, love.’
‘Will there be more later?’
I bloody hope not, because I’ve got my Stitch and Bitch group tonight and I’m supposed to be meeting Mrs Chambers at school this morning to talk about the knittin
g project.
‘We’ll see.’
The boys insist on walking to school for maximum exposure to what is now much closer to sleet than snow. Archie tries to collect handfuls to make snowballs and gets very annoyed when it melts, while Jack trudges along behind me, moaning that we haven’t got a sledge, and then we see Mr Pallfrey’s daughter Christine taking Trevor out for his morning walk, which means we have to stop to say hello, and Trevor puts muddy pawprints all over the front of Archie’s coat while I ask Christine how Mr Pallfrey’s doing; he went into hospital on Tuesday, and he had his operation yesterday.
‘I think he’s in a fair bit of pain, but he was sitting up last night, and they’re getting him walking today. I gave him your card and the picture and he was ever so pleased.’
Archie drew him a picture of Trevor, in case he was missing him.
‘So when will he be home?’
‘At the weekend, or maybe Monday – it depends on how he’s doing.’
Please let it be Monday. I really don’t want to have to take over full-time dog-walking duties on the weekend when Elizabeth and Gerald are here for lunch.
‘Give him our love, won’t you? And let me know if you think he’d like a visit.’
She smiles.
‘Between you and me I don’t think he’s that keen on people seeing him in his pyjamas. He’s having enough trouble coping with me going in.’
‘Well, let me know when he’s coming home and we’ll bring a cake round. Come on, Archie, put that down. What do you want a dirty wet stick for?’
‘For Trevor.’
‘Give it to him quickly, then, or we’ll be late.’
‘I’m not sure I like this one. I might need another one.’
‘Archie.’
‘Oh, all right. Grumpy big potamus.’
The playground is even more chaotic than usual, with everyone under twelve trying to get as much contact as possible with whatever is available in the snow department, and everyone over twelve desperately trying to stop them. Mr O’Brien’s blowing his whistle and Mrs Berry’s ringing the bell, but there’s still a great deal of Milling About before they start to line up and go in.
Connie’s looking very cold and fed up.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m just tired. Christmas was so busy, and it seems like this cold and fogging will be for ever.’
