by Gil McNeil
“Oh I’d love that. Did you know they’re the only species where the males have the babies?”
“I did. And I’d like to know how they manage it, because if we can get men on the moon, surely we can give it a go? I can think of so many things that would change if they had to waddle about nine months pregnant.”
“It would be terrific, wouldn’t it? I’m sure they’d have special medals made, and maternity leave would suddenly be three years, at full pay. And I bet they’d all have epidurals, and six weeks in intensive care afterward.”
Mrs. Berry has two teenage daughters and once told me, luckily after I’d had Pearl, that she spent twenty-nine hours in labor with the first one and bit her husband so hard he needed a stitch in his thumb.
I nod.
“Yes, or they’d go all competitive and be giving birth halfway up Everest, in a cagoule. Extreme birthing. They’d probably enter it into the Olympics; it would be a lot more useful than the hundred meters.”
We’re both giggling as we walk back down the corridor toward her classroom.
Bugger. So now I’m knitting an entire Nativity, possibly with cattle, and a lavender seahorse. No pressure at all then.
I’ll have to make a whole new list.
“A knitted Nativity?”
“Yes Gran.”
“Well, isn’t that lovely?”
Elsie’s pleased too. Sometimes I think they both live on an entirely different planet to me.
“We’ve got all those patterns for toy animals, that’ll help. I think there’s a little donkey, and we’ve got the Nativity we knitted for the window, to use as an example.”
“Yes Elsie, but we won’t be able to give them complicated patterns. We’ll have to do it like we did for the banner. They can all knit squares, and then we can sew them together, something like that.”
“I see what you mean, dear, yes, that might be best. Some of the older ones might be able to manage a simple pattern though, if we have a look. But who’s going to pay for all the wool?”
“Last time we got the parents to donate stuff, and some of the suppliers helped. I’ll make some calls. They’ve still got all the needles from last time, and I don’t mind giving them some stock, so we’ll be fine on that front. It’s how we get it all done that’s worrying me.”
“I’ll help, and I’m sure Mary and Betty will too?”
Betty’s holding Maximo, having a quick cuddle while Connie has a coffee and Gran pours more tea.
“Of course I will, pet, and Laura will have some ideas, it’ll look lovely in her folder for college, and we can ask that Mrs. Peterson, do her good to get out more, and she’d like being in the school, I’m sure she would. Take her out of herself.”
“That’s true, Gran. All right, well maybe it’s not a total disaster.”
Connie laughs. “No. But promise I am not knitting the donkey.”
Cinzia arrives to take Pearl off for their morning wander, and Tom retreats upstairs to unload the dishwasher. They seem to be thawing slightly again; they went out for a drink at the weekend according to Connie, although Cinzia was home by ten. I’m not sure if all that flirting in Devon helped, not that Tom knows about that. But I’m definitely taking a what-happened-in-Devon-stays-in-Devon approach. Connie says something in Italian to Cinzia as she’s leaving, with Pearl insisting on walking, which means it will take her hours to get home.
“What was that, Con?”
“I said she’s like the weather, cold, then hot, then cold again. Poor Tom.”
Betty giggles. “You’ve got to treat them keen to keep them mean, no, it’s the other way round I think. Anyway, she might as well have a bit of fun while she’s young, that’s what I always say. We never got the chance.”
“Oh I don’t know, Betty; you seemed to have quite a nice time at all those dances at the Palace Ballroom from what I remember.”
Betty smiles. “That’s true enough, Mary, and I had some lovely frocks. I wish I’d kept them. I couldn’t fit into them, of course, but I could look at them, couldn’t I? But I wish I’d gone in for more dancing now. Anyway, we better be off if you want to get your shopping in and nip into the Lifeboats before we go to our first aid class at the church.”
“Bother, I’d forgotten about that. I’m not sure I’m in the mood.”
“Well, I’m not being bandaged again, that’s all I’m saying. It took me ages to get the feeling back in my hand last time, and look what happened to poor Mrs. Winterton.”
We all smile, and then feel guilty; Mrs. Winterton tripped over the demonstration dummy at their last class, and sprained her ankle, and somehow in among the rush of willing stretcher bearers, they managed to tip her off the church hall stretcher and fracture her elbow.
“They just got overexcited about having a real casualty to practice on. But it could be handy knowing how to jump-start someone.”
Unless the Red Cross are going in for car maintenance now, I think Betty must mean resuscitate.
“Although you’d have to watch yourself round here; most of the time if they’re on the floor down by the pier, it’s because they’ve been at the drink. They sit there fishing looking like butter wouldn’t melt and all the time they’re swigging from their flasks and then they try to stand up and go down like skittles.”
Gran smiles. “I’ve always got a clean hankie in my bag, so that’ll be handy. You have to do that before you start the concussions.”
Betty laughs. “You mean compressions, Mary. Chest compressions is what she said. You don’t want to be giving them concussion on top of the heart attack, do you? Anyway, you’d need more than a hankie with some of them, unless you wanted it reeking of whiskey for days after. Ooh look, here comes Lady Denby.”
Lady Denby comes in, in a state of high excitement, fortunately minus Algie and Clarkson.
“We’ve won, absolutely marvelous, had to come and tell you straightaway. Gold Medal, Best Seaside Town (Small). Knew we could do it if we all pulled together.”
“That’s wonderful, Lady Denby.”
She’s delighted, and before I know it we’ve got a little celebration going on in the café, with Lord Denby eating cake and making Betty giggle, and Gran and Elsie talking to Lady Denby about exactly when the medal will be presented and who will be invited and whether they need to wear hats.
By the time they’ve finished, it’s nearly ten past twelve.
“Well done again, my dear, and good afternoon to you, Moira.”
Elsie bobs a small curtsy at Lord Denby.
“Chap might get a bit of peace now; need to get back in the garden, instead of being dragged all round the town with frightful judges.”
Lady Denby gives him a Look, and they wander off bickering; she’s already told us how vital it is for us to retain our Gold Medal next year, so no doubt she’ll be starting her new campaign as soon as the ceremony is over.
“I’ll see you later then, pet.”
“Yes Gran.”
“It’s lovely, isn’t it, about the medal. It’ll put a few noses out of joint, but I’ve always said you can’t beat our pier.”
“No Gran.”
“Come on, Mary, or we’ll be late for the class and we’ll have to sit on those nasty metal chairs at the back.”
Elsie’s had such a lovely morning so far she even offers to tidy up.
“I’ll just have a sort-out, shall I? Some of those shelves are in quite a muddle. I do wish people would put things back where they found them.”
“Thanks, Elsie.”
“We’ll have to start thinking about our Christmas windows next, won’t we? Be nice to have something new, for when we get our medal.”
“Yes.”
Damn. That’s something else for the List. I thought we might make a kit for an Advent calendar, with a little knitted toy for each day, along with a gold chocolate coin, because I always think Advent calendars without chocolate are not really worth the bother: a bit like low-fat cake. And I want to knit more lavender ba
gs, and Gus and Duggie want to sell tea cozies in their B and B; they’ve been so popular they want to start having a range to sell, with egg cozies too.
I’m in the stockroom checking the box of Christmas things from last year when Elsie comes up. “A courier just brought this for you.”
It’s a large package from New York.
“Thanks, Elsie, just leave it in the office. It’ll be the brochures I ordered for Grace.”
She looks briefly disappointed but goes back downstairs to share the glorious Gold Medal news with any passing customers, which is good because the last thing I need is her looking over my shoulder at whatever Daniel has sent. At least I hope it’s from Daniel. I’m going to feel pretty stupid if it is brochures.
There’s a large gray box inside the padded envelope, full of beautiful black-and-white prints of the children in Devon, along with some smaller color ones, which I’m sure Daniel would call snaps. They’re still gorgeous. The black-and-white ones are the kind of thing you see in galleries. There’s a lovely one of Pearl’s hand, which I’d know anywhere even if she wasn’t holding her tiara, and a beautiful one of all four of us sitting in the sand dunes, with Pearl on my lap and Jack and Archie either side of me, all of us looking intently into Archie’s bucket of shells and rock pool treasures.
God, they’re so beautiful I’m almost in tears. I’ll get some of them framed; they’re far too nice to keep hidden in albums.
I’ve got no idea if he’s still in New York, or what time it is there, so I text him.
THE PHOTOGRAPHS ARE BEAUTIFUL. AMAZING. MAYBE YOU SHOULD TRY TO GET WORK AS A PROFESSIONAL PHOTOGRAPHER. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU JO X
I sit in the office and go through them again, and realize that there’s a look on Jack’s face in quite a few of the pictures, relaxed and happy and smiling, which I haven’t seen enough of in the past couple of years. He looks younger somehow, and so does Archie. I’m trying to work out which photographs to frame when the phone rings.
“They arrived then?”
“Yes, and they’re brilliant, Daniel, thanks so much. I’m going to get them framed. The only tricky bit will be choosing my favorite ones.”
“Good. It’s nice to hear someone’s happy with my work. The tossers on that last job were total nightmares.”
“Oh dear.”
“It was worse than oh dear, angel. Even Tony lost his cool, and he never lets it get to him usually. He told the creative director to piss off.”
“That doesn’t sound great.”
“It was actually. We won in the end; the client liked our choice not theirs. As bloody usual. When will they learn? Anyway, we’re at the bloody airport again, off to Barbados, and it’s hurricane season, so we’ll probably get blown off the beach.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
He laughs. “How are things in exotic Broadgate?”
“We’ve just won the Gold Medal in the Best Seaside competition, so I wouldn’t mock if I were you. Everything’s fine, apart from being recruited to knit a Nativity at school, which is going to be a nightmare of epic proportions. Knitting donkeys with a bunch of six-year-olds. I can’t wait.”
“Can you knit donkeys then?”
“I’m about to find out. The Gold Medal is good though, don’t you think?”
“Brilliant. Maybe I should buy a house down there, before the prices shoot up. I’ve been thinking about it actually. The flat was only ever meant to be a short-term thing, I’d like a house. Maybe something fabulous by the sea?”
“Do you want to leave London then?”
“Not really, but it could be a weekend place. Actually, I’ve been thinking about that too, about Pearl and everything, and I want to tell people, I’m so proud of her, I haven’t even told my mum.”
Bloody hell, I’m not sure I really want another set of grandparents to deal with; Mum and Dad are more than enough. And Elizabeth and Gerald have hardly been a tower of strength in our hour of need. But I suppose if he’s going to be part of Pearl’s life, it makes sense that he’ll want his mum to know. I just wish this wasn’t so complicated.
“She’ll think I’m a total trollop.”
He laughs. “You’re almost the exact opposite of that, angel.”
“Oh, thanks. I quite like the idea of being a bit trollopy.”
“Sorry, no can do. Not unless you change your entire wardrobe, and personality, and well, pretty much everything.”
“I could be racy though, couldn’t I?”
“Oh yes, definitely racy.”
“Good.”
He laughs again. “I’ve been having a think, angel.”
“Oh yes?”
“This is something I really want to get right.”
“I know.”
“I want you and the kids to be part of my life, properly. Why don’t you move up to town? We could get you a shop, and I could buy a decent-size house, and maybe a weekend place by the sea? What do you think? It’s got to be worth a go.”
Bloody hell. I’m not sure what he’s trying to say.
“Give what a go?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure we could work something out. As long as I see my girl, that’s a good start, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t work like that, Daniel, not with kids; you can’t just give things a go and then move on to the next thing if it doesn’t work out. The boys in particular have had enough changes to cope with.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“That’s precisely my point, angel. Just think about it. Look, I’ve got to go, they’re calling our flight, but I wanted to tell you what I was thinking, hot off the press. We’ll talk properly when I’m back, okay? I know I’m not making much sense, but I wanted you to know I’m ready.”
“Ready?”
“To be a good dad.”
“That’s great.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Okay.”
Christ. I don’t see how on earth I’m going to pull off my ostrich act now.
I call Ellen, who inevitably is all for me racing up to London and waiting at whichever airport he’s likely to land at when the Barbados job is finished.
“Don’t be daft, Ellen. I don’t even know when he’s back, and anyway he’s talking about Pearl, not me, even if he doesn’t realize it. And even if he wasn’t, who says it’s what I want? There’s this assumption that if he was really up for it I’d be mad not to up sticks and move in with him, but actually, I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Why not?”
“He’s wonderful, in lots of ways, but he’s not a grown-up. And that’s what I want, a grown-up, someone who can fit in with our life, not dominate everything every bloody second. It would be just like Nick, only worse; he’d be popping in to pick up clean shirts and then he’d be off again.”
“Worse?”
“He’s a photographer, Ellen, surrounded by the world’s most gorgeous women, day in, day out. Think about it. But actually it’s not that, though that’s enough to put any sane woman right off the idea. It was a fling, Ellen, a moment that reminded me that I wasn’t just a mum, I mean not only a mum, I could have my own things too, a little secret interlude. I didn’t fall in love with him or anything, and it’s no use pretending I did. And he’s definitely not in love with me, whatever that means.”
“You know what it means, darling, and most of it is complete rubbish. He sets your pulse racing, he makes you laugh, he’s solvent, and he loves the kids. And you’d live nearer to me so we could have jaunts. It’s perfect. Look, don’t make your mind up until you see him. You never know, he might surprise you.”
“I’m sure he will, he’s always surprising me. But there’s no point pretending, Ellen. I love our life here, so do the kids, far too much to risk changing anything on a whim. And anyway, I already know.”
“Know what?”
“Know who he loves; it’s Pearl.”
“Sweetheart—”
&nb
sp; “No Ellen, it’s true, and I’m fine with that, more than fine. She deserves that, of course she does.”
“Still, nice to be asked, darling?”
“Yes, although I’m still not sure what he’s asking, and neither is he. But nice, whatever it is.”
Actually, it’s not that nice; it’s unsettling and complicated, and there’s a tiny part of me that is half hoping it might be true, and we can all sail off into the sunset and play happy families while he flies round the world earning a fortune taking pictures before racing back home to us. But the trouble with being older and wiser: you know what makes you happy, and what makes your children happy.
It’s a total bugger.
I’ve just finished making supper and I’m having a quick cup of tea before I can face bath time, when Grace calls. She’s nearly six months pregnant now, although she doesn’t look it, and they’ve been busy filming in Northumberland, in a huge country house.
“How are you doing?”
“Rather brilliantly, darling, thank you. We’ve done most of the scenes where she’s got to have a tiny waist, thank God, and now we’re doing the newly married and up the duff bits.”
“That’s handy.”
She laughs.
“Why do you think I chose the script, darling? It’s looking very good, if I say so myself. There’s something about acting being pregnant when you actually are which is rather mesmerizing, and the clothes are beautiful, all pin-tucked cotton and thin muslin shifts, and silks. Beautiful and floating, they fit my mood perfectly.”
“And how’s the gorgeous Colin?”
The newspapers have been full of the usual silly stories about her and her costar.
“Gorgeous. And not quite as devoted to the wife as he’d have us all believe, but I never mix business with pleasure, you know that, darling.”
Actually, I know the exact opposite, but it’s never a good idea to disagree with the Diva.
“Anyway, I’ve run out of wool again, so can you sort it please? Urgently.”
Maxine has been texting me with snippets; and apparently in between flirting, Grace is knitting like a woman possessed.
