The Christmas Surprise

by Jenny Colgan

  But now he was utterly transfixed by two things, could barely contain his delight: the fire flickering in front of him, to which he held out his good hand in awe, and the scruffy white bundle beside him, that Stephen had by the rear end in case Mr Dog licked him to death.

  Both Rosie and Stephen kept a close eye on the baby as he turned from one thing to another. Finally he turned and looked straight into Stephen’s face, and for the very first time gave a huge, gummy, unmistakable grin, that went to his eyes and lit up his entire face.

  ‘OH MY GOD!’

  ‘He smiled! He smiled!’

  Rosie ran around looking for her phone to take a picture, but there was no rush; as soon as Apostil realised the effect his grin had elicited from his overwhelmed parents, he repeated the trick immediately. Then, just as Stephen was satisfyingly proclaiming that the child was patently a genius, he’d always known it, smiling at five weeks was a clear sign, Apostil went too far and threw up all over Lilian’s treasured faded Victorian Persian rug. Mr Dog immediately started licking it up. Rosie and Stephen just looked at one another, frozen. Rosie started to giggle.

  ‘We’re brilliant parents,’ she laughed.

  ‘Made for this,’ said Stephen. ‘Oh Christ, I think there’s some on my shoes.’

  Rosie knew the shop would be busy the next day, but she had to open up, she absolutely had to. Tina was only just holding it together between the shop, the children and the wedding stress. Plus they needed a busy day, and she knew for a fact she would get one. It had been hard to figure out exactly where to put Apostil – she didn’t want him in their bed, even though she’d read a million online threads about the benefits of co-sleeping, until Stephen had threatened to unplug the wireless router if she didn’t stop obsessing over every tiny detail. Upstairs out of the bed was, as usual, absolutely freezing. Downstairs close to the fire was too unnerving in case a spark jumped out (of the closed stove? enquired Stephen, but Rosie couldn’t leave anything to chance). And Mr Dog would need to be shut in the tiny kitchen, which was tricky, as it didn’t have a door and was full of food. The Moses basket Rosie had brought with her from Africa was put down in Lilian’s room, which was cosy from the sitting room and had the benefit of a closing door. After checking the baby monitor forty or fifty times, they agreed that this should be Apostil’s room.

  ‘For now,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s Lilian’s room really.’ She and Stephen shared a look. They couldn’t do it tonight, with everything so new, but the time was undoubtedly coming when they would have to discuss their finances, and moving. Soon.

  It was Rosie’s first night sleeping without Apostil, and she found it difficult to get comfortable, till Stephen moved closer and held her and she turned in for a kiss. She grinned at him in the dark.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This feels naughty,’ said Rosie.

  ‘What, because we’re parents?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s going to march in.’

  ‘Not yet …’

  Rosie listened to the monitor.

  ‘What if he wakes?’

  ‘We could be quick,’ said Stephen with a glint in his eye.

  Rosie thought about everything they had on their plates – the new baby, the shop, money, the house, the challenge of Apostil’s arm, the total change in absolutely everything that was going on in their lives – and decided that he was right. If there was one place where she could forget her worries, be in the moment, stop making lists and fussing and worrying about everybody else, it was here, right here, with Stephen’s hard body next to her in the bed, his muscular arms around her, his stubbly face against hers.

  ‘No need,’ she said, returning his kiss.

  ‘Um, there is need,’ said Stephen, his voice a low rumble. ‘You’ve been away for AGES …’

  Chapter Nine

  First through the door the next morning was, to absolutely nobody’s surprise, Hester, with Edison in tow, and baby Marie, now a stout, lively eleven-month-old, tied up in an ethnic sling not unlike Rosie’s. Rosie couldn’t have known when she had delivered Marie last Christmas how much help this would prove months later and thousands of miles away. She wanted to hug them both. Hester would undoubtedly have had something to say about that.

  Rosie had decided just to take Apostil with her to the shop. She had the car seat on the floor where she could put him if he wanted to look about, but for now he seemed very happy trussed tightly to her back. Stephen had popped his head round the bathroom door earlier and grinned at the sight: Rosie was in her beloved bath, Apostil lying on her stomach happily kicking water in the air.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve already got him into your interminable bath habits.’

  ‘Bath habits are good habits!’

  ‘Not the way you do it.’

  Rosie stuck her tongue out at him.

  ‘Right, don’t drown the baby. I’ll see you later. Have a good day.’

  He knelt down and kissed them both.

  ‘My two favourite people.’

  Rosie reflected as she heard the cottage door close downstairs how funny Stephen was. When there was nothing to worry about, he could become introverted and difficult, turning his worries inside. When they had a million things to do, some of them incredibly tricky, he seemed to take it all in his stride. She was much less confident than he was about the social workers who were due to visit, not least because it was entirely within his power to be incredibly rude to people he thought were busybodies.

  She dressed Apostil in some of the clothes Tina had thoughtfully left for her. They were Kent’s, who was nine now, and therefore a bit dated and heavily biased towards Cars and Ben 10, but that didn’t matter. She topped it all off with a brand-new cable-knit jumper and cardigan set – slightly too big, but that didn’t matter – and a pair of knitted bootees. There would have been knitted trousers too if she hadn’t thought it was a bit much and made him look like a dolly.

  Lilian had obviously been making her new status of great-great-aunt very clear at the home, because the old ladies had been knitting like there was an Olympic medal in it for them. Not only that, but everything was absolutely perfectly done. Rosie had her suspicions that Lilian herself would have patrolled the lines, pointing out mistakes and demanding that people start over.

  The shop was, as usual when Tina had been in, immaculate. Tina couldn’t bear a speck of dust, or a glass jar even slightly out of place. She had also put the Christmas decorations up, and it was lovely to see the little snow train again, running happily through a forest of lollipop trees and candy-cane avenues in the front window, cotton wool strewn about with the kind of abandon that implied that the twins and Edison had had a hand in it.

  Fairy lights were strung up amongst the shelves, on little hooks that Jake had screwed in so they didn’t knock them over every time they went to fetch some liquorice torpedos (top shelf, rare buy, boys only). The lights worked very nicely, reflecting off the sweets in their original glass jars, making the boiled sweets look like stained glass and the rainbow pips shine brightly. There was tinsel too, reflecting the light again, and the shop was cosy (until you went out into the little back room, which was perishing). Rosie looked at her lovely apron that she normally wore, then realised she wouldn’t be able to get it on, so washed her hands and prepared herself for what was clearly going to be less a working day and more a full-on interrogation.

  ‘ROSIE!’ shouted Edison as the bell tinged. He ran towards her, then frowned.

  ‘What’s round you?’

  Smiling, Rosie turned round.

  ‘OHHH.’

  ‘Didn’t Hester’ – Edison didn’t call his mum Mum, although Marie seemed to have learned ‘Mama’ and used it all the time, however much Hester tried to hush her – ‘didn’t Hester tell you?’

  ‘She said there was CLONAL PRIVILEGE,’ said Edison loudly. Rosie was trying to work out what cloning had to do with anything when she realised what Hester had actually said and raised her eye
brows.

  ‘Did she?’ she said merrily.

  ‘Hello!’ said Hester, totally unembarrassable, as always. ‘Oh, is that how you tie your sling? I prefer the more traditional way.’

  Rosie wanted to say ‘More traditional than being taught in a village in the African bush?’ but had sworn absolutely blind that she wasn’t going to get into a pissing competition with Hester of all people, so she held her tongue.

  ‘Hello!’ she said instead. ‘Hello, Marie.’

  ‘She can’t talk,’ said Edison, his eyes narrowing. ‘Hester says she can, but she can’t really.’

  ‘Actually she’s developing her own language,’ said Hester. ‘It’s a sign of unusual intelligence.’

  ‘Ga ba bla BLAH ga dah!’ said Marie triumphantly. Rosie winked at Edison.

  ‘So let’s have a look then,’ said Hester in a sing-song voice. Rosie turned round again. Marie instantly put out a fat hand and tried to whack Apostil on the face.

  ‘I need a mirror in here,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Oh look,’ said Hester. ‘She’s communicating with him. Amazing.’

  ‘Stop whacking him,’ commanded Rosie.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Apostil,’ said Rosie promptly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Hester. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t go with something more traditional and African.’

  Rosie was glad they were facing different ways.

  ‘That’s the name his birth family gave him,’ she said. ‘We thought we’d respect their wishes.’

  Hester was unconcerned.

  ‘What’s wrong with his arm? Is it a tribal thing?’

  ‘No!’ said Rosie. ‘It’s just a birth defect. He’ll do perfectly well without it,’ she added fiercely, hoping as she said it that it was true.

  ‘Of course,’ said Hester soothingly. ‘And you’ll be teaching him to speak his own language, I expect.’

  ‘French,’ said Rosie.

  ‘You know,’ said Hester, sounding testy, ‘you have a very grave responsibility to his heritage. He will need to grow up knowing who he is.’

  ‘He will,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s our son, but he has a family in Africa that he’ll see as often as we can manage. I don’t know what else we can do.’

  ‘Lots!’ said Hester. ‘For a start, he won’t be able to digest bread.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rosie.

  ‘He won’t! Evolution! You’ll need to get special meal in for him.’

  ‘He’s not a dog.’

  ‘M-E-A-L. It’s a grain they use—’

  ‘We’ll see how he goes,’ said Rosie, finally running out of patience. Also Marie had one finger up her nose and the other hand reaching out for the bubble gum. ‘One step at a time.’

  ‘Becoming a parent is the most amazing step you’ll ever take,’ said Hester. Rosie, who had only just accepted the concept that she would never have children of her own, absolutely bristled at this.

  ‘Don’t be daft, there’s loads of amazing things people can do.’

  Fortunately at that point the bell rang again; it was cheery Maeve Skritcherd, the receptionist at the medical practice.

  ‘AHHH!’ she shrieked, rushing forward. ‘Where is he? Where is he? Let me see him!!! Let me get my hands on him!!!!’

  Rosie remembered that Maeve had been waiting for years now for her lunkish adult sons to move out, find good jobs and nice girls and settle down and give her grandchildren. She was far too nice; the boys didn’t want to go anywhere. Rosie made a mental note not to make the same mistake.

  Maeve was now basically wrestling her for control of Apostil, and Rosie laughed and happily gave him up; it was time for him to wake from his morning nap, and he did so, blinking sleepily around.

  ‘He’s GORGEOUS!’ shrieked Maeve. ‘He’s beautiful! Come here, you lovely yummy yummy gorgeous boy!!!’

  She covered his head in kisses and Rosie relaxed. This was more the reaction she’d been hoping for. Hester sniffed loudly.

  ‘Sugar-free mints, please.’

  Edison looked disappointed.

  ‘Hello, Edison,’ said Maeve. ‘Are we seeing you later?’

  ‘No, he’s fine,’ said Hester swiftly. Despite Edison benefiting massively from wonderful medical care during his recovery, from both the hospital and the local team, Hester made a big fuss about how she was mostly treating him homeopathically.

  ‘Well that’s good.’

  Edison pushed up his glasses.

  ‘Will you be needing some babysitting?’ he asked Rosie seriously. She couldn’t stop herself laughing.

  ‘Edison, you’re NINE.’

  He looked sad.

  ‘Yes, but I’m very sponsible.’

  ‘I have no doubt,’ said Rosie. ‘But Apostil is very little and needs his mummy. Maybe when you’re both a bit older, okay?’

  ‘Only I need money to buy Edinburgh rock.’

  He looked imploringly at everyone. Maeve rolled her eyes and gave in.

  ‘And a small bag of Edinburgh rock, please.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said Hester, but made no move to stop her.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Maeve. ‘This is a happy day.’

  And after that, the deluge. Everyone from Malik down at the general store, who brought her a pack of nappies – a surprisingly kind and useful gift – to Mrs Manly from the boutique, who reminded her that Baby, as she called Apostil, would need to come in for his full layette, whatever that was, everyone had a few words to say. Even Roy Blaine, the nasty dentist, could be seen peering in through the window. And Rosie was so happy and her heart so full of everyone admiring her lovely baby – and so sleep-deprived, to be honest – that she waved at him, but he stalked on.

  Moray came after morning surgery. Tina had arrived for her shift, declaring Apostil a treasure, then launching into a very long story about wedding favours that Rosie could only barely follow. She took Moray next door for a cup of tea.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ said Moray cheerily. ‘Hello there, little chap. Look at you!’

  Rosie beamed.

  ‘That’s a lot of wool,’ Moray remarked.

  ‘Lilian’s army has been going totally bonkers.’

  ‘Oh yes, have you seen her yet?’

  ‘We’re going this afternoon, we only got in last night.’

  ‘She’ll be beside herself.’

  ‘I know.’ Rosie imitated Lilian’s acid tones. ‘Did anyone in YOUR family go all the way to Africa for a baby, Agnes? Or did they just squeeze them out like the common people?’

  Moray laughed, and lifted Apostil with an easy familiarity.

  ‘I should wait for Stephen to ask you this …’ began Rosie.

  Moray flashed her a look.

  ‘Don’t tell me … you need a dashing gay godparent. Everyone else has got one.’

  Rosie winced.

  ‘I know. But you’re our favourite.’

  She paused.

  ‘How many godchildren have you got?’

  ‘Seven. I’m warning you, I’m shit at it. I won’t remember his birthday or go to his school play, because I really don’t give a fuck.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Rosie. ‘I don’t care. I was only trying to save you the embarrassment of having to explain that you’re NOT Apostil’s dashing gay godparent and have everyone think you’ve done something horribly wrong.’

  ‘Oh God, I didn’t think of it like that.’

  ‘Yes, quite. Everyone will ask, “Are you having Moray for DGG?” and I’ll pause and look sadly into the middle distance so they won’t ask me any more about it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

  Rosie looked into the middle distance and made her face sad.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Moray. He narrowed his eyes. ‘But I LIKE the devil and all his evil works.’

  ‘His birthday is the twenty-eighth of October,’ said Rosie. ‘We’ll probably have the blessing at the Christmas Day service. Please bring Moshe this time.’

  ‘HA,’
said Moray. ‘You’re not serious. Mind you, our wonderfully inclusive vicar would get a massive—’

  ‘DON’T be disgusting in front of my baby.’ She covered Apostil’s ears. The happy-clappy vicar, never known to turn down an invitation that might include free food, managed to please neither the traditional churchgoers nor the new generation of Liptonites. Lilian in fact had become a Catholic after Henry’s death, finding much comfort in its more rigorous certainties and approving mightily of the new Pope, who, she had noted loudly on more than one occasion, probably wouldn’t eat quite as many custard creams after Sunday service.

  Moray turned his attention to Apostil’s bad arm. The baby lay looking up at him from his layers of wool, blinking steadily.

  ‘Come on then, let’s take a look.’

  He bent it backwards and forwards without Apostil seeming to notice. Moray made hmming noises.

  ‘Can’t the nerves grow back?’ said Rosie.

  Moray gave her a look.

  ‘He’s not Doctor Who, Rosie,’ he said.

  ‘You can be anything you want to be,’ whispered Rosie in Apostil’s ear, as Moray continued to look serious.

  ‘No, the problem is more that the message from the brain to tell the nerves to work simply never got through.’

  They both looked at the little arm, curled in, the fingers bent into a permanent curve.

  ‘So what’s best?’ said Rosie, her throat dry all of a sudden. ‘It’s weird, because we think he’s perfect.’

  Moray put his arm around her.

  ‘He IS perfect. He’s a smart and alert and perfectly healthy-looking bouncing baby boy. But when he starts to want to use it, to develop, then you’ll want to consider a prosthesis.’