by Ilsa Evans
‘Teresa!’ Stephen bounces through the door dressed in jeans and what looks like a velvet smoking jacket with padded shoulders and enormous braided pockets. ‘Or should I say Grandma?’
‘No,’ I reply emphatically as I close the door behind him. ‘You shouldn’t.’
‘Got time for a coffee?’
‘Sure.’ I lead the way through the lounge-room towards the kitchen. ‘And I’ve been meaning to drop in and say thanks, so you’ve saved me the trip.’
‘Thanks?’ asks Stephen, following in my wake. ‘Thanks for what?’
‘For Monday morning, of course. Helping out with Bronte.’
‘Oh, pffft.’ Stephen waves his hand airily. ‘Lord – what are all these?’
‘My bloody tax return.’ I stop at the entrance to the kitchen and watch Stephen bend down and retrieve the crumpled papers from the floor. ‘I hate it.’
‘Odd filing system you have, schnooks,’ he replies as he joins me with the tax return paraphernalia in one hand. ‘What happens when the whole floor’s covered?’
‘Hardy ha ha.’ I put the kettle on and spoon some coffee into the plunger while Stephen sits at the table and tucks my group certificate and other loose pages in the tax return booklet. ‘I swear those things are designed by the same people who invented the Rubik’s cube.’
‘Oh, I love the Rubik’s cube!’ says Stephen. ‘What fun!’
‘Yeah.’ I roll my eyes at him as I get out a couple of coasters and pop them on the table. ‘A real barrel of laughs.’
‘Do you want me to do it for you?’ Stephen opens up the booklet, has a look at what I’ve written and starts to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, rather offended.
‘Here, this.’ Stephen starts to chortle again. ‘What you’ve written for Question Two of Section Three of Part B. Ha ha ha!’
‘I’m going to ignore you.’ I add some milk to the two cups and carry them over to the table with a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. ‘Because anybody who finds tax returns amusing has to be sick.’
‘Don’t sneer at people just because they’re different,’ replies Stephen evenly, still reading the tax return. ‘Now, do you want me to do it or not? I’m pretty cheap.’
‘Do you actually do tax returns?’ I sit down in the chair opposite and wrap my hands around my hot mug. ‘I thought you were an actor.’
‘Haven’t you seen my acting?’ says Stephen, looking at me with amusement. ‘Do you seriously think I’d make a living from that?’
‘Um, well . . .’ I reply carefully, because I have seen his acting and I have always wondered how he managed to put food on the table.
‘Quite right. No, acting’s just a hobby – sometimes it pays, sometimes it don’t.’ Stephen takes a sip of coffee. ‘But my paying job is accountancy.’
‘You’re an accountant?’ I ask in disbelief. ‘An accountant?’
‘Actually, it’s a great lurk,’ says Stephen, a trifle defensively. ‘I just do the books for a few small businesses and then, at this time of the year, make a bit on the side with tax returns. So, yes or no? I’ll do yours at a cut rate because of the entertainment value.’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ I say, nodding eagerly. ‘And thank you! Just give me the bill when you’re done.’
‘No problem.’ Stephen folds the papers in half and puts them in one of his ample pockets. ‘And don’t forget to give me your receipts before I go.’
‘Receipts? What receipts?’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘Good, then we’ll change the subject – did you get lucky Monday morning or not?’
‘No, not then exactly. But –’ Stephen looks across at me with a self-satisfied smirk ‘– I hope to on Saturday night.’
‘Don’t tell me you got a date with him?’ I ask as I take a bite of biscuit.
‘I most certainly did, and isn’t he just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen with a stretcher? Almost as cute as that little Irishman of yours, hey?’
‘Almost,’ I mumble around my biscuit, ‘but, yes, he was cute. Not my type – but well done, anyway.’
‘Well, I should think he’s not your type!’ Stephen laughs. ‘Otherwise, lordy, have I got my wires crossed!’
‘Oh, no problem there,’ I reply, with a knowledgable nod. ‘That was pretty obvious. And I hope it all works out well for you.’
‘Schnooks, so do I. So do I.’
‘And really – thanks for Monday morning.’
‘Oh no.’ Stephen puts his hand to his heart and looks at me earnestly. ‘It’s me that has to thank you!’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Well, I’ve always wondered what it would be like –’ Stephen reaches over and grabs a biscuit, which he waves at me to emphasise his words ‘– you know, with a woman. Just out of curiosity, you see, because so many people seem to think it’s the dog’s dinner! But after I saw what I saw on Monday morning, oh my lord! I will never wonder again!’
‘But, Stephen, she was giving birth!’
‘No matter – it was scary.’ Stephen shudders. ‘Really scary.’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘Yes, scary!’ He shakes his head and points the biscuit at me. ‘Yech! I don’t know how you people cope! Then again, I suppose you don’t spend a lot of time down there – so I should say, I don’t know how your men cope! Oh! And let me tell you about the nightmare it gave me that night! Absolutely terrifying! There I was, just bouncing on a trampoline and –’
‘Bouncing on a trampoline?’
‘Yep. And I was having a perfectly lovely time, looking at the blue, blue sky and getting higher and higher. Up and down, up and down. Then, when I was at the highest point I possibly could be, I looked down and you’ll never guess! It wasn’t a trampoline anymore!’ Stephen pauses for effect and looks at me, shaking his head. ‘No, it was this absolutely huge, monstrous –’
‘I don’t want to know!’
‘Exactly! And while I was realising this, it was like slow motion and I was poised up in the air. But I knew that any minute the spell would break and I was going to have to go down and, when I did, I was going to plunge right into the middle of it!’
‘I’m not listening!’ I cup my hands over my ears to stress my point. ‘And I don’t want to know!’
‘Okay, okay.’ Stephen leans over the table and removes one of my hands. ‘I won’t tell you the rest.’
‘Thank god, otherwise I’ll be getting nightmares!’
‘You sure would! But –’ he shudders theatrically and then wags the biscuit at me again ‘– I tell you, schnooks, I had such a job climbing out! And I’ve certainly been reassured that I’m on the right path.’
‘Glad to be of service.’
Stephen takes a sip of coffee and pops his biscuit in his mouth, lost in thought. And if he is thinking what I think he’s thinking, I hope that he doesn’t decide to share that with me either. However, all this talk about whatever it was we were talking about has reminded me I’m overdue for my two-yearly pap smear. I make a mental note to arrange an appointment while I’ve got the week off.
‘Teresa!’
‘What!’ I exclaim, startled. ‘What is it?’
‘That plant.’ Stephen is staring at the kitchen counter where the cactus squats in all its glory, bulbous flowers at the ready. ‘It’s gorgeous! Where did you get it?’
‘Why, Stephen,’ I exclaim, struck with brilliance, ‘it’s for you! A present to say thanks for your help.’
‘Oh my lord!’ He gets up and walks slowly over to the counter. ‘For me? You shouldn’t have!’
‘Of course I should,’ I reply, smiling graciously, ‘even if you did faint at the end. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’
‘I’m speechless!’ Stephen reaches out and, completely without fear, strokes one of the fleshy-looking stems. ‘Absolutely speechless!’
‘No,’ I say teasingly, ‘never!’
Instead of answering, Stephen picks up the plant a
nd carries it over to the table, where he deposits it gently next to his coffee. Then he comes around the table and, before I can even respond, envelops me in a huge hug and delivers a kiss to my cheek.
‘Thanks, schnooks,’ he says, visibly touched. ‘I’ll treasure it.’
‘No problem,’ I reply, feeling a little guilty now. ‘My pleasure.’
‘But where did you get it?’ Stephen turns the pot around to examine the cactus from each of its ugly angles. ‘It’s absolutely spectacular!’
‘Oh, it was the last one left and they’re not getting any more,’ I say airily, in case he wants to rush out and buy the lot. ‘Hey, another cup of coffee?’
‘No thanks – but I will have the last one of these biscuits, if you don’t mind?’
‘Help yourself.’
‘Ta.’ Stephen drains his coffee and pulls the biscuit plate towards himself. ‘By the way, I dropped in to see Bronte yesterday. She is looking well. Considering.’
‘Yes, she is. And that reminds me – are you doing anything on Sunday?’
‘All depends on the success of Saturday night,’ Stephen replies with a leer. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Bronte’s having a naming day for the baby here in the afternoon. Just family and close friends. Can you make it?’
‘Indubitably.’ Stephen nods as he gazes at his plant with adoration. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Great. I’ll let you know a definite time when they tell me.’
‘Excellent. Hey –’ Stephen looks at the empty biscuit plate and then up at me. ‘I thought you said the last one was for me, Miss Piggy?’
‘I didn’t eat it!’
‘Well, I certainly didn’t.’ Stephen lifts up the plate and looks underneath it. ‘And it was here a minute ago. C’mon, fess up.’
‘I swear I didn’t eat it!’ I raise both hands and shake my head. ‘Really!’
‘Then who did, hmm?’
I shrug at Stephen and get up to fetch the biscuit barrel from the kitchen cupboard. I fill a fresh plate with chocolate-chip cookies and carry it across to the table, where I place it in front of Stephen, who immediately helps himself to one and begins eating. I know I didn’t eat the other biscuit. I flick my ponytail back, look at Stephen, and then slowly move my gaze to the cactus. I watch it distrustfully – but it doesn’t bat a blossom. Instead, with its fleshy protuberances bulging grotesquely, it just sits there – obviously biding its time.
WEDNESDAY
1900 hrs
‘So Mrs Woodmason is going to do all the ringing around and she’s going to help on the day. You know, with the setting up and all.’
‘That’s great, Bronte,’ I reply as I lean over and look down into the Perspex capsule again. ‘But when is she going to wake up?’
‘I don’t know, Mum, but hopefully not for a while.’
‘Why?’ I glance at her curiously. ‘Has she been playing up?’
‘Like, not exactly.’ Bronte leans back on her pillow, looking tired. ‘She just seems to have been awake an awful lot today, that’s all.’
I look down at Sherry again and tuck her little blanket in securely around her. As the only visitor, I’m sitting in the green armchair and have pulled the baby trolley over next to me, just waiting for Sherry to show a sign of wakefulness. Any sign will do. But she’s fast asleep with her eyelashes fanned out along the top of her flushed cheeks and her rosebud lips ever so slightly open. One tiny hand, which has escaped from her cocoon-like wrappings, is clutched around a corner of her blanket and there is a droplet of milk from an earlier feed poised in a fold at the corner of her mouth. Whenever she breathes out, it quivers.
On the other side of the room, the only evidence of Mrs Cobb is a scrawny-looking lump in the centre of the bed that hasn’t moved since I’ve been here. And I’m beginning to think she doesn’t have a baby at all – certainly I haven’t seen one and I’ve been here a few times now. I turn my attention back to Sherry and stroke her fingers gently.
‘You wouldn’t be wearing your mother out now, would you?’ I say in a singsong voice. ‘No, you wouldn’t do that. Not you.’
‘Surely that’s not our Teresa talking like that?’
I look up at the doorway in surprise and Rose Riley smiles at me playfully. And, as if that wasn’t scary enough, my own mother pops out from behind her like she is auditioning for a scene from The Sound of Music, and gives me a huge smile. Rose is dressed in her usual skirt and twin-set, shades of lavender today, and my mother is wearing a petal-pink tracksuit, matching headband and runners.
‘Teresa, honey! Fancy seeing you here!’
‘Ditto,’ I reply, getting up from the armchair before I’m asked to. ‘And, Mum, why do you look like the front cover of an aerobics tape for senior citizens?’
‘Because Rose and Harold kindly picked me up from the gym. I was doing my Pilates.’
‘Yes, we thought we would bring your mother over to visit the baby,’ adds Rose Riley, settling herself down in the chair. ‘Somebody has to.’
‘I brought her on Monday!’ I reply, stung. ‘I spent the whole day with her, too!’
‘And it was lovely of you, honey.’ Mum bends over the crib and coos to the baby. ‘Oh, you’re asleep, you little precious.’
‘Like, don’t wake her, Gran!’ says Bronte, looking worriedly towards the baby. ‘She really needs some sleep.’
‘And you look like you could use some too, dear,’ Rose says, examining Bronte keenly. ‘You look tired. Where’s that grandson of mine?’
‘Nick’s at work, Mrs Riley.’
‘I think it’s about time we dropped the ‘Mrs Riley’, don’t you?’
‘Oh!’ Bronte looks horrified. ‘But then what do I call you?’
‘Well, perhaps you can just call me what Nick and the others call me – Grandma.’ Rose turns to my mother and looks at her questioningly. ‘That is, if you don’t have any objection, Sherry.’
‘Certainly not, Rose.’ Mum beams briefly at them both. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea.’
Bronte nods, looking at me rather miserably. I give her a huge grin and a wink.
‘And we heard about your little ceremony on Sunday, Bronte –’ Rose purses her lips slightly before continuing ‘– although I must say that, in my day, we simply had a proper christening and were done with it.’
‘Times change, Rose,’ says my mother.
‘And who am I to say anything?’ Rose throws her hands up and shrugs. ‘But, nevertheless, I’m quite happy to offer my assistance. Just tell me what it is you would like me to bring and I’ll be sure to bring it.’
‘Why, thanks Mrs Ri– I mean, Grandma,’ stutters Bronte.
‘So?’ inquires Rose, with her head on one side.
‘So what?’ asks Bronte, confused.
‘So – what would you like me to bring,’ says Rose slowly, enunciating each word clearly, ‘to the ceremony?’
‘Um–I’m not sure . . . ’
‘That’s lovely of you to offer,’ I interject, looking at Bronte’s reddened face, ‘and I believe Diane’s helping to organise the food and everything while Bronte’s in here. So perhaps it’d be best if you speak to her so that there’s no doubling up?’
‘Excellent idea. I’ll phone her tonight.’
‘Thanks, Mrs – um,’ says Bronte.
Harold chooses this moment to come wandering through the door, looking, as usual, rather anxious. He walks over to his wife and positions himself behind her chair before nodding politely at everybody.
‘Hello, Teresa. Good evening, Bronte. I finally found a car park, dear,’ he says, looking at his wife, ‘but it’s miles away. Is that right?’
‘Good,’ replies Rose approvingly. ‘But you’ll have to fetch the car to the entrance for us when we leave then.’
‘Is this baby ever going to wake up, honey?’ Mum asks Bronte. ‘Because I didn’t get a chance to hold her on Monday, you know.’
‘Here, have my chair, Sherry, and I’ll
pass her to you.’ Rose gets up and straightens her skirt fastidiously. ‘If that’s all right with Bronte, that is. Yes?’
‘Well, um. I suppose so – like, yeah sure.’
‘You realise that you are going to have to be a bit more definite with your answers, dear,’ says Rose, frowning at Bronte, ‘if you’re going to raise a child. They pounce on any indecision and before you know it – they are the boss and not you. And, let me tell you, that spells disaster.’
‘Um, yeah. Okay.’
Rose shakes her head almost imperceptibly and turns to raise her eyebrows at my mother, who beams back happily from where she has secured herself in the chair. While Rose is thus occupied, I grab the opportunity to get a brief hold of Sherry and dart forwards to pick the baby up gently from her crib. As I lift her, she stiffens momentarily before relaxing and settling back into her sleep. I rock her slowly, drinking in her adorability and feeding off it like some sort of parasite while, once again, she melts me. After a few moments, when my mother’s outstretched arms start to shake, I realise my time is up. So I reluctantly pass the baby down to her great-grandmother. Leaning back in the armchair, Mum smiles beatifically at us all before tucking Sherry’s blanket around and then cradling her against her chest, her attention now focused totally on her charge.
‘Excellent.’ Rose steps back and takes me firmly by the elbow. ‘Because I wanted to talk to you, Teresa.’
‘To me?’
‘Yes, to you. About yesterday.’ Rose ushers me over to the other side of the room as she talks. This seems a particularly pointless exercise as the room isn’t exactly huge and whispering has never been one of her strong suits. Accordingly, we are still well within earshot of everyone else and they immediately all stop whatever it was they were doing to listen in.
‘Yesterday? Oh, great!’ I gently shake my arm loose and look down at Cam’s mother with considerable interest. ‘Actually, I’m so glad you’ve brought that up because I really wanted to ask you. What happened?’
