Hide and Seek

by Amy Bird

  “Ach, with your perfect little spoilt upbringing. Just perfect Little Lord Fauntleroy, with your briefcase and your ducks.”

  “Is that jealousy? Grim up North, was it?”

  I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Is it safe to mock her parents, her upbringing, yet, eighteen months on?

  Ellie turns to me. I hold my breath. She could quite justifiably berate me for what I’ve said. But she doesn’t. Instead, “I wouldn’t think you had everything so perfect, you know,” she says cryptically, as we reach Mum and Dad’s driveway.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  But before she has time to answer, our crunching feet on the gravel alert the parents within, and the door opens.

  “Welcome!” trills Mum, gaily. Good. No crying today then. Closer up, I can see there are bags under her eyes, and a little grey at the temples I’ve never noticed before. And she has another of her jackets on – pink this time, the one she wore when she needed special extra armour for a doubting client. When I hug her, she smells of sherry. I see Dad behind her in the hallway. He gives me a nod, and when Mum releases me, extends his hand for a shake. Never been a big one for hugs, Dad. Bit formal with me. Not keen on physical closeness. Although he must have been with Mum, at least once, of course.

  The door shuts behind us and we’re in. Mum starts fussing around with Ellie’s coat, telling us to ‘Go through, go through’ to the living room, that dinner will be in twenty minutes or so, boeufs en croute. Dad leads us into the living room. But just as we are getting settled, Ellie lowering herself down onto the cushions, Mum comes in and asks if she can ‘borrow’ Ellie. Ellie doesn’t look at all like she wants to be borrowed. But I realise this is another part of the master plan, to leave me alone with Dad. Always know what’s best, don’t they, mums? Ellie is yet to get that wisdom, because she is scowling, but I nod at her and help pull her up from the cushions, and she’s off. It’s just me and Dad.

  “So,” I say.

  “So,” he says back.

  “Mum OK?” I ask.

  He nods slowly. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  I grimace. “Ouch.”

  There’s a pause.

  “So, I was wondering – now that I’m going to be a father, with a son, newly-born thing soon to emerge from… Well, emerge. Let’s leave it at that. Any tips?”

  Dad takes a sip of his drink. “Such as?” he asks, once he’s swallowed his mouthful.

  “Well, I don’t know. I was kind of hoping you’d tell me. Um, what was it like, when I was born, and you were holding me in your arms? Did you know what to do? Was there an immediate connection?”

  “Childbirth’s an amazing thing,” he says. “It’s a real blessing for people.”

  “Right, good.” I take a sip of my drink. Not quite going as I’d planned, this chat. He seems tense, uptight. Maybe things haven’t been so good here, the last couple of days.

  “And, so, what was it like, when you first got me home? Was I a sleeper, a crier, a wailer? Don’t know if it’s hereditary, but if it is, good to be warned, right?”

  Again, a sip of the drink. “When we got you home,” he says, and has another sip.

  “Yes?” I prompt.

  “You took a little while to settle,” he says, finally. “A bit quiet, at first.”

  “That’s a blessing, though, right?” I ask. “A quiet baby? From what Ellie says, I imagine we’ll never sleep again. Not at night, anyway. During the day, we’ll need a special supply of matchsticks to keep our eyes from closing as we drive. Otherwise, it’s falling asleep at traffic lights and level crossings and boom – that’s parenthood over.”

  “We just sat and stared at you, really. Tried to take you in. You looked like you were doing the same. A big change, for all of us.”

  I’m beginning to think maybe Dad has been at the sherry too. Of course it’s a big change – from womb to nursery. Maybe I was just a little monster and he doesn’t want to worry me by admitting it. Part of the stress of sleepless nights must be their anticipation, right?

  “OK, so – here’s the big question. What brand of cigar did you smoke when I was born?”

  And there we go. Another sip of his drink. Looking at Dad closely, there’s some pretty frantic eye-movement going on, like he’s trying to think of an answer. What’s wrong with him tonight? Maybe I’ll try the Ellie approach: joke him out of it.

  “I get it, Dad. Admit it – you missed the birth.”

  That brings his face out of his drink. Very quickly. He chokes a little, so sudden is his movement, mid-mouthful. He stares at me, his eyes wide. I’ve started down this line, so I’d better finish.

  “Yep, I bet you were one of ones who went to the pub and missed the call. Or went to sit on the green, and get high – whatever you guys did back then.”

  He continues to stare at me without speaking. I’m getting a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps I hit some truth here. Did Dad abscond before the birth, or something?

  Ellie comes into the room. I can hear Dad’s sigh of relief. He’s not getting away with it that easily, though – I’ll be back on him in a moment. Ellie’s eyes are a bit wild. I wonder what Mum has been doing to her in the kitchen.

  “I’m going up into the loft,” she announces. “To get the photo albums.”

  I stand up from my chair.

  “Ellie, what? The loft, in your condition?”

  She waves a hand. “It’s just a pull-down staircase. I can climb a staircase.”

  “But you hate going up there at the best of times. And if you fall – ”

  “I won’t fall,” she says.

  “Let me go up,” I volunteer. I can get to the bottom of Dad’s madness later. I have responsibility elsewhere.

  Ellie pushes me down onto the sofa. “There’s no danger,” she says. “I want to.”

  So I let her. My ears follow her up the first flight of stairs, up the second, to the opening of the trap-door, the descent of the foldaway stairs, and her ascent up them. There are no crashes or bangs. I relax. Slightly. Not completely.

  Then Dad speaks. Ellie’s interruption has obviously allowed him to find some words.

  “I was a very responsible parent. I always looked out for you, from the moment I knew you were coming. No matter what.”

  He stands up, and leaves the room. He takes his drink with him. I’m alone in the room with his words. I replay them in my head. Then I keep replaying the last ones. ‘No matter what.’ Why would he say that? Why would Dad, steady old Dad, the actuary, for whom everything is measured, everything assessed, say something like that? What was this ‘what’ that would matter?

  But before I can ponder it further, there is a cry from Ellie.

  Chapter Eight

  -Ellie-

  God, they’ll probably all come running now. Shouldn’t have cried out. They’ll all feel vindicated in thinking I’m a walking baby home that shouldn’t be climbing a loft staircase, not a woman perfectly adept at balancing and other basic life skills. But I couldn’t help crying out. You know what it’s like, when you find something. Something that makes everything fit together. Plus anger. Anger is a good one for prompting you to cry out too. And there’s a bit of that. Because given they knew we were shopping for nursery furniture, you’d think they would have told us.

  But they can all come running now, if they want. I’ve found what I came up here for and more. Wouldn’t have been any good if Will had come up. He’d have gone straight to the photo albums, the usual ones, in that corner, not looked left nor right, like the good little mummy’s boy he is. Definitely mummy’s boy. Rather than daddy’s boy. All makes perfect sense, when you look at the evidence. And apply a bit of educated guesswork. Will’s not the only one who can come up with a thesis.

  And it will serve her bloody well right, her mighty Mumship. Because do you know what she did? Do you know why she wanted to ‘borrow me’? To shut me up. Pure and simple. I mean, does she not know me at all? Has she somewhere along the line total
ly misunderstood me – like a Chelsea Emo, totes misunderstood – and now thinks I’m the simpering sort of daughter-in-law, who not only toes the line but plays footsie with it, caressing it lovingly but never crossing it? Maybe because I was so silent after she did the sidling up to me at the wedding rehearsal with her ‘in sickness and in health speech’, she thinks she can get away with it. Or maybe it’s her ‘now your parents have passed on you need a new mother figure to stop you floundering’ motif (as if you can be a replacement mother, just like that, to such a brilliant one as Mum – and as if I’m floundering)? Because otherwise, why would she have done it?

  So she started off nice enough. Well, I say nice. But how nice is it really to be asked to slice courgettes when you’ve come round to be fed? So anyway, she’s like “Oh, I’m so happy for you and Will, Ellie darling. You must be so pleased.” And I’m like, “It’s not exactly fucking rocket science is it, Mrs S – we are quite pleased.” Except I miss out the fucking bit. And the rocket science. So yes, I just tell her we’re pleased. Then, crafty bitch, she changes tack.

  “It’s so important,” she says, “for Will to have stability right now. No sudden changes, or outside influences, as he tries to become a father. We need to look after him too.”

  I have no idea where she’s going at this stage, although I resent the ‘we’; like she’s still got a say in his life. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to imprison us in her house, away from so-called ‘outside influences’, to protect him. So I hold the courgette knife a little closer. But then, she makes it clearer.

  “Like that CD of, oh, what’s he called?” she says, like she’s forgotten.

  “Max Reigate?”

  “Yes, that’s the one – which you stole from me, you naughty girl!” She waves a carrot at me, to make her reprimand ‘fun’ but it fails. There is no fun in her eyes. I shrug. She plainly thinks everyone who grew up North of the Watford Gap is a thieving rascal, so no point in saying again I was only borrowing it.

  “I know you think it’s a little bit of fun, saying there’s a resemblance between Will and Mr Reigate,” she continues, losing those first name terms, for show. “But saying things like that can lead to all sorts of crazy thoughts. Harmful thoughts. Things that might not be good for Will.”

  “What kind of harmful thoughts, Mrs S?” I ask, all innocence. But I know exactly what she means. Harmful to her. Thoughts that would whip that Surrey mask right off her face. End up with her having to leave this cosy nest she’s been set up in so nicely. The canvas for all her interior designs.

  “That doesn’t matter, Ellie darling. They’d just be harmful. For Will. When you’re a mother, you’ll understand. So just, just drop that one, OK?”

  I take a moment to pretend to consider. Pretend I think she is protecting Will, rather than just herself.

  “Drop the Max Reigate thing?” I ask.

  She nods. I nod back, like I’m still considering it.

  And then, what I do is, very softly, so softly she has to crane her neck to listen, I start humming the main theme of the Max Reigate concerto. And she starts turning red. Not pale this time, like in front of Will and – well, I would say his Dad, but I’m not sure that’s right. In front of Will and John. This time it’s pure anger. Like that look Will had when he was holding the shoe. And I can imagine that at any moment she is going to thrust at me with the carrot peeler. So that’s when I announce that I’m going to the loft, and Will starts his whole ‘You’re a fragile little mother-to-be’ act, which is maybe sweet, maybe patronising, but either way so totally unnecessary – totes unness. And I’m so glad I came up here. Because I have much more proof now, of my little theory.

  So I come down to the edge of the loft. And I can see them all looking up at me, gathered round that little hole, expectantly, like it’s about to give birth to me or something. But I take my own time coming down. And I’ll take my own time about my revelations. Will needs to be the first to know the full weight of them, of course. When we get a moment alone, I’ll tell him. I reckon he’ll be pleased, after the shock wears off. But first, I’m going to make that woman squirm. Teach her she can’t make me keep things from Will, things he needs to know. Plus there’s nothing like a little torture over Sunday dinner.

  Chapter Nine

  -Will-

  Ellie doesn’t say much when she comes down from the loft. My heart is still hammering away in my chest from the run up the stairs. For one absurd moment I think it is beating to the same rhythm as Max Reigate’s concerto. Those are the sort of mad thoughts you have, I suppose, when you think someone you love is in danger. Forget the life flashing before your eyes; my heart becomes a piano.

  I’d expected – dreaded – a fallen Ellie, crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Or maybe clots of blood where they shouldn’t be. But she is composed, aloof almost. The only change to her is a bit of dust on her dress, and that she is clutching some photo albums. Two, I recognise. One, I don’t. I try to take hold of them from her, but she resists. “We can look at them after supper,” she says. She gives me a little kiss on the cheek. As she moves away from me, I see the Ellie spark in her eye. That mischievous look that was there when we first met and she claimed she was conducting research into sperm count (she abandoned the clip-board pretty quickly). Or when she turned up in my office, wearing nothing but a lab-coat. Or when she convinced me we should wear matching skeleton outfits to dinner to celebrate the anniversary of our engagement. It’s the only time I regretted proposing to her by putting a ring on a skeleton’s finger.

  It doesn’t worry me, the look. Because nothing bad has ever happened when she has it. But I know it means we should expect something (other than the baby). Particularly when she has her head down, pretending to look demure, like now. She sits carefully at the dinner table, placing the albums beneath the chair, at her feet.

  It’s not until we’re all seated, embarking on our individual boeufs en croute, that Ellie begins. She doesn’t speak straightaway. First, she clears her throat. I’ve been tapping away at the pastry with my knife, trying to break through to the layers beneath with the minimum damage. At the throat-clearing, I look up. So do Mum and Dad.

  “I just want to say,” begins Ellie, “thank you so much for the crib.”

  At first, I think she is referring to the one we were building yesterday. Which would be odd, because we bought that ourselves. But no.

  “I only wish you’d told us earlier,” she continues. “We wouldn’t have bothered buying our own and trying to build it.”

  This is another crib, then.

  I look at Mum and Dad. They seem as bewildered as me.

  “I mean,” Ellie continues. “You obviously got it quite some time ago. It will need some dusting down.”

  The slightest hint of a frown starts to develop on Mum’s face.

  Whatever Ellie has in store, I decide she could do with moving it along.

  “Mum? Dad? What’s this about?” I ask. I carry on with trying to slice through the pastry without it flying everywhere. A crib is not a big enough matter to let my meal go cold over. At least, not unless I have to try all over again to assemble it.

  “I’ve no idea,” says Mum. “Haven’t been up to the loft for years. It’s your Dad’s lair.”

  “Oh come on, Mrs S, don’t be modest,” says Ellie, with a grin. It’s a wolf’s grin. All teeth, a precursor to ripping people apart. I take her hand under the table. Where is this going? She squeezes my hand and purses her lips at me. ‘I love you’, that means. Our code. I release her hand. All’s well, then. Must be. Ellie continues. “I know you had a role in the surprise. You can’t let Will’s dad” – she emphasises these words strangely – “take all the credit.”

  “I’m not taking any credit,” says Dad.

  Ellie smirks. “No,” she says. “I thought that was the case.”

  I finally manage to cut neatly through the pastry. There is an inviting layer of mushroom stuffing and well-done beef underneath. We used to have it
red. We can’t now, because of the toxins in the blood, might damage the baby.

  “I’m sorry to have spoiled the surprise,” Ellie is saying.

  “Come on, eat up,” I say, through a mouthful of meat. I see Mum glare. I swallow. My bad, talking with my mouth full. Then I see she is glaring at Ellie.

  “I thought, at first, it must have been Will’s old crib. But of course, then I saw the initials.”

  “Ellie, darling, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Mum. “Eat up, your food’s going cold, and there are two of you to feed.”

  “Of course, it’s dark up there. But do you know, I distinctly thought I saw those initials.”

  “I’ve never seen any initials on the crib,” says Dad. He is shooting glances at Mum now.

  “I have no idea what’s going on,” I say, because I haven’t.

  “There aren’t any initials on that crib, unless you’ve drawn them on yourself,” Mum snaps.

  “Mum!” I say, shocked at her tone.

  Ellie doesn’t seem to care, though. She just smiles more broadly.

  “Oh, so you admit that there’s a crib, then?” she asks, making her first incision into the pastry. Neat, no fuss, no mess.

  “Of course I admit there’s a crib. It’s Will’s old one.”

  Ellie brings the knife out of the meat and makes another incision, forming a triangle.

  “What? You have my old crib? Why didn’t you say? That’s awesome. Little Leo can have that. Oh, Christ,” I look at Ellie. “Was I meant to tell them the name yet? Sorry.”

  Ellie does the ‘I love you’ oboe-player lip-purse again, before skewering the section of boeuf en croute she has separated from the rest.

  “Just Will’s crib?” Ellie asks. “Not a hand-me-down from someone else?”

  “Just Will’s,” says Mum.

  I don’t know what Ellie’s game is. I’d say, maybe there isn’t one, maybe she is just pleased we have the crib. But I know Ellie. There is always a game. That aside, the key thing is that there is a crib, and my son will apparently sleep in the same crib that held me.