by Lily Morton
Dylan laughs, and to my consternation, Billy drops his brightly coloured backpack and climbs onto my lap. I sit back slightly, too stunned to do anything apart from put a hand onto his back so he doesn’t fall backwards. Up close, he smells of baby shampoo, toothpaste, and toast. It’s an innocent smell, and I feel a smile tilt my lips as he grins up at me, his brown eyes soft and smiley.
I look up and still at the soft expression on Dylan’s face. For some reason, he almost looks proud, but then he swallows, and grimaces in pain.
“Alistair, order my car, will you, to take Dylan to the dentist,” I say immediately. Dylan opens his mouth to object, and I shake my head. “Don’t argue. You’re in pain. Go and get the tooth sorted so I don’t worry.”
“Oh, okay, just to stop you worrying.”
I raise an eyebrow at that tart remark. “Yet you’re still here.”
Dylan shifts. “Yes, well. I’ve got Billy.”
I stare at him. “Yes, I can see that, Dylan. Why don’t you tell me something that isn’t blatantly obvious.”
“I can’t take him to the dentist with me. I can’t watch him and have dental work done.”
“Oh, okay,” I say quickly, my brain turning over the choices. “So you could ask—”
“I’ve already asked everyone,” he interrupts. An impish look crosses his face. “Help me, Gabriel Foster. You’re my only hope.”
I stare at him, aware that my mouth has fallen open. “Quoting Star Wars won’t help you. You can’t be serious.” I gesture between us. “Out of everyone in Jude and Asa’s lives, you’ve arrived at me as a babysitter. How is that even possible?”
“I agree it’s not ideal.” He pauses. “Or sane.”
“Hey,” I say crossly, but he carries on. Of course he does. Dylan is relentless.
“But you’re the only one. Asa’s away, and Jude’s taken a modelling job in Barcelona.”
“I thought he’d packed in the modelling.”
“He wants to buy Daddy a very special birthday present,” Billy says, leaning against me with his sharp elbow digging into my ribs. I shift him slightly so he doesn’t gouge his way through to the bone. He smiles at me. “He’s buying him a very big picture.” He looks slightly perturbed. “I said a Lego castle would be really good, so we’re giving him that as well because I think a castle is better than a picture. Especially that picture which doesn’t even have any knights in it.” He nods firmly like a tiny king who’s been appeased.
My lip twitches, but then I come back to sanity. “It’s madness.”
Dylan nods. “I know that. You know that. Alistair knows that. Do you know who doesn’t?”
“Who?”
He gestures at Billy. “Him. You were the first person he wanted to be with.”
“Then he’s as barmy as you.” I look at Billy, who has taken a Hot Wheels car out of his pocket and is absorbed with pushing it up and down my arm. Unbidden, a sense of warmth edges through me. Fuck knows why it makes me happy that a very small person who doesn’t even have all his own teeth wants to spend time with me, but I can’t deny it does.
“Okay, I’ll look after him, but don’t say I didn’t lodge an objection on the grounds that this is utter lunacy.” I relent when I look at Dylan and see the pain and concern on his face that he’s trying to hide. “Don’t worry, darling,” I say robustly. “We’ll be absolutely fine.”
“Really?” he asks doubtfully.
I nod very firmly. “Yes. It’s only for a few hours, and then you’ll be back with us.” I look down at Billy. “How bad could a few hours be, Billy?”
He looks up at me. “Quite bad,” he says in rather a judgemental manner for such a small person.
A few minutes later, he and I stand watching Dylan get into the lift. I feel a sense of deep panic, but Billy just looks thoughtful. “I think I’d have liked to go to the dentist,” he says sadly. “Especially if Dylan has his tooth out.”
“Why?”
He looks up at me. “Because the tooth fairy gives me two pounds for my teeth and five if it’s a big one. I think she’d be very pleased if Dylan gave me one of his very big teeth. I might even get more than five pounds.”
“His teeth aren’t that big. He’s not Bugs Bunny,” I mutter and then hastily change the subject when Billy looks like he wants to discuss this. “Do you want to see my office?” I ask quickly.
He nods enthusiastically, and we make our way back. The moment we enter my office, Peter leaps to his feet and then sort of hovers in a half-crouch when he sees Billy. “Oh, erm,” he says slowly. “That’s a child.”
I stare at him. “Thank you, Peter. Your powers of observation are extremely well-honed. Now move off that chair and let Billy sit down.”
He still looks confused. I’m not sure why, as I’ve been extremely clear in my instructions. “The chair,” I prompt.
He quickly sits in the other chair, and I usher Billy to the vacated seat. He scrambles into it, sitting upright with his bag on his lap.
I look down at him. “Yes, erm, well. Peter and I are going to look at his work, Billy. And you can…” I hesitate and then look at his rucksack. “Have you got anything in your bag to do?”
He nods happily and unzips his bag. “Yes. Dylan bought me a colouring book and some new pens, and if we get hungry, I’ve got some banana sandwiches and orange juice.” He pauses. “What does completely and ridiculously helpless mean?”
“Why?” I ask suspiciously.
“Because Dylan said you were that, and I should do some colouring to help you if you looked a bit panicky.”
My eyes narrow. “Did he really?” I say silkily. “Well, we’ll show him, won’t we, Billy. We’re going to have so much fun. So much fun,” I add, and it sounds menacing to my ears.
Once he’s settled and is colouring a picture of a dragon very busily on his corner of my desk, I pull Peter’s work towards me along with my red pen. “Oh, look,” I say. "Another mistake. At this point, I'm beginning to fear that the worldwide supply of red ink will run out before I’ve finished marking this.”
“Would you like to borrow one of my pens, Uncle Gabe?” comes an earnest question from Billy. I blink and look up to find him resting his head on one hand and staring expectantly at me.
“Oh, no, thank you. I was being sarcastic.”
“What does that mean?”
“Erm.” I falter slightly and look at Peter, but of course, he’s no help. “It’s saying something horrid that’s funny.” I hesitate. “Erm, maybe don’t do that,” I say quickly. “I’m not sure whether Daddy and Jude would like that. Stick to being nice.”
“I am nice,” he says, going back to his colouring, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth while he’s concentrating on not going over the lines. “Although when Tom Richards is horrid to me, I don’t think I feel like being nice.”
“Why is Tom Richards being horrible to you?” I say, feeling my temper rise. “What’s he doing?”
He leans forward and says in a confidential tone, “Well, at lunchtime the other day he pushed me off the monkey bars.”
“And what did you do?” I demand.
“I hit him with a branch.”
“Good for you,” I say heartily. “I hope you got a few good whacks in.” Peter clears his throat, and I realise what I just said. “I mean, I think you should probably tell the teacher.”
"Mrs Winters was busy. She’s moving house, so she was talking on the phone a lot. Then she started crying.” He shrugs.
“Is your father paying for this education?” I demand, but Billy’s attention has shifted to looking at the paper in front of me.
“I think you should borrow my purple pen,” he says judiciously.
“Why?”
"Because Mrs Winters says that red pen is a bad sign for children. It feels better if she uses different colours when you make mistakes. Purple means good work. Pink means very good and green means it’s really super.”
“Does that work?” Peter
asks, rather hopefully.
I snort. “Put it this way. We won’t need a refill for the green pen.”
Billy shakes his head. “It doesn’t make me feel better. It’s still pen all over my work.” He thinks for a second. “I'd like sparkly gold, but Mrs Winters hasn’t got that in her pack of pens.”
I press the intercom. “Alistair, could you purchase some sparkly gold pens?” I pause. “Please,” I add.
He chuckles. “Certainly. I’m off to get some coffee. I’ll pop into WH Smiths. Anything else you need, Billy?”
“Are there any other sparkly colours?” he asks somewhat longingly.
“Alistair, take the card. Do some shopping,” I say quickly. “Anything you think he’ll like.” I pause. “And maybe a pencil case and another bag to hold them.” I think of what Dylan would do. “And then take the rest of the day off.”
“Thank you, Uncle Gabe,” Billy says earnestly.
Warmth infuses my chest. “You’re very welcome,” I say somewhat awkwardly.
Silence falls for a few minutes as Billy goes back to colouring, I go back to marking, and Peter goes back to breathing rather noisily through his mouth. I manage to mark two pages with multiple red slashes and notes before Billy stirs again.
“I think I’m hungry now,” he says, capping his pen precisely and rummaging through his bag that has a picture of a cartoon orange fish on it. He removes a Tupperware box and a carton of orange juice and places them on the desk. He hesitates for a second, probably because Peter and I are staring at him as if he’s in a Harold Pinter play. “I like banana sandwiches,” he says somewhat mournfully.
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” I don’t need Peter’s pitying glance at me to know that was too hearty.
Billy sighs. “I just think they taste nicer in the park.”
A panicky feeling kindles to life in my stomach like a nest of baby birds. “Oh, erm,” I stammer. “I thought we’d stay here until Uncle Dylan comes back. Here. In the office. Safely,” I finish.
Peter snorts.
“The park is safe,” Billy says earnestly. “Dylan and me went there earlier, and it’s got a slide and a wooden castle,” he finishes with a longing expression.
The nest of birds in my stomach gather strength and start to fly. He wants me to take him out. Out into the world where other people are and where there are things about that might damage him. I imagine Dylan turning up and having to tell him that I’ve lost or broken Billy. Then I look at his small face and messy hair and sigh. I know when I’m fucking beaten.
“Okay,” I say heavily. “We’ll go to the park. Peter can go home.” Billy’s squeal of delight almost drowns out Peter’s cheer. “Where he will revise this document and present it to me by nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” I add silkily.
Peter nods resignedly as I hand the document over and then hightails it out of the office quicker than a rabbit from a fox.
I stand up and look down at Billy where he’s sitting on the chair, his legs swinging and the light catching on his tiny Star Wars Converse. “Come on, then,” I say in a voice similar to the one Marie Antoinette probably used before they stuck her on a tumbril and told her they were going out for a drive.
It doesn’t have any effect on Billy. He grins and starts shoving stuff somewhat haphazardly into his bag. I resist the impulse to help him, remembering the lecture I’d got off Dylan the other day about letting him develop tiny bits of independence.
When he’s finished, he jumps down off the chair and pulls his coat on before looking up at me expectantly. I freeze. What does he want now? Then I see the hand he’s holding out to me, and I swallow and reach down to take it. It’s sticky and slightly grubby, but it’s warm, and he looks up at me trustingly.
For a brief second, I have a flashback to being a child and looking up at my mother with the same expression. Her smile had been wide and warm, her black hair shining in the sunlight, her eyes soft and loving. I blink. Over the years, her image had lapsed into a dim, gentle shadow, but at this second, she’s startlingly clear in my head.
Billy's hand tightens and brings me back into the moment, and I swallow hard, feeling off-balance. “Are you alright, Uncle Gabe?” he asks, and something about the trust in his eyes makes me open my mouth.
“I just remembered my mother, that’s all. I’m fine.”
“Where is she?”
“Erm.” I try to remember what Jude said Asa had told Billy about his own mum. It comes back to me in a rush. “She’s in heaven,” I say gently.
He studies me intently, and there’s something ancient about his eyes. “My mummy’s in heaven too. Do you think they know each other?”
“I’m sure they do,” I say hoarsely. “They’re probably sitting in chairs together with a cup of tea, watching us.”
His nose wrinkles. “But not all the time?” he clarifies.
I smile shakily, thinking back over the years of my bad behaviour. “No,” I say quickly. “Definitely not all the time.”
“I think your mummy will be very happy that Dylan loves you,” Billy says sunnily. “He’s a very nice person to have love you. He smells nice.”
“He is.” I stop and clear my throat, hoping for a very brief, silly second that my mother can see Dylan. “He is a very lovely person.” I pause. “And yes, he does smell very nice.”
I help him to fasten his coat, kneeling to zip up the jacket. I pause as he throws his arms around my neck. “I like that we’re the same,” he says seriously. “It’s nice because no one else at school is like us. They all have mummies.”
“I’m always here, Billy,” I say softly. “If you want to talk about your mummy to someone who’s the same.”
He nods happily. “And we can talk about your mummy too, Uncle Gabe. She’d like that, I think.”
When we emerge from the building, we pause and blink at the brightness of the sun. I look over the road at the outskirts of the park. I’ve driven past it many times but never, to my recollection, had any desire to go in. I look down at Billy’s happy face and sigh. Here we go.
“Do you know where the playground is in the park?” I ask.
He nods confidently. “Uncle Dylan brings me here a lot.”
I blink. “Does he?” I had no idea of this. “Does he look after you a lot?”
He nods again. “Uncle Dylan and Jude meet for a cup of coffee a lot. I get to play on the swings while they talk and talk and talk.” He pauses. “They talk a lot,” he finishes somewhat darkly.
“You can say that again,” I mutter, thinking of my incredibly chatty fiancé .
“Why? Didn’t you hear me?”
It takes a second for comprehension to dawn. “Oh no, I heard you. I just…” I falter, trying to think of a way to explain. “It’s a way that grown-ups have of saying that they agree with what you said.”
He shakes his head. “Grown-ups are funny,” he says in a very chatty way.
My lip twitches. “Why?”
“They have so many ways of saying things,” he says somewhat sagely.
Billy’s moment of clarity is spoiled slightly by an impatient-looking man in a suit who barrels past us and knocks into him, sending him staggering back. I grab his shoulder gently to steady him and turn to the cross-looking man.
“Hey, idiot. Was there any need for that?” I say sharply.
He turns back in an irritated fashion. “Are you talking to me?”
“I’m looking at you and words are coming from my mouth.” I pause and nod. “It would appear that yes, I am talking to you. The grown man and imbecile who appears unable to use his eyes and nearly knocked a child over.”
“What do you want?”
“Was there any need to bump into the child like that? Look where you’re going, for God’s sake.”
He straightens. “Did someone die and put you in charge of the pavement?”
I sigh. “No, but they should have done. My first act would have been to bar people from them who move with all the gra
ce of Nellie the Elephant on speed.”
“What’s speed?” Billy asks. “Is that something elephants eat?”
I blink down at Billy, noting out of the corner of my eye that the idiot who nearly knocked him down is taking the opportunity to scarper.
“Erm.” A silence ensues while I try frantically to imagine Asa’s face when Billy tells him how I explained a Class A drug to him.
The silence drags out for a few more beats until he gives me a warm smile and squeezes my hand. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t know, Uncle Gabe. I’ll ask Dylan.”
“No!” I shout. He stares at me open-mouthed, and I smile although it’s more of a grimace. “No need to ask Uncle Dylan,” I say heartily. “After all, his mouth will be very sore, and he won’t feel like talking.” Or questioning small children, I hope.
He considers that for a second. “Okey-dokey,” he says sunnily, but just as I breathe a sigh of relief, he grins at me. “Don’t worry. I’ll find out what it is and let you know.”
“Thank you,” I say faintly.
Another pedestrian jostles us—a woman on her phone—and I glare at her before coming to a decision. I bend down and hold out my arms. “Come on. I’ll carry you.”
“I’m five,” Billy says in a very aggravated voice.
I blink. “I know. Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m a big boy. I don’t need carrying.” He says the latter in precisely the same tone that Dylan used when he said he didn’t need a glass of water when he was drunk the other night.
“I know you’re a big boy,” I say, aware that I’m using the voice I drag out with irrational clients. Patient and calm. Who knew it would come in useful in my personal life? I consider using it on Dylan but immediately dismiss the idea, because he’d punch me. “But there are a lot of very big and busy grown-ups around who might knock you over and you’d be hurt. If I carry you, you can’t get hurt.”
“Would you be sad if I fell over?”
I blink, considering it, and then nod. “Yes, I don’t want you to cry,” I say fervently.
