After Cleo (28 page)

You'd think getting a few shots of a cat behaving naturally around a house would be easy but Jonah had no intention of making the cameraman's job a breeze. When I tried to hold him on my lap and stroke his fur as a demonstration of cat/human-slave devotion, Jonah flattened his ears, wriggled slippery as a pumpkin seed out of my grasp and galloped down the hall.

The cameraman wasn't fazed and said he'd like a shot of me carrying Jonah through the front door and outside. My throat tensed. From Jonah's perspective any trip out the front door presented an opportunity to run away and give the black cats down the street the insults they deserved.

I nervously picked our pet off the floor as the cameraman positioned himself outside on the front path. Jonah tensed in my arms as I turned the front door handle and stepped on to the verandah, trying to look relaxed. So far so good. Jonah and I were presenting the perfect picture of bonding across the species.

But then the security door slammed behind us and the highly strung animal jumped two feet in the air. Yelping, I stretched my arms out to grab him. Fortunately, as gravity pulled him back toward me, I was able to gather him up.

I was exasperated and a little embarrassed by our unco-operative cat, but the cameraman was unruffled. He had a background in wildlife filming – quite apt given the circumstances – and just shrugged and moved on to film an interview with Rob, who'd escaped from work for an hour.

Not sure what to do next, I laid lunch out on the table for the camera crew. I imagined their work was probably over for the day. But the cameraman was indefatigable. He spent the afternoon creeping around after Jonah, crawling along the floor recording his exhibitionist antics, bouncing down the hall like a kangaroo, flashing up and down stairs like a lightning bolt.

Even after Jonah was exhausted and collapsed on a sofa cushion, the cameraman kept filming, with the cat opening his eye every so often to check he was still centre of attention.

Admittedly, the wildlife filming approach was suitable for Jonah, but I was dubious how the end product would look. I needn't have worried. When I finally saw the programme, it was exquisitely made. The door-slamming incident had been tactfully edited out. Jonah came across as the outlandish creature he is – even though the dubbing was beyond my schoolgirl French.

New Life

Few joys are greater than the arrival of a new generation

Life had changed since the publication of
Cleo
. It was taking on different shapes and colours at home, too. On one of their Sunday lunch visits, I noticed Chantelle wasn't drinking any wine. There was a possibility she was on a diet, though hardly necessary in her case. The alternative scenario was too exciting to contemplate.

Lydia and Katharine were clearing plates from the table when Chantelle broke the joyous news. Their baby was due early June. Philip, the girls and I smothered her with kisses while Rob sat back, trying to contain his pride.

Blushing, Chantelle said they hadn't intended it to happen so soon. She'd been to a psychic who'd said they wouldn't have a baby for another three years, so they'd relaxed a bit. It was wonderful news, though I have to confess the concept of Rob, my little boy, becoming a father was mind-bending. Lydia and Katharine were heading into Auntsville. Philip, my toy boy, was morphing into a grandfather. And me – a
grandmother
?!

I suddenly understood why Mum had been so prickly about the dismal range of grandmotherly titles available – Nana (too goat-like), Grandma (too
Little Red Riding Hood
), Granny (well, honestly). A Maori friend said he called his grandmother Kuia, which looked lovely on paper, but processed through an Australian accent would inevitably be pronounced ‘Queer'. If I had to be called anything, I decided it might as well be vague and non-threatening so I took a leaf out of the Teletubbies' book and opted for Lala.

During the months that followed, Jonah took a special interest in Chantelle's changing body shape. Every Sunday lunchtime he deigned to curve himself around her bulge, his head pressed against her stomach as if listening for a heartbeat.

Months whirled past, and before we knew it the baby was a week overdue. There'd been a few false alarms, but every time it looked like something was happening the contractions faded away. By this time Chantelle was fed up. Rob was on edge. I'd run out of knitting wool.

On Wednesday night, five days after baby Brown was due, the family put in bets for when he/she would arrive. Being an optimist, I opted for Friday. Lydia and Katharine chose Saturday. When Philip put in his bid for Sunday, I told him the poor parents couldn't possibly wait that long.

On Friday morning, Chantelle sent a text saying the contractions were regular and they'd be heading into hospital in a couple of hours. After several hours' silence I sent a text: ‘?' A reply came back straight away ‘0. Contractions gone away.' Saturday was no better.

In the early hours of Sunday morning, I struggled out of bed for my usual nocturnal visit to the bathroom. The bedside clock was glowing 3.15. As I rolled back into bed, my mobile phone bleeped to life. Fingers trembling, I fumbled to get the text message open. It was from Rob. Baby Annie had just been born, weighing nine pounds. Mother and daughter (and father!) all well. Room A24.

Flicking the light on, I shook Philip awake. He'd just become a grandfather. I asked him what he wanted to be called. Not Pop or Grandad, surely? ‘How about Papa?' I suggested, planting a kiss on his prickly cheek. ‘Papa and Lala had a ring to it.' Philip smiled and nodded sleepy agreement.

Confident I wouldn't be getting any more sleep, I got up and put the kettle on. A stardust baby had arrived on planet earth. She wasn't ours, but with any luck part of her life would be entwined with ours in a dance of parenthood two steps removed. No broken nights or parent–teacher interviews, but plenty of excuses to go to the zoo, see
Disney on Ice
and act like a kid again.

Lydia and Katharine tumbled out of their beds when they heard the news and scrambled into their clothes. Jonah was wide awake and wired, having been moved off his favourite sleeping pillow – Katharine's arm. If we were off on an early morning mission he was determined to accompany us, thrusting himself at the front door, head-butting the panels and meowing urgently. Like clowns in a bullfight, we each took turns diverting his attention so that one after the other we could slip outside on to the verandah.

Last one out, I reminded Jonah he had an important job to do looking after the house and closed the door. As the car backed on to the sleeping street, we gazed up at the living room to see an unmistakable silhouette pressing its nose against the window. Two headlamps of eyes glowered annoyance.

Cameras in hand, we strode through grey hospital corridors. I was half expecting to be stopped by a belligerent nursing sister, the type who used to roam maternity wards keeping a stopwatch on visiting hours. But those old girls had long gone, along with their enema bags.

The hospital was in a pre-dawn coma. Not a rattle of a trolley or breakfast tray to be heard. Our pace quickened as we headed for Room A24. Turning a corner we encountered an elderly Indian man sitting on a chair in the corridor, a small boy perched on his knee. The old man's face was deeply creased and his eyes rheumy with age, yet he was smiling like the sun. Well into his eighties, he didn't have many years left but his daughter (or possibly granddaughter) was behind one of the doors tending to a new life that had stripped any sadness from his old age. It struck me then how lovely maternity wards are compared to the other worry-filled floors of a hospital.

Barely able to contain our excitement, we finally found Room A24 and burst in on a charming nativity scene. Though Chantelle looked tired, as did Rob, their smiles were triumphant and tender as we hovered over the tiny bassinette. Under her pink and white blanket Annie was very pretty, her domed head sprinkled with wisps of brown hair, her starfish hands with tapering fingers.

Holding the comforting weight of my granddaughter for the first time, I studied her face and thought of the hundreds of thousands of people who were part of this little human. Some of her features were familiar: her almond-shaped eyes were not unlike Rob's when he was a newborn, and her cupid-bow mouth could've been stolen from Mum. There was fortitude in that face, too – an inheritance from a long line of women unafraid of swimming against the tide.

Entranced by the little face, I could have gone on studying her for hours, but Annie had a queue of admirers desperate to embrace her and begin their own story with her. I kissed her little forehead and with great care transferred her to Aunt Lydia.

‘Be careful how you hold her,' I instructed. ‘Make sure you support the . . .'

‘Yes, I know,' said Lydia smiling softly down at her niece. ‘Neck.'

My older daughter never ceased to surprise me. Where had she learnt how to hold babies properly? Perhaps it was an extension of her work with disabled people, or the Sri Lankan orphanage.

As Lydia gazed down at the infant, tenderly stroking her head, I was reminded of my favourite work by Leonardo da Vinci, the cartoon painted around 1500 and on display in London's National Gallery. Lydia's expression mirrored the Virgin Mary's and St Anne's as they admired the Christ child in the painting.

While the subject of Da Vinci's work is divine, he used everyday women for models. It was heart-warming to see the surge of nurture experienced by two beauties 600 years ago echoed by a young woman in a twenty-first century maternity hospital. Underneath all the so-called advances, humans haven't changed.

Flushed with emotion, Lydia rocked and cooed over the bundle. She had such a strong maternal instinct, which was what had driven her to care for the weak and infirm, heal the world. Perhaps one day she'd feel ready to set those impossible ideals aside and settle for a man who understood her, and a child of her own.

Just as I was picturing her conventional future, monk and monastery free, Lydia turned to the exhausted parents.

‘Would you mind if I chant?' she asked.

Gratitude

Do not judge cats or daughters – if it can be avoided

As Rob and Chantelle adjusted to the rigorous demands of night feeding and deciphering the needs of their tiny daughter, I marvelled at the enormity of parenthood. Impossible to describe to those who haven't ‘been there', becoming a mum or dad changes people profoundly. While Annie thrived and grew plump, her parents transformed into serious adults, always putting their daughter first.

Well into her second year of Psychology, Lydia continued scoring great marks. The grey bus made regular appearances outside the house, and she ran fundraisers for the University Buddhist Society. Her life seemed too earnest. The countless hours spent meditating in her room upstairs gave her a disconnected, unworldly manner. I sometimes felt we were sharing the house with a phantom rather than a twenty-five-year-old. My anxiety about her throwing herself into religion was dwarfed by my concern that she might lose her identity. I worried our daughter might float away like a balloon while we watched, helpless. Every now and then I'd hear her chatting animatedly in Sinhalese on the phone. She was still in touch with the monastery.

In the meantime, I was due for my two-year breast cancer check-up. The night before it, I lay awake unable to get back to sleep. It was hard to believe so much time had gone by since the mastectomy and Jonah bursting into our lives. Jonah wasn't a kitten anymore. He panted when I flicked the fishing rod too fast these days.

From a health perspective, the past two years had consisted of, among other things, pains and pinches I probably wouldn't have noticed pre-cancer. I'd also endured tiredness that was overwhelming at times. Then again, I'd been fool enough to write a book in the middle of it.

Confronting my own mortality had been more challenging than I'd imagined. Though the thought of my life ending was nowhere near as devastating as the loss of Sam, I was surprised to find a tiny part of me believed, despite all the evidence, I'd live forever. A remnant from youthful days when I never thought about dying, it wasn't particularly helpful. Life was richer now I understood how swiftly it slips away. Cancer had taught me to live like a cat, savouring every moment.

I'd experienced the unbelievable highs of Rob's wedding, finding out my book about Cleo had become an international bestseller, and the joy of welcoming a granddaughter into the world. My glass was overflowing.

Driving off to meet Philip at the clinic, I assured Katharine and Lydia that everything would be fine – though I didn't entirely believe it. With a trusty book of crosswords concealed in my handbag, I parked outside the clinic and caught the lift to the fourth floor. Four's an unlucky number, according to Chinese superstition. Eight, on the other hand, is incredibly lucky. Feeling queasy as the lift sailed skyward, I silently doubled the four and pretended I was going to eight.

The clinic waiting room featured the same
Architectural
Digests
as two years earlier: ‘Marrakesh Meets Malibu'. One of the reason people live in glamorous homes is to lull themselves into the fantasy that they're immune from life's harshness.

Courage, I've discovered, isn't my line of expertise. It was easier to be brave about breast cancer two years earlier when I didn't know what I was pretending to be brave about.

I grabbed a paper cup and squeezed hot water out of a tap to make peppermint tea. I was more health conscious these days. A red-haired woman in full army kit stepped out of the elevator. An old Greek woman with purple legs eased herself cautiously into a chair next to me. A couple of seats along from me was a disgruntled-looking woman with dyed hair chopped so savagely short she resembled a hedgehog. A young Indian woman came in to have her dressings changed. Breast cancer isn't choosy. Last Thursday had taken a hundred years off her life, she told the nurse.