The Baby (12 page)

The magpies suddenly fly off. She feels a small glow. An ember of something hopeful in the pit of her stomach. And as they stare at each other for a few more surprised seconds, the glow slowly rises up her throat. Her mouth feels wide and warm and she can taste a bubble of laughter. It feels salty and nice. And then a few more, until she has to put her fingers over her lips because suddenly she cannot stop the giggles and the fizz of laughter.

The girl stares at her, a healthy pink to her cheeks. And then she does the same. She puts her hand to her mouth and starts laughing. They stare and laugh. They laugh some more and they look at each other. They bend over with laughter and take some breaths. Alice feels her throat expand to fit in more laughing.

If she looked this up in her favourite medical book it would say that this was a symptom of happiness. That is definitely a fact.

Jonty hisses out his breath and feels the tendons and muscles strain in his arms as he works out. Ten more of these and then fifty sit-ups. Then twenty minutes on his legs. He's pleased with how he looks.

He won't think of Olivia. But by thinking that, all he does is let images of her flood through.

Twenty press-ups as punishment.

Instead he thinks of his mum as he's in her old room. He's made it into his gym now.

She left on Mother's Day. One minute she was there, the next she was gone. He bought her a good card. Glitter on the word ‘Mother', a nice verse. He was going to give it to her when he got back from his run. She liked a lie-in on a Sunday and he thought he might bring her a tea in bed.

Only when he got back, after a forty-minute run, she wasn't there. Her bedroom was empty. Her bed was smart and made-up, her pillows plumped high. Her wardrobe was bare apart from an old grey suit. It hung in the space like a ghost.

There was the telltale fragrance of her Chanel perfume freshly sprayed. He knew by its strength that it was only recently squirted. It was only a matter of minutes.

He now sees her only once, maybe twice a year. Depending on how busy she is.

And it is a worry; one which stays with him even now, several years on, that maybe she left because he didn't give her the Mother's Day card in time. Maybe this upset her. He should have done a shorter run.

The thought hangs at the back of his brain like her old suit
left in the wardrobe.

So now, lifting weights, he remembers what the woman from anger management at school said and thinks about that card. It is still in its envelope although it's been opened and looked at many times. He keeps it in a shoebox at the back of his wardrobe alongside a few other things which he wants to keep.

Stuff to do with Olivia.

He's messed up big time. He knows he has. He's let the one person who meant anything to him trickle through his fingers. And instead, he's gained a snivelling, screaming thing as a result.

And now, God only knows why, but his nan has sided with Nicola and wants him to take some responsibility.

Thirty chin-ups on the bar, while he contemplates that.

Sometimes he swears he can still smell his mum's perfume in the room.

And twenty press-ups to finish.

‘Are you ready for tomorrow?' Jonty's nan plonks a plate in front of him. It's brimming with gravy; too full. There's a brown drip which dollops on to the table. He closes his eyes and tries not to think of the stain. Can't stand mess.

‘Did you put butter in the mash?' He asks, staring at the pile of creamy-looking potatoes.

His nan sighs and shakes her head. ‘No. You needn't worry, there's not a scrap of extra calorie in there apart from the potatoes themselves.'

She disapproves of his calorie-counting. She thinks it's
something only girls should worry about. He's told her enough times that it's because of his training. But she's still suspicious.

He tucks in and hopes that she's forgotten her original question.

But two pork chops later, while he's scooping up his peas, his nan tries again. Her fork is poised. The skin around her wrists is etched with sore-looking eczema. She's never ill. She might have wrinkles and look about a hundred, but the way she acts makes her seem younger.

‘I said are you ready for tomorrow? You know … with Eliza?'

Jonty shrugs. ‘What's wrong with your wrists?'

She pulls her sleeves down awkwardly. ‘Nothing. I need some cream, that's all. Might be stress.'

He frowns. ‘What are you stressed about?'

She sighs and reaches for his empty plate. ‘As if you need ask.'

Jonty stares at the blob of gravy on the table. He knows what's coming.

‘It's not every day you get told you have a surprise great-granddaughter and that your grandson doesn't want to know.'

He feels the familiar flick of anger at these words. They've been said over and over again for the past few weeks. He sighs. Gives in. Takes the four strides into the kitchen to retrieve the dishcloth. Swipes at the brown gravy on the table. Immediately he feels better.

‘I've said I'll see her, haven't I?'

His nan, leaning against the table, the two plates still in her left hand, nods slowly. ‘You have.'

‘And I've agreed to talk to Nicola, haven't I?'

Another slow nod. ‘Finally. After nearly three months …'

‘So what's your problem?'

His nan moves her eyes from Jonty's face to the plates in her hand. There's the soft tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. Jonty rarely hears this. But today, in the silence, it enters his head.

‘There isn't a problem, Jonty. I just want you to take this seriously. I don't think you have any idea of what you've got yourself into and I want to help.'

He sniffs. Closes his eyes and wants desperately to be somewhere else. With his mates he can lash out. Hit stuff. Snarl. Swear. But here, in this bungalow with his nan who goes lunatic if she hears anything close to a swear word, he has to watch himself. It pisses him off. But he's learnt to hold it together. Just.

His words come out a bit gruff. ‘You'll be here, won't you?'

His nan smiles so that her eyes squeeze up. ‘Of course.'

The clock seems to get louder.

Nicola and Eliza arrive at twenty past ten, Sunday morning. His nan is at the door before he can log off his laptop. He hears her chattering away. Like this is perfectly ordinary.

He stands in the bedroom doorway, looking into the hall, his shoulder embedded into the door frame, watching them
talk like they're firm friends. He doesn't know how women do this.

He catches Nicola's eye when she looks over his nan's shoulder. There's an awkwardness as strong as a knife between them, but also something else. Something Jonty hasn't seen before in Nicola. The thrust of her chin and the brightness of her eyes are new. This girl means business.

He lowers his head as she turns round and pulls in the buggy over the step.

Flashes of that mad couple of weeks flicker behind his eyes. He remembers how cross he'd been with Olivia. How everybody seemed to fancy her. How boys flirted and craved her company even though he was quite blatantly her boyfriend. How she didn't discourage it; some might say promoted it, with her wide smiles and loud laughter. How Nicola was there. Soft. Kind of vulnerable. Quieter. Like him, a bit pushed out. And how surprisingly thrilling it was. How she'd taken him by surprise with her interest and friendliness. Sexy. He shakes his shoulders. But ultimately stupid. That kind of stupidity ends in tears. And doesn't he know it now?

Because being yanked inside behind Nicola is the result of their stupidity: the baby.

He swallows. Why the hell did his nan agree to this?

Nicola turns the buggy round with a flourish, like a magician. He winces. Can't bear to look. His nan bends her arthritic knees and oohs. Fusses and strokes at the baby. Nicola speaks to Jonty over his nan's head. ‘Is this OK?'

Jonty shrugs. Wanting to scream,
No, it's not OK. Just GET
OUT and take the baby with you
. But his mother's presence hangs around the hallway and his nan has eyes as grey as gravestones. He knows what he has to say.

‘I suppose.' He speaks gruffly.

Nicola seems anxious. ‘I'm going for a swim.' She drops her eyes, ‘I can't get much exercise with her around.'

Jonty knows. If there's one thing he's an expert on, it's exercise. He can see she's lost most of her baby weight, but even so, she probably wants to tone up. He nods again. Doesn't know where to look. Can't look at her body – doesn't want all that to start again – but can't quite manage to look at the baby either. So he stares at his nan's skinny shoulders.

Nicola fills the silence. ‘I won't be long. Two hours at the most.' She gives him a weird look. One he's not quite sure about. ‘And your nan'll be here all the time?'

He ducks his head. Ashamed. ‘Yeah.' Hates that she has to ask.

Jonty's nan uses the buggy to support herself. She looks at Jonty, boring those gravestone eyes into his. ‘We'll be fine, won't we?'

Jonty looks at the open door. Sees the space between the buggy and the outside and has a sudden vision of escaping through the gap. Running full pelt down the road, the wind whipping his hoodie, the freedom filling his lungs.

‘There's a bottle in the bag and a change of nappy if she needs one. She'll probably wake up in half an hour. There's a fresh dummy in the side pocket and the wipes are in the front.' Nicola's prattling on but it's like she's using foreign words.
His nan's nodding encouragingly like she wants all this to happen.

When the conversation is over and Nicola's turning for the door, he realizes that this is for real; that he really is being left holding the baby.

Once the door is firmly closed he can breathe again.

His nan is grinning like a mad thing. She wheels the buggy into the lounge and stares inside with a goofing softness.

He allows himself a quick glance at the bundled-up figure. A pale-pink dummy and a nose the size of his fingernail. She's wrapped in a checked blue blanket and seems to be asleep.

He wonders what he's supposed to do. Stands awkwardly. His hands by his side, watching his nan coo and murmur over a sleeping thing which might as well be a doll. Women make fools of themselves where babies are concerned.

To his horror, she starts to unpeel the blanket.

‘What you doing?' If it were up to him the baby could stay in exactly that position until Nicola returned. She seems safe enough, bundled tight in her blanket.

‘It's hot in here. I thought I'd get her out.'

The baby sighs and her eyes flutter open for a moment, then the dummy slides from her mouth as his nan draws her from the buggy. He can't take his eyes off the expression on his nan's face; she has a faraway look. She stares at the baby and slowly shakes her head from side to side then glances up at Jonty as she lowers herself on to the sofa. ‘She's got your eyes.'

Jonty's heart jolts. He even takes a step back into the
hallway. His calf bangs against the telephone table.

He's never thought of that.

That this baby might look like him, be a part of him, has never, ever crossed his mind.

But what his nan says next has him even more jumpy.

Staring at the sleeping baby she whispers, ‘Before Nicola comes back, I want a photo of you two together, for your mum.'

‘What?' The telephone table clatters.

Unmoved, still entranced by the baby's face, his nan says, ‘A photo. Your mum wants to see her.'

Gobsmacked. Dried-up mouth. ‘She knows? You told her?'

Jonty can't believe it. He doesn't want to think of her reaction. Has shunted the thought into the depths of his mind, to face up to on his mum's next visit. She comes maybe twice a year and stays for the day. It's usually the day before Christmas Eve and once in the summer. They're tense, crap days that leave him wired. Even before the morning is out, his mum and his nan will be arguing, and she'll have said something to make Jonty feel like he's disappointed her. She never mentions the Christmas card, the birthday card and the Mother's Day card that he will have unfailingly sent to her with his nan, the only person allowed her address. A stupid, insulting rule which pisses him off. But even Google can't seem to find her. He's tried enough times.

And he doesn't mention that she never sends him anything – except the obligatory twenty-pound note he gets on Christmas morning, unfolded from his nan's bony hand.

His nan drags her eyes from her great-granddaughter up to her grandson. ‘Yes. I rang her last weekend.'

Jonty gulps – like they do in cartoons. There's a lump as hard and as bold as a conker in the centre of his throat. He wants to shout. Wants to ask,
What did she say? Will she ever speak to me again?
It's annoying how this still matters to him. Instead he stares at his nan. The words ram up against the conker.

The baby, in the crook of his nan's arm, shifts slightly. One of her hands flashes tiny mother-of-pearl fingers in her sleep. Jonty sneaks a look. Her features are miniature. There's a pink glow to her cheeks; she has small strands of dark, kinked hair which are sticking to her scalp. It hurts to look at her so Jonty looks at the carpet instead.

His nan starts to talk. ‘She needed to know, Jonty. She's your mother. You know, when she had you she was on her own. She'll know exactly what it's like for Nicola. It was really hard, with no one else on the scene and me living far away. She wanted to keep her job and she wanted to keep you.'

So why doesn't she want me now
? It still makes him angry, even after all this time.

There's a glow fizzing in Jonty's stomach. No one ever talks like this in his family. It's hard to stay still. He brushes his ankle against the table. He can't sit down.