‘Tell me, Bunny, it’s OK.’
She stared into her lap and spoke.
‘All I can think about, all I can envisage, isproblems. Ben obviously doesn’t know what to say and God only knows what he’s up to, anyway; my body took a beating from my first pregnancy, and I dread to think what this will do to it. Money is all right, I think, but anothertwo…And Pixie, I’m so bloodytired. I already feel pulled in too many directions – how will I survive? The sleepless nights almost killed me last time, then the agonies of feeding, the treadmill of nappies and washing and worry. I don’t know if I candoit again.’
Through my confused and conflicted feelings emerged one, stronger than the others, a deep sense of compassion. Feeling tears in my own eyes, I squeezed her hand.
‘Bunny, ofcourseyou are scared and worried. There’s more to having babies than lullabies and bunny rabbit onesies. If you’re feeling dread – well, that’s all right, and I think it’s better that you’re talking about it rather than trying to hide it.’
She went very still. Had I said the wrong thing? Offended her? The thick silence pulsed between us, before she looked up at me.
‘Thank you. Oh, thank you, Pixie. I don’t know what I’ll – what we’ll – do, I don’t know what I canbear, but thank you for understanding, for not telling me I’m a wicked person.’
‘Of course you’re not wicked. Far from it. You’re a loving mother and a human being. This stuff isn’t straightforward. Come on, do you think you couldnotthink about it for a bit? You don’t have to right now. A spot of den making with those two might take your mind off it, and once the news has sunk in, then you’ll have a clearer idea of how you feel.’
We took our drinks and headed back towards the living room and the playing children, doubtless both of us picturing what life would be like with another pair in the mix.
ELEVEN
The afternoon passed quickly, and Bunny put aside her distress and threw herself into the game, even creating a sort of belltower for the den out of some small, firm window seat cushions, that you could pop your head up through, like a meerkat. Of course, I was doing just this, two stick-shaped potato snacks wedged into my mouth like teeth, when Lando walked in. Again, I saw that glimmer of a smile cross his face, that led me to believe there was great humour behind that almost dour exterior.
‘This looks like fun.’
‘Come in, Uncle Lando. You can be the dragon.’
‘I would like nothing more, but I’ve been sent to get you by Pilar. Early supper, before the panto?’
I glanced at my watch, horrified. The time had slipped by so quickly. I surreptitiously eased the snacks out of my mouth and crawled out of the den, telling myself that dignity was more a state of mind than body.
‘Your uncle’s right, it’s later than I realised. Come on, let’s get cracking.’ I turned to Lando. ‘I’ll get them settled and I’ll come and put all this away.’
‘Don’t worry, stay with them. I’ll sort it. Excellent den, by the way.’
I grinned at the unexpected kindness.
‘Thanks. One of my many talents.’
‘I can imagine.’
Was heflirtingwith me? I didn’t have time to think about it as the children dragged me off to the kitchen, the den forgotten and their minds now on tonight’s panto, the breathless questions coming thick and fast.
‘Do you think there will berealponies? Can I have one of those sparkly spinny wand things? There will be ice cream at the interval, won’t there? What can we wear, Penny?’
An hour later, we assembled in the hall. Everyone was going, including Pilar, who told me she loved panto, even if she found it completelydesconcertante, which together we worked out translated as ‘bemusing’ or ‘bewildering’.
‘There are men as women, women as men and the audience are told to shout out things all the time,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Muy extraño.’
Daphne had taken Ben’s ticket at the last minute and would meet us there. We piled into two cars for the short journey, and by the time we arrived, we were all as buoyant as the children. The red brick Victorian theatre on the edge of the village green was buzzing with activity. Families were milling around, their breath rising like smoke in the cold air, as they waited for latecomers and dug through bags or scrolled through phones looking for their tickets. I remembered the many times I had been taken to the panto as a child and felt a sudden longing for my parents. I switched my phone back on for the first time that day and sent them a quick message, with a photo of the colourful theatregoers. I resolutely ignored my mixed feelings about the fact that Timothy had still not acknowledged my text. Many of the children had dressed up for the occasion, including our two. Phina was resplendent in a ladybird costume complete with a sticky out red tulle skirt, heart antennae and spotty net wings and Caspian had opted for a grey wig, blue boilersuit and fake glasses, which made him look like Einstein come round to plumb in your washing machine.
‘Neither of you looks resoundingly Christmassy,’ said Lando, ‘but I admire your creativity.’
‘You really should have dressed up too,’ said Seraphina, twirling around. ‘You could have come as Elvis.’
He roared with laughter. It was a treat to see him in such a good mood, but it wasn’t doing much for my ‘keep it casual’ fantasies.
‘What do you know about Elvis?’
‘Lots. He sang about teddies and wore a sparkly white suit and ate hamburgers. I’dloveone of those suits for Christmas.’
