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Peter suggests they walk home rather than taking the bus or a cab. For exercise, he says. It will do her good after eating so much. They stroll back over the bridge, head right, up the hill, leaving the riverside lights to twinkle on the dark water as it falls away behind them. The air is chilly; Samantha pulls her hat as low as it will go, muffles her mouth with her scarf.
‘So, you said you used to teach in a secondary school?’
‘I did. Up in Liverpool. I did my teacher training there and walked into a job teaching history.’
‘What kind of school was it?’
‘What do you mean, what kind of school?’ He laughs. ‘A secondary school. Catholic, is that what you mean?’
‘No, I just meant private or state or … I don’t know really. I guess I was thinking of my school.’
‘Ah yes, the school of hard knocks, wasn’t it? Pig fights in the yard?’
She bristles. Her rural upbringing amuses him, along with other aspects of her life – the fact that she worked as a waitress, as a Saturday girl in the village shoe shop. She doesn’t see what is so funny. Someone like Peter would have been hung out to dry at her school; he wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. He hasn’t had to constantly adapt to his surroundings as she has – soften his accent, correct his grammar, refrain from verbal tics, originally adopted for survival, in case they make him sound stupid. She doesn’t say this, doesn’t say much else as they make their way home. In fact, it is only when they get home that she realises that he never really answered her.
Samantha reaches the crèche almost an hour before class. She needs the extra time if she’s going to settle Emily and still have a moment to catch Harry Boyd. To her surprise, her student Suzanne is chatting to one of the nursery assistants. The assistant says something out of the corner of her mouth and they both laugh. Samantha hasn’t seen Suzanne laugh before, she realises. She looks pretty; her brown hair, which previously looked dull, today is glossy. Samantha thinks perhaps she’s straightened it.
‘Hi,’ she says, cursing the heat creeping up her neck.
They look up and promptly stop laughing. When she sees the baby, however, Suzanne breaks into a warm smile.
‘Oh, Samantha,’ she says. ‘Is this your little girl?’
Samantha feels the blush spread up onto her face. ‘I’m trying her in the crèche today. Peter’s working, so …’
Suzanne is walking towards her, her smile still wide and warm. ‘Oh my God, she’s gorgeous.’ She bends forward, brushes her forefinger against Emily’s cheek. ‘Hey there, little one. Aren’t you beautiful, eh? You’re like your mummy, aren’t you?’
The corners of Emily’s mouth turn up in a gummy, idiotic grin.
‘There’s a smile,’ Suzanne sing-songs – her accent is northern, well-spoken. ‘There’s a lovely little smile.’
It is the most Samantha has ever heard Suzanne say. She is blossoming, as if she prefers the company of babies to adults. Samantha understands her. Babies don’t care who you are, whether or not you’ve pronounced the name of a composer correctly, got the wrong century for an artist, asked for sugar for your coffee. All they need is a kind voice.
‘She’s gorgeous.’ Suzanne is looking at Samantha finally. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Emily.’
‘Aah, what a lovely name.’ Suzanne holds out her arms, raises her eyebrows. ‘Can I have a little hold?’
‘Of course.’ Samantha hands her over, watching with something like delight as the other woman cradles Emily and looks lovingly into her eyes.
‘I didn’t realise you had a child in the crèche too,’ she says.
‘I don’t yet,’ Suzanne replies, her eyes not leaving Emily’s face. ‘I was thinking of bringing our Jo next week, so I just wanted to have a chat, like, see how I felt about the set-up, but they seem nice here. And it means I don’t have to leave her with my mum. I live quite far away, so I don’t like leaving her too long, you know?’
‘Good idea. How old is she?’
‘Only little. Not much older than Emily, to be honest.’ She glances up at Samantha. ‘Shall I take her over to Gail?’
‘No, it’s OK. I can’t chat actually, though. I have to see my boss about something before class.’
Suzanne nods, her expression flattening before animating once again. ‘Listen, do you want me to stay here for a bit, make sure she’s settled? That way you can get off and do what you need to do.’ She turns towards the nursery nurse and calls over, ‘Gail, this is Samantha’s little one, Emily. I was just saying I don’t mind staying on a bit, make sure she’s OK?’
Gail waves and gets up from the floor, where she is playing with bright outsize Lego bricks, the kind Peter has said he will never have in the house.
‘Hello,’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Gail.’
Samantha shakes her hand. She looks so young – late teens perhaps. Finally, someone younger than her in charge of an infant, although she’d rather leave Emily with someone more experienced. Gail tells her there’s a form to fill in, so, leaving the baby clearly very contented with Suzanne, Samantha follows her into the office.
