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‘Well, let’s not have Great-Granny for a start,’ Joyce says, attempting to cover the sharpness with a kind of half-laugh. ‘I feel ancient enough as it is. How about Nana? Or Nonna, like the Italians? Nonna Joyce. Then it’s neither one thing nor the other. How would that be?’
Naomi’s shoulders lower a fraction. ‘Nonna Joyce. That’s so cute.’
She puts Tommy’s seat on the floor and crouches down to unbuckle him. Lifting him out, she brings her face close to his. ‘Tommy, this is Nonna Joyce,’ she sing-songs. ‘She’s your great-grandmother on your daddy’s side.’ The tips of her ears are red, the line of her parting white. Her neck is so fine, fine enough that Sam could almost circle it with one hand.
She stands, still cuddling the baby. Finally she tears her eyes from him and appears to offer him to Joyce. But Joyce throws up her hands.
‘Very kind of you, love,’ she says, looking flustered. ‘But let him go to his daddy first, surely?’
‘Oh. Sorry.’ Naomi blushes and Sam feels desperately for her. They are strangers again really. Strangers who know each other well.
‘I’ll let you two get organised.’ Joyce turns and heads towards the back of the house, hobbling slightly and pushing the heel of her hand to her hip.
Naomi watches her for a moment.
‘Has Joyce hurt herself?’ she asks with concern. ‘She looks like she’s limping.’
‘Just gets a bit stiff,’ he says. ‘A little unsteady on her feet sometimes if she’s been in one position too long.’
She appears to consider this before smiling and placing the baby into his arms.
‘There,’ she says. ‘Thomas Joshua Harper, say hello to Sam.’
Harper. Not Moore. Not even Harper-Moore. He says nothing. It doesn’t matter, not for the moment. They can talk about that a little further down the road.
Tommy is heavy, heavier than Sam imagined, and warm, oh so warm against his chest. His head smells of soap and milk and something mildly medical – antiseptic perhaps. Sam turns the child towards him and gazes into his blue eyes, sees himself, tiny, reflected. This is a miracle, he thinks. Nothing short of an actual miracle. He does not voice the thought aloud. Wonders if he can speak at all.
‘Hello there, little fella,’ he whispers after a moment, shifting the boy again in his arms, unable to keep the grin from his mouth as he speaks.
‘You can talk to him normally, you know,’ Naomi says. ‘You don’t need to whisper.’
‘Sorry. I was afraid I’d frighten him.’ He brings the baby closer, until their noses are almost touching. ‘I’m your daddy. Yes I am. Can you say daddy? Da-da? Can you say da-da?’
Naomi laughs, breaking him from his trance. ‘Look at you. You’ve gone soft already. But we said Sam for now, remember? Sorry.’
‘Oh God, no,I’msorry.’ He feels the heat creeping up his neck. When he tears his eyes away from his son’s, he sees that Naomi is studying him like a cat on a wall.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t matter too much. It’s just for now. If we forget, we forget.’
‘Thanks. It’s all such a lot to get used to.’
Naomi has written Tommy’s routine on a piece of paper, which she hands to Sam once they are in the kitchen. Taking it from her, he feels under scrutiny from Joyce. But whenever he looks towards her, she appears not to be watching them.
Naomi unpacks her kitbag, which is full of nappies, bottles, baby wipes and little jars of organic food she has prepared herself.
‘I even cook now,’ she says. ‘I batch-cook actually. Get me.’ She giggles.
‘Amazing.’
The bag opens out and becomes a changing mat.
‘Heavens,’ comes Joyce’s voice from over by the stove. She is watching them after all. ‘All mod cons.’
‘All the gear,’ Naomi jokes, though her voice is smaller than usual. ‘You know me.’
Yes, I do, Sam thinks. I do know you.
While Sam heats the bottle, Joyce tells them she’ll leave them to it and disappears. Immediately, the air relaxes, as if the room is exhaling. Naomi shows him how to test the temperature of the milk on the back of his hand, tells him to shake it really well to make sure there are no hot spots.
