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‘Yes! Don’t worry. She’s going to go away for two hours. Like a trial shift. If it goes OK, I can have him all day next week.’
She nods brusquely, her mouth puckered tight. ‘Righto. I’ll pour your coffee once she’s gone, else it’ll go cold.’ Stiffly she returns to the stove.
Naomi is back, a huge cuboid hanging from sturdy straps in one hand, a quilted baby-blue thing in the other.
‘Lesson four,’ she says. ‘How to put up a travel cot without losing a finger.’
Fifteen minutes later, Tommy is settled in the travel cot, in the spare room that they’ve decided, to Sam’s suppressed delight, will be his nursery when he’s here.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ Naomi says – that warm hand again, this time on his shoulder. ‘Any worries, just call, yeah? I won’t go far. But you’ll be fine. You’re a natural. I’ll see you in two hours.’
Quietly Sam reiterates her instructions for Tommy’s lunch, and she nods and says, yes, that’s it, perfect, then gives him a wide smile and a little wave.
In the silent dimness, he listens to his son breathe. He feels capable. Trusted. When they were together, she was always snatching things from him, low mutters escaping from pursed lips –oh for God’s sakeorI can’t watchorhonestly, it’s too painful–before performing whatever task it was correctly. But now he has passed all the tests she has set for him, with flying colours.
After a moment, he kneels on the floor and rests his head on the old carpet before lying flat on his stomach. He will pull up this carpet, he thinks. Sand the boards. The mesh sides of the cot allow him to watch his son: the bud of his tiny mouth; his papery, shell-like nails; his whipped, downy hair.
His breathing stops. For a moment, Sam’s heart clenches. But then Tommy releases the warmest, sweetest, gentlest breath.
‘Miracle,’ Sam whispers, fingertips pressed to the mesh. There are no words for what he feels in his heart. To be a father, to lie on the floor and watch his son sleep, is the most everyday thing and yet so extraordinary it makes his breath catch in wonder. Nothing must be allowed to spoil this, he thinks.
Nothing must be allowed to take this away.
CHAPTER 18
Through her bedroom window, Joyce watches the sporty red Golf edge past her MG, pull out of the drive and recede behind the bay hedge.
She is eighty-four years old and has no idea how she feels. Her gut tells her something is up, but guts have memories, in this case bad ones. Hope tells her that bad memories are all this uneasy feeling is, that the feeling is outdated and unfair, a bit like revulsion for, say, prawn cocktail based on it upsetting your stomach once. But even as she tells herself to put aside her fears, her mind fills with the more concrete image of her grandson, not so long ago as all that, going to the viaduct in the battering rain towards that terrible purpose, standing on the precipice and almost…
She shudders.
Naomi was pleasant enough. But we can all be pleasant when it’s in our own interests. No less pretty either. What was going on between her and Sam when she, Joyce, walked into the kitchen? Had they been kissing? Are they back together but keeping it secret? As well they might after all that drama. There was definitely something in the air. Please God not a return to the soap opera, she thinks: the constant arguments, the blame – blame thrown athersometimes, even by Sam.Naomi says you ignored her. Naomi thought you were cross with her yesterday. Naomi said you were a bit sharp with her earlier.These minor accusations, these thousand cuts, as they say, after Joyce had cooked roast dinners, picked them up from West Bay after a hike, after she’d washed their towels, their sheets, after Naomi had let Sam wash up without moving a muscle to help. Generosity is a funny thing. Boundless until it is abused, when it mutates into something that reduces you, makes you resentful in ways you don’t want to be, snappy, curt, mean. The very last time she saw Naomi, the girl asked if she and Sam could take her car for a spin. Casually, as if it were no big deal. Her precious, vintage, perfectly preserved MG RV8! As if it were some rusty old Datsun! Cheeky beggar.
‘Sorry, no,’ Joyce said. And walked away before she spoke out of turn. Before she found herself changing her mind.
Maybe help is all the girl is after this time. A bit of money too. Maybe. Though if Joyce knows anything, it’s that it won’t stop there. It never did anyway, before. But fair enough; kids are expensive, especially these days.
And oh, Tommy’s a smasher! That spun-cotton hair! That gummy smile! Those enormous blue peepers looking up at her! Her: Nonna Joyce! Nonna Joyce, if you don’t mind! Despite everything, she chuckles to herself, feels a warmth spread through her. Babies do that. Make all the troubles of the world melt away. One gurgle, one giggle, and hardened cynics turn to mush.
She pulls on her cashmere cardigan, the reason she’s made the pilgrimage up two flights of stairs. She’s feeling the chill this spring in a way she’s pretty sure she didn’t last year. Her hip aches, but there’s no way she’s going to start popping painkillers. So far, she’s resisted the tyranny of the pill box, despite the doctor telling her she should really take statins if she wants to bring down her cholesterol. No way, José, she told him. I’ll eat porridge before I start that nonsense.
She hates porridge.
On the way back down, she clasps the handrail. Getting old is the pits, it really is. Still, she’s not dead yet. And while she’s here, she’s going to make sure she enjoys that little lad. If Naomi wants a spare pair of hands and some extra cash, fine, but Joyce will be watching her very closely, very closely indeed. She has things she wants too: namely time. She’ll buy Tommy his own little watering can, teach him to paint a wall, wire a plug, you name it. There’ll be none of those computer games in this house, Xboxes and what have you. No way. Pumpkin carving at Halloween, paper chains at Christmas – she wonders if you can still get the pastel-coloured strips with the sticky bits to lick. Simnel cake at Easter, little Tommy standing on a stool when he’s old enough, chubby little fingers in the sweet batter. The young go on about mindfulness, ha! Joyce’s generation invented mindfulness. They just called it taking pleasure in your chores and your hobbies, the seasons and their festivals, instead of moaning on all the time about living your best life.
Yes, there’s so much she wants to show this little smasher. Who knows, if she’s lucky, she might see him in a little school uniform.
Hopefully.
Downstairs, Sam makes them both a flat white with his milk whizzer thing.
‘He’s asleep,’ he says in the same way you’d announce you’d won the lottery. ‘I can’t believe how quickly he went down. She’s done that by sticking to routine, you know. Nomes reckons routine’s really important.’
‘Old-fashioned that. I can’t disagree. Your mother didn’t agree with routines. She fed you whenever you so much as squeaked, put you to bed when you fell asleep. Didn’t do you any harm – it was just more work for her, getting her bosoms out every five minutes.’
Sam smiles at her. ‘She was a good mum.’
‘She was. A good daughter too. Hippy. Suppose I deserved that, being such a capitalist.’
