Читать книгу The Baby Diaries - Sam Binnie - Страница 42

Oh, a lovely day. Thom woke me up with such wonderful treats, gifts from under the tree and a tray of Christmas breakfast in bed: buttery scrambled eggs and toast, fresh orange juice and tea, and a little mince pie. ‘I’m going to look nine months preg by New Year if you keep this up,’ I warned, stuffing the mince pie in my mouth first. ‘Ah, the beauty of Woman in bloom,’ Thom countered. ‘Plus, blooming woman, we need to be at your mum and dad’s in an hour. Shall we open something here first?’ My mouth still full, I grabbed the nearest gift and thrust it at Thom, nodding, wide-eyed.

Here’s what we got one another:

From Thom:

A new MAC Ruby Woo lipstick (mine’s run out)

Four paperbacks, none of which were about babies

Plants for the window-box

To Catch a Thief, my favourite Cary Grant film

From me:

A boxset of Paul Newman films (maybe a little bit for me too)

A tie (of course)

Two poetry books

A jar of homemade chutney (annual ritual)

We thanked one another, then I said with mock casualness, ‘Oh. What’s that? Is there something still in the tree?’ Thom looked at me quizzically, then pulled out a gold envelope from within the branches. His face lit up. ‘It’s not what you think it is, I think,’ I warned, ‘but have a look anyway.’ He pulled out a little card, similar to the one he’d given me last Christmas (and yes which we still used, thank you very much).

Thom: ‘For a night off.’

Me: Ah, but don’t you know how these things work? Turn it over.

Thom: ‘Definitely redeemable more than once.’ Thank you, Keeks, but a night off from what?

Me: From everything. I may regret this once the baby actually arrives, but I don’t want to you to feel that your every waking hour away from work has to be spent here, with your baby. Or with me.

Thom: Where else am I supposed to be?

Me: With your friends! Wherever you want! I know that you want to look after me, but I want you to know that you’re allowed nights off too. To be a pal to someone other than us. I know we don’t need to give one another permission, but if you ever want it, it’s there. OK?

Thom: You’re going to be a nice mother.

Me: I do hope so. I’ve already bought a card with that message for you to give me on Mothers’ Day.

As we wrapped up to go over to Mum and Dad’s, Thom said, ‘By the way, there were other things I wanted to get you but I thought they might be pretty depressing as special gifts, and I didn’t want you to think that you were just a breeder to me now. Maybe you can have them another time.’ He widened his eyes at me mysteriously, as is his wont, and we headed off.

When we got there, the house was strangely quiet, Susie and Pete and the kids not having arrived yet. While Thom went to give Mum a kiss, Dad took me to one side.

Dad: Listen, love, I think your mum’s a bit overworked at the moment, so be gentle on her, alright?

Me: Overworked? She’s been retired two years.

Dad: Katherine, I mean it. I think she’s too worried about all of us – my heart, your pregnancy – and we need to go easy on her. Tell your sister.

Me: Dad, I will, and we will. We’ll be model daughters. Susie and I were worrying about her only the other day.

Dad: Why’s that?

Me: I got some … odd things in my advent calendar this year.

Dad: [something flickering across his face] Did you, now? Alright, love, don’t mention anything about this to your mum, alright? Just … be a good girl.

He gave me a kiss and a hug, but I felt worse, rather than better. I can understand how Mum would be so shaken by Dad’s heart scare, but it had been six months now, and she seemed to bounce back so quickly at the start. Is it a delayed reaction? Is it just Christmas stress taken up a notch?

When I followed them all into the kitchen, Thom gave me a quizzical look – are you OK? – so I smiled and nodded at him and gave Mum a long, tight hug.

Mum: What’s that for?

Me: For letting all of us ne’er-do-wells into your home every Christmas. What a nice time we have. Thanks, Mum.

Mum: [surprised] Well.

Me: Now, what can we do to help?

But the one time I was offering to help, she wouldn’t hear of it, insisting that I must relax and stay off my feet, while I still could. I liked the first half of it, but the thought – even if this wasn’t what she intended – that next Christmas I would be jogging around like a maniac after a crying, stinking baby, planted me firmly on the sofa with my feet up. Dad turned the carols up and brought me a heavy tumbler of Buck’s Fizz (one part champagne to one hundred parts orange juice), and handed me a long, thin parcel. ‘You can open it now, if you want, before the hordes arrive,’ he said.

Inside was one of Dad’s little mobiles. Oh! I’d forgotten about this tradition. As I pulled it out, I saw what was hanging from each wire: tiny little books, no bigger than my thumb, wired open so the tissue-paper pages flapped as the mobile went around. Looking closer, I saw that the books were actually printed, in a tiny font: Little Red Riding Hood, Goldilocks, Puss in Boots, Cinderella, The Gingerbread Man, Hansel and Gretel.

Me: Dad! This is lovely.

Dad: Oh, I’m glad you like it. Some of my kids may have helped with the printing inside – extra grades and all that.

Me: Thank you, Dad.

Dad: You’re more than welcome, Kiki.

Me: Thom! Come and see this.

Thom was as delighted as I was by the gift, and I felt overwhelmed for a minute by how lucky I was. This kind man, determined to make my life better in any way, and two parents who had bent over backwards for the last thirty years to make their children’s lives happy, secure, fulfilled. I choked up, and Thom pulled me into a bear hug. ‘She does this about six times a day,’ he explained to Dad.

Just then, Susie and co. arrived, banging through the front door in a wall of scarves and noise, bags of presents, bottles of wine and kisses, with the Twins and Pete singing Christmas carols as they kissed everyone. As they went through to the kitchen, I grabbed Susie in the hall, just as Dad had caught me.

Me: Dad says we have to be extra nice to Mum.

Susie: But we’re always nice to Mum.

Me: [moving my hands into Chinese burn position]

Susie: God! Alright! You have my word that I will be nice to my mother. Why did Dad say that?

Me: I think he’s worried about her. I hadn’t even told him about the advent calendars until then. He says she just seems really stressed and … well, that’s all, actually.

Susie: Calendar, singular. The only rotten surprises in mine were from you, thank you very much. Nothing else, though? Just that she seems stressed? That’s pretty normal for Christmas.

Me: Shouldn’t we be making more of an effort for her? Aren’t we old enough to be making Christmas dinner ourselves?

Susie: I’d like to see you try to get all of us in either of our places.

Me: No, I’ll always want to come here for Christmas, but maybe we ought to be doing slightly more than just turning up?

Susie: Thanks, Mother Teresa. When you’ve got a newborn next Christmas, remind me to check how eager you are to cook turkey and all the trimmings for nine of us.

Me: Ten, Suse.

Susie: [looking at me as if I’m mental] At seven months old, your baby probably won’t need its own turkey leg. God, you have so much to learn about parenting.

Me: I hate you.

Pete: [poking head round door] Suse, where’s Frida?

Susie: Oops. Asleep in the car, I assume.

Pete: Was she asleep when you put her in?

Susie: [staring at him] I didn’t put her in.

Both: [grabbing the car keys, rushing outside]

I heard the engine wildly over-revving as they sped back to their house round the corner. Dad wandered in from the kitchen, saying, ‘Where’ve Susie and Pete gone?’ I smiled sweetly. ‘I think they forgot something at home.’

When they came back in a few minutes later carrying a sleepy-looking Frida, Susie came over and whispered in my ear, ‘If you mention this again, I will destroy you.’ I took her hand and said, ‘I know, Suse. I have so much to learn about parenting.’

The rest of the day was good fun, although occasionally Mum did seem really tired. But the food, as ever, was wonderful, and everyone seemed pleased with their gifts. We put the kids to bed upstairs and stayed up late, eating and drinking and watching Casino Royale. Merry Christmas, you foetus.