‘That’s true. What if our Sam takes after me and is a scruffy little tyke? Maybe she’s not the right one for us. We want someone a bit more laid-back for our little boy.’
Mrs Brown is so laid back she barely moves. Once she’s shown us inside her flat, she lounges on her sofa, her great mound of tummy straining against her tracksuit bottoms. I’m not sure if she’s having a baby herself or if she’s just got very fat. She’s just minding one child, a little boy strapped into a baby chair, sucking on a crust of bread as he watches television. He’s certainly scruffy: he’s got jam all round his mouth and his nose is running and there are stains all down his jumper, but he looks happy enough. He kicks his legs and grins at Jack when he squats beside him to say hello. I keep my distance, breathing shallowly. I’m pretty sure his nappy needs changing.
Jack tries to tell Mrs Brown all about Sam, and she smiles and nods.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be fine with me. All my babies are very happy. You’re a happy boy, aren’t you, ducks?’ she says, giving the baby in the chair a little nudge. He giggles at her and dribbles all down his chin.
‘I’m sure Sam would be very happy with her too,’ says Jack when we get back in the car, ‘but I’m not too sure about it. I wouldn’t want him stuck in front of a television all day long. I don’t know, maybe I’m just being too picky. I keep thinking of your Mum, Ella, and what a lovely job she’d make of bringing up our boy. All these other women just seem wrong.’
‘No one could ever be as good as Mum,’ I agree.
We don’t say any more as we drive to the last lady on the list, Mrs Smallwood. We don’t speak because we’re both trying not to cry.
Mrs Smallwood lives in a little old house at the very end of her street. It’s covered in ivy, with a wild, untidy garden, though there are lots of rose bushes, some still in bloom. Mrs Smallwood herself is little and quite old. She’s got a soft grey perm curling all over her head like dandelion fluff. She smiles as she opens her door. A delicious warm savoury smell escapes.
‘Mrs Smallwood?’ says Jack.
She laughs. ‘Nobody calls me that, dear. I’m Aunty Mavis to one and all. So you’re the poor gentleman with the sick wife? And who are you, darling?’ she says, rubbing my cheeks with her fingers.
‘I’m Ella. I’m his stepdaughter. It’s my mum who’s sick.’
‘You poor little lamb. Well, come in, come in!’
We go into her house. The hall is choc-a-block with toys: a push-along cart, a spinning top, a toddler trike, beach balls and a family of floppy teddies. In an alcove there’s a cardboard box with a rug and a cushion in it, a saucepan and several spoons, and some old dresses and shoes trail down the stairs.
‘We’ve been playing house and cooking and dressing up,’ says Aunty Mavis. ‘Come and say hello to my girls.’
She opens the kitchen door. There are two smiley-faced little girls sitting at the table with big bibs tied round their necks. Their cardie sleeves are rolled up as they stab at their food with plastic forks. The girls are comically identical, with big blue eyes, pink cheeks, and tiny bunches tied with cherry bobbles.
‘This is Lily, and this is Meggie. Say hello, girls,’ says Aunty Mavis. She’s reaching for two more plates and getting a half-served shepherd’s pie out of her oven.
‘We’re having our din-dins,’ says Lily, or maybe Meggie.
‘We eat it all up and then we get pudding,’ says Meggie, or perhaps Lily.
‘Well, your din-din looks very yummy,’ says Jack. ‘I’m so sorry to call at such a stupidly inconvenient time, Aunty Mavis.’
‘You’re not sorry at all, you’re practically licking your lips, hoping I’ll offer you a plateful. Here we are, I’ve made heaps. Sit yourselves down, both of you. Now, tell me all about this little baby of yours. I don’t generally take on kiddies so young, but your little lad sounds like a special case.’
‘He’s called Sam,’ says Jack, looking joyfully at his plate of shepherd’s pie.
‘Samson.’
‘Very distinctive,’ says Aunty Mavis. ‘Would you like to help yourself to carrots and peas, Ella? Show these two girlies what a sensible grown-up girl you are. I have a terrible job getting them to gobble up their veggies. Don’t I, you hopeless pair!’
She tickles Lily and Meggie under their chins and they giggle and squirm. ‘Would you like a little baby boy to come and play with us, girls?’ she asks.
‘Is he a nice little baby?’ asks Lily (or Meggie).
‘Is he a smiley baby?’ says Meggie (or Lily).
‘He’s a sad little baby at the moment,’ says Jack solemnly. ‘Because his mummy can’t look after him right now.’
‘So we’ll all look after him instead – his daddy and Ella and Lily and Meggie and me,’ says Aunty Mavis. She looks at Jack. ‘Yes?’
Jack looks at me. We both smile and nod. We don’t need to consult each other. Aunty Mavis is perfect.
Jack and I go straight to the hospital to see Mum. He sits on one side of her, I sit on the other. We both hold a hand.
‘OK, Sue, we’ve found a lovely childminder for little Sam,’ says Jack.
‘She’s called Aunty Mavis, Mum, and she’s ever so kind.’
‘She makes the best shepherd’s pie I’ve ever tasted. Well, apart from yours, of course,’ says Jack.
Mum’s never made a shepherd’s pie in her life, she just heated up pies from the supermarket, but I suppose Jack’s trying to be tactful.
‘Aunty Mavis will look after Samson, Mum – but not as well as you would,’ I say, because I can be tactful too.
Mum doesn’t say anything – she doesn’t open her eyes, she doesn’t squeeze our hands – but we feel better for telling her.
‘Would you like to give Sam a cuddle right now, Sue?’ Jack asks. ‘We’ll go and fetch him.’
We go to the nursery together. Sam is in the corner, wailing dismally.
‘It’s all right, my little boy. Daddy’s here,’ says Jack, picking him up. ‘Oh dear, your nappy’s a bit soggy. I think we’d better change you. Now, where do those nurses keep the clean nappies?’
‘Jack! I’m sure we’re not allowed to change him,’ I say anxiously. ‘Wait till the nurse comes back.’
‘It’s not like it’s a complicated surgical procedure, Ella,’ says Jack, peering in different cupboards. ‘Ah, here we are, clean nappies. We’ll have you dry and comfy in two ticks, little Sam.’
Jack lies the baby down on a table and unpops his sleepsuit. I see Samson’s alarming pink boy bits and back away.
‘Want to give me a hand, Ella?’ asks Jack.
‘No thanks!’
‘This is just wee, so it’s fine. I believe it can get a lot muckier,’ says Jack, dabbing at Samson’s bottom with a babywipe. ‘There! You like having a little kick about, don’t you, son?’
Samson gurgles and waggles his funny little feet in the air.
Jack closes the nappy with its sticky tabs and grabs each little leg to stuff back into the sleepsuit. ‘I told you – piece of cake!’ he says, poppering up Samson’s legs.
He lifts him up. One leg is all puckered up. Jack tries to straighten it out but it won’t go.
‘You’ve done the poppers up wrong, silly,’ I say. ‘Here, let me.’
I sort them out in a jiffy.
‘OK. Let’s make a bargain. I’ll do the undressing and deal with the nappies – and you do the dressing. After all, you must have had lots of practice with your dollies,’ says Jack.
‘As if I still play with dolls!’ I say witheringly – though I still do in secret. I wouldn’t ever tell anyone, not even Sally. She’d laugh at me and call me a baby.
I wonder what she’s doing now. Has afternoon school ended yet? I hope it hasn’t been too lonely for her all day. I hate it when Sally’s off school with a cold or a tummy bug, because there’s no one to whisper to in class and no one to play with at break times.
‘Jack, can I ask Sally round to ours for tea?’ I as
k.
‘Oh, Ella, I’m finding it hard enough to feed you and me – and now there’s the wretched guinea pig too. Tell you what, let’s give little Sam his tea now. Don’t fuss, I know exactly how to do it.’
He gives me Samson to hold while he goes into the kitchen at the side to hunt for baby bottles. Sam quivers at the change of arms. His little face puckers up.
‘Don’t cry, Samson! It’s OK. I’m Ella, your sister, remember?’
I jiggle him in my arms. He gives a tiny whimper. It’s not a full-blown cry, but he looks doubtful.
‘Are you hungry? Your dad’s just fetching you a bottle and we’ll give you a lovely drink – and then we’re taking you for another cuddle with Mummy. She’s the best mum in the world but she’s very sick at the moment, so she can’t look after you properly. But your dad will take care of you. And Aunty Mavis. And I can look after you too, if you’d like that.’
Samson looks thoughtful.
‘Shall I take that as a yes, then? I’ve got a new little guinea pig at home – he’s called Butterscotch. I think you’d like him. When you get older, I’ll let you hold him, so long as you’re very gentle. And I’ve got some old teddies – you can play with them if you like. You can’t really borrow my felt-tip pens for ages and ages because you’ll muck up all the points and maybe poke your eye out – but I’ll draw for you if you like. I’m getting very good at drawing whales. Would you like me to do you your own whale picture, Samson?’
Samson seems quite keen because he nuzzles against me, his little mouth opening and shutting, as if he’s whispering me a little message.
Jack comes back into the nursery with a baby bottle full of milk. ‘Here we go. Now, you sit on that chair, Ella, with Sam on your lap. Rest his head on your left arm. That’s it. OK – feeding time!’
When Samson and I are settled, Jack gives me the bottle.
‘How do I do it, Jack?’ I ask, a bit panicked now. I don’t want to pour it down his throat and choke him.
‘He’ll do it for himself, you’ll see. Just gently put the teat against his lips and he’ll start sucking. Hold the bottle up nicely so he won’t be taking in too much air – but halfway through he’ll still need to be sat up and burped.’
‘Goodness,’ I say, giggling.
I nudge the teat against Samson’s lips and his mouth clamps on it eagerly. He starts sucking for all he’s worth, an expression of intense concentration on his face. His blue eyes look up at me. I feel a weird squeezing pain in my tummy. I think I’m starting to love him, when I didn’t think I’d even like him very much.
‘There now, little Samson,’ I whisper.
‘Ah!’ says Jack. ‘Oh, Ella, if only your mum could see the two of you together.’
That does it. He starts crying. I start crying. Samson loses his grip on the bottle and he starts crying too.
‘Goodness, we’ll be flooding the nursery at this rate,’ Jack says, scrabbling through his pockets for a hankie. He mops at my eyes and wipes his own. I nudge the teat back into Samson’s mouth and he gives a little snuffle and starts sucking again.
‘There now,’ says Jack.
‘Is he ready for burping yet?’
‘Give him another few minutes.’
So I wait – and then gently detach the bottle from his lips and sit him up.
‘Rub his back quite firmly – there’s a knack to it – though I’m not quite sure what it is.’
Samson makes a happy little noise.
‘Oh! You’ve got the knack, Ella, obviously,’ says Jack.
I carry on feeding him. One of the nurses comes in and smiles at Samson and me.
‘You make a good little mother,’ she says, and I feel so proud.
Jack lets me carry Samson all the way to Mum’s room. He starts to feel surprisingly heavy but I hold him proudly, carefully supporting his noddy little head.
‘Sue, darling, look, here’s Ella and little Sam. She’s just given him his bottle. They look a picture together,’ Jack says to Mum. He strokes her face. ‘Don’t you want to wake up and see them, sweetheart?’
Mum doesn’t move. Jack helps me lay Samson on her chest, and I squeeze onto the edge of the bed, my head on Mum’s pillow.
‘I fed Samson, Mum, and he burped specially for me. Jack says I’ve got the knack.’
‘She certainly has,’ says Jack. ‘We’re going to manage all right, Sue. Ella and I will look after Sam in the evenings and at weekends, and Aunty Mavis will be in charge while we’re both at school. We’ll be fine. You mustn’t worry about a thing.’
Mum still looks a bit worried. There are little frown lines between her eyebrows. I rub them gently, trying to smooth them away.
‘We can only manage for a little while, Mum,’ I say firmly. ‘Just until you get better. You really need to wake up as soon as you possibly can. Touch Samson – can you feel his little hands? He’s trying to hold onto you. He needs you so.’
Mum gives a little sigh.
‘She heard me!’ I gasp. ‘Oh, Jack, she really heard me!’
‘I hope so, Ella. But maybe – maybe she was just breathing out.’
‘She heard – and she sighed, because she so wants to look after Samson herself,’ I insist. ‘Isn’t that right, Mum? Sigh again, go on, to show Jack.’
Mum’s very quiet now. She clearly can’t be bothered to convince Jack. But I know. And Samson does too.
I want to take him home with us right now but Jack says he’s got to be checked over by the paediatrician first. So we kiss Mum goodbye and take Samson back to the nursery. He’s as good as gold until we put him in his cot, and then he starts squirming and spluttering, revving up for a good cry.
‘See, he doesn’t want us to go,’ I say. I hang over the cot and kiss his hot little forehead. ‘Don’t cry, little Samson, we’re coming back tomorrow.’
‘Hey! Leave that baby alone!’ a new nurse cries, running over to us. ‘Whatever are you doing?’
‘He’s my brother!’ I say. ‘I’m not hurting him, I’m just giving him a kiss.’
‘Breathing all your germs right in his face! And why are you here unsupervised? We only allow mothers into the nursery.’
‘Are you an agency nurse? I think you’ll find there’s a detailed explanation in our baby’s notes. His mother’s very ill in Portland Ward,’ says Jack.
‘But she’s getting just a tiny bit better,’ I say.
Chapter 9
The phone rings while Jack is making the supper. I run to answer it, my heart pounding. Perhaps it’s the hospital: ‘Come at once, your mother’s woken up and aching to see her baby, it’s a total miracle!’
No, it’s only Mrs Edwards, Sally’s mother.
‘How are you, Ella? Sally says you haven’t been in school and I was very worried in case – in case your mum’s taken a turn for the worse.’ She’s whispering the last bit in a holy voice.
‘She’s taken a turn for the better,’ I say firmly.
‘Really! Oh, thank God! So is she talking now? Can she sit up? Walk at all?’
I’m silent for a moment, wishing.
‘Ella?’
‘She’s not quite walking and talking yet – but I’m sure it will be any day now,’ I say. ‘Can I talk to Sally?’
‘Yes, of course, dear.’
I hear a lot of whispering and then Sally comes to the phone.
‘Hi, Ella! So your mum’s getting better?’ she says.
‘Well. Sort of. It’s kind of gradual.’
‘So are you coming back to school next week?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, I’ve mostly been at the hospital. Have I missed much?’
‘Well, Miss Anderson’s got us all started on a Tudor project, working in pairs.’
‘Oh, Sally, I’m so sorry. So have you had to work all by yourself?’
‘No, it’s OK, Miss Anderson said I could be in a threesome with Dory and Martha.’
‘Oh, you poor thing – how awful to be stuck with Martha. She’s so mean and bo
ssy.’
‘Yes, she is a bit – but Dory’s OK. She’s very nice, actually. She only lives round the corner, in the bungalows – remember those little ones we always called “the Doll’s Houses”?’
‘Of course I remember. Look, I only moved away a few months ago.’
‘It seems ages. Anyway, I was round at Dory’s and she’s got two rabbits and the lady one’s going to have babies and Dory says I can have one!’
‘You went to tea with Dory!’
‘No, no, I just nipped in on our way home from school. Her mum’s got this catalogue – she was showing it to my mum, yawn yawn – so Dory took me out to her back garden and I saw her rabbits. They are sooo fluffy and lovely, and they’ve got the cutest long floppy ears.’
‘I’ve got a guinea pig,’ I interrupt.
‘No you haven’t!’
‘I have so, my dad bought it for me. Not Jack, my real dad. He came and took me out to this dead-posh pub and then we went round to a farm and—’
‘Pubs aren’t dead posh.’
‘This one is. And anyway, my guinea pig’s a lovely golden brown and he’s got a little pink twitchy nose and I’ve called him Butterscotch. Isn’t that a good name?’
‘I don’t really like Butterscotch, it always makes me feel a bit sick.’
‘No, but the name is perfect, because he’s butterscotch-brown, see.’
‘Has he got cute floppy ears?’
‘Of course he hasn’t, he’s a guinea pig, not a rabbit. He’s got little tufty ears.’
‘I think I like rabbits best,’ says Sally.
I feel so irritated with her I’m nearly crying. I swallow hard. ‘Why not come round now and see Butterscotch?’ I say, trying not to let my voice go wobbly.
‘I can’t – it’s much too late and I’ve had my tea and that.’
‘Well, what about tomorrow?’
‘Mm? I think we’re going round to my gran’s.’
I swallow. She’s making excuses. She’s Sally, we’ve been best friends for years, we always see each other. When I lived just round the corner, we played together after school nearly every day. All right, it’s more difficult now because she has to get her mum to drive her round, or I have to get my mum to . . . How can I forget, even for a moment?