With Love at Christmas

  ‘Don’t go on, Rick.’ I might as well join in the complaining. ‘What’s done is done.’

  Anyway, it’s too late now for what ifs. We’re off the train and heading home.

  How could I possibly go to Bruges for a romantic getaway, drink hot chocolate, ice-skate, prance round a hotel room in nothing but lacy lingerie when our only daughter is giving birth? I just couldn’t do that. I couldn’t. How could I let her struggle to bring a new life into the world all by herself? Rick will see that it’s the right thing to do when we get back and hold that little baby in our arms.

  ‘We’ll have to hurry if we want to catch the midnight train back home,’ I say.

  Rick puffs but, nevertheless, we both pick up speed as we dash out of St Pancras and race down the slush of Euston Road.

  ‘It might be quicker to take a taxi home,’ I pant.

  ‘No taxi,’ Rick huffs. ‘That’d cost nearly the same as our weekend away.’

  ‘It can’t be helped,’ I counter. ‘It’s an emergency.’

  ‘I wonder, will the holiday insurance cover it?’ He continues to complain as we run.

  We hit the midnight train with seconds to spare and throw ourselves into two of the few spare seats among the late-night drunks and revellers. Not quite the calm oasis of the Eurostar.

  We chug slowly back to Milton Keynes, stopping at all stations known to man and a few places that I’ve never even heard of. At a snail’s pace, we crawl through the deserted night-time stations of Apsley, Berkhamsted, Tring and Cheddington. No one gets off. No one gets on. This is pure torture.

  It’s past one in the morning now, and I’ve been trying to ring Chloe all the way home from London but there’s no reply from her phone. I’m assuming she’s in the delivery room already. I try Tom too, but no luck there either. Her brother is the one who will have taken her into the maternity unit, and that thought doesn’t fill me with the greatest comfort.

  Eventually, when I’m just about ready to weep, we pull into the bright lights of Milton Keynes station and everyone disgorges. A short and expensive taxi ride from the station and, not a moment too soon, we swing through the hospital doors, a couple of hundred pounds lighter and a couple of years older. Still, it’s been worth it. At least I am able to be here. Supposing we had already been in Bruges? Then what would I have done? I would have spent our romantic weekend chewing my fingernails to the quick and wishing I was at home. As it is, we’re cutting it fine. I hate to think of Chloe going through this on her own, and can only hope that she’s managed to hang on until I get here.

  Ragged and exhausted, we bowl into the maternity unit to find Mitch pacing up and down in the corridor.

  ‘Is she OK?’ I ask, grabbing him in a bear hug. He might be estranged from our daughter but, to my mind, he’s still the father of her children and a very nice young man to boot.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mitch says, hugging me in return. ‘She won’t let me go in to see her. I’ve been waiting out here for hours.’

  ‘Where’s Tom?’

  ‘He left as soon as I got here.’

  Typical. ‘And Jaden?’

  ‘Frank’s looking after him.’ At least my grandson is in safe hands.

  ‘Have you had anything to drink, to eat?’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he says.

  ‘Rick could get you some tea from the machine,’ I offer.

  He shakes his head. ‘I just want to know if she’s all right.’

  ‘Let me see if I can find someone to tell us what’s going on.’

  Nurses seem in short supply at this time of the morning but, eventually, I find someone tucked away in a side room, eating a Mars bar and filling out paperwork.

  ‘She’s right in here,’ the nurse says, and leads me through to a small room where my daughter is just being helped off a trolley bed by another nurse.

  My child’s face is pale, washed out.

  ‘Chloe!’

  ‘Mum!’ She throws herself into my arms. ‘False alarm,’ she sobs. ‘I can go home. I thought the baby was coming, but it’s not.’

  ‘Oh.’ I think of the Eurostar speeding to Bruges without us, of the fancy nightie tucked in the depths of my case, of the baby still comfortable in Chloe’s tummy, of how miserable Rick is going to be when we tell him the news.

  I put my arm round my daughter and steer her towards the door. ‘Let’s go home and put the kettle on, then.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Another taxi. This time back to Chadwick Close. At least Rick’s display of Christmas lights blink welcomingly to us in the cold, dark night.

  ‘The house looks pretty,’ I offer. The snow has started again and fat flakes drift lazily from the sky to decorate the street. I sigh happily to myself. I do like living here.

  Rick grunts. He looks as if he is ready to commit murder. Chloe has alternately cried and grumbled all the way home.

  ‘I wish this baby would just hurry up,’ she mutters. ‘Then I can get on with my life.’

  It must be her hormones. She seems to think that the baby should arrive at a convenient time between the hours of nine and five. But perhaps the harsh reality of her situation was just starting to set in when she thought that the delivery of baby number two was actually happening. There’ll be no ‘getting on with her life’ for some time to come.

  ‘I should have been going out with my mates tonight,’ she continues glumly. ‘I bet they’re having a brilliant time.’

  I don’t want to risk the waterworks again by pointing out to her that we should be on our way to our romantic weekend in Bruges, and would have been arriving there at this very moment instead of being back at home.

  ‘Stop complaining,’ Rick snaps. ‘Your mother and I should be on a romantic two-day break in Bruges now.’

  Chloe promptly starts crying again.

  ‘Rick,’ I admonish. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  ‘It’s not all about her,’ he complains. ‘We’ve probably lost a small fortune on that trip.’

  ‘She wasn’t to know it was a false alarm,’ I remind him.

  More wailing from the back seat as the cab pulls up outside the house. Rick grumbles as he pays the fare.

  ‘Put the lights on full beam would you, mate?’ Rick asks the taxi driver. The man obliges.

  Sure enough, his headlights pick out my mother in her nightdress and slippers, walking purposefully away from our house and down Chadwick Close.

  ‘Oh , Lord,’ Rick says. Simultaneously, Rick and I jump out of the car and race down the road after her.

  ‘Mum,’ I shout. ‘Mum!’

  She turns round to face us.

  It takes only seconds for us to catch up with her. ‘What are you doing out here?’

  My mum looks down at herself and seems not to know why she’s out here.

  ‘You should be tucked up in bed. It’s freezing.’ I rub her arms. ‘You’ve only got your nightie on. Where’s your coat?’

  Rick strips off his own coat and wraps it round Mum’s shoulders. I turn her back towards home.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asks. ‘It’s cold out here.’

  ‘I’m taking you home, Mum. I don’t know what you’re doing out here in the first place.’

  ‘I’m looking for Frank,’ she says. ‘I’m sure he lives round here somewhere.’

  ‘Dad’s at home in bed.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says.

  While I’m ushering Mum back inside, Rick helps a still snivelling Chloe to the front door across the slippy pavement.

  Inside, and Rick heads straight to the kitchen to flick on the kettle. His tea levels are probably dangerously low by now. Murderously low.

  I take Mum straight upstairs to her bedroom. ‘Come on, Mum. Climb into bed.’

  ‘I’m cold,’ she says, and meekly lets me help her under the covers.

  ‘This’ll make you nice and warm again. I’ll bring you up a hot-water bottle in a minute.’ I sit down on the bed beside her. ‘You shouldn’t g
o outside, Mum. Not on your own.’

  She starts to cry. ‘I don’t remember doing it.’

  I rock her in my arms like a baby. ‘Don’t worry,’ I murmur. ‘Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.’

  ‘Sometimes I’m frightened,’ she says.

  ‘No need to be. We’ll look after you.’ I smooth her hair. ‘How about we go and see the doctor on Monday?’

  ‘No.’ She sounds pitiful. ‘I don’t want to see the doctor.’

  ‘It might be for the best,’ I suggest.

  But she’s adamant. ‘No.’

  I don’t want to upset her further by pushing it so, instead, I say, ‘Want a nice cup of tea?’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘I’m tired.’

  All my life my mother has been strong and irascible. I hate to see her like this now. When I take her hand in mine, the skin is dry, wafer-thin, mottled with age. It feels like the hand of someone I don’t know.

  ‘Settle down then. I’ll come and slip that hot-water bottle in for you in a minute. You go to sleep now.’

  ‘You’re a very nice lady,’ Mum says. ‘Your mother must be very proud of you.’

  My throat constricts. ‘I think she probably is.’

  Mum turns over, her back to me, and pulls the covers over herself so that just a shock of dyed red hair is sticking out.

  With a heavy heart, I make my way downstairs. I’m just about to go back into the kitchen when I hear a strange noise coming from the living room. Hesitantly, I open the door and, dreading what I’m about to find, see that Dad isn’t in bed as I’d thought. Instead, my poor father is flat out asleep on the floor with Jaden curled up at his side, surrounded by a mountain of toys. The noise is a combination of Dad’s snores and with the chugging of Jaden’s train set, which is still happily pootling round the track all by itself.

  I realise in a startling moment of clarity that my parents are getting too old to be left alone. They, like my grandson, are going to need constant attention.

  ‘Dad.’ I kneel down beside him and shake his arm. ‘Wake up. It’s late.’

  He snorts himself awake, then rouses, blinking his eyes sleepily. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s gone three in the morning, Dad.’

  ‘I must have dropped off.’

  I’m well aware that looking after Jaden for just a few hours is exhausting, and have to acknowledge that it’s probably too much for Dad to do on his own now.

  ‘My old bones are stiff,’ Dad says as he eases himself up. I give him a hand.

  ‘Off you go to bed. Do you want any tea or cocoa?’

  ‘No thanks, love,’ he says. ‘I’ll only have to get up in the night if I do.’

  ‘There’s not much of the night left.’

  ‘I suppose so. How’s Chloe? Has she had the baby yet?’

  ‘False alarm,’ I tell him. ‘She’s back home with us.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘She must be very disappointed.’

  ‘She is.’ I pick Jaden up in my arms. He’s almost getting too heavy to lift now. His eyes roll back in his head as if he’s drunk. Looking after this little bundle of trouble will soon take my daughter’s mind off her woes.

  Dad shuffles back towards the dining room where he’s camped out on the futon, and I carry Jaden through to the kitchen.

  Chloe is sitting drinking tea at the kitchen table, while Rick is filling a hot-water bottle for Mum.

  ‘One tired little boy,’ I say.

  ‘Can you take him up, Mum?’ Chloe says. ‘I’m exhausted. I’m just going to finish my tea. Though I am hungry. I’d love some toast.’ She looks round to see if there are any takers.

  ‘You’re pregnant, Chloe,’ Rick grumbles. ‘Not paralysed.’

  Nevertheless, Rick slams two slices of bread into the toaster.

  Tucking Mum’s hot-water bottle under one arm, I carry Jaden upstairs. Someone has already changed him into his favourite Bob the Builder pyjamas – Dad, I assume – so all I have to do is put him down in his little bed. We’ve moved him in with Chloe, so that Tom can have a proper bed. Now that Dad’s going to be here full-time, we might need to have yet another rethink of the sleeping arrangements. My poor old father can’t sleep on a futon for ever. Chloe’s room is cramped now, with two beds squashed in here, and it can’t be easy to be so short on space. It’s far from ideal, and it saddens me to think that Chloe does have her own nice little place to go to if only she could patch things up with Mitch.

  Jaden stirs as I cover him over. He slips his thumb into his mouth and sucks it. Soon, before any of us know it, he’ll be all grown up with trials and tribulations of his own. For now, I just want him to have the best childhood that we can possibly give him and, if that means having him and Chloe living here with us, then so be it.

  I kiss Jaden goodnight and turn off the light. Through in Mum’s room, she’s already fast asleep. I tuck the covers round her again and slide the hot-water bottle in by her feet, where she likes it best. In the darkness she looks so small and frail, like another child. She seems to have gone downhill very quickly and, if it continues, I wonder how much longer we’ll be able to look after Mum at home. The last thing on earth she’d want would be to go into a nursing home, but what will I do if she starts to need full-time care, or if she wanders off on a regular basis?

  There comes a time in your life when you realise that you have become the mother of your own mother, and I think that I have just reached it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Back in the kitchen and Chloe, shoes kicked off and feet up on a chair, is polishing off her toast.

  ‘Feel better now?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I might have a lie-in tomorrow. This is all very draining.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Rick complains.

  ‘You’ll look after Jaden in the morning, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘You’ve got to rest.’

  ‘Night, Mum.’ She hauls herself from the chair and kisses my cheek. ‘Night, Dad. Top toast.’

  ‘Don’t wake Jaden up,’ I say as she heads out of the kitchen.

  ‘You’re too soft with her,’ Rick says when Chloe has climbed the stairs and is out of earshot. ‘She takes advantage of you.’

  ‘She’s got one heck of a shock coming to her,’ I remind him. ‘I don’t mind doing all that I can for her now.’ I can still remember exactly what it was like when we added Chloe to her brother. Having one child was a life-changing experience; having two took it to a whole new level. Flopping down into a chair, I let out a heartfelt sigh.

  ‘Exactly how I feel,’ Rick says.

  ‘It’s been a long day.’ And a long night.

  ‘Tea and toast?’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’

  My husband puts the kettle on again and slots two more slices of bread into the toaster.

  ‘We’re what they call the sandwich generation,’ Rick says. ‘We’re stuck between still looking after our own kids and caring for our parents. It sounds nicer than it is, don’t you think?’

  ‘Hmm.’ The toaster jettisons the bread and, when he’s liberally buttered it, Rick brings it over to me. My tea follows.

  ‘We have to help them,’ I remind him. ‘That’s what families do.’

  ‘When does it end? When do they start helping us? At this rate, I’ll still be working until I’m ninety to pay for this lot.’

  Is there a point when your offspring turn into adults, or do they for ever stay children in your mind? Is there a time when it’s kinder to cut off your support and let them fend for themselves, whatever the consequences? Or is it your job as a parent always to be there to pick up the pieces?

  ‘Perhaps we do too much for them, Rick, but my mum was never there for me.’ She never once offered me guidance, or even showed me affection. With Mum, it was all about criticism and being made to feel that whatever you did wasn’t good enough. When the kids were young, she never once offered to babysit or cook a meal. When we could have done
with an extra pair of hands, she was never there. If anyone, it was always Dad who stepped into the breach, and then she used to complain about that. It was as if she liked to see us struggle. I can’t do that to Chloe or Tom. I want them always to know that, no matter what, I’ll drop everything to help them. ‘I vowed that I’d never be like that with my kids.’

  ‘I know that. Rita’s lucky that you’re so good with her now.’

  ‘She’s my mother.’ And, really, that says it all. Blood, when it comes down to it, is thicker than water. The ties that bind you aren’t easily broken. If it means that I have to look after her, then I’ll do it to the best of my ability. Whether I get thanks for it or not.

  However, I do admit that I thought Rick and I would have the house to ourselves at this time in our lives, and not be thinking that we’d have to extend just to accommodate everyone.

  Rick comes to join me, and I steal a piece of his toast. He lets it go without protest.

  ‘I’m sorry about the weekend being ruined,’ I say.

  ‘We’ll book up another one. I promise.’

  But when, I think? It’s taken long enough to organise this one. What chance will we have when we’ve another grandchild to care for?

  Rick’s phone bleeps to tell him he’s got a text. ‘Who on earth is that? Do they know what time it is?’

  We both glance at the clock. It’s a quarter past four. And it feels like it. My eyes are heavy and gritty. I can’t wait to get into my bed.

  ‘It’s probably O2 telling you that your bill’s due or something.’ The only people who text me at four in the morning are people I owe money to.

  Rick picks up his phone. He takes a look at the screen and then hurriedly sticks his phone in his pocket.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Work,’ he says.

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘It can wait.’

  I shrug. ‘It’s time we climbed the stairs to Bedfordshire.’ The only member of the family who is happy about all this untoward nocturnal activity is Buster. I pick up a leftover crust from Chloe’s toast and feed it to him. He gulps it down happily. ‘Want to go outside for a minute, Buster?’