Mutton, page 20
‘True,’ says Gaby. ‘True. I might leave it at that, though. At this.’
Epilogue
Six months later
‘Does everyone have to be in here?’ says the nurse. ‘Only, it’s very crowded. Mum barely has any room to breathe.’
‘Absolutely,’ says Kate. ‘I’m hardly likely not to be present at the birth of my first great-grandchild.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s my first grandchild too.’
‘Yeah,’ says Charlie. ‘It’s my niece or nephew, man.’
‘Yes,’ says Maisy. ‘I am going to be an auntie.’
‘Yes,’ says Flo. ‘I am to be a great-aunt.’
‘As am I,’ says Evie. ‘Man, I’m so excited.’
‘I’m the dad,’ says Jack.
‘I don’t know what I am,’ says the Man From The Connaught, whose name is James, ‘but I wanted to be here with Clara.’
‘I’m the grandfather,’ says Robert. ‘God, the horror. At my age, Jack!’
‘Soz,’ says Jack, grinning a huge grin.
‘I don’t mean it,’ says Robert. ‘Well, only half.’
‘I’m the other grandfather,’ says Bernard.
‘And I’m the step-granny,’ says Gaby. ‘So, yes. We all need to be here.’
‘Well, that’s very nice, but I’m going to shoo you all away when she’s ten centimetres dilated,’ says the nurse. ‘Apart from Dad,’ she says, smiling at Jack.
‘I think I can probably live with that,’ says Robert, who is squeamish in the extreme.
‘Are you scared, Sky?’ asks Charlie.
‘Only a bit.’ Sky smiles. ‘We’ve been going to pregnancy classes for ages.’
‘It’s not going to be a long labour,’ says the nurse kindly, patting Sky’s shoulder. ‘At your age they usually shoot out. People tend to forget, but that’s how bodies are made. You’re just the right age to have a baby. Well,’ she adds, ‘biologically. Medically, I mean.’
‘In all respects,’ says Bernard proudly.
‘She’s lucky to have so many of you supporting her,’ says the nurse.
‘We love her,’ says Kate briskly. ‘So it’s very simple. Sky, darling, do try to sit up straight. Bad posture really doesn’t help anything.’
‘It’s time,’ says the midwife. ‘Everyone out please, except Dad.’
‘Thank God,’ says Robert. ‘It’s getting a bit grunty in here.’
‘Um,’ says Sky, ‘and Gaby, please. She needs to stay. And my dad, if he’d like to.’
‘The women of Lapidosa foal in the Wenches’ Chamber,’ says Bernard. ‘With only other wenches witnessing the miracle of birth. I’ll be outside, my darling girl.’
‘And Gaby is?’ says the midwife, as we all start traipsing out.
‘My stepmum,’ says Sky. ‘And also this baby’s mum. Well, this baby’s other mum.’
‘We’re all going to be parents!’ booms Bernard. ‘And grandparents at the same time. We are adopting our lovely daughter’s baby.’
‘We’re all going to live together,’ says Gaby. ‘Me and Bernard, with Sky and Jack and the baby. Sort of a commune vibe, but not. More like a tribe.’
‘Tribe cares for tribe,’ says Bernard, sounding like a bassoon.
‘And why not?’ says the midwife cheerfully. ‘Takes all sorts. Ah, here we go. Shallow breaths, darling.’
My grandson only took forty minutes to be born. He is beautiful, and he weighs eight pounds, and his name is Romeo. His second name is Stone. (‘Obviously,’ Sky, Bernard and Gaby said in unison. ‘Obviously.’) He pinged out, as the nurse said he would, and when we went back into the room, everybody was crying, except Romeo, who had a pleased little look on his face. Kate produced four bottles of champagne, and the toast was ‘To love’.
My boyfriend is walking me to the bus stop, like a gent. I feel giddy every time I look at him.
‘I wish they’d stop doing that,’ he says as we pass number 33.
‘Do what, darling?’
‘Clara! You’re supposed to be observant.’
‘Huh?’ I say. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Ogle,’ he says. ‘I don’t like the way they ogle. Somebody should tell them it’s the twenty-first century.’
‘Really?’ I say, astonished. ‘What, ogle me?’
‘Every time,’ he says, laughing and pushing me up against a tree to kiss me. ‘I noticed as soon as I moved in. I can’t say I blame them. But still.’
And across the blue sky of a perfect June morning it comes: the unmistakable whoop-whoop of a wolf whistle.
Acknowledgements
Vast debts of gratitude, as ever, to Georgia Garrett and Juliet Annan, and big thanks to Sali, Sophia and David. Thanks to everyone who talks to me on Twitter: it helps with sanity when you’re in a book-hole. Apologies, as ever, to both the editorial and the production teams at Penguin, who must be wearying of me saying, ‘But people put together entire newspapers overnight, where’s the hurry?’ Sorry. But here we are, so yay. Frippu, Penguin.
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FIG TREE
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First published 2012
Copyright © India Knight, 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Illustration © Trisha Krauss
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-14-197059-2
India Knight, Mutton
