Grace, page 11
‘Take a seat here,’ said Rachel, walking up to Amelia carrying another chair, and putting it down in the expanded circle. ‘I’ll put you by me.’
Amelia looked around and saw that inside the circle of chairs was a large area lined with padded mats, and filled with an assortment of babies, toddlers and toys. Grace was clearly too small to play, but she followed Rachel’s suggestion, and carried the car seat over to the circle and sat down.
‘Ah, the joy of a seat,’ said Rachel, pulling up another chair, and closing the circle so that none of the children could escape. ‘Some days I realise I never ever get to sit in one, you know?’ Amelia smiled, engaged by her companion’s warmth. She had no personal experience of looking after a toddler, and Rachel clearly knew that, but saying things like that made her feel like she’d been accepted into the club. ‘So, sorry, I got all excited about finding chairs there and got a bit flustered. Now that we’re both seated, let’s rewind. I’m Rachel, you’re Amelia’ – she looked down at the car seat – ‘and this is Grace?’
‘Yep.’
‘And over there, currently eating a large piece of red Brio, is my daughter, Ella,’ said Rachel. ‘She’s one next week.’
‘Wow, and she’s walking?’ said Amelia, looking over at the toddler, who had a mass of brown tight curls, and was wearing blue leggings and a white t-shirt with a rainbow on it. She was sucking the red block, depositing dribble all over it.
‘Yep, has been for a few weeks,’ said Rachel. ‘And now I’m even more tired than before. Each stage of motherhood, you think you have it sorted, and then, boom, they change, and you’re completely floored all over again.’
Yes, that’s how I feel, Amelia thought; floored.
‘You’ll be feeling completely banjaxed at the moment, I’m guessing?’ asked Rachel, turning towards her.
Amelia smiled through the hazy aura which seemed to encase her at all times. ‘Yes, I’m… banjaxed,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I’m just not myself at the moment. You know?’
‘Yes, I do know,’ replied Rachel. ‘Now, can I have a cuddle?’
Amelia thought she was asking her, and she looked up, shocked, only to realise that Rachel was looking down at Grace.
‘Oh, of… course,’ she said, hesitating. She had not let anyone other than Piers hold her so far.
‘Brilliant,’ said Rachel, leaning down and unclipping the straps, before cocooning Grace safely in her arms, and lifting her up onto her lap.
Amelia watched as she brought Grace’s face closer to hers, and inhaled. ‘Oh, that new baby smell,’ she said, laughing. ‘They should bottle that.’ She then ran her right hand over Grace’s arms, trunk and legs, as if inspecting a horse.
‘She’s really small. Was she premature?’
Amelia thought for a moment. She could lie about being a foster mother. But then, Caroline had probably already spilled the beans, and anyway, Rachel’s demeanour didn’t invite that sort of thing. Something about her inspired her to be honest.
‘The truth is, I don’t know,’ she said, looking at Rachel.
‘Ah,’ said Rachel, still smiling. ‘Was she born to a surrogate?’
‘No. Well, she was born to another woman. No, we’re fostering her. To adopt. We’re hoping she will be ours officially in a few months.’
‘Ah, so you’re extra special,’ Rachel said, addressing Grace. ‘Your parents really, really worked hard to have you.’
Amelia could feel a tear forming in her right eye, but she didn’t try to prevent it falling, which surprised her. She always had to have a tissue on hand when at home, just in case.
‘Yes,’ replied Amelia. ‘We waited a long time for them to place a child with us. And we’ve had a long road – IVF, and so on…’
‘Ah, I had IVF, too,’ said Rachel, looking over and clocking Amelia’s tears. ‘Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry! Mind you, I know that tears are a pretty constant feature of this stage of motherhood, so I don’t know why I’m surprised. Look, let me get you a drink. And a biscuit?’
Amelia nodded. ‘That would be lovely, thanks. Tea?’
‘Coming up,’ said Rachel, holding Grace out for Amelia to hold. She took her from the other woman, happy to see that Grace was still happily asleep. She’d fed her just before they’d left the house, hoping she could avoid having to make up a bottle for her whilst out – she hadn’t done that yet and the thought of it made her nervous.
While she waited for Rachel to return, she surveyed the other mothers present. Aside from the ever-glossy Caroline, there were a couple of other ladies of her ilk; Piers would probably refer to them as ‘yummy mummies’. It was a term that managed to be both flattering and insulting at the same time, Amelia thought, labelling women as gorgeous whilst inferring that they had little personality to match it. She knew that she did not fit into that category, anyhow. She had never been considered gorgeous, not by anyone, although Piers had made her feel it sometimes, in the early days. She had been plain at school, a bit too tall, a bit too skinny, and that theme had continued into adulthood. She had always felt that her height – five foot ten – made her stand out too much, and in recent years she had dressed accordingly, to try to blend in, even though she had always secretly devoured fashion magazines and wished she could indulge her secret desire to wear radical shapes and colours.
‘Here you go,’ said Rachel. ‘One tea. I put milk in it, is that okay?’
Amelia nodded. She didn’t care, as long as it was a drink, and she didn’t have to make it. ‘Oh, and I got you a custard cream. Here, take one.’ She held out a plate with two biscuits on it, and Amelia looked embarrassed. She had Grace in one arm and her free hand was holding the cup of tea.
‘Oh silly me, the joy of holding a baby. Look, I’ll put these on the floor while you drink your tea, and then you can swap the mug for a biscuit. I promise not to eat mine until you get there. I know how rare food is at this stage. You’re probably starving.’
Amelia smiled and turned to the side so that she could take a sip of tea without risking dropping it on the baby.
‘So how are you finding it?’ Rachel asked between slurps of her own tea. ‘The new-born stage is hard.’
‘Yes!’ said Amelia. ‘She doesn’t want to be put down. She only falls asleep after a feed, and if she does, only for about an hour, even at night. She screams all the time when she’s awake.’ Amelia paused and took a deep breath. ‘I think… I think… I’m just no good at this. I think maybe she knows that I didn’t give birth to her…’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Rachel replied. ‘Everyone thinks they’re shit at the beginning.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes. Really.’
‘Oh.’
‘Look. I know everyone gives you uninvited advice, and that’s infuriating,’ said Rachel, making Amelia laugh, ‘but – for what it’s worth – here’s some more. This is what saved me…’
What followed was far from infuriating. Amelia got out her phone, opened the notes app and typed up every tip Rachel had, including the use of a dummy (‘Ignore all the dummy snobs,’ she said, ‘those things are amazing’), to feed Grace only when she woke, not to help send her to sleep, and a swaddling blanket (‘seriously, you’ll be checking her for a pulse’).
‘Thank you so much,’ said Amelia, really meaning it. ‘I’ll be straight on Amazon when I get home, ordering a dummy and a blanket.’
‘Good,’ said Rachel. ‘You can do it, honestly. You’re just in a sort of grieving period for your old life at the moment. But your new life will be great, honestly. When you adjust.’
Amelia thought of her dark flat, of her surrendered art room, of Piers’ misplaced confidence in her. Doubt began to creep back in.
‘Oh, don’t cry again,’ said Rachel, spotting Amelia’s fall back down into the rabbit hole. ‘Now, let’s distract you. Who here don’t you know?’
Amelia looked around. ‘Well, I know Caroline. And I sort of know the woman she’s chatting to.’
‘Yes, that’s Becky. She’s married to one of the groundsmen at Langland College.’
Amelia felt awful. Of course she was; she’d seen them chatting to each other over the low wall around the boarding house, presumably on the way to and from nursery.
‘And over there, that’s Belinda – she’s a primary school teacher – and then there’s Natalie, she’s a stay-at-home mum, and then there’s Lorna, she works in a supermarket, I think.’
‘I feel really bad,’ said Amelia, putting her tea down and reaching down for a biscuit.
‘Why?’
‘Before I came here, I thought… not very nice things about baby groups.’
Rachel snorted. ‘Ha, I love your honesty. Let me see. Did you think we would all be sitting here eating almond croissants and sipping pumpkin spice lattes?’
‘How did you know?’ said Amelia, laughing for the first time in weeks.
‘Well, I’m guessing you extrapolated from Caroline and your mind went wild.’
Amelia looked guilty.
‘What’s funny though is that Caroline, despite her glossy exterior, had it worse than all of us, for a while.’
‘Oh?’ said Amelia, her ears pricking up.
‘Yes, she had a diagnosis of postnatal psychosis. She’s really open about it. She had a short spell in a supervised mother and baby unit. She was sectioned.’
‘Oh… God.’
‘Yep, pretty horrendous, really. But she came out of it. And she’s fine now.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘No, I know. I don’t think her husband talks about it. He’s quite senior at the college, isn’t he? Probably thinks it looks bad.’
Amelia suddenly felt incredibly guilty for every snide thought she’d had about Caroline.
‘Look, so that’s the thing. We all struggle, even if we don’t look like we do. You’ll be grand. Honest.’
Amelia realised she felt buoyed up by the women around her – probably, she reflected, for the first time in years.
‘Now,’ said Rachel. ‘Let’s get down on the mat, and Grace can meet Ella. She loves tiny babies. She thinks they’re living dolls.’
*
‘Dad?’ Amelia pushed open the heavy oak door, and stared into the gloom beyond. ‘Dad?’
There was no reply, so Amelia pushed the door open further and walked in, carrying Grace’s car seat inside and placing her down on the hall floor. She walked down the hallway and into the living room. The heavy blue damask curtains were closed. She went over to the windows and threw them open, coughing as clouds of dust took flight. When she turned around, the light from the south-facing windows illuminated a pile of blankets on the sofa.
The pile of blankets coughed.
‘Dad!’ said Amelia, running to the sofa and pulling the blankets back. ‘Dad! Are you okay?’
‘Eh?’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Amelia, is that you?’
‘Dad. You didn’t answer when I called.’ She bent over and held her arms out to her father. He took them and allowed her to pull him up to a seated position.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ he said, his voice deep and stern.
Amelia looked at him more closely. His thin white hair was hanging in all directions, like a miniature mop; his moustache was straggly and appeared dirty; his loose, freckled skin was sallow; and his large, floppy ears were… naked.
‘Dad, where are your hearing aids?’
‘Eh?’
‘Your hearing aids,’ she repeated, so loudly this time that she fancied she could see his hair moving, her words reached him with so much force.
‘They’re uncomfortable,’ he answered. ‘I only wear them when I’m meeting people.’
Amelia was tempted to answer ‘and don’t I count as a person?’ but decided better of it.
‘Right,’ she muttered to herself, as she smoothed the blankets over his knees and placed cushions behind his back. ‘So I drove you all the way to Worcester to get them, but you’re not going to use them.’
‘Eh?’
‘Nothing, Dad.’
Cries erupted from the hallway. Grace was awake. Not that her father had noticed, of course; he had his noise-cancelling equipment already installed.
‘Just a minute, Dad,’ she said, leaving him to go and retrieve Grace. She was unsure how he’d react when he met her. It was fair to say that he was not particularly enamoured with babies. Or, in fact, children up to the age of forty, she thought.
‘Here she is, Dad. I’ve brought Grace to see you.’
‘Ah,’ he said, sounding a bit like he’d just chanced upon the answer to a particularly cryptic crossword clue.
Amelia put Grace’s car seat down, unclipped her and lifted her up onto her shoulder, before taking a seat at the other end of the sofa from her father. They sat in silence for a few seconds.
‘Why are you asleep in the middle of the afternoon, Dad?’
‘I thought you were coming this morning. I just sat down for a bit, Amelia, and I had a nap,’ he said, sounding every inch the retired headmaster he was. He had always been good at chastising people.
‘But you were in the dark.’
‘The sun was coming through the window and blinding me,’ he said. It was autumn, and the sun’s appearances were weak and fleeting, but Amelia decided not to push the point.
‘How’s that chap of yours?’ her father asked. ‘Has he been promoted again?’
Amelia knew they were on solid ground now. Her father loved to ask about Piers’ job. It was a ‘safe’ topic, unlikely to provoke emotions, or political views, or anything else that might cause embarrassment. And talking about Piers’ job no doubt reminded her father of his own career in education, which had always dominated their family life, in tandem with her mother’s illustrious scientific achievements. Ambition had always been a prized personality trait in their family, which had made it so much worse when she had failed to achieve pretty much everything.
‘He’s doing well, Dad,’ she answered. ‘He said that one of the deputy heads is leaving. So he’s ingratiating himself there this afternoon.’
‘Good man,’ he said. ‘That’ll do it.’
Amelia looked at the floor and saw there were several dirty plates by the sofa and a number of stained mugs were lying on their sides by her father’s slippers. She was taken aback; he’d been fastidious since her mother’s death. Every time she’d come over in the past year, she’d found the house clean and ordered, despite the fact he’d refused any home help. But not today.
‘Are you feeling poorly, Dad?’
‘No, Amelia. Just old.’
‘Okay. Well, hang on. Let me put Grace back down,’ – she placed her back in the seat – ‘and I’ll just tidy up a bit.’
Her father sighed, but she didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, she picked up the plates, balanced the mugs on top of them and walked into the kitchen, leaving a sleeping Grace on the floor next to the sofa. She was neither reassured nor worried by the knowledge that she’d be exactly where she’d left her when she got back.
She walked into the small galley kitchen of her parents’ small retirement flat, a flat she had tried very hard to persuade them not to buy. It had seemed so pokey and so anonymous after the rambling, Georgian house in West Malvern they’d occupied for the previous four decades, but her mother in particular had insisted. ‘It’ll be easier for us to keep clean,’ she’d said, despite having had a cleaner for most of her life. Amelia was fairly confident that she’d never so much as used a duster in anger.
It had felt to Amelia as if by moving to this flat they were preparing for their imminent demise, and it had depressed her greatly. She’d had dreams of pushing her own child on the rope swing on the old oak tree that her father had strung up for her in the garden of their old house, the house she’d grown up in, but her inability to carry a baby to term had put paid to that. Her parents had moved house a few years ago, just after…
‘Are you okay in there, Amelia?’ her father shouted from the lounge. He had never liked to leave her unattended in the flat, although she couldn’t imagine what he thought she’d unearth if left unsupervised.
‘I’m just washing up, Dad,’ she shouted back, putting the dirty plates in the sink and turning on the hot tap. ‘Won’t be a sec.’
While the sink filled with water, she checked the contents of the fridge. There wasn’t much in the way of food in there; it was mostly old condiments and aged vegetables, well past their best. Then she checked the cupboard where he kept his tins and jars. She counted five tins of stewed beef, a tin of oxtail soup and a jar of pesto. Hardly enough to feed a grown man for a week. Had he stopped going to the shops? She walked back to the sink, quickly scrubbed and rinsed the plates and cups and left them to dry on the drying rack.
‘All done,’ she said, walking back into the lounge. ‘Shall I get you some more food from the—’ Amelia broke off. Her father’s head had begun to nod forward once more; Grace snored gently on the floor next to him.
Amelia considered offering to stay to help him make dinner, to try to evoke some sort of familial feeling for an hour or two. What point was there, though, she thought. He would never say yes.
‘Okay Dad, we’ll leave you to it,’ she said loudly, so as to wake him up.
His head snapped back up.
‘Eh? Ah, yes, thanks. I’m feeling a bit tired. Sorry.’
Me too, Dad, she thought, me too. ‘That’s okay. But Dad, have you got enough food? When did you last go to the supermarket?’
‘I’m not very hungry,’ he mumbled.
‘Dad.’
‘I’m fine. Look darling, I know you have enough on your plate, what with this baby and everything. I’m okay. Don’t fuss.’
‘Dad, you are not okay. I tell you what, I’ll organise a food delivery for you. They’ll bring it right to your door. I’ll do it when I get home, okay? I’ll call you when I’ve done it.’
‘But what if I don’t like what they bring?’
Amelia smiled, despite knowing that she was making more work for herself. ‘I’ll order everything you like Dad, okay? Why don’t you fire up your computer and send me an email later with a shopping list?’
