“Spoilt for who?” I ask. “Not you. I’m perfect for you,” I say, expecting a kiss. I don’t get one.
“Ach, with your perfect little spoilt upbringing. Just perfect Little Lord Fauntleroy, with your briefcase and your ducks.”
“Is that jealousy? Grim up North, was it?”
I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Is it safe to mock her parents, her upbringing, yet, eighteen months on?
Ellie turns to me. I hold my breath. She could quite justifiably berate me for what I’ve said. But she doesn’t. Instead, “I wouldn’t think you had everything so perfect, you know,” she says cryptically, as we reach Mum and Dad’s driveway.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
But before she has time to answer, our crunching feet on the gravel alert the parents within, and the door opens.
“Welcome!” trills Mum, gaily. Good. No crying today then. Closer up, I can see there are bags under her eyes, and a little grey at the temples I’ve never noticed before. And she has another of her jackets on – pink this time, the one she wore when she needed special extra armour for a doubting client. When I hug her, she smells of sherry. I see Dad behind her in the hallway. He gives me a nod, and when Mum releases me, extends his hand for a shake. Never been a big one for hugs, Dad. Bit formal with me. Not keen on physical closeness. Although he must have been with Mum, at least once, of course.
The door shuts behind us and we’re in. Mum starts fussing around with Ellie’s coat, telling us to ‘Go through, go through’ to the living room, that dinner will be in twenty minutes or so, boeufs en croute. Dad leads us into the living room. But just as we are getting settled, Ellie lowering herself down onto the cushions, Mum comes in and asks if she can ‘borrow’ Ellie. Ellie doesn’t look at all like she wants to be borrowed. But I realise this is another part of the master plan, to leave me alone with Dad. Always know what’s best, don’t they, mums? Ellie is yet to get that wisdom, because she is scowling, but I nod at her and help pull her up from the cushions, and she’s off. It’s just me and Dad.
“So,” I say.
“So,” he says back.
“Mum OK?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
I grimace. “Ouch.”
There’s a pause.
“So, I was wondering – now that I’m going to be a father, with a son, newly-born thing soon to emerge from… Well, emerge. Let’s leave it at that. Any tips?”
Dad takes a sip of his drink. “Such as?” he asks, once he’s swallowed his mouthful.
“Well, I don’t know. I was kind of hoping you’d tell me. Um, what was it like, when I was born, and you were holding me in your arms? Did you know what to do? Was there an immediate connection?”
“Childbirth’s an amazing thing,” he says. “It’s a real blessing for people.”
“Right, good.” I take a sip of my drink. Not quite going as I’d planned, this chat. He seems tense, uptight. Maybe things haven’t been so good here, the last couple of days.
“And, so, what was it like, when you first got me home? Was I a sleeper, a crier, a wailer? Don’t know if it’s hereditary, but if it is, good to be warned, right?”
Again, a sip of the drink. “When we got you home,” he says, and has another sip.
“Yes?” I prompt.
“You took a little while to settle,” he says, finally. “A bit quiet, at first.”
“That’s a blessing, though, right?” I ask. “A quiet baby? From what Ellie says, I imagine we’ll never sleep again. Not at night, anyway. During the day, we’ll need a special supply of matchsticks to keep our eyes from closing as we drive. Otherwise, it’s falling asleep at traffic lights and level crossings and boom – that’s parenthood over.”
“We just sat and stared at you, really. Tried to take you in. You looked like you were doing the same. A big change, for all of us.”
I’m beginning to think maybe Dad has been at the sherry too. Of course it’s a big change – from womb to nursery. Maybe I was just a little monster and he doesn’t want to worry me by admitting it. Part of the stress of sleepless nights must be their anticipation, right?
“OK, so – here’s the big question. What brand of cigar did you smoke when I was born?”
And there we go. Another sip of his drink. Looking at Dad closely, there’s some pretty frantic eye-movement going on, like he’s trying to think of an answer. What’s wrong with him tonight? Maybe I’ll try the Ellie approach: joke him out of it.
“I get it, Dad. Admit it – you missed the birth.”
That brings his face out of his drink. Very quickly. He chokes a little, so sudden is his movement, mid-mouthful. He stares at me, his eyes wide. I’ve started down this line, so I’d better finish.
“Yep, I bet you were one of ones who went to the pub and missed the call. Or went to sit on the green, and get high – whatever you guys did back then.”
He continues to stare at me without speaking. I’m getting a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps I hit some truth here. Did Dad abscond before the birth, or something?
Ellie comes into the room. I can hear Dad’s sigh of relief. He’s not getting away with it that easily, though – I’ll be back on him in a moment. Ellie’s eyes are a bit wild. I wonder what Mum has been doing to her in the kitchen.
“I’m going up into the loft,” she announces. “To get the photo albums.”
I stand up from my chair.
“Ellie, what? The loft, in your condition?”
She waves a hand. “It’s just a pull-down staircase. I can climb a staircase.”
“But you hate going up there at the best of times. And if you fall – ”
“I won’t fall,” she says.
“Let me go up,” I volunteer. I can get to the bottom of Dad’s madness later. I have responsibility elsewhere.
Ellie pushes me down onto the sofa. “There’s no danger,” she says. “I want to.”
So I let her. My ears follow her up the first flight of stairs, up the second, to the opening of the trap-door, the descent of the foldaway stairs, and her ascent up them. There are no crashes or bangs. I relax. Slightly. Not completely.
Then Dad speaks. Ellie’s interruption has obviously allowed him to find some words.
“I was a very responsible parent. I always looked out for you, from the moment I knew you were coming. No matter what.”
He stands up, and leaves the room. He takes his drink with him. I’m alone in the room with his words. I replay them in my head. Then I keep replaying the last ones. ‘No matter what.’ Why would he say that? Why would Dad, steady old Dad, the actuary, for whom everything is measured, everything assessed, say something like that? What was this ‘what’ that would matter?
But before I can ponder it further, there is a cry from Ellie.
-Ellie-
God, they’ll probably all come running now. Shouldn’t have cried out. They’ll all feel vindicated in thinking I’m a walking baby home that shouldn’t be climbing a loft staircase,