Chapter 18
THE GREAT BABY WARS
Becca
Having sent all my emails, I messaged Roy Cropper to tell him that while we appreciated his interest, he does not fall within our target demographic so unfortunately at this time the Fab Forties Club will not be accepting membership from men.
Do I feel a little guilty? Absolutely. And a little scared I’ll get taken up by some sort of equality commission, but our remit is very clear – we are here for women in midlife to talk about their experiences.
Plus I suspect he is really only interested in the biscuits.
Still, the interaction had me nervous enough that I wanted to get out and about for a bit to distract myself.
I am still in ‘giving Conal space’ mode so I couldn’t arrive at his door.
And I didn’t want my mum to see my face and immediately click that something was wrong and launch a full-scale interrogation.
I’m ashamed to say I have been doing my best to avoid her for this very reason.
So the logical thing to do is to go and see Clara. I mean Niamh. And Clara will just so happen to be there. Which is always, always a bonus.
My beautiful granddaughter seems to change a little day by day.
She’s still her, of course. I’ve studied her so much that I know I would be able to pick her out of a line-up of similarly adorable babies.
I have memorised the exact combination of features that make her quite simply The Most Beautiful Girl In The World.
It’s the little snub nose. The petal pink of her lips, and the curve of her cheeks, the deep blue of her eyes and the exact shade of light brown of her downy hair. It’s how she looks so much like her daddy did at the same age, yet with the softer, feminine edges of her mother.
It’s the fact that in Clara I can also see Niamh – a face I have known and loved for almost forty years. So while she is new and fresh and innocent, she is a reminder of everything that really matters in this world and a combination of some of my very favourite people.
I would, without hesitation, kill for her. Which is what I’m telling Niamh right now as she tries to snatch our shared grandbaby from me.
‘You get cuddles with her all the time,’ I say. ‘Fair is fair. I need a turn.’
‘It’s not my fault she loves her granny Niamh more,’ Niamh says with a grin. She knows she is baiting me.
‘It’s not true either. But I’ll allow you to tell yourself that and I’ll just keep the truth to myself.’
Niamh raises her middle finger in my direction, but on spotting her youngest child, eight-year-old Fiadh, walking into the room, she quickly uses the same finger to push her glasses back up her nose.
‘I know you did the bad finger,’ Fiadh says with absolute confidence as she walks across the room and sits down beside me.
Neither Niamh nor I have the chance to answer before she lifts the baby from my arms like she has been nursing babies all her life and immediately starts chatting and cooing at her.
Clara, the traitor, rewards her auntie with a large smile.
‘I think she might love Fiadh most of all,’ I say with a smile.
‘She does. She thinks I’m her best friend,’ Fiadh coos. God, this baby is so lucky to be so loved.
‘Well, while you are getting a cuddle, how about Becks and I go and chat in the kitchen?’ Niamh says. ‘I’ll send Daddy through to sit with you.’
‘I can sit on my own. I’m not a baby,’ Fiadh says, rolling her eyes with disgust. That child is eight going on eighteen and has more confidence than I have ever had in my entire life. I bloody love her for it.
Having followed Niamh through to the kitchen, I barely have my bum on my seat before the questions begin.
‘First of all – do you know your mother and Mrs Bishop now have more than two thousand followers on TikTok?’
My eyes widen. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I do not joke about your mother, Becks. I wouldn’t dare.’
I don’t know whether to feel horrified or proud, so I settle on a combination of both.
‘Second of all, what brings you here on this damp night? I thought you were getting on with all your work like a good girl and hunkering down until both you and Conal are able to wise up and sort out whatever this is between you?’
‘I was. I mean, I did my work. And I messaged the biscuit thief, but then I started spiralling a little. About the club.’
‘The club will get off its feet in time. It’s early days. Patience, young Padawan.’
I nod because she’s right, and also because she is a little scary and it’s easier to agree with her.
‘So now we have that out of the way, are there are any other major crises I can help you get through?’
I give her a look that says ‘I don’t know why you’re asking, you know exactly what is stressing me the fudge out’.
‘Conal,’ she says as she sets a packet of chocolate digestives down in front of me. It’s a statement, not a question. I give her a half smile in response and a little shrug of my shoulders.
‘Something new? Has he been a dick? Did he do something bad? Do I need to kill him? Because I love Conal but I will actually kill him if you need me to?’
I open my mouth to assure her that no, there is nothing new and it is just the same mega crisis that has been taking up my every waking thought for the last forty-eight hours and which I have no idea how to handle.
But just as I go to speak, she looks at me. ‘If he has been a dick, do we have to tell Laura? I don’t want to ruin her return to school – but she will need to know.’
‘Dear God,’ I say. ‘Calm down, it’s nothing new. Nothing that will ruin Laura’s return to college anyway. I don’t think.’
Of course, it’s hard not to be aware of just how awkward all of this is between us.
How Conal and I have become a sort of ‘don’t mention the war’ situation in the group chat lest Laura gets upset, or I say the wrong thing, or she says the wrong thing…
And Laura must know, then, there’s another conversation going on between Niamh and me that she is not privy to in which all the unsaid things are being said…
And chances are – again – that Laura and Conal have their own conversation ongoing about all of this in which they are saying all their unsaid things. Tis a tangled web we weave!
Niamh freezes, opens her mouth to say something else then clearly has second thoughts, mimics zipping her mouth shut and sits down opposite me. The wide-eyed expression on her face lets me know that she expects me to start talking – now.
‘I think I might be the dick in this situation,’ I say.
‘I’m still processing it so no, I don’t need your reassurance that I’m not, or your assertion I am.
I am spiralling enough and to be honest I came here because I wanted to distract myself from it running around and around in my head constantly. ’
I open the chocolate biscuits, take one out and take a bite, hoping the crumbly tastiness will ease my inner turmoil. Although I figure even if it doesn’t, I’ll still have had a chocolate biscuit so it’s a win-win.
‘Okay, so let’s formulate a distraction plan. Without referring to Roy Cropper, fill me in on where we are with the Fabulous Forties thing.’
I finish my bite of biscuit and nod. ‘Well, we have the choir session. It’s all booked and good to go. I’ve had a few confirmations of attendance – and of course you and Laura will be there. If Laura isn’t too busy making a voodoo doll of me for being a dick to her brother.’
Niamh’s hand flies up into a ‘STOP’ gesture. ‘VERBOTEN!’ she says in a loud, terrifying German accent. ‘We vill not mention ze war!’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s racist, or xenophobic or something,’ I say.
‘It’s also a really bad attempt at a German accent but the point remains. We are not talking about Conal tonight. Tonight, we are providing a distraction.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ I say, bowing to her teacherly authority.
‘As long we have an understanding.’ She gives me a warm smile, and I’m no longer worried I’m about to be interrogated or thrown into the Gulag. (Although, I’m pretty sure that was Russia, not Germany.)
‘So… the choir,’ she says, guiding me back into the conversation.
‘Well, it’s booked, as I said. And we’re under no commitment to keep going beyond that first session. There will be a few other new people at it too.’
‘Maybe Roy Cropper?’ Niamh raises one eyebrow.
‘Probably depends on the biscuits,’ I say. ‘They have a break with tea and biscuits. Which reminds me… my mother has been making noises about coming along during the session to film it for her TikTok.’
Leaning towards me, her expression serious and solemn, she speaks. ‘Becks, if your mother – as much as I love her like she were my own – points a camera at my face while I’m singing in a pop choir then I will not be responsible for my actions. Old age pensioner or not, she’s going down.’
Of course she’s joking. I think.
‘Honestly, can you imagine if my Year 13s saw that? I would never in all my days be able to show my face in the school again.’ She shudders, but I’m not buying it. Niamh’s Year 13 science class love her to bits. They believe she is destined for stardom.
‘Isn’t it your Year 13s who are constantly on at you to make TikToks with them? This could seal your position as the coolest teacher in the world!’
Leaning even closer, so that I can feel her breath on my face, she says in perhaps the most menacing voice I have ever heard – and bear in mind we are from Northern Ireland; our accent is inherently menacing – ‘Over my cold, dead body. And your mother’s too, if it comes to it.’
She sits back and laughs, but I know Niamh Cassidy better than I know myself. When she makes a threat – no matter how outlandish – there is a part of her that is already planning how to carry it out, just in case.
‘Okay!’ I tell her before admitting that my mother has already been warned off any such shenanigans.
‘Grand,’ she says. ‘I really don’t like beating old ladies up.’
‘She’d beat you up if she heard you calling her an old lady,’ I warn.
‘I’ve no doubt about it. And not to break my own rule, but I will message Laura and just check everything will be okay and not painfully awkward between you and let her know that we’re all just giving the situation a bit of space to see what happens.’
I smile and nod. ‘Thank you. I’d really hate for her to be worried about things. But she’s been so quiet these past few days.’
‘She’s been finding her feet at uni,’ Niamh says. ‘That’s bloody huge. But maybe she also needs a bit of reassurance that we will still be here for her even if…’
She doesn’t finish the sentence and I’m grateful for it. I don’t want to think of all the permeations of that ‘if’.
At that I hear a small, mewling cry come from the living room and before I have so much as blinked, both Niamh and I are on our feet and heading back to claim ownership of baby Clara. The ongoing war over who is best at soothing her isn’t going to end any time soon.
By the time we reach the living room, there is no sign of Fiadh and only a very pale-faced Paul, holding a crying baby away from his body as if she is a bomb that might just explode.
It takes just seconds to work out that is exactly what the little munchkin has done. A full grade blow-out of her nappy which has seeped through her onesie and traumatised her poor grandad.
And still, Niamh and I battle for who will take her and clean up the mess. Because the who-is-best-at-changing-her wars are also still ongoing.