Chapter 32 #2
There I stayed, until, when I was thoroughly lost in a haze of cheesy Wotsits dust, foil wrappers, damp tissues and The Holiday , someone knocked on the door.
Clambering off the sofa, the blanket slipping to the floor, I scrambled to answer it, knocking over a tub of Quality Street as I went, only one person on my mind.
Surely he’d realised that the message was the mistake, not the kiss or the conversation?
Or not.
Standing there, with the biggest, fakest grins on their faces, were the absolute last two people I expected to see.
‘What?’ I blurted, before seeing the smiles freeze and realising that this probably wasn’t the way to greet the parents I’d not seen in eighteen months.
‘I mean, hi. Hello. I mean, sorry, this is a surprise.’
When she’d asked for my address I’d assumed it was to send me a Christmas card.
‘Can we come in?’ Mum asked. ‘We’ve travelled rather a long way. It would be a shame if you’re busy.’
She gave one of her quick full-body scans, and I automatically shrivelled a little. I was still in my pyjamas, which weren’t exactly clean, my hair a mass of tangles, the effort I’d put into yesterday’s make-up now smeared around my eyes.
‘Obviously not busy,’ I said, trying to sound more humorous than horrified as I stepped back to make room. ‘It’s great to see you.’
Mum left her coat on the banister and vigorously wiped crumbs off the sofa before sitting down, smoothing out the charcoal Hobbs dress bought from a charity shop several years ago.
Dad went to give me a stiff hug, angling his jacket to avoid the hot-chocolate stain on my pyjama top.
I ran upstairs to throw on jeans and a jumper, made us all drinks, then fetched Bob from where he’d been napping in his pram. Mum gingerly cradled him, eyes solemn.
‘My first grandchild,’ she announced. ‘Welcome, Robin. Welcome to the Whittington family. I am your grandmother. But you can call me… Veronica.’
‘Seriously?’ I asked, rolling my eyes a little. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer Mrs Whittington?’
Mum squirmed. ‘Grandma Veronica, then.’
She lasted about three minutes then passed him on to Dad, who looked as if he were holding a sleeping alligator.
‘Now, I’d ask how you’re coping, but I think that’s all too apparent,’ Mum said.
‘I’m coping fine,’ I said, more defensively than I intended, considering they’d traversed the Atlantic Ocean to visit us, no doubt cancelling numerous good works to be here. ‘I had a busy week, so was taking things easy today. Bob had a restless night.’
Bob woke up once in the night for a feed and went straight back to sleep. His mother, on the other hand…
‘Busy doing what, hosting a party for pre-schoolers?’ Dad scanned the food wrappers and other debris.
‘Shay and Kieran came down for a couple of days.’
‘Of course they did,’ Mum said grimly, as if that explained everything.
‘I also designed and created eighteen costumes for a community carol concert,’ I ploughed on, ignoring her. ‘The show was last night, but it was pretty hectic the week before, so I was planning on catching up with cleaning and everything today.’
At least, I’d planned on putting all the sewing equipment away at some point, because the sight of it made my chest ache.
‘A community venture?’ Dad asked, raising his eyebrows.
I showed them a few photos of the cast in costume.
‘Well, I’m pleased to see you using your talents to bless other people, for once,’ Mum said, handing me the phone back after a cursory glance.
I swallowed back all the comments about bursaries, scholarships, fair trade, sustainability, apprenticeships… then changed the subject quick before I vomited them up again.
‘What happened to your plans with the charity? The beach house?’
‘We told them they could do without us for a couple of days,’ Dad replied. ‘Cameron is doing a live podcast on “Why it’s your fault Christmas is a catastrophe”, so couldn’t take the time off to visit.’
‘You know that staying somewhere so huge by ourselves doesn’t align with our values,’ Mum added.
‘Besides, we wanted to meet our grandson,’ Dad said, voice gruff. ‘And check how you are. We interpreted your comment about the care package as a request for help. Sometimes it’s our own family in need, and we know you don’t find it easy to admit when you’re struggling.’
I had made a point of ensuring I would never need to admit that, under any circumstances.
‘Having a baby isn’t easy. Especially if doing it on your own…’ Mum glanced around, as if expecting a father to waltz in at that precise moment.
There was a long silence, interrupted by Bob’s alarmingly vigorous hiccups. I gently lifted him out of Dad’s arms and cuddled him against my chest, a mini human shield to deflect their reaction to what I was about to say.
And then I told them everything.
Well, the bits not including lies, betrayal, broken friendships, secret office romances and eight months drowning in despair, anyway.
* * *
‘Please come home for Christmas,’ Mum asked, for the fourth time, after I’d opened the presents they’d bought for Bob, all ethical, natural fibre, educational gifts.
They gave me a pair of wool socks knitted by men enrolled in one of Dad’s programmes, which went perfectly with the boots Shay and Kieran had got me, and was one pair of socks more than I’d bought them.
We were now eating the organic Christmas fruit cake they’d brought accompanied by chunks of extra-strong cheddar cheese, as dictated by Yorkshire tradition.
‘This is my home,’ I repeated, as I had the previous three times.
‘Oh, you know what I mean. Our new tenants don’t move in until the end of January, so you could linger on once we’ve headed back to Chicago.’
Her eyes swept up from the shabby carpet to the patch of damp in one corner of the ceiling, via the cracked fireplace, and I took the hint.
‘I think it’s probably best if you go now,’ I said, standing up to make a hint of my own. ‘Like I said, I’ve got a fair bit to do this afternoon and am pretty busy over the next few days.’
‘Busy?’
‘I’m going to a party at a house so posh you’d be guaranteed to disapprove, and hanging out with my friends.
Some of whom have given their lives to noble endeavours like adopting traumatised children and running food banks, others who enjoy doing equally acceptable things like writing books or driving a taxi. ’
‘Right.’ She started looking for her bag in amongst the pile of Bob’s presents. ‘Well, as long as people are at peace with their choices, and can look back without regret at the impact they had on the world?—’
‘Mum, it’s Christmas. I’ve not seen you in forever. I heard a perfectly good sermon at the carol concert yesterday. Can you please spare me another one?’
She paused for a moment, before straightening up. ‘I can, yes. But if you don’t mind, I must say this.’
I braced myself, already dismissing whatever advice or passive-aggressive critique she was about to thrust upon me.
‘Honestly, Mary, you’re doing tremendously well, after a hellish start to motherhood. To begin again, alone, in a new place, and manage the sleepless nights and feeding and the mountain of stuff parents are expected to buy these days…’
I could literally not remember Mum praising me like this without adding some kind of judgemental dig on the end.
‘You’re resisting the pressure to bother with superficialities like your appearance, or your house, or pretending you’re a superwoman needing to ace every facet of motherhood…’
There it was.
‘Well. I’m proud of you.’
I nearly fell back onto the sofa.
‘Thank you,’ I stammered. ‘I… I appreciate you saying that.’
I thought about it as I cleaned and tidied up once they’d gone. Reflecting on the past few weeks, where I’d been, and where I was as we headed into a new year, I had to conclude that, despite the sting of Beckett’s rejection, I was proud of myself, too.