10
Polly sat with Rowan perched uncomfortably on her lap, in front of the doctor, who’d just finished peering down Rowan’s ear with his ear-peering thingamajig.
‘How are things since Rowan had grommets put in?’ he asked.
‘There has been an improvement,’ she said, ‘but she still misses things – not only conversations but also background noise, like traffic. I have to hold tightly onto her hand or she might rush out into the road. It’s dangerous when she doesn’t hear traffic.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The doctor – whose name she couldn’t remember (God, she was still so forgetful!) – went over to the sink to wash his hands. ‘Have you considered whether it might be selective hearing?’
‘What do you mean?’ She was insulted on Rowan’s behalf. Was he really suggesting that her daughter would choose to be deaf?
‘What I mean is that because she’s been so used to not hearing, she may be tuning out more easily. How’s her speech coming along?’
Polly pulled Rowan more upright, but Rowan wriggled in protest. ‘She tends to miss words, and she mispronounces them often. Someone told me that’s normal at her age?’
He glanced at the computer screen. ‘Hmm. Try not to listen to well-meaning people. You know your own child, and I’m sure you’re right. Also, it is not wholly normal, Mrs Park.’
Polly couldn’t be bothered to correct him and say It’s Ms Park, thank you very much.
‘We ought to keep an eye on things. She might well need speech therapy further down the line. But why don’t we see how things go.’
He clapped his hands to the right of Rowan, and she smiled up at him from where she’d been engrossed in her cardboard book. ‘That’s good. Most promising,’ he said.
‘Will it be permanent? I mean, will there be any hearing loss?’ asked Polly.
‘It’s a possibility but like I said, a bit early to be sure. Why don’t we refer Rowan to audiology, shall we? Ah, I see from her notes that she’s been before. How did she do?’
He was glancing at his screen again.
‘Better than I expected,’ Polly said. ‘Although I did wonder whether it was more of the case that she guesses when she’s meant to hear those bleeps. All I know is that she misses a lot of background chatter and noise at home, and I’ve noticed it’s even worse when we’re out and about.’
‘Well, she’s clearly a bright little thing, aren’t you, Rowan?’ But Rowan didn’t look up. He lifted her chin and tried again. ‘You’re a bright girl, aren’t you?’
Rowan nodded and smiled and returned to her book.
‘Whatever the cause and whether she’ll grow out of it or not will depend to some extent on what you do at home.’ He leant back in his chair. ‘At present she’s getting a lot of her cues from whoever’s talking to her. Even at this age she can read lips.’ He stopped and steepled his fingers. ‘I don’t think we’ll introduce Baby Signing, because that might well delay her speech further.’
‘Well yes,’ said Polly grudgingly, as she wasn’t used to liking the doctors or their opinions, but this new one was better than the older one she’d seen in the past. ‘That’s what I thought too. About the signing, I mean.’
‘Make sure she can see your face when you speak to her. It’s like – well, it’s like she’s hearing words underwater…’ he put his hand over his mouth ‘…like this,’ he said, smothering the last words.
Polly sighed. She knew this already but thought it rude to say so.
‘Come back and see me after she’s been to audiology,’ he said, not unkindly, ‘I’d like to monitor her progress.’ He regarded Polly with a warm smile. ‘And try not to worry so much, Mum.’
Cheek – he’s old enough to be my father!
‘Your little girl is clearly coping very well so far. You say she goes to a childminder?’
‘Yes, and she attends Montessori playschool.’
‘Good. Good. The more socialising she does at this stage, the better.’ He leant back in his chair. ‘Thank you for coming. We’ll make an appointment and then arrange to see you—’
‘Once I’ve been to audiology,’ said Polly, not meaning to be rude. Getting to her feet, she took Rowan by the hand and then tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Say bye bye, Doctor.’
‘Bye bye, Boctor,’ Rowan obliged.
Her car was in the garage, so after dropping Rowan off with Trudy, the childminder, she set off on foot, up the hill, taking a short cut through Canynge Crescent – her favourite street in Clifton. A man with a clipboard and headphones held up his hand, barring her way.
‘Hold up,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to wait. We’re about to film a scene. Won’t be long, love.’
Polly cast anxiously about her for Max. Please, God, don’t let him be filming here.
That would be too embarrassing. Up ahead were a couple of large equipment vans, lighting, people milling about with cameras and sound booms, and in the middle of it all, a milk float under which was pinned a man having red substance applied to his wounds.
‘More blood. C’mon, c’mon. We need more blood on this!’ shouted clipboard man, who was now doing much pointing and pacing about.
‘Hurry up! While we still have this light.’
‘Sorry,’ a woman with headphones and a large mug of coffee said to Polly. ‘Not much longer now.’
‘Okay, Sarah,’ another man was calling. ‘Sarah, over here, darling.’
Polly watched as an actor dressed in the green uniform of a paramedic leapt out of the ambulance parked at an angle across the road then rushed to the man bleeding underneath the vehicle.
‘Quick. He’s tachycardic,’ Sarah called over her shoulder to the other actor, who Polly recognised as the fanciable black actor who won last year’s Comic Relief Let’s Dance. (According to Mel, she watched far too much telly. But, that’s what you do when you have a kid and no life, don’t you?)
An old lady dressed in tweed strode past the film crew as clipboard man screamed – ‘Ah fuck!’ Polly recognised the old lady as the owner of Polly’s very own dream house.
‘Cut! Cut! Silly old cow!’
Polly’s dream house was at the end of the long curving row of four-storey Georgian townhouses, and this was the one she’d decided she would absolutely definitely buy if she won the lottery. (Okay, she didn’t do the lottery, but if she did!) It featured in many of Polly’s night- and day-time dreams, did this house. Once, a couple of years ago, Polly had been invited to one of the flats in another building in the same crescent, and so she knew first-hand that at the back was a huge communal garden with sweeping lawns and its very own wood. How cool is that? She’d been utterly enchanted.
It had been Bonfire Night, and the residents were having a communal party. A magical night with towering bonfire, a proper Guys Fawkes on top – ‘Just hope they haven’t got Edward Woodward inside,’ Mel had joked – and the whole feel was that of a country village fete instead of a shared back garden. The children were dressed in woodland gear, and some of the parents came as Morris dancers. There was even a mummers’ play, complete with kids and adults in medieval folk garb. It told of an old eel-catcher of Gloucestershire and finished with the children forming a procession underneath a willow and papier-m?ché frame, much like a Chinese dragon, but in this case in the shape of a giant eel. There’d been fireworks, potatoes baked in the embers of the bonfire, chestnuts roasted in a brazier, barbecues manned by the men in aprons – wielding their instruments of tong and spatula – as they charred sausages and undercooked chicken drumsticks.
Polly had loved it. It was eccentric, it was twee, and it was very Clifton.
As the stars had dotted a cloudless sky, the adults had sat on the terrace running the whole length of the crescent, sipping their mulled wine and champagne as their children settled down for the night in tents pegged out on the lawn. To think , Polly had thought then, and since, this kind of thing is commonplace for these lucky, lucky residents . The night air full of magic as they sat at the top of their high hill, overlooking other terraces and crescents that strode down to the river and the docks below, while overhead a meteor shower of shooting stars had whizzed by. I kid you not , thought Polly now, as she smiled at the memory.
Of course, her dream house – which was ice cream-blue in colour – would still have its original features (she imagined). There’d be plaster mouldings and large ceiling roses, marble fireplaces, and dark stained wooden floorboards which would bounce beneath running feet and creak at night while the house settled to sleep.
She’d already allocated the rooms. On the first floor, next to her own bedroom, she’d have a workroom-cum-study, where she could work on clothes designs for children. Because Polly was full of ideas and liked to while away spare time in the shop sketching and collecting swatches of material – if and when she had the time.
Her large kitchen – the heart of her home – would open out onto their own private courtyard, which would have a garden door – much like the one in that children’s book The Secret Garden – all covered in ivy and so weather-beaten that it needed a good push. Maybe she’d have a rocking chair in the corner next to the Aga (of course there would be an Aga – a cream-coloured one), and there would definitely be a Labrador, or a Springer Spaniel, to take on long walks and to tut over when it waffled down food left unattended on the side, or had rolled in fox’s poo so that it was down to the courtyard to be washed off with a garden hose and Bob Martin Deodorant Dog Shampoo.
‘Oi you! That’s right – you! Dolly Daydream! Get a move on, will ya. We’ve finished filming for the day, so you can go on through now.’
‘Right, sorry, sorry.’ She hastened past clipboard man, who watched her go with an I-don’t-know look on his face.
‘Dozy mare,’ she heard him mutter.
Yeah, one day I’ll have my dream house , she thought. Although it was strange how whenever she had this dream, there’d be her, Rowan and another child – oh, and a soft-eared liver and white Springer Spaniel, and – nope – nobody else. No body. Must be a sign , she thought now as she headed for her shop.
*
Polly stood at her counter, surveying her shop. She knew she’d never make enough money to buy a house – or a flat even – on Canynge Crescent. But a girl can dream, can’t she?
Running her fingers along a rack of girls’ clothing, she wished she could shrink herself to Rowan’s size. Children’s clothing can be so much more exciting. Just look at this – from the rail she pulled a gorgeous little dress with exotic flowers and birds embroidered onto an orange background. What I wouldn’t give to have that in my size. And wouldn’t it look adorable teamed with this purple faux-poodle fur gillet.
Sometimes she’d splash out on the Oilily adult line, but there was no mistaking it was no match for their kids’ range. She owned many of their bags, with their trademark flowers, polka dots, birds, tassels, appliqué – think of anything that shrieks fun yet cool and they’ve got it . She began to stroke the felt grey owl bag when the landline rang.
Suze. ‘Yes, Mum, what is it? Only I’m very busy and have promised to take Rowan swimming before she has her tea.’ Polly made an it’s-my-mum face at Donna, who rolled her eyes in sympathy.
‘I’m coming up to Bristol on Friday and thought we could do elevenses at the Avon Gorge. My treat.’
‘Umm. Yes, right. Okay, Mum. I can’t promise, but I’ll see what I can do. Now I must go.’
‘Ciao,’ said Suze.
Polly replaced the receiver. ‘Grrr, I do wish she wouldn’t say “Ciao”. It’s sooo blinkin’ pretentious.’
‘Your muh, right,’ said Donna. ‘She gonna do summat about my boiler in the flat, yeah? Only it’s bin on the blink forever, mind.’
*
Polly held Rowan’s hand as they stood at the counter of the swimming baths, waiting for their tickets.
The first time she’d taken Rowan swimming, the little girl had managed to wriggle free before she had time to slip any armbands on her. Once free of her mother’s grasp, Rowan had run full pelt – and much quicker than Polly knew she could – to the side of the pool where, without hesitation, she had jumped straight in! Polly had dived in after her, locating Rowan swimming underwater like the baby on Nirvana’s iconic record sleeve; she was smiling away, her blonde wispy hair billowing about her as she moved perfectly calmly through the blue while perfectly holding her breath.
Once back safely on the side of the pool, Polly caught hold of both of Rowan’s arms. ‘Don’t you ever do that again!’ she said loudly into her daughter’s face, causing the other parents to turn and tut at her.
But Rowan just chortled, and Polly hugged her tight.
‘Not without Mummy. Okay?’
‘Kay.’
‘My little mermaid,’ Polly had said, shaking her head.
Now, Polly bent down and – making sure her daughter could see her lips – she said, ‘Now, don’t forget. No running off. And what do we wear?’
Rowan frowned at her mother. ‘Nop we , Mummy – is silly. Just me. Me wear ambans,’ she said gravely, nodding her head emphatically.
‘Well done, that’s right.’ Polly got to her feet, still holding her daughter’s hand, because these days she liked to keep a tight hold of her.