The Baby (15 page)

‘Nan, are you OK?'

‘She's just hungry.'

He's not sure. Can't believe the racket coming from this small, dangerous creature. ‘I was going out …' He sounds pathetic.

His nan walks through the lounge like she's holding a bomb. Eliza's crying's getting out of hand. He wants to shut out the noise. Hit mute. Hates the way the screams echo and bash against every surface. He has to follow her, even though all he really wants to do is run. Run like the wind. Run hell for leather.

‘Get her bottle out the bag.' His nan's words are urgent. ‘Quick.'

Finds himself fumbling in the changing bag. Hating Nicola. Hating himself. Hating his nan for saying yes.

Finds the bottle, cold in his fist. Hands it to his nan like it's a burning piece of coal.

She shakes her head. ‘You'll need to warm it, Jonty. Come on, stop being stupid.'

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Bangs it in the bottle-warmer and waits. Four minutes of stupid, stupid, stupid.

She won't stop crying. She won't stop fucking crying. Even when his nan sticks the teat in her red angry mouth. Her little face is screwed up like a demon in a horror film.

Horrible to watch. Horrible to listen to.

Eliza kicks and spits and thrashes like she's being tortured. All in his tiny nan's arms. It's too hard to watch. Too hard to listen to.

Sticks his hands over his ears. ‘Stop her, Nan.'

‘I can't.'

‘Well, what does she want?'

‘I don't know.'

This is horrible. His nan
always
knows. ‘You must know.' His hands aren't blocking the screaming. The neighbours must think there's a murder going on. Can't believe there's
Emmerdale
all calm in the corner of the room.

Hates the shake in his nan's hands. Hates the screaming from this baby who can't be much more than half a metre long.

Can't take it any more. Needs to get away. Needs to hit something. Kick something to smithereens. Smash his way through the noise.

Feels the redness creep up his spine like a tide. Recognizes the signs.

‘Oh God.'

But nobody hears because the baby's screaming is reaching a new height. Ripping at the wallpaper and in danger of cracking glass. It cuts at his insides.

The bottle gets shoved to one side. The hotness under the blanket spreads round the room.
I'm not cut out for this. No way
.

Paces with his hands over his ears. Has to get out. Can't let his nan see. Can't let her see how close he is to losing it.

Thinks about the woman in anger management. The woman with the irritating voice, in the counselling room at school. What would she tell him to do?

Flies out the room, elbows bashing against the door frame
as his hands clamp his ears.

Flings himself into his bedroom. Kicks shut the door. Inhales warm quiet. Looks over to his unmade bed. The pillows all crumpled where he was working. Wants to hide underneath it like he did when he was a kid. Hands still clamped over his ears. Feels tears. Stupid, pathetic tears. How has this happened? How the hell has this happened?

Bangs his head against the door. Once, twice, three times. Kicks at the door frame. Takes out a chunk of wood. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Slides down the door, a crumpled mess of patheticness. His forehead throbs.

But it feels a bit better.

Rocks to and fro. His hands now round his knees. Eliza. Nicola. Olivia. How has he got himself into this mess? If they could see him now, they'd be ashamed.

Sniffs back the tears. Angry.

Tilts his head. Then the noise. The noise, it's somehow quieter. Coming from the lounge. He sits for a few seconds longer. Feels his heart under his T-shirt. He tries to calm it down.

There's no noise now. Just the ticking of the boiler and some cars outside.

He stands up gingerly. Feels a wobble in his thighs. Smoothes his hands on his jeans. It's important to look calm. He tests his hand on the handle. He can do this. He can do this if he really wants to.

Wobbles in the hallway. Catches himself in the mirror. He rubs his eyes. They're red, a bit stunned, but himself all the same.

Takes a breath. Squares his shoulders, walks into the lounge.

And she's there. Over his nan's shoulders, blue eyes bright and shining, focusing then refocusing on him as he walks through the door. She's sagging over his nan's shoulders like it was there she wanted to be all the time. Happy as bleedin' Larry.

And she smiles. She properly smiles. So it hits him in the ribs like a kick from his worst enemy. She smiles. At him. There's nobody else. It has to be him.

His nan's all smiles too. Grinning when he reaches her eyesight. ‘She had wind. That's all. Just a pain that needed winding.'

He stands in front of them. Arms by his side. Not sure what to do. ‘So all you did was wind her?'

His nan beams. Nods. Beams again. ‘Yes. That's all. Babies are simple, really.'

He closes his eyes.

‘Do you want to feed her?'

‘I have to go out.'

‘Stay a while, Jonty. Just give her the bottle.'

So he does. Doesn't really have much choice. Has the picture of his nan shaking with the thrashing Eliza in her arms.

Sits down. Lets his nan settle the baby in his waiting arms. Lets Eliza tug and tug at the bottle, ferocious for a little thing. Looks down at her tiny mouth sucking for all it's worth. Finds a lift in his own mouth.

Ten minutes later, when the baby's lying happily in her buggy, kicking and cooing, he can at last pound the
pavements in his trainers, it's the sight of her smile which rocks under his ribs.

He still hasn't managed to speak to Olivia even though he sees her almost every day in the sixth-form centre or around the corridors. She has her shield of friends around her. She seems to go nowhere alone even though her best friend Nicola now no longer goes to school. Her hair is cut shorter and she's taken to wearing an army jacket now it's warmer. It looks good on her.

And then something strange happens. Something which whips up his heart and makes him forget for a few brief minutes about Olivia.

He's been to school and come home early as one of his lessons has been cancelled. His nan hassles him about this. ‘Are you sure?' She asks. Eyes as narrow as the hairgrips in her hair.

He sighs and opens the fridge for some skimmed chocolate milk. ‘Yes, Nan. It's different in sixth form. If the teacher's not there, then you don't have to go. Stop getting so uptight.'

His nan wrings her hands. Pouts. ‘Doesn't sound much like my idea of schooling.'

He withdraws his head from the fridge. ‘Yeah, but didn't you have slates and chalk to write with? It's a bit different these days.'

She bristles and swipes the back of his legs with a tea towel. ‘Jonty, you are so rude.' She smiles.

And he has to laugh.

While he is against the sink, his nan brings something into the kitchen from the lounge. It's an envelope and he can tell by her serious expression that it is something important.

‘This came for you today.'

He takes the cream envelope from her bony hand. He turns it over and immediately recognizes the handwriting. In an almost reflex reaction, he checks the calendar hanging by the fridge.

The handwriting is looped and flowing in pale-blue ink. The same ink and handwriting that he sees every year. Just the once. On his birthday.

‘It's from my dad,' he whispers. Heart belting around under his ribs.

His nan nods. ‘Thought so.'

He looks up quickly, narrows his eyes. ‘Does he know?'

His nan shrugs. ‘I've not told him. But your mum may have done.'

Jonty breathes out. The kitchen is suddenly silent. Sun streams through the window on to the envelope.

He feels a prickling on his neck. Anticipates a written beating. Perhaps he's seen the last of the fifty-pound notes.

‘What do you reckon? Am I about to be disinherited?' He doesn't add that he doubts that he was ever going to inherit anything anyway.

His nan stares anxiously at the envelope.

‘C'mon, Jonty, open it, will you?'

Jonty tries to ignore the shake in his fingers as he scrabbles with the flap at the back.

There's a small piece of matching, cream coloured paper with the same looped writing and something behind, attached to the top right-hand corner with a paper clip. He feels the skin above his eyes crinkle up.

He reads in his head and then aloud slowly for his nan. It is only four sentences long:

Dear Jonty
,

I have heard what you are doing with your daughter. It makes me very proud. So I have sent you something as a token of my admiration. Keep up the good work, son
.

Andy

Jonty stops speaking quickly. He's afraid his voice might crack. His hands are now openly trembling. His nan butts in. ‘What's he sent you? Come on, what's he attached?'

Jonty doesn't care. But his nan is frustrated, snatching at the paper. ‘C'mon, what is it?'

So he turns over the paper and grins slowly, even laughs a bit.

‘It's a membership card. To that new gym in town. You know the one with all the high-tech breathing equipment and the swimming pool?'

His nan claps her hands and jumps like a six-year-old. ‘Oh, Jonty, that's brilliant.'

He laughs again.

But it's not really the card that he's laughing about. It's not the gym membership which is fizzing his blood. Instead, it's the final word of the fourth sentence. The three-lettered word which has never been mentioned before.

The acknowledgement he's spent seventeen years waiting for.

‘Oh, Jonty.' His nan's grinning from ear to ear.

He stares at the letter, focuses on the word. Sees how the letter shakes in his hand. Ducks his head. ‘Well, he took his time.'

Hears his nan sigh. ‘Better late than never …'

Anyhow, whatever, he can't stop the small twitch of something nice in the corner of his mouth. The card is thoughtful. It was bought for someone who is into fitness. His dad has thought hard about this gift.

It feels good, even if it is late in coming.

It's a beautiful day. He's sitting under a tree and there's a light breeze. Eliza lies in her buggy watching the movement of the twigs and leaves above her. The grass beneath him is soft and springy. The meadow is deserted. But then again it always was.

This is their place. His and Olivia's. This is where they learnt about each other. From the age of eleven. He'd found it once when he was walking a neighbour's dog for a bit of cash. The cash he rarely got from his mum. A small glade in the dip of a copse. Protected from the wind, but a suntrap all the same. Two gnarled oak trees provide shelter.

It breathes with his memories: two awkward twelve-year-olds banging elbows as they gorged on family bags of Haribo; arm-wrestling; laughing.

Kissing later on. Older, wiser, more experienced. His hands
enjoying the familiar folds of her skin. The corners, the curves, the arcs. The scent of the perfume she uses. Still now, amongst strangers, that fragrance can make his ears ring.

His hands under her clothes. Her clever fingers doing the same. Fruit-flavoured breath. Flower-scented hair. Sugar from sweets left poised on her bottom lip. The flash of her pointed tongue as she flicks at the little crystals. His disappointment that she got there first.

Olivia with her hair whipping against her flushed cheeks on a freezing cold December morning. Her hood bundled as far down her face as possible. Him grabbing her hands, trying to warm them. Drawing warmth from hers.

She once covered him with leaves. Buried him. He remembers the musty, earth smell as they lay like feathers on his face. He liked the way they stirred when he breathed. But then there came a flash of how it must feel to be buried in a grave, and he sat bolt upright, leaves springing off his body. He remembers the softness of her mouth that day. He can't remember the last time they were here. This rattles him. Hopes and prays it wasn't one of those days when he might have hurt her. Won't think about that.

She's going to come. At least, she says she will. Brave from his dad's message and from Ben's few words of advice, he sent her a text two days ago. The first text since April. It took twenty-four hours for her to reply. Twenty-four hours in which, he guesses, she consulted with one of her many mates. Maybe even Nicola. He doesn't know if they're even speaking any more. Twenty-four hours where he thought he might
melt, tormented. But a positive response in the end. And he takes heart from this.

He waits. And waits. The minutes pass as if they are hours. He plays with Eliza, lifting and jiggling the cloth clown which she has taken a liking to. Passing it over his face and making crazy noises. Birds jabber in the oak trees; the sun glitters through its branches.

Their agreed time of two o'clock shifts by. He starts to wonder if she might not arrive. The bright confidence of the morning begins to slide away. He gets scared. Wonders how long he should wait before giving up. Snatches a look at the time. Then another look and then, two minutes later, looks again.

Why the hell did he think she'd come? What could possibly be in it for her? He can no longer muster up the strength to distract Eliza. Feels relief as her eyelids begin to droop into sleep.

Five more minutes
, he thinks. Then he should leave. Give up the idea as yet another plan which hasn't worked out.

And then he sees her. Climbing over the stile at the bottom of the meadow. Hair flying around her face in the breeze as she makes her way up the field. He sees that she's wearing her army jacket over a vest top and jeans. She has orange trainers which he's not seen before. It hurts when he realizes he wasn't there when she bought them – even though he didn't like shopping with her. That was because he never had any money. There was a time when she used to show him everything she'd bought. Now she can turn up in clothes he doesn't recognize.