by Lana Citron
Maria is my sole babysitter at present. The only thing I’m likely to find her astride is her Raleigh Racer, but when she’s not sitting for me, she’s usually booked up by the other Honeys.
Nadia shot me a look of disgust.
‘You have ten days to find a babysitter.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll do my best.’
And then it occurred to me: Why not marry the gig with the Bob? Loud music meant I wouldn’t have to talk to him too much and Maria would be legitimately babysitting. It could work. I consulted with Nadia: she could see no problem. I punched a message into the keyboard and pressed send. Didn’t have to wait too long for a reply. Bob must have been online, and luckily he was up for it.
‘Hey, Nads, I got a great name for your band.’
‘What?
‘The Go-Nads.’
Max time upon me. The nursery beckoning, fines levied if not punctual, on the threshold of mummydom, I was halfway out the door.
‘The what?’ Nadia asked, wide-eyed and bemused.
‘The Go-Nads.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Nah, I can see it: you on stage, lights flashing, the crowd whipped up into a frenzy and chanting, Go, Nad, Go, Nad, Go, Nad.’
THAT’S WEIRD. I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT YOU
Coincidences, the chances of, and I saw him first. Recognised him from the back, even after near on four years. He was peering at the windows of Habitat on the Finchley Road. I could have walked past and he wouldn’t have noticed; instead, his name blared out from my lips.
‘Finn!’
Glanced over his left shoulder.
‘Issy!’
Max was holding on to my hand, sucking on a lolly. I was really glad he was wearing his cool clothes, that they weren’t totally stained and his nose wasn’t dripping.
‘Issy . . . Wow, is this your son?’
I beamed proudly. OK, so my face exploded with a vast smile.
‘Max, this is Finn.’
‘Hi, Finn.’
‘Issy, he’s beautiful.’
‘Thanks.’
I always feel slightly weird taking compliments on behalf of Max – he’s his own person. My child-rearing philosophy is to treat him at all times as I would wish to be treated myself. That may sound kind of obvious and it should be obvious, but believe me, I’ve witnessed many parents who regard their offspring as a mini me, or the living bind of their relationship. Or worse, parents who regard their children as lesser people, to be trained and moulded. Never underestimate a child’s capacity to understand, think, feel and emote. Granted, they may not initially have sophisticated means of communicating, but I reckon trying to make out what they’re saying is part of the joy of being a parent.
‘Issy, he’s really beautiful. Looks nothing like you.’
The kick-back, the prick of reality. It’s always the same. Max by some weird fluke has blue eyes and blond hair. In effect a mini-version of my dream man.
‘Finn, you look great.’
He did, like he’d grown into himself. A man, no longer so boyish. The old Finn had shoulder-length, dirty-blond hair and was a skinny student. His hair was now cut short, no signs of receding or baldness. He’d filled out a little and was dressed in the latest street labels, so effortlessly cool.
‘So do you,’ he replied.
He was lying, of course. As his eyes were still focused on Max, I let it go.
‘And Max must be . . . what, three?’
‘Three-and-a-half,’ Max corrected him.
‘Wow . . . and Issy, what are you up to?’
‘Being a mum.’
‘I mean are you working?’
How come ‘Being a mum’ never seems to be enough of an answer?
‘A little, nothing much. What about you?’
‘Things are good.’ He reached into his pocket and gave me his card. ‘I set up business with a friend. You remember Barney?’
‘Barney? What, beautiful Barney who was always taking Es?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘How is he?’
‘Married with three kids.’
‘Jeez. What about you, any kids?’
‘Not yet.’
Semi-uncomfortable pause, so much left unsaid. Do we lift the lid on the past, or wrap things up pronto?
‘So what’s your company?’
‘It’s called Craft Design, we’re agents for craftspeople.’
There stood my eco-warrior, blew that one, hey . . .
‘What, like thatched roofs?’
‘Yeah and . . .’
His words were lost on me, the underlying conversation at odds with the spoken one. What I really wanted to ask was is there any love left between us? Was it there in the first place?
Then he laughed and glibly muttered, ‘So if you ever need a picket fence.’
Aha, I was grasping at straws, for the picket-fence reference could mean only one thing: a twee little cottage, Mummy at the door, bun in my oven, bread in the oven, Max chasing chickens and Finn off to chop wood in the forest.
‘I’ll keep you in mind.’
‘Good to see you, Issy.’
‘You too, Finn.’
He leant forward and pecked me on the cheek, then pushed through the glass doors of Habitat.
‘Max, that was an old friend of Mummy’s.’
‘Did you used to kiss him?’
See, even though only three-and-a-half, Max is way clued in.
‘Yeah, a long time ago.’
SUPERMARKET SABOTAGE
Five minutes later and Max was sitting in a trolley whilst I pushed it up and down the aisles of Waitrose supermarket.
Picking out a week’s worth of groceries and, ‘No, Max, let go of the yoghurt now, please.’
Managed to bypass the aisle containing sweets, biscuits and crisps – otherwise known as life in the fat lane – which is more difficult than it sounds, then pulled over at the toilet rolls. I scanned the shelves and dithered indecisively. Couldn’t settle on two-ply or three. The latter though more expensive offered two free rolls in a pack of twelve.
My mind was Finn-flooded, rewinding old footage. Ah go on, treat yourself to three-ply, cut down on the chafing. In the background I heard a child whingeing, and by the time I’d reached the meat counter, the little blighter was in a right old fluster. My heart went out to the mother: it happens to the best of us. Cranky kid and one minor blip can set them off. Something as simple as retracting a yoghurt from their mauling paws, ’cause you know they’re just going to squeeze it till it bursts open and makes an unholy mess.
By the time we reached the dairy section the kid was screeching wildly, the whole of the supermarket alerted. The child wouldn’t let up, and of course it was my kid. I refused to give in, though the Finn fantasies had to go on hold. Max was off on one and I did so want to bark at him, to temporarily lose it.
‘What is up with you?’
‘I want a yoghurt.’
‘You can have one at home.’
His legs kicked out at me and my eyes narrowed to slits. Teeth clenched, I felt like pushing that damn trolley through the glass walls. Max has a fine pair of lungs, and people had started giving him those ‘I feel so sorry for you’ looks.
And then one of the bakery assistants arrived over with a gingerbread man to placate the child, my child, and hey presto –
Max fell silent.
Within an instant, he transformed back to sweetness and light. How I wish my emotions could work so fast, so well, that I could go from white rage to placid blue in nanoseconds flat. It’s wearying, draining. You can’t lose it, not totally, and fuck it: where was my gingerbread man? I wanted something sweet and calming – bottle of Rioja would have to do.
We joined the slowest-moving queue in the world. Wound up, I bit my nails in frustration then despair when Max decided he wanted more. Really wasn’t sure I could survive another screaming tantrum without joining in. Damn that interfering assistant. Bribery is lazy parenting, treats
should be exactly what the word is, a treat. Now Max would expect a gingerbread man on every shopping trip; he was already beginning to holler again. The upshot being, I lost my place in the queue and went to get him another.
Max never has tantrums. I swear it was unusual behaviour. That said, parents have a habit of lying, especially regarding sleeping patterns. How many times have I heard, ‘Oh little Damian sleeps through and has done since the day he was born.’ Yeah right, so how come you look so haggard and aged, not to mention that twitch in your left eye.
It wasn’t until we’d got back to the apartment that I discovered the reason for his outburst. Bath times can be so revealing and there it was . . .
A POX
All stations on high alert. One pox spied on belly, left of button. Half an hour later, two more appeared. Crankyface came over all cuddlesome and ‘I want my mummy’. I obliged, felt guilty for having been so short with him. Had not the nursery posted a sign up of late, informing parents there was a case of the chicken pox! How could I have been so stupid, so very . . . human. That was it then: I knew for the next week Max and I would be incommunicado.
HOLED UP
In Horrorville. Max was not a pretty sight. A quick visit to the GP confirmed my suspicions. We were advised to lie low.
‘Keep him in for a week or so and stay clear of pregnant women.’
Too late, the waiting room had been full of them. All first-timers, and they’d been cooing at Max, having that first-timer’s romanticised view of children. There are occasions when the sight of a pregnant woman fills me with dread and I want to cry out, ‘Wipe that inane smile off your face. Have you any idea what is entailed?’
Let’s face it, parenting is a minefield.
A QUICK TEST TO SEE IF YOU’D BE A GOOD PARENT
1. Are you a patient, giving, loving, nurturing, selfless person who is unaffected by loss of sleep and always in control of your emotions?
If you have answered yes, you are obviously totally delusional and will be a crap parent.
2. Are you neurotic, wired, selfish, emotionally needy and prone to thoughts of is this really my life?
If you have answered yes, you already are a parent.
3. Are you basically a good human being, emotionally balanced, financially balanced and willing to sacrifice yourself for another?
Yes?
Really?
OK, so then the chances are you may well be a good parent. You’ll do your best, you’ll do your duty, by God and by country, and for what?
For your darling progeny to reject you anyway.
Ha!
As decreed by the laws of teenagity, it is understood that upon reaching double digits, perhaps even earlier, your child will begin to reject you, and it is highly likely you will be taunted with such standard lines as: ‘I hate you,’ ‘I didn’t ask to be born,’ etc.
IT’S A NO-WIN SITUATION
I called the office.
Trisha, obviously stressed, spat down the phone, ‘Well, that’s just bloody typical of you, Issy. Your timing is impeccable. Last night the phones were hopping, we’re short-staffed as it is, Fiona has just been given the date of her operation, and now you’ve let us down.’
‘Trisha, it’s not my fault.’ Hey, and spot the scapegoat. I did my utmost to appease her. ‘Look, I can still work if Maria can sit.’
Damn, but I badly needed to bolster my numbers or I’d be the monthly loser three times in a row.
She didn’t sound convinced, and said she’d call back.
The nursery informed me of their scab policy. Max would not be let in again until each and every scab had healed, which meant two weeks as opposed to one.
‘Ms Brodsky, I understand your situation but it’s too risky. Basically if the scab falls off in nursery, the other children could pick it up and . . . eat it.’
Realistically, I was looking at ten days of full-time motherhood with no respite. Thankfully I’d a fully stocked fridge, but what about entertainment? Solved easily enough – a quick jaunt down to the local video shop with a well-wrapped-up Max.
Trisha called back, having spoken to Maria, whose pregnant daughter just happened to be over for the week. There was no way she’d sit for me. Stressed to the nth, Trisha barked down the phone at me, while Max hollered. Piggy in the middle, I was getting a tirade of abuse in each ear, Trisha down one and Max down the other.
‘Trisha I’m going to have to go.’
‘Mummeeeee, Mummeeee,’ in that high-pitched whine that hurts the eardrum.
‘Oh and another thing – some old dear called, a Mrs Finkletin.’
‘You mean Finklestein.’
‘Said she wants you to ring her – something about her husband.’
‘Mummeee, Mummeeeeeeeeeeeeee.’
‘In a minute, Max. What’s the number?’
‘Mummeeeeeeee.’
‘Trisha, just text me the number, Max is going ape.’
Poor fella, uncomfortable in his own skin. My own head about to explode, my brain near spasming. I was going to lose it for sure and then time stood still, seconds turned to hours, minutes to days, hours to weeks. Everything seemed to fuse and I couldn’t remember much after that.
DAY TWO
Interminable boredom averted by a rat-a-tat-tat. I opened the door ever so slightly and peeked out at my visitor. ’Twas only the Detective Bambuss.
‘Hello, my dear, is this a good time to have a look in the garden?’
‘As long as you’re not pregnant.’
‘Do I look pregnant?’
Well, the hard rotund belly perched above and overflowing his trouser belt did, it must be said, resemble that of a nine-monther.
‘Max has the chicken pox.’
I slide the chain from across the door.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve had it. Miss Brodsky, let me introduce Stephan Bloch.’
And there I was dressed only in me T-shirt and socks. Lord above, but the state of me, and of the place, and of the child running naked, clothed only in lashings of calamine.
‘Who is it, Mum? Who are you?’ Max demanded of the well-shod, terribly handsome gent, say mid to late forties and not wearing a wedding ring.
‘Hey, little man, what’s up? Hear you got chicken pox,’ said in that irresistible, gentle American accent and he phenomenally child-friendly to boot.
I opened the door wider, till the hinges creaked.
‘No problem, come in, come in. Sorry about the state of the place, and oh –’
‘Don’t worry, this isn’t a social visit.’
It was to me, mate.
The detective strode into the hall and Stephan after him.
I, overcome by social embarrassment, tugged at the ends of my T-shirt and showed the pair of them down to the kitchen and through the back door to the garden.
‘Sorry to hear about your mother,’ I blurted. ‘Very unusual circumstances.’
‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, Detective. Best get dressed.’
It was afternoon. Christ, what must they have thought, slobbo mum with wild child, but they were immersed in more important business. I dragged Max into my room and dressed us both in record time. A mere fifteen minutes later, the door to my bedroom opened and out we trotted.
The detective and swoonable male were, unfortunately, on their way out.
‘Thanks for that, Miss Brodsky.’
Quick, think – stalling tactics.
‘Won’t you stay for a cup of tea or coffee?’
‘No but thank you, my dear.’
Bambuss glanced down at his watch.
I managed to get to the door before them, blocking them with conversation.
‘So how’s the investigation going?’
‘Fine, fine. We are making headway.’
‘Anyone I know?’
The detective gave me a quizzical stare.
‘Confidential information.’
‘I won’t tell anyone. You can tru
st me.’
‘No formal arrest made as of yet, but we have our suspects.’
The detective stretched out his arms, fingers entwined, and cracked his knuckles. He gave off a strong smell of garlic and stale alcohol. I took a step back.
‘Ah go on, give us a clue.’
‘My dear . . . you’ll be the first to know.’
Hoped he wasn’t insinuating it was me.
‘And Mr Bloch, are you staying in your mother’s apartment?’
‘For a while. Gotta wrap up her estate.’
Hmm . . . so he’d be around for a bit.
‘I see, yes, well . . . please call by any time.’
Flutter, flutter went my lashes.
‘Can you open the door?’
‘Oh silly me.’
Cringe, cringe went my conscience.
Max had taken all his clothes off again and sped by on his scooter.
‘Cute kid,’ said the delectable Stephan.
‘Thanks,’ I simpered.
The detective coughed and then muttered, ‘Doesn’t look anything like you.’
‘Yes . . . well . . . Detective, if I can be of any further assistance, you know where I am. Oh and Mr Bloch, I’m really, really sorry I lost your mother’s finger. Can’t believe I was such a klutz.’
I donned my ‘I’m so silly’ expression.
‘Yeah, I thought that was weird.’
Had to end the conversation on an up note, and the following flew out of my lips, ‘I’m sure it’ll turn up. Fingers crossed . . .’
Jesus, I can’t believe I actually said that.
For the rest of the day, I fixated on Stephan. See, some good had come of finding the finger – it had led to us meeting one another. For the first time in an age, I had glimpsed a man I actually found incredibly attractive. He was so very handsome, so very tempting, so very available. So to cut a long story short, I put him to good use when I went a bush wandering later that night.
ITCHY AND SCRATCHY