The Christmas Surprise

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘HERE ARE THE BRAVE FINGS WHICH I DOES DO. ONE. I DOES FLYING. FREE. I IS IRON MAN!’

  ‘Mum!’ shouted Rosie. ‘This is important.’

  There was a bit of wrestling and yelling at the other end. Rosie looked down fondly at Ap, who was dozing gently on her lap. She had expected yelling and crying and the exhausted world of some of her friends who had had babies then not got dressed again for about four years, but Apostil so far seemed to be a placid, easygoing little fellow, with a curiosity about the world (which Stephen was convinced was a sign of scientific excellence) rather than an instinctive fury at it. When hungry he would make a hungry mouth and his good arm would thrash up and down a little, but that was about it. He would need a full medical inspection when they got back to the UK, but if Rosie could go on her instincts, he seemed to be in fine fettle. She felt astonishingly grateful.

  It wasn’t that, though, that ran through her thoughts every waking second, and every dreaming second too. It was the incredible fact that while she had thought that falling in love with Stephen had been the biggest adventure of her life – all-enthralling, all-encompassing in every way – now she had fallen in love again, completely and utterly, and the feeling was oddly the same. She just wanted to look at his beautiful tiny face; his strong, compact little body that nestled so perfectly in her arms. She wanted to kiss him over and over; breathe in his delicate milky smell; gaze at him. Stephen teased her.

  ‘You know, you are going to make things very difficult for Mr Dog.’

  ‘Mr Dog will manage,’ said Rosie confidently. ‘He’s a very affectionate animal.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve spoilt him rotten. You’re not doing the same to Apostil.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Rosie. ‘Do you want to send him to boarding school now, or shall we wait till he’s out of nappies?’

  He grinned.

  ‘Give him here.’

  He put Apostil down on the bed. Apostil wriggled a bit and then spent some time trying to get the fingers of his good hand into his mouth.

  ‘I’m your dad,’ said Stephen, smiling. ‘And you have to listen to me all the time. Because my wife-to-be doesn’t.’

  ‘That’s me,’ chimed in Rosie. ‘Your mummy.’

  They grinned at each other with the amazing novelty of saying these phrases.

  ‘I run a sweetshop. Excellent, huh?’

  ‘But you have to listen to me,’ said Stephen. ‘Okay?’

  Apostil continued to fixate on his fingers, then gazed right past them both.

  ‘Great,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s not listening to either of us.’

  ‘He’s looking over our shoulders like he’s checking for someone more interesting to talk to at a party.’

  Finally, Rosie could tell Angie was alone.

  ‘Did you lock yourself in that cupboard again?’

  ‘Hush, you,’ said Angie. ‘What is it? I’ve got supper on.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rosie. ‘Okay. Well. Um. You know the “more grandkids” thing?’

  ‘What?’

  This wasn’t working, Rosie could tell.

  ‘Well, anyway, we came to visit a family here that Stephen knew.’

  ‘A family where? On safari?’

  Finally Stephen shouted out from across the room, ‘Tell her to get on her computer.’

  Sure enough, he’d managed to upload a picture of Rosie cradling Apostil in her arms, grinning like an idiot (Rosie thought), looking beautiful (Stephen thought).

  ‘OH MY GAWD!’ screamed Angie down the phone. ‘You bought a baby!!!’

  ‘We did not buy a baby,’ said Rosie. ‘Don’t say that, it’s completely offensive. We’re his godparents. It’s our job to take him on.’

  ‘Oh my GAWD, you’ve got a baby!’ said Angie, backtracking completely. ‘Oh my GOD. Tell me everything. EVERYTHING. Boy? Girl?’

  ‘WAS GOAN ON, GRAMMA?’

  ‘You’ve got a new cousin!’ Rosie could hear the tears in her mother’s voice.

  ‘DOAN WANNA NEW COUSIN! IRON MAN SHOOT THEM WITH MY HAND POW POW POW.’

  And Rosie did her best to choke out the entire story, sad and happy, again and again as Pip came in to hear it, then Desleigh, his wife.

  ‘He’s a cracker,’ said Pip finally. ‘Well done, Rose. Wow. You are a very unpredictable sister.’

  ‘I know,’ said Rosie, her lip wobbling. She looked round their basic hotel room with its stained basin and faded bedstead. Outside, the noise and the heat came barrelling up all night long, and bugs scuttled across the floor at all hours, as they waited day after day at the British Embassy for the case to be processed. She had never been happier in her entire life.

  ‘You’ve done WHAT?’

  Rosie squeezed Stephen’s hand, and they each covered one of Apostil’s tiny, perfect shell-like ears. Rosie had heard Lady Lipton – Henrietta – cross plenty of times, but this was something else, a whole new level of fury, whereby she was basically talking at a level only dogs could hear.

  ‘Listen, Mother.’

  She was nowhere near listening.

  ‘The family trust isn’t going to like this, Stephen. Not one little bit.’

  ‘Well fuck the family trust,’ said Stephen. ‘His name can be Lakeman, I don’t give a shit.’ Lipton was the estate name; Stephen used the old family name, Lakeman.

  Rosie smiled and squeezed his hand.

  ‘Well, Pamela will LOVE this.’

  Stephen’s elder sister liked to argue about primogeniture.

  ‘I said she could have it,’ said Stephen. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Henrietta, sniffing. ‘So, God, tell me the worst … is this baby brown?’

  Rosie and Stephen looked at each other, and Rosie had the most terrible desire to burst into fits of laughter.

  ‘No, Mother,’ said Stephen carefully. ‘He’s green, like all babies born in West Africa.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘You think this is funny?’ said Lady Lipton.

  ‘No, Mother,’ said Stephen. ‘I think it’s wonderful.’

  There was another long silence and Rosie thought Henrietta was going to slam down the telephone. Then she sniffed so loudly they could hear it two thousand miles away.

  ‘So. Ahem. You say you’ve sent pictures via The Email?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephen.

  ‘I don’t know how to work The Email.’

  ‘Maybe Moray or Mrs Laird could help you,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Lilian could probably manage,’ said Rosie, as Stephen shushed her.

  ‘But … but you have absolutely no idea what it takes to raise a baby. Especially not a different type of baby! Especially one where you can’t predict how he’ll turn out, who he’ll be like – do you even know anything about his family? About his breeding? Oh, you’re very smug now, but you just wait and see, it’s no walk in the park, this lark …’

  Stephen put the phone down on the bedside table, and moved over to where Apostil was waking from his nap. The baby gave a loud enquiring mewl.

  ‘Hey there, little fella,’ said Stephen, as Rosie leapt in to kiss him and take him for a feed.

  ‘Is that … is that him?’

  Stephen picked the phone up again. Lady Lipton’s voice had a definite tremble.

  ‘Well,’ said Stephen, looking down at Rosie on the bed. ‘It’s a baby and it’s green, so I guess …’

  ‘Stop it, Stephen,’ said Henrietta. ‘We’ll discuss this more when you get home. Assuming you’re coming home.’

  In fact Stephen was leaving the following day because he had to get back to school. Rosie would just have to wait it out. This was going to cost them every cent they had. Good training for parenting, Stephen suggested.

  ‘What have you called him? Please let it be something sensible. Stephen would be absolutely fine.’

  ‘Um, he already has a name,’ said Stephen.

  Henrietta let out a sigh.

  ‘Let’s hear it.’


  ‘He’s called Apostil.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘That is the most Catholic name I’ve ever heard,’ said Lady Lipton eventually. ‘Lilian is going to love it.’

  Chapter Eight

  In the bleak midwinter

  Frosty wind made moan

  Earth was hard as iron, water like a stone

  Snow was falling, snow on snow, snow on snow

  In the bleak midwinter, long ago

  It was the oddest thing, after the weeks of paperwork, the waiting, the worrying, the learning how to be a parent, to come back from the boiling hot sunshine, the colours, the exhilarating rush of noise and smells, the juxtaposition of all the signs of modernity – smartly dressed commuters, mobile phones, new cars – with goats in the road, people living anywhere. Rosie loved the colour, the bustle; understood immediately why Stephen had loved it too.

  It wasn’t just her who felt new. Something about this baby, from this family, seemed to have healed Stephen too. He hadn’t had a nightmare the entire time they’d been away.

  She’d missed him terribly when he left for home. But now it was time for her to go too.

  There had been many, many meetings – and more to come – and Rosie was worrying terribly about the shop. Tina had held it just about together, but she’d been away for so long. They’d hired a fantastic young woman called Memento, who had got her through all the interviews and the paperwork, and the embassy had been incredibly helpful, and now here she was, flying for the first time with a baby.

  She’d packed ridiculously early, nervous about the flight. She needn’t have worried. Faustine was in the capital and not only gave her a lift to the airport but helped her through the time-consuming business of paperwork and stamps, speaking imperiously to the customs officers and guards, waving sheafs of paper menacingly and displaying her MSF badge at every opportunity. Rosie couldn’t believe how lucky she was to have met her, and how that slightly prickly exterior hid someone extraordinary at getting things done.

  They didn’t hug, but Rosie touched her on the arm as they took their leave at the gate.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  Faustine shook her head.

  ‘Thank you.’ She kissed Apostil’s little head, and a flicker of something that looked almost like envy crossed her face. ‘Take him home,’ she said. ‘Raise him well.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Rosie, and watched from the safety of the other side of the gate as Faustine turned smartly and walked away into the colourful, noisy hurly-burly, off to save the next, and the next, and the next.

  And now here she was. Apostil had lain in his bassinet and gurgled, intrigued by the lights and lulled to sleep by the motion of the plane. Rosie had been unable to sleep, unable to believe everything that had happened. It felt like a dream, but one that became more real by the second, as she watched sitcoms on the flight TV system; looked at adverts for watches and perfumes.

  Stephen came to pick them up from the airport, pointing out that he had had to fight off half the village to do so. Appy had been happy in his bassinet all the way, but Rosie had been too keyed up to sleep, too nervous about seeing everyone, about settling in. They’d led her to a special room at immigration at Heathrow, which had also made her very nervous, but in fact the staff had been incredibly kind, just going through their paperwork until they could confirm that Apostil really had been adopted and really was a British child now. Rosie appreciated that they couldn’t be too careful, but it was wearying, especially as he woke up and, unusually for him, decided to start bawling his head off at everything, making her look like the worst fraud of a mother ever, and wildly unsuited to raising a caterpillar, never mind a baby.

  Apostil’s tantrum ultimately proved timely, however, as the customs staff couldn’t wait to be rid of them and pushed them though as quickly as they legally could.

  Stephen was beside himself, desperate to see them.

  ‘How can you miss someone so much when you’ve only known them a week?’ he said, charging forward to scoop them up at Arrivals. When Rosie saw him standing there, she suddenly burst into tears. The emotions of the last few weeks had been so overwhelming, with everything coming thick and fast, her life changing in such a rush from someone who could not be a mother to someone who was, and always would be, that she hadn’t realised until she saw him how pent up she’d been. It was as if her shoulders had been up around her ears and were finally relaxing.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Stephen, genuinely surprised. ‘You’ve got him, we’re all together …’

  ‘I know,’ said Rosie.

  Stephen drew her to him.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to leave you in Africa alone,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t stay any longer.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Rosie, burying her head in his strong shoulder. It wasn’t a good look, having a total nervous breakdown at the airport.

  Stephen reached into the sling and tried to dislodge Apostil, which was easier said than done, given how good Rosie had got at tying him round her. Eventually she did a pirouette so they could unwind him and Stephen could set about hugging his son, whilst Rosie tried to clean the make-up from underneath her eyes.

  ‘I was worried they wouldn’t let you in,’ said Stephen. ‘So I called my old mate Biff at the Foreign Office.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ said Rosie indignantly.

  ‘Certainly bloody did. Did you get a passport in five days or what?’

  ‘I did find it all wonderfully efficient,’ said Rosie. ‘Yuck, you disgusting privileged types.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephen, nuzzling Apostil’s head. Apostil was looking about somewhat warily. ‘Oh, I have missed that smell. Anyway, yes, I apologise for making things easier for us all.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Sometimes it is very useful you being a hideously overprivileged snotbag.’

  ‘Only sometimes?’

  He kept hold of Apostil and tried to take Rosie’s bags too, realised this was impossible, gave it up as a bad job, handed Apostil back reluctantly and hauled up the bags.

  As soon as they hit the freezing cold air outside – there was frost on the tarmac, and people waiting for taxis were blowing out smoke as they huddled into their coats – Apostil’s head jerked upwards as if someone had prodded him. Stephen and Rosie looked at him grinning.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stephen. ‘Welcome to the world you must now live in!’

  Rosie pulled a woolly hat from her hand luggage – she had worn it to the airport on their way out, a million years ago – and tried to arrange it on Apostil’s tiny head, but it fell over his eyes and he started waving his hand about madly, whilst Rosie and Stephen fell about laughing and Stephen tried to take a picture.

  ‘We are terrible, terrible parents,’ said Rosie, noticing someone looking at them curiously.

  ‘I think this is the last time he’s going to feel warm and cosy until the spring,’ said Stephen. ‘And we haven’t even moved into Peak House yet.’

  Inside the car, Stephen had fitted a brand new baby seat. Rosie frowned.

  ‘How much …’

  ‘Ssssh,’ said Stephen. ‘Don’t start me. There’s four more at home. People have been showering us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘SHOWERING US. Everybody knows about Apostil, everybody is totally fascinated, and all those nosy parkers have been getting their kicks by coming round and passing on their old shiz to us. We’ve got three buggies, too.’

  ‘Or,’ said Rosie, getting in the back as Stephen turned up the heating in the old Land Rover, which didn’t go very far. She hoped Apostil had enough blankets on. ‘OR they’re being kind and generous from the bottom of their hearts.’

  ‘Whilst being unbelievable nosy parkers,’ said Stephen. He looked at the heating gauge again and frowned.

  ‘This won’t do, will it?’

  Rosie winced.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘I never noticed it being this chilly before.�
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  ‘It’s got a hole in the floor.’

  ‘I thought that was, you know, atmospheric.’

  ‘It is,’ said Rosie. ‘Atmospheric, like the South Pole.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked at her. ‘Look at us! Bringing our baby home!’

  Rosie beamed, a smile of pure joy.

  ‘I know! Drive slower!’

  ‘I can’t drive slower, we’ll freeze him to death.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Rosie. ‘Man, we have a lot to learn.’

  Even though it was only November, the lights had already gone up around the little village. Nothing too fancy – just plain bulbs, the same ones strung every year from lamp post to lamp post, but there were plenty of them, and they were beautiful, and against the glittering diamonds of frost snow, they turned the main street into a fairyland.

  Stephen had left the fire crackling in the grate, and the embers were still warm when they returned (fireguard, Rosie found herself immediately thinking: fireguard). Mr Dog gave a mighty hop and a small yip when Rosie appeared. She let Stephen hold Apostil, and opened her arms to the little white dog, who looked a bit like a mop but was as sweet, lazy and gentle as the day was long.

  ‘Hello, DOG THING!’

  Mr Dog’s little pink tongue licked her enthusiastically on the face, his tail going nineteen to the dozen.

  ‘He’ll be glad you’re home,’ said Stephen. ‘Back to being spoiled.’

  ‘Nooo!’ said Rosie in agony. ‘I can’t spoil him any more in case he smothers Apostil!’

  ‘Divided loyalties,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Not divided,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s not smothering my son.’

  She sat down on the sofa, grateful to be close to the fire. Apostil’s eyes opened; he was hungry, and she gave him a quick bottle. He was normally swaddled tight and fast asleep by now. Memento, the girl at the embassy, who had four children of her own, had shown her how to do it, and how not to jump up every time he made a tiny noise. If it had been up to Rosie, she would have been jiggling and kissing him awake every five minutes. It was absolutely thanks to Memento that Apostil was good at sleeping at night-time rather than appallingly over-fussed in the manner of Mr Dog. Although Rosie never met Memento again, she never forgot her for that invaluable advice, and when new mothers came and went in the shop, complaining bitterly about having had no sleep, she would diplomatically pass on the simple wisdom that had made a time of such extraordinary upheaval so very much easier.