by Fiona Gibson
Eliza xxx
P.S. Feel bad that I wasn’t supportive when you were here. Swept up by the Dale thing. Well, that’s over now. Says he wants someone just like me—funny, sexy, intelligent. But younger. My own stupid fault for getting involved with a younger man. At my age.
A tile clatters from the roof, causing Ben’s feet to shoot up and kick the kitchen table. He’s on my lap, breakfasting on fragments of strawberry tart. Someone is up on the roof—my roof—stealing the lead.
I hurry out, carrying Ben whose cheeks are stuffed with mashed tart, and look up. “Hi,” says Christophe. “I saw you were busy. Didn’t want to disturb you. But perhaps you’d better move your car.”
“What are you doing?” I shout up.
“What do you think? Fixing the roof.”
“It doesn’t need fixing,” I snap. Ben stares up, licking strawberry gloop from his thumb.
“But it leaks,” says Christophe.
“Only when it’s raining,” I yell back.
If the roof episode isn’t enough, he clatters in, hours later, and slams a grubby orange rucksack on the kitchen table. It’s filled with winter woollies: my Gap one, now lavender-scented, plus three hefty sweaters in varying shades of gray, smelling of unfamiliar male.
“What are these?” I ask.
“They’re for you. If you’re here for the winter you’ll need warmer clothes.”
“I have warm clothes,” I say irritably. What is it with this family and their urge to feed and clothe me?
“That’s a jumper,” he explains, as if I am incapable of remembering the names of basic garments. “Put on something warmer today. I’m taking you out in the boat.”
Ben is pulling himself up with the kitchen cupboard handles. Christophe takes a hand in each of his. Ben stands unsteadily. Christophe moves backward; Ben follows with novice’s steps. Boys of Christophe’s age aren’t supposed to know what to do with babies. He’ll lose interest, let him fall back. Baby’s skull meets stone kitchen floor. High-speed drive to Chatillon. Nurse asking: “What have you been doing with him? Where is this child’s father?”
“Careful,” I say. “He can’t walk.”
Ignoring me, he says, “So how about getting ready? I’ve brought food…”
“No,” I tell him, “It’s December. We’ll freeze.”
Ben’s legs are bowing but his face is still tilted upward to meet Christophe’s, seeking approval. And a latter chapter of Babycare pops into my brain: Don’t be afraid to let your child enjoy new experiences. Exploration is crucial to his learning and understanding of the world.
“Where is this boat?” I ask.
The boathouse is close to Hotel Beauville where the river loops back on itself. Banks bush with rain-drenched weeds, dipping lazily into the water. There’s a sodden wood smell in the boathouse. I park the buggy on the narrow walkway, making sure it’s covered in case it rains.
Christophe fits a tiny life jacket around Ben, which fastens with Velcro and buckles. He steps onto the boat. It’s just a rowing boat, toffee-colored and gleaming; a boat that trembles when you look at it.
He steps in and reaches to take Ben, supporting him in one arm. Then his woolly-gloved hand takes mine and he guides me in, as if assisting a pensioner. I’m not good with boats. Look at the ferry episode: heaving, on a glassy-sea day. With a little boat, the smallest movement—rearranging your legs, even blinking—causes it to lurch nervously. Christophe passes Ben to me; I grab my son, aware that my molars are clenched tightly together.
Ben sits upright and alert. What scares babies? Nothing much, it seems. He watches Christophe intently as he hooks in the oars and unties us, and we’re off, with Ben eyeing his every stroke of the oar, thinking, perhaps, that his father has been replaced by a younger, more water-loving model with a beard.
We follow the river’s lazy curves. Christophe doesn’t speak. And Ben’s right; there is nothing to be scared of as we drift, leaving the village behind. I spot the serious watch, eyeing me, and pull the sweater sleeve over my wrist.
We stop at a broad wooden post to moor the boat. Christophe steps off, taking Ben from me. We’re in a small field bordered by unruly hedges. There’s an ancient, stone-built hut, so ramshackle a sharp gust of wind might send it tumbling. Ben crawls through the field, his snow-suited rear waggling above the grass.
Christophe takes an armful of dry wood from inside the hut. A match flares. As the fire builds, we settle around it. Ben opens his mouth obediently as morsels of food, provided by Christophe, are posted in. His eyes widen in the firelight. Take every opportunity to stimulate your child’s senses. Let him discover how water feels as it runs through his fingers, and watch flames as they dance in a fire.
So, Babycare, this is all right by you? That my son’s nappy is so deeply encased in his snowsuit that it hasn’t been changed for hours? That the food provided by this borrowed male role model—crimp-edged biscuits, mainly—is whittling away at the enamel of his newly formed incisors? How am I faring according to your new-mother rules?
Christophe says, “You don’t notice it after a while.”
“What?” I ask.
“The movement. On the boat. Next time you won’t even think about it.”
“I didn’t think about it. You know, I even liked it.”
“And you weren’t sick,” he says.
Ben is drowsy in my arms. We need to head home, though I don’t want to. “I should go back,” I say.
He says, “Back to England?”
The thought’s in my head now. Back to what: to fix things with Jonathan? To do the right thing? We have a young family (such a big world—family—for two mismatched adults and a baby too young to express opinions regarding his living arrangements). But Jonathan has called only twice, with brief messages. He hasn’t seen his son standing on rubbery legs. The upright position: what a difference this makes. Ben is no longer a horizontal thing, batting the activity arch; he’s a boy. And I no longer flinch when hungry whimpers start up. I can do this.
It’s almost dark when we row back to the boathouse. Ben sleeps, splayed across my lap, not flinching even when placed in the buggy and wheeled home. I carry him to bed. His hair is flecked with grass and thick with wood smoke. When I come downstairs, Christophe is deconstructing the chair corral. The sick stink has gone. The room looks almost normal.
“You don’t have to go back,” he says. “Aren’t you happy here? Doesn’t Ben like it?”
“It’s not that simple,” I say.
Christophe says, “It could be. I’d help you. You could make this your home.”
For one millisecond, it seems like a perfectly sensible idea.
20
Playthings
There are many reasons why I shouldn’t sleep with Christophe. For one thing: his sheer nerve in assuming he’s staying the night after risking everyone’s health on his boat. As if I would. With someone who’s even closer to childhood than Dale is (and look what happened there). Does he think I’m desperate? Or that I need him for various roof fixing and puke wiping duties and, therefore, some payment in kind is due?
We have nothing in common. Less than nothing to talk about. He hasn’t done anything, been anywhere. Yes, there was London, but what did he get up to there? This job, that job, diddling about. My diddling days are so distant I wouldn’t be able to remember how to diddle, even if I got the chance.
There are yet more reasons to avoid intimate physical contact with an arrogant, immature (though undeniably attractive) young pup:
I am a mother.
He lives with his mother.
He is a baby.
I have Jonathan (sort of).
I can remember Haircut 100.
His hormones are all over the shop.
He smells young.
He probably weighs less than one of my thighs.
And, most worrying of all:
What if he wants to talk about French pop music?
There’s an impatient hammer
at the door. It’s so dark I can’t see my own hand. I slip out of bed, bringing with me the satin eiderdown, and cape it around my shoulders. I feel my way downstairs, touching edges and flat surfaces.
Another hammering. I flick on the light and open the door a fraction but the postman pretends not to have noticed. He is in profile, his breath a white puff. Last night’s rainfall has turned the ground to gloop. I open the door fully, feeling ridiculous in my satin cape. He hands me a parcel. To take it I’ll have to poke a hand out of the eiderdown, but I need both to keep it bunched around me.
I nod at the ground. He sets down the parcel and tuts loudly. Mad tourist . And not even dressed.
Inside the parcel is a Christmas present wrapped in tasteful, Santa-free paper: silver stars on lilac with matching gift tag, which reads: Nina, saw this and thought of you. Love, Beth.
It’s a book called Start Talking, Start Loving. On the cover is an illustrated couple, dotty like a Liechtenstein painting. His jaw is cartoon square. Her eyelashes curl lusciously. They are back to back with arms folded. He’s late again, another dinner spoiled. Or maybe he’s just witnessed his son in a cinema ad.
On the inside back cover there’s a photo of the author: she wears a cream mohair sweater and a there-there smile. Chapter one kicks off with several questions:
Do you raise your voice to make yourself heard?
Does your partner shout to gain your attention?
Do you row in public?
Do you have the same old squabbles, over and over?
No, no, no, no.
Congratulations! gushes mohair lady. You communicate without resorting to shouting or arguing . Yet we can all benefit from brushing up our talking and listening skills. With the exercises in this book, you’ll grow even closer as a couple.
Christophe appears before me, rubbing his upper arms where goose bumps have sprung. He is wearing the Girl Guide blanket sarong-style around his waist. Above it, ribs are visible.
I shut the front door and drop Start Talking, Start Loving into the wicker wastepaper basket.
“Come back to bed,” he says.
Ben and I will spend Christmas Eve at Hotel Beauville, when Sylvie’s family has their celebratory meal. There’s no formal invitation; just an assumption that we’ll be there. Sylvie is revving up for the big day, adding flourishes of ribbon to the scalloped drapes. A fir tree glints silver and white, heavily laden with glass baubles. The decrepit high chair has been embellished with glittery fir cones lashed on with what looks like gold dressing gown cord. Sylvie is breathless, tweaking and patting, delegating jobs to Nadine and Christophe but not letting me help. “You’re our guest,” she reminds me. “There is nothing for you to do. Nothing.”
So I perch on the sofa accepting cordial drinks and soft, round confections, somewhere between biscuit and cake. Ben pulls himself up on sofas and armchairs, sucks soft toys and nibbles their swallowable accessories. I wonder if he prefers Hotel Beauville to my parents’ house. There are no toys there, other than the presents reserved for Christmas. I haven’t shown him a picture book in weeks. But how much stimulation does a child need? Ben can while away a morning by bashing a dented saucepan with a wooden spoon. In the olden days, no one fretted about stimulating children. From age three to eleven I spent most of my free time swinging on a gate. And look how well I turned out.
I have two homes now, like a posh person: one full of people and the clattering of crockery and one where I sleep. Christophe comes round most days with gifts of food, wine or his body. One morning he shows up with a toy truck made from a red and yellow cooking oil can. It has a certain rustic charm, though is desperately unsafe with ragged edges capable of shearing off a baby’s arm (see, he knows nothing about children). I thank him and place it high on the bookshelf with the Christmas presents.
We drink just enough wine to fuzz things. I wonder if Christophe is using me as someone with whom to practice sex, so he’s clued up for when he finds a proper girlfriend. Why else would he be here? I’m old. Done in. Distorted by childbirth. Still haven’t managed to examine myself down there, scared of what I’ll find.
Ben sleeps in the big bed, bordered on all sides by pillows. We slip into the little room and warm each other under green satin and mottled gray blanket. It doesn’t feel like he’s practicing. I don’t know how it feels because I can’t think. When I wake, half-covered by Girl Guide blanket, the Homemaker badge is staring me right in the eye.
My mother calls to apologize for not sending Ben’s present in time for Christmas (“something we picked up at the car boot—though you’d think it was new, except there’s something wrong with the horn”). She goes on to detail her dietary requirements for the New Year visit: “Dairy and gluten free, don’t forget. Red meat’s off and Ashley’s not happy with chicken, so I’m better sticking to fish. Make sure it’s fresh.” According to Ashley, my mother’s treatment has reached a crucial point. They are on the verge of clearing the blockage in her brain.
“Fish might be difficult,” I tell her. “We’re quite a hike from the coast, Mum.”
She sniffs into the phone and says, “Your dad and I never have trouble finding fresh produce.”
“Mum,” I sigh, “are you sure about this trip? What if there’s snow? You could be stuck here for days—weeks, even.”
“Such a pessimist,” she scolds. “So what if we’re stuck? It’s a wonderful place—you’ve said so yourself. I thought you’d be pleased. Stuck in the house with a baby. What do you do all day?”
Each morning, Christophe wakes before me. A warm hand on my stomach, or a breast, or a thigh. We’re quiet as mice, a soft rumple of bodies, with the sloping ceiling looming over us.
Ben sleeps after lunch. Babies’ naps are important. At nine months your child will probably sleep for two hours or more during the day. Make use of this time. It’s your opportunity to nap, too, and feel well-rested when your baby wakes.
We learn new tricks. With a substantial lunch, high on carbohydrates, plus a full bottle of warm milk, Ben will conk out until four. We sneak up to the little room where I take off the serious watch and shut it away in the drawer, not caring that I’m destined for Hell.
Christmas Eve. Sylvie’s table heaves under a jumble of scented candles and steaming dishes and a towering centerpiece of dried flowers, jabbed into a spongy silver dome. She is wearing a silky black dress shot through with narrow copper leaves. Nadine wears her usual lumpen sweater. The women are overheated from eating, talking and frequent flurries to the kitchen. Christophe eats calmly, as if it’s an everyday meal.
Plates are cleared to make way for gifts. Sylvie is presented with a sandwich toaster made for giants. “For cooking meat at the table,” explains Nadine. I nod, as if I have one just like it at home. Sylvie hands me a small parcel: perfume of an unfamiliar brand in a ridged glass bottle with a gilt stopper. I kiss her, grazing my face on her lacquered curls. I have brought a volcano-shaped cake erupting nuts and glacé fruit. Her gratitude is over the top, considering the quality of the gift.
I have yet to source anything remotely appropriate for Christophe. Lately, being so busy in that little room, I’ve had few opportunities to nip into Chatillon. I have yet to visit the Musée Archéologique.
I’m full from the meal but still hungry. This is happening a lot. All my jeans appear to have shrunk. Sylvie cuts me a slab of volcano cake, then brings her hands together in light, rapid claps. She raises her glass. “Nina,” she announces, “welcome to our family.”
I seem to have found myself a new mother. And a new something else.
Jonathan doesn’t call. Perhaps he’s staying with Constance, dutifully tipping down Meals with Mince. On December 26 I ring Beth, pretending to wish her happy Christmas. “Nina!” she says with fake jollity. “Did you get the book? Hope you weren’t offended. I just thought, being stuck out in the back of beyond…”
“You’re right, there’s no bookshop,” I say.
“How much longer are you carry
ing on with this? I thought about you yesterday, stuck in that miserable hovel. On your own, with no—”
“I have Ben,” I butt in. There are rustling sounds as if she’s wrapping something in foil. “Have you seen Jonathan?” I ask brightly.
“Um, let me think—a week ago was it, Matthew, when Jonathan came round for supper? Busy since then. My parents are here, wanted us at theirs for Christmas. Terrible sulks. But who’d want to be stuck out in the country? What if it snowed? We’d be trapped.”
“How did Jonathan seem?”
“Seem?” she squeaks. “He’s fine, considering what he’s coping with.”
“Only I haven’t heard…” What do I expect to hear?
“Oh, Jana, watch Maud with that apple juice,” Beth scolds.
“Jana?”
“New au pair. Czech girl. Terrible experience with her last family, thinks our place is a palace.”
“What happened to Rosie?” I ask.
There’s a bang, like an oven door slamming. “Didn’t work out. It’s like that with au pairs. Go through a heap till you find the right one.”
“What’s Jana like?”
“A worker. Never stops. Not the best-looking girl on the planet but Maudie doesn’t seem to mind.”
I drive Ben and Christophe to Chatillon. We will buy every item on the list dictated by my mother. For the duration of their stay, the fridge will bulge with fresh produce. She doesn’t want any food intolerances ruining her holiday.
A vast dish of fruit will sit on the kitchen table. Apples will gleam. I shall wear lipstick at all times and keep my nails clean. Ben will sport a retro, minimal look comprising the black crew-neck and checked trousers. How can they fail to be impressed?
Christophe is amused by my lists, frequently amended and littered with question marks, asterisks and drawings of girls with tense faces. “Are your parents…difficult?” he asks.