by JL Merrow
Lady Edith inclined her head graciously. “No need, dear, but if you want to, feel free. You must be Archie’s new . . .”
“Friend,” Robin said quickly, with a glance in Archie’s direction. “I live near him, and we bumped into each other one day.”
Everything seemed to dim a little—but he’d said friend for Archie’s benefit, right? Because Archie had been an idiot and said he wasn’t after a relationship.
Yes. Definitely for Archie’s benefit. He hoped.
“Oh, so you’re from Hitchworth, then? I thought you seemed a little familiar,” Perry said.
Robin’s gaze darted wildly. “I, um, yes. I’m about the town a lot. On the streets. That’s where you’ve probably seen me. On a street.”
“I expect that’s so. Well, we’ll leave you to have fun. My dear lady wife tells me she’s in need of a new hat, and who am I to stand in the way of millinery?”
“Um, yes. Hats. Very important.” Robin nodded repeatedly as the Bressingham-Steams promenaded away.
Archie managed not to laugh at Robin’s obvious awe. Despite how sweet it all was. “They’re not actually a real lord and lady, you know. It’s just their steampunk personas. Personae?”
“I knew that,” Robin protested. “Oh, look, there’s a stall with leather . . . things.”
“Yeah, that’s Ruthless. He makes some wicked cool stuff.”
“Ruthless?” Robin gave Archie a sidelong glance as they made their way over.
“Well, his mum calls him Rufus, but he drives a hard bargain.” Archie raised his voice. “Hi, mate. How are you? I see you’ve restocked the gauntlets. Nice.” He picked one up, more to feel the heavy, quality leather than to examine it by eye, although it was definitely worth a closer inspection. “Hey, you’ve changed the design. Upped the rivet count.”
Ruthless nodded. He was a big man, and didn’t try to dress like a Victorian gentleman, even one with science-fiction tendencies. He was clad like the artisan he was, in a thick apron and rolled-up sleeves. “Tried them out at Asylum and they practically flew off the stall. Ran out the first day. So if you want a pair, get in quick.”
Archie shook his head, smiling. “I’m good. Still got my old pair. Course, you might get lucky with Robin here.”
Ruthless raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Looks like someone might,” he said with a smirk.
Okay, so that hadn’t been quite the best phrasing Archie could have used. Fortunately Robin didn’t appear to have heard. He’d picked up a pair of brown leather bracers with an intricate embossed design and was staring at them like a starving man presented with a pork pie and pickle supper.
“Try them on,” Archie suggested.
Robin startled. “Oh, I’m not sure—”
He was cut off by a hearty laugh from Ruthless. “Now, with a name like Robin, why am I not surprised it’s the bracers you go for? Go on, try ’em for size. That’s your best quality veg-tanned leather, all hand-made. They’re softer than a lot of bracers you can buy. Feel that suede inside? Makes ’em more comfortable for when you’re hanging round Sherwood Forest aiming your arrows at all them rich bastards.”
“Maybe if I shot a few rich bastards, I could afford them.” Robin laid the bracers reverently back down on the stall. “They’re great, though. Amazing. How did you learn to make them?”
“Well, it wasn’t watching videos on YouTube, I can tell you. I’ve been leather-working twenty years now. Sure I can’t tempt you?”
“When I win the lottery, I’ll be back to see you first thing,” Robin promised.
“Better take a card, then. So you’ll know how to find me.”
“I will.” Robin picked up a business card and put it carefully in his wallet.
Archie made a mental note to nip back and ask Ruthless to put them aside. He could probably afford them, and, well, Christmas was coming, wasn’t it? This was shaping up to be a fabulous day.
They wandered around a few more traders’ stalls, then decided to go down to grab a drink before the first act started. “What can I get you?” Archie asked as they stepped up to the bar.
“Hey, I thought steampunks only drank tea?”
“So not true. But if you want a steampunk drink, you could always try the Kraken rum. Or the Lincoln gin. Bit early for me, so I was going to stick with a lime and—” Archie broke off with a gasp.
Bridge was walking towards them, her eyes narrowed.
Oops. He never had got around to telling her about him and Robin, had he? It just hadn’t ever seemed to be the right moment—even with the best part of a week to do it in.
Archie was beginning to regret that.
Archie’s voice stopped dead, and the rest of him did as well. Robin nearly cricked his neck darting a concerned look in Archie’s direction. “What’s up?”
Archie took a deep breath. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Hi, Bridge. You made it after all?”
This time, Robin did crick his neck turning to follow Archie’s gaze, which meant he winced directly in Bridge’s face. It probably didn’t improve her impression of him.
She looked totally different to the last time he’d seen her, which was most likely why he hadn’t realised the voluptuous young lady steampunk heading their way was her. Her waist was cinched in unbelievably tightly with a corset, making her boobs roughly the size of twin dirigibles. Instead of a top hat with goggles, she was wearing a full, black wig and a pair of devil horns. The outfit was finished with a burlesque-style skirt, high in the front and floofy in the back, and boots designed to march on boldly where Hells Angels feared to tread. Jerrick, clad this time in an adorable little T-shirt printed with a waistcoat and fob watch, perched on one well-defined hip.
“Nat’s come down with a cold. Didn’t want to give it to Jerrick.” Her tone was curiously flat, and her gaze never left Robin. “See you’ve got company.”
“Yes.” Archie sounded wary. “You remember Robin?”
“Oh, yes.”
Robin gave her a tentative smile. “Er, hi. Nice to meet you again. You look amazing, by the way. I love the wig. Are the horns attached, or are they separate? And oh my God, that corset! That brocade is just gorgeous. Is it really uncomfortable all the time, or do you get used to it? Hey, Jerrick, you look great too. Very dapper.” Robin gave a little wave, and Jerrick hid his face in his mother’s wig.
Was Robin talking too much? He was talking too much, wasn’t he?
Bridge blinked, and shook her head slightly, but her mouth had turned up at the corners. “God, you make it hard not to like you. How are you doing, then? I see Archie’s got you into his pants.”
Robin flushed. “Just the jacket and waistcoat, actually. Oh, and the hat. The jeans are mine. And the, um, pants.” He tugged at his collar, realised what he was doing and snatched his hand away.
Bridge rolled her eyes. “Right, if I’m going to be seeing you all the time, you can make yourself useful. Look after Jerrick while me and his dad have a little chat.”
She unceremoniously handed over her baby. Robin took him with a great deal of trepidation. He had held babies before, of course he had, but that was generally while their parent was fumbling for a purse or wallet, and only lasted as long as it took to make a purchase. “Um, what does he like to do?” He hoped desperately the answer wasn’t going to be Howl the place down when his mum leaves him.
“Chew stuff. He’s a baby.” Bridge’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Don’t let him have anything small enough to choke him, and he’ll be fine.”
“You’re okay with this, aren’t you?” Archie asked, giving him a worried look.
“Fine,” Robin lied through his fake smile. “No problem. Do this all the time.”
Archie was still frowning. “If he cries, just walk him up and down a bit.”
“Right. Got it. Chewing, no choking, and walking.” He could handle this.
“And here’s his nappy bag.” Bridge handed over a familiar rucksack, which meant Robin had to clutch Jerrick awkwardly to his che
st with one hand so he could take the bag with the other. He couldn’t help feeling hips like Bridge’s must come in handy at times like this.
“Try not to totally squish him,” Bridge said, not unkindly, and then she and Archie were gone.
Robin slung the nappy bag onto one shoulder, relieved to be able to devote both hands to holding the baby once more. “It’s just you and me, then,” he said to Jerrick, who stared at him solemnly. He’d clenched one tiny fist tightly around the lapel of Robin’s waistcoat, so clearly he wasn’t confident in Robin’s ability not to drop him either.
“Ooh, isn’t he adorable?” the lady behind the bar cooed at him. “How old is he? About six months?”
“Something like that.” Robin couldn’t remember off-hand, and was fairly sure she was a better guesser than he was.
“Aren’t you a sweetie?” she carried on, reaching out a finger for Jerrick to hold. He took it in one tiny hand, then his little face screwed up as though in deep concentration, and turned brilliant crimson with impressive speed. Were babies supposed to go that colour? What did it mean? Oh God, was Robin holding him too tightly? Had he squished him after all?
What it actually meant became swiftly, and pungently, apparent.
“Um, I think he needs a change?” Robin said to the barmaid, hoping against hope that her feminine nurturing instincts would kick in and she’d take Jerrick off his hands out of pity. If not for him, for the poor kid.
“Ooh, he does, doesn’t he? Who’s Mr. Stinky, then! There’s no changing table in the gents’ here, but you’ll be fine to take him in the ladies’,” the barmaid said helpfully, flapping her hand in front of her nose to ward off the evil odour. “If anyone gives you a hard time, just tell them I said so.”
Robin swallowed. “Thanks,” he managed. Should he try to find Archie and Bridge, and hand over the problem? After all, they were the experts. But that would mean interrupting their talk, and he’d had a strong impression of air needing to be cleared there as well as in Jerrick’s immediate vicinity. Plus, he could imagine Bridge’s withering look, and he really didn’t want to disappoint Archie. How hard could it be anyway, changing a nappy? Robin had been wiping his own arse for over two decades now. He squared his shoulders and headed for the ladies’.
At least his dad wasn’t here to witness it.
Neither, it seemed, was anyone else. When Robin pushed the door open and walked in he found the place empty. The changing table, instead of being in the main bit of the ladies’ toilets as he’d vaguely expected, was in one of the cubicles, thoughtfully marked with an explanatory hieroglyphic illustrating a gender-free adult bending over a be-nappied baby.
Robin had mixed feelings about this. Although locking himself in the cubicle would shield his ineptitude from any actual ladies who happened to wander in, it’d also nix any possibility of them offering to help. While Robin was firmly of the belief that men were as able to look after children as people of any other gender in general, he was painfully aware that this didn’t also hold true in the specific, i.e. him. How on earth did new parents cope? Did the hospital hand them an instruction manual on the way out from the delivery ward?
Not without difficulty, Robin manoeuvred himself, Jerrick, and Jerrick’s rucksack into the cubicle, and somehow managed to shut the door. The changing table folded out from the wall, and on the second attempt Robin even managed to get it to stay folded out.
Right. Changing table. Clearly the baby was supposed to lie on it, but which way? Robin had a vague idea you weren’t supposed to put babies on their stomachs—or was that only for sleeping?—so down on his back Jerrick went, Robin holding carefully onto his little head so as not to bang it on the hard plastic.
He didn’t howl in outrage, so presumably Robin was doing okay so far. He bent over Jerrick, and his hat dipped alarmingly. “Right. Hat off, then. Your mum would smother me with her wig if you got brained by falling goggles.” There was a windowsill just wide enough for the bowler hat and the nappy bag to perch on precariously.
Okay, now to get to the nappy. Luckily, instead of a onesie consisting mostly of poppers, Jerrick was wearing a pair of tiny trousers today. “We know what to do with trousers, don’t we? Yes we do,” Robin cooed. “Off they come.” He eased the elasticated waist over the nappy and off the kicking legs, Jerrick giggling all the way.
“You can laugh, but you’re the one who’s pooped his pants, and I don’t see you changing them without my help,” Robin told him with mock severity. “Let’s get this nappy undone. Must be these sticky tabs, yes, that’s the tic— Oh dear God, what are they feeding you?”
Robin gagged and decided breathing was definitely overrated. Asking to borrow the plague doctor’s mask might have been a good move. Weren’t their beaks usually stuffed with herbs and stuff to ward off smells? This wasn’t just poop; this was industrial toxic waste. It looked like a pre-digested late-night chicken korma and smelled like a chemical weapon. One hand on Jerrick’s tummy so he wouldn’t do a lemming-leap off the side of the changing table, Robin rooted around frantically in the nappy bag with the other, trying not to dislodge it or his hat from the windowsill. Wipes, wipes . . . surely there must be wipes in here somewhere? There— No, that was nappy sacks. Still, a useful find. And a fresh nappy, also likely to come in handy, and—yes!—baby wipes. With a triumphant grin, Robin turned back to the squirming Jerrick.
Who promptly peed in his face.
Archie and Bridget had found a quiet table near the door to the beer garden—at this time of year, braved only by die-hard smokers. Bridge swept her skirts out of the way and sat, her corset ensuring correct posture at all times. Archie felt like a small boy about to get a stern ticking off from his governess, and did his best not to slouch as he sat down.
“Right,” she said. “What’s the real story with you and that Robin?”
“We’re not going out together,” Archie said cautiously.
She raised a beautifully contoured eyebrow so far her left horn twitched.
“But . . . we may be kind of working up to that?” Archie sighed. “Look, I never meant to keep it a secret. And I didn’t want to hurt you. But I can’t live my life as if we’re, I don’t know, married or something. You and me . . . it was only ever a bit of fun, and it ended with no hard feelings either side—or am I wrong, there?”
Bridge shook her head. “No. You’re not wrong. But—”
“Just let me say it, yeah? Let me have my say, and then you can tell me why you don’t agree. If you don’t agree.”
She rolled her eyes but nodded. It wasn’t until she added a mime of zipping her lips and throwing away the key that Archie felt safe to carry on.
“We both went into this parenthood thing knowing that, well . . . we’ve got obligations to Jerrick, yeah? But not to each other. Not romantically. You know I’ll always be there for you, Bridge—I will,” he stressed at her look. “But in other areas . . . change is gonna happen. It’s bound to. Jobs change. Family circumstances change. One day, and I don’t reckon it’ll be too far off either, you’re gonna find someone you want to be with. And maybe you’ll move in with them, you and Jerrick, and I’ll have to deal with him having another parental figure in his life. That’s just . . . That’s just life. We can’t stop living simply because we’ve had a kid. We’re gonna have to trust each other to keep on putting Jerrick first, that’s all. And I swear to you, that’s all I want to do. But I need my own life too, and so do you.”
“Can I speak now?”
Archie risked a grin. “Depends. Let me know in writing first what you’re planning to say?”
“Bugger that. Look, I know, all right? I know. And you should know better than to listen to my bollocks when I’ve had a hard day.”
Archie stared at her. “I should? Uh, so you didn’t mean it about feeling betrayed by me wanting to go out with someone else so soon?”
“Well, I meant it a bit. But that was then. It’s hard sometimes, that’s all. You know what Dad’s like, and
I’ve had to listen to him a lot more than you have. He worries about me. About Jerrick.” She huffed. “And it knocks your confidence, having a kid. At least, it’s knocked mine. I don’t even look the same—and you can shut your mouth. I’m not after compliments.”
“Truth, then. You’re gorgeous.”
“Up yours.” She said it with a smile, though. “Oh, sod it. You go on about change happening, and I know it does—life’d be dead boring otherwise—but it’s scary, innit?”
Archie gave a rueful nod. “Believe me, you’re not the only one who feels that way.”
“It’s like, there’s times when I want to be taken care of and told nothing has to change. Sad thing is, they’re usually the times I need someone to tell me to pull up my big girl’s knickers and get on with my life. You know why me and you didn’t work out?”
“Uh . . .” Archie decided discretion was the better part of not getting his top hat knocked off with his head still inside it.
“It’s cos you wanted to look after me, and yeah, that’s great, but I don’t need looking after all the time. Not even most of the time.” She sighed. “We never really had any rows, did we?”
“You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Yeah, well, that’s just it, innit? For you, it isn’t. But for me, it kinda is.” She shook her head, black curls flying. “Why are we still talking about this anyway? Talk about flogging a dead horse. This one’s a bloody fossil. So go on, tell me about this bloke of yours. You really like him, don’t you? Your Christopher Robin?”
“That’s Robin Christopher. And . . . yeah. Yeah, I really do.”
“Poor sod. Name like that, his parents must hate him.”
“You have no idea.”
“Shame. He seems . . . nice.”
“You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing too.”
“Yeah, well, I think we’ve established that nice is not exactly top of my list of things to look for in a partner.” Bridge huffed. “And they say opposites attract. Load of bollocks, if you ask me.”