‘You can join us,’ I say.
We still do this battle, this tug of war, her wanting to be usefully occupied every minute she’s here and me wanting her to take the weight off and chat to me. The boundaries are blurred, because she’s a friend, now, I’m certain of that, but she’s also paid to be here. Or is she? I try to work out how long it’s been. She came in November, because I remember working out that the three months Arthur had paid for would take us up to the end of February. Still a few weeks to go.
‘Well, let me get your bed stripped off and in the wash first,’ she says.
And I don’t say anything, just let her, because I do love getting into a clean bed. Arthur used to say bed change day was his favourite day of the week. He used to make this sound when he got in, a sort of satisfied sigh, and the only other time he made it was when he bit into a strawberry. Funny, the things you know and remember about a person after the years have piled up. I can hear that sound now, and at the same time I know I’ll never hear it again. Once, he suggested we change the bed twice a week, but I soon knocked that on the head. It was me doing all the washing and drying, after all. But we did agree on the fact that there’s nothing quite like pushing your toes down into fresh new sheets.
Kirsty arrives with Dotty and Olly soon after Julie’s gone off upstairs, and suddenly the house is alive, almost chaotic.
‘I need to change her, do you mind?’ she asks.
I can hardly say no, can I?
‘I could go in the back room,’ she offers. ‘Olly, look, it’s Mabel!’
She tries to cajole him but there’s no getting away from the fact that he looks at me the way he always did, like a slight annoyance, like someone you’re forced to put up with. He’s much happier since he moved in with her, and that’s the truth. She pretends he has his moments, but any time I’ve called in, he’s been there, looking up at her, tail wagging. He even seems to like the baby.
‘Should I? Go through to the back room, I mean?’
‘No, no. You can do it here.’
Dotty is wailing, her face puce. And I’m struck by a memory of one of the typing pool girls bringing in her newborn and us all crowding round on our tea break to have a look. He’d kicked one of his socks off and Dot picked it up off the floor, held it up to show me the size of it, and then grabbed hold of his toes and pretended she was going to nibble them. The mother looked a bit startled but the baby laughed and laughed. And then as quickly as the laughter started, it was finished, and his face darkened and he started to howl.
‘Hungry?’ Dot asked, trying to be helpful.
‘That or the other end needs attention,’ the mother said. ‘It’s always one or the other.’
It was just a throwaway comment but I came back to it every time Arthur brought up the subject of children. I couldn’t think of anything worse than this tiny being that needed me, that always needed to be fed or else cleaned up. Dotty’s shown me another side to it, because most of the time I’ve been around her, she’s been delightful. Playing, watching us talk, babbling away to herself.
But this, now, this noise is something else. I wring my hands, uncomfortable. Should I offer to help? Surely Kirsty has this under control. She’s whipped out this black package, unfolded it and pulled a nappy, wipes and a little bag out of various zipped pockets. Now she lays it on the floor, and I see it’s a miniature changing mat. What will they think of next? She lays Dotty down, cradling her head, and starts the process. When the stench hits me, I struggle not to let it show. It’s horrendous, that’s what it is. I make my excuses and go to the kitchen to get the tea started. Stand with my hands on my hips, taking deep gulping breaths.
No, I wasn’t cut out for it. Motherhood. Doesn’t change the fact that Arthur would have been a world-class father, though. Still, I’m not sure what impact one good and one terrible parent would have on a child, especially with the terrible one being the mother. But I know, now, that Dot did it. Two boys. I slot that knowledge into the daydreams I have of her, in the years since she left. Dot changing nappies, walking to and from school, making endless meals and running baths and getting up in the night to scare away monsters and bad dreams. I don’t know her, I think. She’s someone entirely different from the person I knew all those years ago, and so am I. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing, does it?
‘What are you doing back here?’
It’s Julie. I didn’t hear her approaching.
‘I was just going to put the kettle on,’ I say, picking it up and taking it over to the sink.
‘Let me,’ she says, taking it from me.
I do let her, because I find it a bit heavy, now, when it’s full.
‘What have you done to upset Dotty?’ she asks, smiling.
‘Me? I haven’t done anything!’
‘I was joking, Mabel.’
‘She’s having a change,’ I say. ‘She was, she’d… soiled herself.’
‘That’s babies for you,’ she says.
I wonder what she knows of babies, whether she’s been around them much. Or whether she’s as clueless as me about the whole thing.
When we go back to the front room, Dotty’s dressed again and the little bag is neatly tied. The smell lingers.
‘Would you watch her while I take this outside and wash my hands?’ Kirsty asks, holding the bag up.
Her voice is a bit different, I think. The edges softened, like her original accent – the one her parents have – is creeping back in. Just a little.
‘Course,’ Julie says.
She goes over and sits on the floor by Dotty, who’s on all fours, rocking.
‘Can she crawl now?’ I ask, a bit scared she’ll get away from us when we’re supposed to be looking after her.
‘Not yet. She’s trying. Chances are she’ll go backwards before she gets it right.’
Backwards. How does she know something like that?
When Kirsty comes back in, she picks up her mug of tea and takes a long slug.
‘That’s perfect,’ she says. ‘I made three cups this morning and didn’t drink any of them.’
Julie laughs, but I feel sorry for her. If there’s no time to drink a cup of tea, what else is Kirsty missing out on? And how does she remember who she is in the middle of it all?
‘I’ve started going to a mums’ yoga class, did I tell you?’
We shake our heads.
‘Tuesday evenings. Ben gets home from work and I shoot out of the door to get to the community centre in time. I always get there all stressed, my heart hammering, and think I’m probably doing myself more harm than good. But it’s nice to meet other mums.’
She looks at us and realises what she’s said, puts a hand to her mouth. ‘It’s not that there’s anything wrong with people who aren’t mums,’ she says.
Julie bats the air with a hand. ‘We understand. You need to be around other women your age, and especially other mums.’
‘How do you know so much about babies?’ I ask.
Julie turns to me. ‘Me?’
‘Yes. It’s just, I know you didn’t have any but you seem to know a lot.’