THE GIRLS ARE bouncy this morning, up early and in their regulation maroon sweatpants and sweatshirts, excited to be seeing their friends again after a three-week absence. It’s the first day of term and early signs of spring are beginning to appear, daffodil spears visible now like dark-green teeth in the lawn. Tom thinks I’m an idiot for planting the bulbs where they risk being crushed underfoot but I love the idea of flowers growing randomly from the grass as if they’ve escaped their beds, and enough survive each year to make it worthwhile. He appreciates them once they flower.
A ginger cat jumps over the fence and I bang on the window. It turns and looks at me before wandering away leaving footsteps in the dew. Today marks a new start but I’m too groggy to think about it. I know it’s going to hurt – it hurts already – but beyond that I don’t know. One day at a time.
Tom comes downstairs with Josh in his arms, shaved and dressed; pink-and-white stripy shirt, leather trousers and paisley socks. His tailored suit and fashionably narrow brogues are kept at work because he goes in by motorbike. Tom is in advertising, a career he never planned on, but has embraced. He is a producer at a production company called Marzipan and works in Soho. It’s a great job but it has its drawbacks. The summer is a very busy time for him so we have to cram our family holiday around Easter. In the summer holidays I rent a bungalow on the beach in Pagham and the kids and I decamp down there for August. The girls would love to stay in Bognor but even though Mum always offers to have us at the B & B, I’d only be losing her money.
The bombardment begins. The girls squabble while Tom tries to talk over their noise and the radio while I make up the mush that passes for baby food. Strapped into his high chair, Josh yells at me, his hands shoving at the spoon, his face twisting away, his feet kicking the side of the table. Political pundits argue immigration while Polly and Emily fight over the breakfast cereal. Tom roars at them and then laughs at the consternation on Polly’s face. He rushes to comfort her, overwhelmed by guilt when two cartoonish tears spill from her big brown eyes. I try so hard to keep it together; I get some food into Josh, although the bulk of it lands on the floor, my shirt, the table and Emily’s hair. I dampen a muslin and clean myself up, then Emily, leaving Josh till last because that’s another fight. When we are done, when Emily has finished demanding ‘What’s wrong with Josh?’, when Polly has stopped crying and Tom has finished charming his way back into their good graces, I shoo the girls upstairs to brush their teeth.
We were the world’s smuggest parents when Emily was a baby. When friends complained about how shattered they were, how hard it was, we caught each other’s eyes and shared knowing smiles. We simply couldn’t understand what the fuss was all about. She slept through the night at eight weeks and during the day was a delight, rarely complaining and diligently meeting all her milestones. Polly too was a cinch; a gorgeous baby who, unlike her more independent sister, was happiest when she was being cuddled, fitting like an infant marsupial into our bodies. We congratulated ourselves all over again.
And then Josh came along and turned our self-satisfied assumption that we were naturals at this on its head. We use the same routines, the same inducements as we used on the girls, but he’s a fighter, not a stickler for rules like Emily, or placid like Polly. It’ll stand him in good stead in adulthood but right now it’s hard work and there are times, like this morning, when I almost despair.
Hannah, Tom’s older sister, once said to me, ‘Tom was more like the girls as a baby: a big sleeper and so sweet-natured. Josh must take after you.’ And my mother said, ‘You were exactly the same, a little horror. But don’t worry – you calmed down by the time you were four.’
‘Are you all right?’ Tom asks.
‘Crappy night, but I’ll manage.’
He leans forward and kisses my forehead. ‘I do understand, you know.’
I smile unsteadily.
‘Try and get some rest. And buy yourself a jam doughnut.’
I laugh at that, but as he turns away I whisper, ‘I love you.’
He doesn’t hear me because Polly has thrown her arms around his legs. He swings her up into his arms and they gaze at each other with unconditional, slavish adoration.
‘Can I have a Penguin Biscuit for break?’ Emily asks.
Tom left an hour ago; seven thirty and out of the door, clean-shaven and smelling of soap, rangy in his black leathers, the boots making his feet look clownishly big. I’ve taken Josh into the sitting room for a bit of time out while the girls make their beds. The weather is vile. Schoolchildren draw stick figures on steamed-up windows from inside cars that sluice past our house. The front door opposite opens, expelling children and dogs. Jamie Boxer heads off under his black umbrella towards the station while his wife Millie juggles book bags, her feet tangling in leads as the two dachshunds cross and criss-cross in their excitement to be out. The baby is in its pram, the two boys still eating toast, their hair still mussed from bed. I should get a move on. Further down the street a car revs its engine over and over.
What is David doing now? Much the same as Tom probably, kissing his wife and daughter goodbye and setting off for work. A memory of his wicked smile, like a sharp stab, makes me blink. I need time to get to grips with what’s happened but as I am not a teenager I don’t have the luxury of shutting myself in my bedroom and listening to maudlin love songs. More’s the pity.
Josh is playing with coloured plastic blocks on the floor behind me. He throws one and it bounces against the fireguard and rolls under the armchair. He’s starting to get mobile and before long he’s on his side, peering into the dark space beneath it. I crouch down and retrieve it for him.
‘Mummy!’
How long has Emily been standing there? I focus and remember the question I only half heard. Penguin Biscuits.
‘Yes. Get one for Polly as well, will you? And put your shoes on and find hers. We’re off as soon as I’ve got Josh ready.’
‘Polly should look for her own shoes. She’s not a baby.’
She is defiant; her chin raised, a scowl forming. I itch to touch the grooves and smooth them out. Emily makes me want to laugh; her self-righteousness, her air of superiority, her fierce stances on the smallest things, her overriding sense of what is fair and what is not, are hilarious. But I don’t laugh because she has no sense of humour where her own dignity is concerned.
‘Please, Emily. You’d be helping me. If we wait for Polly to find them, we’ll be late.’
Emily’s face falls. ‘I don’t want to be late!’
She runs out of the room yelling for Polly and I pick Josh up and manhandle him into his snowsuit. It enrages him and I get a thump on my ear for my trouble. It brings tears to my eyes.
By the time we arrive there are more people coming out of the school gates than are going in. The teaching assistant shivers under her brolly, holding her hand out for the children to shake. I look round for David surreptitiously, but I’m not overly worried: the chances of him being down at the school in the morning are virtually nil.
‘Vicky!’ Imogen Parker strides towards me, her twins in tow. ‘How was your Christmas?’