Duplicity Page 9

  Fiona Angus sighed. She had known it would come but, coward that she was, she’d put it off as long as she could. Gently, she lifted him on to her knee, her brain searching wildly for the proper words.

  Her son snuggled against her, his question already forgotten. ‘A story, Mummy?’

  She relaxed against the cushions of the wide armchair, relieved that the awkward moment had passed, then made up her mind that it would be best to get it over after all. She couldn’t face having to go through this panic another time. ‘No story just now, Iain,’ she smiled, shifting her position slightly to be more comfortable. She dreaded his reception of what she meant to tell him, but took the plunge. ‘Mummy’s going to tell you why her tummy’s so fat.’

  She got a flash of inspiration when his hand rested on her ‘bump’. ‘Can you feel something moving inside there?’

  After frowning in concentration for a few seconds, he smiled broadly. ‘Ooh, yes, it’s a frog jumping about.’

  Fiona had to laugh. ‘It’s not a frog, it’s a baby, a little brother or sister for you. I’m sure you’ll like that, won’t you?’

  He nodded absentmindedly, still engrossed in feeling the movements under his hand.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy thought it would be a good idea for you to have somebody to play with. Once it’s grown, of course,’ she added hastily, ‘and we’ll still love you just as much as ever when the new baby arrives.’

  He lifted his head now and studied her face earnestly, making her apprehensive of what was going through his mind. ‘Did I grow in there, too?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘Yes, darling. All babies grow in their mummy’s tummies.’

  ‘How does it come out?’ His eyes were wide open, but very interested.

  This was the tricky bit. This was where the difficulty lay. ‘It can’t come out by itself,’ she said, carefully. ‘Mummy has to go to hospital to have it taken out.’

  ‘Oh.’ He fell silent, obviously trying to picture the hospital staff making a door for the infant to pass through.

  Fiona held her breath, waiting for an avalanche of further questions about this strange phenomenon, but Iain seemed to accept it with no thoughts as to why or where. ‘When will I have my new brother?’ he asked eagerly, taking it for granted that it would be a boy, because his little friend next door had recently acquired a baby brother.

  ‘It should be around Christmas time,’ Fiona said, very glad that her son was showing no signs of jealousy. ‘It’ll be like the story about Baby Jesus that Gran told you, remember? Won’t that be fun?’

  ‘I bet it’ll be better than Mark’s brother,’ Iain boasted, jumping off his mother’s knee. ‘And I bet it’ll have more hair.’

  She gave a relieved giggle, recalling the tiny bald head that had both fascinated and disgusted Iain when they had gone to see the new arrival next door. He ran off now, full of excitement, to let Mark into the secret, while she lumbered to her feet to prepare the evening meal.

  After Iain had been put to bed, she told her husband how their son had received the announcement. ‘He wasn’t a bit jealous. He’s just sure our baby’ll be better than Mark’s.’

  Gavin Angus chuckled. ‘I told you not to worry about it. Iain’s not spoiled even if he’s an only child - but not for much longer.’ Picking up the newspaper, he asked solicitously, ‘How have you been today, darling?’

  ‘Fine, really, but I wish it was all over. The last few weeks are always the worst.’ She lifted her knitting from the workbag at the side of her chair, and held up the tiny white matinee jacket for him to admire. ‘Iain’s sure it’s going to be a boy, but I’ve played safe by not using blue or pink.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Gavin was already engrossed in the sports page.

  ‘You’re not listening!’ she said, sharply.

  ‘What? Oh, yes, it’s very nice, but isn’t it a bit small?’

  Grinning, she shook her head. ‘It’s not meant for a monster. Remember how small Iain was when he was born?’

  ‘You’re right there. I was terrified to hold him at first, in case he slipped through my fingers. He soon grew, though. He’s a real boy now, and I’ll be taking him along with me to football matches in no time at all.’

  ‘Oh, you and your football! It’s all you think about nowadays.’ She sat down heavily, to crochet the strings for the tiny jacket.

  ‘Not exactly all,’ Gavin teased with a twinkle in his eyes.

  The days passed slowly for Fiona until, at long last, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, she felt the unmistakable signs of her baby’s imminent arrival. ‘Mum,’ she told her mother, who was to be staying in the house until Fiona was back on her feet, ‘you’d better phone for a taxi, while I tell Iain.’

  Mrs Simpson went out to the hall, saying over her shoulder, ‘I’ll tell Mrs Baxter next door to be ready, as well.’

  Fiona grabbed her son as he rushed past shouting to an imaginary playmate. He’d be much better with a brother or sister to keep him company on rainy days like this, she assured herself. ‘Mummy’s going to the hospital now, darling, to have the baby,’ she told him. ‘You’ll be a good boy to Granny, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy. When are you going away?’

  ‘Quite soon, dear.’ She fully expected a flood of tears, but Iain seemed to be anxious for her to be gone.

  It only took the taxi little more than five minutes to arrive and Fiona asked the driver to carry out the travelling bag that had been sitting ready in the hall for the past four weeks. Then she went back to her son. ‘I’m going now, but don’t come outside. It’s absolutely pouring with rain.’ She kissed him quickly, but he wriggled out of her grasp.

  ‘I’ll hold him up so he can wave from the window,’ her mother consoled. ‘Now, you’re sure you’ll be all right? Is Mrs Baxter there?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, she’s waiting in the taxi. She’d been looking out for it. And don’t worry about me - I’ve done it all before.’ Fiona turned to Iain again. ‘Bye, darling, and look after Daddy and Gran until I come home. We’re lucky it’s going to be a real Christmas baby, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy, but hurry.’ He didn’t appear to care that she was leaving, and it was a rather downhearted Fiona who joined her neighbour in the taxi.

  His grandmother held the small boy up to the window, but felt his little body suddenly stiffen. He’s just realised his Mummy’s away, she thought, keeping a firm grip on him as he turned and buried his face in her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, my wee lamb, she’ll be back in just a few days,’ she comforted. ‘Wait till you see the bonny new baby she’ll be taking home with her.’

  ‘Don’t want any silly baby,’ came the muffled reply.

  Mrs Simpson was puzzled by this sudden change of heart. Fiona had told her how Iain had been delighted with the idea of a new baby, so why should he be in tears about it now?

  Was he beginning to be jealous? Was he scared they wouldn’t love him if there was a new baby? Depositing him on the floor because he was growing a bit heavy for her to carry, she tried to take his mind off himself. ‘Come on, my dearie, we’ll have to phone Daddy to let him know.’

  He withdrew his chubby little hand from hers but held his head down, so she went into the hall by herself. ‘I’ll go straight to the hospital when I’m finished here,’ Gavin told her when he heard the news. ‘I wish I could have gone with her, though. Was she all right?’

  ‘She was fine, and Mrs Baxter went with her in the taxi.’ She hoped that she wasn’t going to be saddled with two disconsolate males while her daughter was away.

  At teatime, Iain ate his scrambled eggs in silence, this new sulkiness worrying his grandmother. She had never seen him like this before. After she had washed the dishes and tidied up, she took his hand and led him upstairs. ‘Come away, my dearie, and Gran’ll tell you a nice wee story when you’re tucked up in
bed.’

  She ran the water for his bath and watched him as he undressed, spurning the help she offered. By the time she was rubbing his hair with the huge striped towel, she had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t just pique that was troubling Iain. He was really a sad little boy, she mused, as the fair curls sprang to life from the head that had, a few minuted before, been wet and bedraggled. ‘What’s wrong. my pet? Tell Gran.’

  But he just shook his head and ran through to his bedroom. She decided to tell him the Christmas story again. It might help him to accept the coming child without feeling neglected and resentful. He listened, unmoving, as she began the tale, but his wide blue eyes never left her face.

  ‘And so Mary and Joseph had to go to Bethlehem. Joseph knew that Mary couldn’t walk all that way when she was going to have a baby, so he got an ass, that’s just like a donkey, for her to sit on, and they started … ‘

  ‘It’s not true!’ Iain shouted suddenly. ‘It wasn’t an ass, or a donkey. It wasn’t!’ He burst into tears, deep, racking sobs that shook his whole small frame.

  Mrs Simpson was utterly perplexed as she held him close and patted his back. What on earth could be upsetting him like this? ‘Aye, my dearie, Mary did ride into Bethlehem on a donkey, and the Baby Jesus was born in a stable because they couldn’t find anywhere else to stay.’

  He cried until he was exhausted, while she sat, at a loss how to deal with him, until she was sure that he was sound asleep. His face looked so peaceful now, still wet with tears, so she tiptoed out, leaving the door open.

  It was almost one o’clock before Gavin came home. ‘It’s a boy,’he announced joyfully, ‘and they’re both doing well. Seven pounds four ounces, and lovely with it. He was born at twelve minutes past midnight, so Iain’ll be glad it’s a real Christmas baby.’

  ‘Poor wee Iain,’ said his mother-in-law, and told him what had happened.

  Gavin was just as perturbed as she was, and went upstairs to make sure that his elder son was sleeping. The sight of the small face, so angelic in repose, brought a lump to his throat. Small children were so vulnerable. He pulled the quilt up gently, and vowed that he would never give Iain cause to resent the new arrival.

  At that moment, the boy opened his eyes. ‘Daddy,’ he whispered, ‘is that you?’

  ‘Yes, son.’ Gavin gathered up the pathetic little figure, quilt and all, and carried him downstairs. He sat down in an easy chair by the fire and cradled his first-born in his arms. ‘Mummy’s got our baby now - a real Christmas baby.’ He was quite unprepared for Iain’s reaction, as the boy jumped off his knee on to the floor, tears steaming down his cheeks.

  ‘It’s not a real Christmas baby! It’s not! Mummy didn’t go on a donkey! She went in a silly old taxi!’

  Gavion sat, mystified, as his mother-in-law, enlightened by the boy’s outburst, knelt down beside her grandson and her arms round the sleepy, pyjama-clad figure. ‘Mary and Joseph lived a long, long time ago, my wee lamb. Long before there were any motor cars. If there had been, Mary would have gone in a taxi just like Mummy. So you see, it is a real Christmas baby, after all.’

  ‘Really and truly, Gran?’ Iain hiccupped, his face breaking out in a huge smile.

  ‘Really and truly.’ She brushed a tear from the corner or her eye. ‘Now, you’d better go back to bed quickly, because Santa won’t come if you’re not sleeping.’

  She held up the old football sock of Gavin’s that Fiona had explained was to be used for this purpose. ‘Look, your Christmas stocking’s all ready and waiting.’

  Using the sleeve of his pyjama jacket to dry his own eyes, the astonished boy said, ‘I forgot all about Santa.’

  He took his father’s hand to go upstairs, then anxious again, looked into the man’s still bewildered face. ‘Is our baby better than Mark’s baby?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Gavin grinned. ‘He’s absolutely beautiful, with fair hair just like ours.’

  ‘Wheeeee!’ Iain jumped up abnd down with excitement. ‘Just wait till I tell Mark that our baby’s got hair. Can we call him Jesus?’

  ***

  Word count 2197

  Written July 1986 - rejected by People’s Friend and the Sunday Post

  The Christmas Spirit

  Leila Paul hurried through the milling crowds, all last-minute shoppers like herself. This is ridiculous, she thought. Why do so many people leave their gift-buying until Christmas Eve? Every person she looked at seemed to be under pressure of some kind - no happy faces at all. What a horrible time Christmas was.

  She struggled through the entrance of a large store, against the tide of customers coming out laden with parcels and large shopping bags, and stood inside the shop to get her breath back. A young woman with a worried expression was making her way towards the doors, carrying a bulky parcel. Its shape was easily recognisable even if its wrappings hadn’t come adrift to reveal the contents. A pedal car for her young son, Leila thought, pityingly. No wonder she’s worried; probably can’t afford it, but the boy would have made it quite clear that it was what he expected Santa to bring. Modern children expected, and got, so much.

  A harassed old lady appeared now, with two plastic carrier bags filled to overflowing. As she passed Leila, she had to bend to pick up a small parcel that had fallen out, and as she did so other packages slid and dropped to the floor.

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ She said breathlessly, as Leila helped her to gather these together. ‘Isn’t this a terrible crush, and everything’s so dear. Christmas is so commercialised nowadays, isn’t it?’

  Leila nodded and smiled as the woman passed out of sight. Yes, she mused, there’s none of the old-fashioned Christmas spirit about any more. Each of the faces she could see was set and strained due, no doubt, to money worries and the nagging doubt that someone special had been forgotten in the rush; or the what-on-earth-can-I-buy-her-she-has-everything problem.

  It was then that she spotted the young couple. Very young, they looked, surely not old enough to be married. But, of course, boys and girls did everything together now, even their Christmas shopping. As they came nearer, she heard the girl say, ‘Isn’t it fun, darling? Our baby’s first Christmas. I can hardly wait to see his face when he opens his stocking.’

  The boy’s look of sheer adoration as he smiled back at his young wife made a lump come into Leila’s throat. A Christmas stocking; how many memories that brought back.

  First of all, had been the filling. Down into the toe had gone an apple, then a packet of sweets, a little colouring book, a square of the Swiss milk toffee she always used to make, some crayons, perhaps, then a tangerine and lastly, the present. It was usually a large parcel and was laid on the floor - always opened first. She could recall dolls, a doll’s house, a cot and a nurse’s outfit for Helen over the years, and a tricycle, a cowboy outfit, a fire engine and a football at different times for Michael.

  Money had always been in short supply when the children were small, but Alan and she had always managed to fill the stockings, buying little items throughout the year when they could afford them. There was one year, though, when they had bought, at a jumble sale in September, the space suit that Michael wanted, but hadn’t been able to get the desk that Helen had asked Santa to bring.

  Alan had said, ‘Don’t worry, dear, I’ll make one for her’, and had put together a beautifully sturdy desk with spaces for pens and paper and things like that, working at it every night after Helen went to bed. Leila smiled at the memory of what came next. Alan had painted it white, and had to varnish it on Christmas Eve, but he’d had to use the cheapest brand, which hadn’t been dry by the time they were acting Santa.

  They had carried the desk from their bedroom, where it had been hidden from prying eyes, and stood it in front of the coal fire in the living room to dry more quickly. They had been sitting there, talking quietly when they heard Helen coming do
wnstairs. Leila laughed out loud as she recalled how they had jumped up in confusion and placed themselves in front of the desk to screen it from its owner.

  ‘Mummy, I just wondered if Santa had been yet,’ she had murmured sleepily.

  ‘No, darling, he doesn’t come until well after midnight. I told you, remember?’

  ‘Remember to lay out the Christmas pies you bought for him - and a glass of milk,’ and the six-year-old had gone back to bed, quite unaware that her shattered parents had collapsed on the settee in hysterics.

  Christmas mornings had been fun, too; noisy fun, with two drowsy adults being shocked into consciousness by an avalanche that descended on them about five or six a.m.

  The stockings were always carried up and emptied in the main bedroom, wrappings and boxes being strewn all over the floor; it kept the living room free from rubbish. Oh, the excitement, the laughter, the love!

  The house had been full of love in those days, Leila reflected, and excitement and laughter. Now, though, with Helen married and living so far away, and Michael a rather difficult eighteen-year-old, the atmosphere was different. There was little excitement, except when Michael argued with his father, and she could do without that; laughter only now and then, and certainly no show of love. She supposed that it still must be there, somewhere, under their veneer of middle age.

  Sighing deeply, she raised her head and met the anxious gaze of the young couple who had started her thoughts wandering. ‘Are you all right?’ asked the girl. ‘You were standing there as if you were miles away. There’s nothing wrong, I hope?’

  ‘No, there’s nothing wrong, thank you,’ Leila smiled. ‘I was years away, not miles.’

  She turned, to move off but the girl came after her. ‘You don’t look all right, you know. Come round to our flat, it’s just round the corner, and I’ll give you a cup of tea to revive you. I always think tea’s the best medicine in the world.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ Leila protested.