Comfort and Joy (21 page)

Half an hour later, having finally checked in – and had to traipse round to the Freaks With Macro Luggage counter to pay our
excess-baggage charges, which come to roughly the same amount as the actual flights – we’re all ensconced at a fish and chip
restaurant, a poor choice given the ungodly hour but the only place that could accommodate us. (‘No room at the inn,’ Kate
said, turning away from the vaguely brasserie-ish place we’d initially made a beeline for.) My children all eschew breakfast
in favour of jumbo portions of haddock and chips – it’s not yet seven in the morning – and seem enormously perked up by being
thus nourished. Jack and Charlie resume their bickering, and Maisy does her favourite thing of wandering about the restaurant
in search of the roughest family she can find. Having located them – the dad is drinking pints, the mum’s on what looks like
shots (it’s always seemed odd that airports serve alcohol so early in the morning: surely it just makes the cabin crew’s job
harder?) and the rest of the brood are busy seeing how many four-letter words they can cram into a sentence – she stands by
their table, gazing upon them in absolute admiration. Her eyes are literally shining with love. Maisy also does this on beaches:
she finds the roughest tattoos – prison-style, ideally – the most litter, the greatest embarrassment of empty beer cans, the
music that’s blaring the most antisocially from the loudest radio, and then she goes and stands
there, longing to be asked to join the party (which, often, she is). It’s been the bane of many a summer, because eventually
I have to go and get her back, which involves toning down my accent and putting on what the boys like to call my ‘taxi voice’,
whereby my usual 60:40 mix of ‘middle class’ and ‘London’ transforms into 20:80 or, in extremis, 10:90. The children make
fun of me, not least because I do it brilliantly – even though they had learned to do it for themselves by their tenth birthdays.
It’s funny, I don’t know of any other capital city where the natives are masters of accent fluctuation, or where accent fluctuation
is a daily necessity. I’m so adept at it that I can no longer do it in the other direction – up the middle class and mute
the London – which is probably for the best.

Just as we’re about to board I get a text from Hope – she’s flying out to Ibiza from the same terminal and we’d hoped to hook
up for a coffee, but it is not to be. She sounds extremely cheerful, though. She’s going with Phil, the half-naked man she
‘met’ on Facebook last year and whom she has been happily dating since the spring. Just goes to show how much I know. I do
worry, though, about my friends and compromises. I also worry about my own ability to ever contemplate them.

The flight is as hideous as you would imagine – horrible plane, horrible squashed seats, horrible food, horrible enormous
queue for the loo the second the horrible food has been consumed – though I am desensitized via the judicious swallowing of
a sedative, which makes me so woozy that I don’t even have the energy to talk: I just zone out in my seat, trying to control
my urge to dribble. And then, just like that, we’re disembarking at Marrakesh airport, where it’s a balmy 19 degrees and still
only late morning. I am astonished by air travel.
Astonished
. I know it’s the twenty-first century and even babies are used to long-haul flights, but I genuinely marvel every time at
the fact you were in place A not so long ago and now you’re in
place B, in a whole other country – continent, in our case. It strikes me as one of those things that is actually a proper
miracle – albeit one that can be explained – and that we all take it for granted: if I had my way, the entire passenger list
would whoop and punch the air and maybe faint in thrilled amazement every time they landed. Air travel blows my mind. Actually,
any kind of travel that isn’t walking blows my mind: I cheer at getting in a car in London and ending up in Cornwall six hours
(though occasionally more like nine) later, too. And trains! Trains are my favourite, particularly sleepers. The boys find
this extraordinarily funny every time I mention it – which I do every time I travel – but I know that I am right and that
they, and everybody else, are simply horribly blasé. Happily, today Pat shares my shock and awe.

‘That’s grand,’ she says, ‘being here so quickly,’ and I smile at her and say I quite agree.

‘Mum’s flipping out about planes again,’ says Jack to his brother with a snigger.

‘Because in her day they only had mammoths,’ says Charlie, ‘and it took ages to get anywhere and it was really itchy sitting
on them.’

‘And they were so poor they couldn’t afford a dinosaur,’ says Jack. ‘She used to stare all sadly out of her cave and wish
they had even a small diplodocus, like the other families. But no.’

‘She could only sit and dream of pterodactyls,’ says Charlie. ‘Poor Mum. Hard life. But it made her stronger.’

‘Did you, Mummy?’ asks Maisy.

‘No. Your brothers are being silly.’

‘Nice to be here though, Mama,’ says Jack. ‘Thanks for bringing us. Blue sky!’

And indeed there is. After we’ve cleared customs and waited an age at the luggage carousel – our assorted trunks and suitcases
look like they need a plane of their own – we saunter out
into the glorious day and into two eight-seaters sent by the letting agency. The children sit at the back, their noses pressed
up against the glass, as we make our way into Marrakesh, through the new town (‘Camels! Mum! Camels! Horses! A sheep!’) and
from there into the warrens of the old city. It’s at this point that the excitement really kicks in.

‘It’s a wee assault on the senses,’ says Pat, who has been studying the guidebook. ‘So it is. Everything’s that different.’

‘Look at the colours,’ says Kate. ‘So beautiful. People in the West really have no idea.’

‘They’re all brown,’ says Pat.

‘I mean the buildings and the clothes,’ says Kate.

‘Aye,’ says Pat. ‘They’re colourful.’

We twist and turn through the crowds before coming to a slow crawl down a little lane, boys on scooters on either side of
us – one holding a chicken under his arm – the sides of the road crammed with people, and eventually arrive in front of a
pair of massive old wooden doors. An elderly man in an embroidered white djellaba is standing outside, waiting to welcome
us in. ‘Home,’ I say. ‘For the next week. Merry Christmas. Out we get.’

The house is, if anything, lovelier even than it was in the pages of
Condé Nast Traveller
. The little pool shimmers green in the tiled central courtyard, the edges of which are lined with low-level seating and round,
ornate brass coffee tables. There are coloured glass lanterns everywhere, and metal ones all around the pool. The man in the
djellaba is called Moustafa; his wife Fatima is standing in the courtyard with fresh dates and almond milk for us all. I notice
Pat is staring at the couple intently; they smile back at her.

‘Thankee,’ she says loudly, accepting her glass of almond milk and sniffing it suspiciously. She does this with any unfamiliar
foodstuffs and it drives me mad: it’s so canine. ‘Thankee kindly.’

‘Why are you talking like that, Mum?’ asks Sam.

‘Abroad,’ says Pat authoritatively. ‘It’s all right, this nut milk, even though you can’t milk a nut. Doesn’t make sense.
Still, nice and sweet.’

‘They have tiny udders,’ says Evie. ‘All nuts do.’ She puts her glass down. ‘Urgh, I was trying to make a joke and now I’ve
made myself feel sick. This house is glorious and I wish I lived in it. Well found, Clara. Oh, I really wish I’d asked Jim
now.’

‘You look very at home,’ I tell her. ‘Perfect outfit. And you should have done.’ Jim is Evie’s relatively new boyfriend; she
was anxious about subjecting him to the fullness of our family Christmases, probably with good reason, so he’s stayed in London.

‘One of the advantages of not having children is that I can wear really fabulous clothes,’ says Evie. ‘You know, without anyone
peeing on them. Do you think Hope’s going to get up the duff, by the way? Now she’s found that man?’

‘Phil. I don’t know. I suppose if she got on with it there’s still just about time for her to bang one out.’

‘I never understood it, you know,’ says Evie. ‘That total compulsion to breed. I don’t have it at all. Never did. Don’t expect
I ever will.’

‘Well, you never know. You’ve got a while to make up your mind’

‘But I do know, that’s just it. I love the neffs and nieces to death, you know I do, but they do give one a
startling insight
into what parenting is really like.’

‘I love that you don’t particularly want children. It’s so refreshing,’ I say.

‘I think so too. I love myself for it,’ Evie says with a delighted smile. ‘There’s only one boredom, except it’s a biggie.’

‘What? Does Jim want them?’

‘It’s never been mentioned, so I’m guessing not. He has two
already. No, the boredom is other people’s fixation with kids,’ says Evie. ‘We should get this luggage upstairs, come on.’

‘
Non, mesdames!
’ cries Moustafa as soon as we approach our cases. ‘I will do. My friends will do. Please.’

‘How nice,’ says Evie. ‘Very kind of you, Moustafa.
Vous êtes très gentil
.’ She grins her megawatt smile at him and he beams back at her.

‘Let’s just find our rooms, then,’ says Evie. ‘Come on, Clara. What was I saying? Oh yes – the bummer. The bummerus giganticus.’

‘Other people’s children?’

‘Not so much the actual children,’ says Evie. ‘I like the children. Well, I like most of them. And Jim’s are sweet, as you
know. But the endless
going on about them
. Why do people do that? You don’t and Flo doesn’t. But if I go out with my girlfriends and they’ve had children, they can
literally spend the whole evening telling me about potty training or choosing a nursery.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’ve never really understood it.’

‘I mean,’ Evie continues as we climb up the stairs, ‘I can see that those things would preoccupy one. But I’m pretty much
the only one left who doesn’t have kids, so why pick on me? Why not tell the other people who are interested, and talk to
me about shoes or politics or the weather or books? You know?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I remember it well. I
do
have children and I used to hate those conversations as well. Ten minutes, fine. Entire evening: you start longing for death.
See also schools, school places, church attendance, moaning about the teachers, moaning about the governors, moaning about
the lack of facilities in inner London state schools – there’s no end to it just because you leave babyhood. Actually no,
that’s not true – no one much discusses teenagers, which is pretty weird because they’re the ones shagging and smoking weed.’

‘It’s so off-putting,’ says Evie, pushing open the door of one of the bedrooms. ‘Oh my God, look at this. I have died and
gone to heaven. I want it. How shall we do it – shall we draw straws?’

‘They’re all nice, I gather,’ I say. ‘Have this one.’

‘Oh, blissful joy. I suppose it’s to do with how women define themselves,’ Evie continues, flinging herself onto the enormous
bed as I open the elaborately carved shutters. ‘I don’t really get that, either. I must be the purest imbecile. You’re you,
and then you go and get knocked up, and then you’re not you any more, you’re this other person who has literally mutated overnight,
like in Kafka except not into a cockroach. Do you want to do flat bouncing?’

‘Okay.’ I lie on the bed next to Evie and we bounce on our backs, a traditional family pursuit when supine. The aim is to
gain enough momentum to rise off the bed by several inches while still horizontal.

‘I love flat bouncing. Anyway. Sorry to go on, very boring even to myself.’

‘No, it’s interesting. Tell you what I hate: when women play along with the idea that pregnancy and children make you giddy
and thick. Oh, silly me – I used to have a degree but now my brain has turned to
absolute mush
, ha ha ha ha ha.’

‘Ha ha ha,’ says Evie, still bouncing. ‘I do really cute eccentric things and I’m super-forgetful,
because I had a baby.
Why, I’m practically retarded. Yay feminism!’

‘Can I play?’ says Flo, coming into the room. ‘Our bedroom’s amazing, by the way. It’s got a little room off it for the twins.
Who are sleeping, thank the baby Jesus.’

‘Feel free,’ says Evie. ‘Join us. We’re flat bouncing.’

‘I can see,’ says Flo. ‘Shove up. What
I
hate most is the bitching. There’s this big fat lie that you’re all sisterly and in it together because you’ve all had babies,
and it lasts about two
minutes. After that it’s back-to-back competitiveness. Ooh, she’s stopped breastfeeding. Ooh, he’s already on solids and if
you ask me it’s a bit early. Ooh, I don’t think she was watching him very carefully at the park because she took a call on
her mobile. Ooh,
she’s gone back to work
. The ghastliness.’

‘Thank God we’re us,’ says Evie.

‘Ah, there you all are,’ says Kate, swishing in. ‘The fruits of my loins. How nice to be here with you in this simple North
African home.’

‘It’s not that simple, Kate,’ I say.

‘Oh yes,’ says Kate, waving her hand airily. ‘It’s a typical Moroccan house. They may be poor, but
my God
they have style.’

‘I don’t think –’

‘Kate, stop pronouncing it like that,’ says Flo. ‘It’s “pore”, not “poo-er”.’

‘Don’t abuse me,’ says Kate. ‘I speak how I speak.’

‘The poo-er are always with us,’ says Flo.

‘Don’t be tiresome, Flo. Anyway, what are you doing? Max is having a nap, Sam and Pat have taken Maisy and Cassie for a dip,
Ed’s drinking mint tea downstairs, and I imagine Jake and Tamsin are in bed going at it hammer and tongs. Shall we go for
a little stroll?’

‘Let me check with Ed,’ says Flo. ‘In case the babies wake up.’

‘Glorious news on that front. I was talking to Fatima about menus and she said she’d be delighted to babysit any number of
children at any time.’

‘A simple homestead, with typical staff,’ I say.