Confessions of a Bad Mother (11 page)

‘No, really. They’ll be able to play together. They’ll
amuse each other and leave us in peace!’

‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘Look at Sam and Joe (his nephews). They never argue.’

‘They never
speak
.’ (This is because they’re
naturally quiet, not because they hate each other.)

‘Well, look at Jessica and me: we have a
great
relationship.’

‘Yes, but when you were born, she was seven. She’d already
had her life.’

‘He won’t remember a time without her; they’ll be best
friends.’

‘They’ll practically be twins.’

‘We’ll be able to re-use all this gear.’

‘They’ll be able to wear each other’s
clothes.’

‘We’ll be out of the tunnel sooner.’

‘We’ll
know
stuff.’

For every theory there’s a counter-theory. Anyhow, whichever way
we spin it, two facts remain: we wanted a second child, and we’re having
one. Bloody soon.

It’s fun spreading the news. We love the way people gasp when we
tell them. Like hovercrafts floating along on huge cushions of optimism,
we’re heady at the prospect of adventure.

Realizing I won’t be able to carry the pair of them, I somehow
believe I can
will
Lawrence to start walking before Number Two arrives.
But thank God we are insanely optimistic, because without insane optimism you
would never do anything at all. As Orson Welles said of making
Citizen Kane
at twenty-six: ‘
You succeed because you
don’t know
all the things that can go wrong.
’ And – when you’re
older, when you do know – he was asked, what do you do then?
‘
Continue in exactly the same way.
’

I book my Nuchal Fold scan and we get onto the really important thing:
with our last few months of – relative – freedom, what should we
do?

Looking ahead to a time when we might be a little less – flexible
– than we are now, how should we make the most of this precious time?
We’ve had our holiday of a lifetime already – to Tobago. But wait!
In my anoraky capacity for hoarding things, I’ve never spent the Air
Miles.

‘What Air Miles?’

‘That came with the video!’

‘But that was ages ago.’

‘I know! Let’s see how far they stretch!’

We get out a map.

‘Dublin.’

‘Hmm. Bit cold.’

‘Vienna.’

‘Nah. Too – Austrian.’

‘Italy. No, wait, just the north.’

‘Milan? Can we get there?’

‘Yep. But what’s in Milan?’

‘Giuseppe and Ortensia!’

‘Right, that’s it.’

They’re old, dear friends of his. We ring them and tell them our
two pieces of good luck: another baby,
and
Air Miles.

‘With the baby?’ says Giuseppe dryly.

‘As good as.’

We pack our bags for a long weekend. They even have – despite not
being parents yet themselves – a spare cot and pram. We put Lawrence in
the sling, with our special back-up feeding kit of pre-measured formula that we
mix into the bottle of water only when needed. If Lawrence sleeps for several
hours, which he generally does in the sling, we won’t have bottles of
milk going off. This is brilliant! We’re going abroad! With our baby! And
not even that much luggage! We lock up and leave the spare keys with Dave, who
is painting Lawrence’s room. He’s doing it in pink. I had a pink
room as a child and Lawrence-plus-whoever will be bound to love it.

As we line up to go through to Departures, we can’t help feeling a
little smug.

‘We’re going to It-a-ly!’

‘La, la-la, la, laa!’

At Passport Control we hold out our passports.

‘Thank you, Sir, Madam. And where’s the other
one?’

‘Other one?’

‘For the baby.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Without a valid passport, the baby cannot travel.’

‘What? But he’s supposed to be on mine!’

‘But he isn’t, is he? We forgot.’

Our passports are whisked out of sight. Two men from Special Branch
appear, and lead us away.

We are ushered into an office. Politely, but without undue friendliness,
they ask us who the baby is.

‘He’s ours!’ we say innocently. ‘He’s
Lawrence Calman-Grimsdale.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘Er …’

British Airways Flight 271 to Milan boards, and takes off. They show us
several sheets of paper, stapled together. ‘We’ve got the names of
3,000 babies here, who’ve been taken out of the country without
permission.’

‘It’s usually one of the parents, isn’t it?’ I
say knowledgeably.

‘Yes, generally a foreign national.’

‘I know, because my dad’s girlfriend did a TV drama about
it.’

I forget that we’re in police custody, and think we’re at a
party.

‘Did she, madam.’

‘Look,’ said Peter. ‘We are really, really sorry about
this. You clearly have more important things to do.’

‘That’s no problem, sir. We’re not in any
hurry.’

‘We
are
really, really sorry, we truly are,’ I add.
I’ve been saving those Air Miles for six years. ‘The thing
is,’ one of them said finally. ‘If the airline carries a passenger
illegally, they can be fined £10,000.’

‘So, understandably,’ adds the other, ‘they like to be
sure.’

We wait – for what, we don’t know. Lawrence continues to
sleep peacefully in the sling. We have two premeasured pots of formula and two
bottles of boiled water to mix them in. But it occurs to me that if he wakes up
and can be breastfed, it might help our case. On the other hand, it seems mean
to wake him up. And if I don’t have enough milk yet, which is likely,
they’ll definitely think he isn’t my child. I debate this with
myself while we continue apologizing. Why don’t they invite us to give up
our plans for the weekend and piss off home? Maybe they’re bored with
terrorists and drug smugglers, and welcome the change of routine.

‘Do you have the baby’s birth certificate?’ one of
them asks casually.

‘Not here, sadly. It’s in the drawer at home. HANG
ON!!’ I leap up, nearly bashing Lawrence’s head on the
policeman’s chin.

‘Steady on, madam.’

‘Dave the painter’s there! Peter! He can fax it!! Would you
accept a
fax
?!’

‘Would you accept a fax?’ repeats Peter, calmly.

‘We will enquire as to whether that would be acceptable,
yes.’

‘I know where it is!’

‘Calm down,’ says Peter.

‘You’re always saying I don’t know where things are. I
do!’

The second detective returns – we hadn’t noticed him
slipping away – and says that if a fax were to be sent, it would be
considered. It’s up to British Airways, really: it’s their
£10,000. They point me towards a phone (we are pre-mobile) and I ring the
house.

‘Dave! How’s it going?’

‘Not bad. I’ve done all the walls and I’m just
starting on the paintwork. It’s quite a strong pink. It’s for a
girl, is it?’

‘No. I don’t know. Look, Dave? We’re still at the
airport.’

‘You’ve not gone to Italy, then?’

‘Not yet, no. Could you – Lawrence’s birth certificate
is in the dresser drawer, in the kitchen. Could you – possibly –
get it, and fax it to the number I’m going to give you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why?!’

‘I’ve never used a fax.’

‘It’s terribly simple, honestly. Can you get the
certificate, and I’ll tell you what to do?’

‘Er – OK.’

He finds it.

‘You see?’ I tell Peter. ‘I do know where things
are.’

We gather round the machine to watch the document emerge. Luckily, that
patterned pink background they use hasn’t turned it all grey; it is
legible. And right at the bottom, after the Name, Place of Birth and so on, is
a line in much smaller type I have never noticed before: ‘
WARNING: THIS CERTIFICATE IS NOT EVIDENCE OF THE IDENTITY OF THE
PERSON PRESENTING IT
.’

We look at each other and say nothing. Perhaps they won’t read the
small print.

They take the fax away, and after several agonizing minutes, return.

‘You are free to travel,’ says one. ‘The fact that he
has both your names has worked in your favour,’ said the other.

‘Great! Thank you!
Thank you!
’

‘But our flight’s gone.’

‘That’s no problem, sir. We can put you on another
flight.’

‘I’m afraid we’re on Air Miles,’ I blurt out
guiltily.

‘We’re going to return you to the departure lounge. If
you’d like to come to the British Airways desk, they’ll give you an
overnight pack.’

‘Overnight pack?!’

‘Yes. You may not be able to collect your luggage in Milan until
tomorrow. It has been removed from the plane, but we’re not absolutely
sure when it will travel.’

‘Oh. OK. Thanks!’ We’re only going for three days.
Still, at least we are going. And I now have an excuse to buy some Italian
clothes.

At the British Airways desk, we’re given a plastic bag each,
containing a toothbrush, paste, comb and plain white T-shirt.

‘Hey! A free T-shirt!’ I sit down to examine my gift.

‘Would you like one with a razor?’ asks the man. I feel my
leg. ‘You shouldn’t be here
that
long.’

‘Here are your boarding cards. You’re on Flight 275, which
leaves at 15.10. You’ll hear the announcement. We’ve rung Milan and
told them to expect you.’

‘Goodbye. And thank you!’

‘That’s quite all right, sir.’

‘As for coming back, well …’

‘You’ll have to show the fax again and hope for the
best.’

They melt away and, as if on cue, Lawrence stirs and wakes up.

‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I think they realized we were
incompetent, rather than criminal.’

‘Yes, very.’

It is the week before half-term, and the plane is about a third full. We
have two stewardesses each, and another offers to walk Lawrence up and down the
aisle while we have our drinks.

But at Linate we find ourselves in a small, crowded office, facing an
official behind a desk. We present our fax.

‘In London—’ we begin.

He slaps the fax with the back of his hand, as if trying to stun a
fish.

‘
London!
’ He implies it’s a preposterous place
where people cross borders with flimsy sheets of paper: not a proper city like
his. He’s having none of it.

‘Oh. Well, d’you think—’
117

‘You sit. I phone
London
.’

We sit. The room is filled with officials, all smoking. I’ve
forgotten how much smoke one cigarette can produce. Four or five going at once
and the air is opaque. Lawrence stirs again in the sling. I’ve probably
built up enough milk by now for a feed, and figure if I feed him myself,
they’ll surely see he’s my child and let us go. On the other hand,
we could all choke to death before I even get my tits out.

‘I need to feed the baby,’ I announce boldly.

‘You go in there.’ I am ushered into a tiny side office,
mercifully free of smoke. Peter remains, smiling un-nervously to show he
isn’t a child abductor.

After about an hour, the official finds the line to London engaged for
the umpteenth time, and drops the phone back onto the desk.

‘It’s busy. You go.’

‘What? We can leave?’

‘Yes, yes. Go.’ We scuttle away before he changes his mind.
I have no idea how, since we’re about five hours late, but Giuseppe is
there to meet us.

Lawrence enjoys his trip, particularly the Sunday afternoon which he
spends screaming. And something wonderful happens.

‘He’s slept through the night!’

Travel seems to agree with him. We stand over the cot and gaze at him,
as if he will look different.

We return from our adventure to find his room duly painted, even if it
is a somewhat more
Barbie-ish
pink than we remember from the colour
chart. We’ll probably end up with another boy: fine. When they’re
old enough to have a say about the colour, they can repaint it themselves.

At about three months, just as last time, I start falling asleep twice a
day, and feeling sick. But I discover a brilliant cure: food! You know that
traditionally morning sickness puts you
off
eating. You also know that
things with ginger in often make it slightly better. But – selflessly
using myself as guinea pig – I have found that tiny morsels of
anything
alleviate it to the point where normal life can resume. The
only problem is, the effect wears off rather soon. I have to eat my own weight
in biscuits every day.

Lawrence babbles, ‘
Da-da-da-da
’ so we ring my mother
and hold out the phone, whereupon he stops. He can nearly sit up, but just when
you think he’s stable, does a terrifying whiplash movement with his upper
torso which sends his head flailing forward. If we put him within two miles of
the coffee table, he will knock himself out, and quite possibly lose an eye. We
make one concession to safety, and stash the coffee table away. We briefly
consider getting cupboard clips, but the people we know who have them can never
get their cupboards open easily, and anyhow, even when he does become mobile,
he doesn’t pull all the plates onto the floor. Instead, he opens them and
peers in rather politely, as if seeing round the house, then closes them
again.

A friend with a daughter the same age invites us to one of those groups
I hate, called
Tick-Tock
or
Humpty-
Dumpty
. As I am still
hoping to turn into the sort of person who likes – or can at least
tolerate – sitting on a cold church-hall floor chanting,
‘
Hickory-dickory-dock
,’ we go along. Lawrence isn’t
interested. He only wants to crawl across the middle of the neat baby circle
and snatch the others’ maracas.

I always believed that women couldn’t be creepy, but that was
before encountering people who perform for the under-fives. This one clearly
has favourites, who get to be the mice while she chases them with a cardboard
cleaver. The effect is clearly meant to be jolly, but she comes over to me like
Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
. Then she goes round handing out shakers
and bells and so on to each child. But she misses out Lawrence. And although
he’s oblivious, I gasp as though I’ve been winded. She has passed
over
My Child
! Right, that’s it! You people who dress up as mice
and pretend to run up clocks have had your chance.