Knit One Pearl One (18 page)

Elsie’s even got over her initial horror at the prospect of them breast-feeding; they’re all very discreet, but there’s no way I’m making anyone go and sit in the loos to feed their babies, not in my shop. I’ve spent too long perched in cubicles myself to want to inflict that on anyone else.

“Hi Jo. Look, I finished it.”

Clare holds up the blanket she’s been making for Ava, who’s fast asleep in her buggy, wearing a very fetching pink and purple hat Clare knitted for her a few weeks ago.

“That’s great, Clare.”

“She loves it, it’s so soft, and it makes me feel like a proper mum, knitting things for her. What can I make next?”

I’m showing her some cardigan patterns while Helena gives everyone another one of her pep talks about the importance of reusable nappies.

“Dylan loves his nappies, and they’re really not that much trouble to wash.”

“They are if you’ve got mummy’s little helper adding crockery to your washing machine.”

Clare laughs. “Is she still doing that?”

“Yes, and I did try the reusable ones, Helena, but it was just one thing too many, having nappies soaking in a bucket. I know they’re a good idea, and I do recycle, as much as I can.”

Helena doesn’t look that impressed and starts telling us all about landfill sites and the water table. God, she can be tedious sometimes. She’s always banging on about something; last week it was the wonders of baby flash cards, to stimulate our budding Einsteins. She reminds me of all those mums in London, who used to make me feel like Jack was practically on the at-risk register because he wasn’t learning Japanese or special baby boffin maths. No wonder Dylan always looks so tense, although his eczema can’t help with that, poor little thing. I pass Clare the shade cards for the cardigan so she can choose the colors.

“I’m sure you’re right, Helena, but to be honest, I think we should sort out the big oil companies, and air travel, things that make a huge difference, before we start guilt-tripping mothers about nappies. Although obviously it’s much easier to guilt-trip mums. I know we should all be doing our bit, but until they stop making cars that go two hundred miles an hour when it’s illegal to go over seventy anywhere in the whole country, I think it’s okay for me to use disposable nappies.”

Lucy laughs as her son, Oliver, starts yelling and she lifts him out of his buggy. “I still can’t get him to go anywhere near four hours between feeds, you know. Three is my record so far. Do you think I’m missing something, Jo?”

“God, no. I don’t think breast-fed babies go that long between feeds, unless mine were just greedy. I don’t care what the books say, they don’t. It might be nature’s perfect design, but it was designed for mums who never put their babies down in case a woolly mammoth trod on them. Feeding them all the time wasn’t really a problem for them; you could still do the hunter-gatherer thing, and just shift the sling round.”

She smiles. “Oliver hates his sling. I got the one with the sheepskin and everything, but he hates it.”

“So did Archie, and Pearl. In fact, Pearl squawked so loudly, Jack made me promise I’d never try to put her in it again.”

“I can’t imagine how you cope with three.”

“I don’t. I just hang on in there and hope that one day soon they’ll all be big enough to make me breakfast in bed.”

They all smile, even Helena.

I think it’s important to try to be reassuring; I used to look at women with older babies when I had Jack, and wonder how they did it. They all seemed so capable, so much better at it than me. But actually there is something quite liberating about third babies; you still have the usual fog of exhaustion, and bliss, but at least you’re more prepared for it. I didn’t read any of the books with Pearl, I just didn’t have the time, so I went with the flow, literally, since she fed pretty much nonstop for the first few weeks. And it did feel a lot less terrifying, less like you’ve wandered into completely new territory and nobody’s given you a map.

“Oh, look, they’re playing.”

We all watch Ruby and Oliver, who are sitting on their mums’ laps, smiling at each other. Ruby’s always been a smiley girl. It’s been lovely seeing them develop from tiny newborns, with unfathomable stares, to little smiling people starting to sit up. You’re so up close and personal with your own you don’t see it. Lucy kisses Oliver on the top of his head.

“How’s she doing at nights now, Nicky?”

Clare is still feeding Ava, who seems to have fallen asleep, but every time she tries to put her down she fusses.

“Better, well, a bit better. But as soon as I finish cooking our supper and sit down, she kicks off. I think it might be the cooking smells. We had salad the other night, just to see, and she was a bit better. We’ll have to barbecue all our stuff in the back garden if she carries on like this.”

We all smile.

“Try giving her one of those baby rusks, that should keep her quiet while you eat.”

“I might try that, Jo, because it’s really getting on my wick.”

There’s been a lot of talk about when to start on the baby rice. None of them are quite six months old yet, and the new rules say you have to wait six months before you start introducing solid food.

“When did you start Pearl on solids again, Jo?”

“Around four months, like I did with Jack and Archie. Mind you, that was Pearl’s idea really; she was helping herself to Jack’s mashed potato, so I missed out the tiny spoonfuls of baby rice thing. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d had to wait for six months. I think it depends on the baby. I mean obviously you have to be careful, but I reckon a bit of baby rice works wonders. It was the first time Archie ever slept for more than two hours.”

We’re all watching Ruby as she twists round and tries to grab a piece of a cake. Nicky kisses her on the cheek. “You might be right. She watches you sometimes like she’s starving. Phil won’t eat in front of her now; he says it puts him off.”

“There you go then. Give her a plastic spoon and she’ll be away, eating your supper before you know it.”

She laughs.

“I’m going downstairs for another coffee, anyone want anything?”

“Do you have any peppermint tea, Jo?”

“I think so, Helena. I’ll come down with you, Nicky. I know we’ve got lemon, or green tea, or rose hip if you prefer?”

“Lemon would be lovely.”

I knew those glass teapots would come in handy.

We’re halfway home after school when I realize Archie is walking rather oddly, and on closer inspection, it turns out he’s wearing two left shoes, and someone else has gone home in two right ones.

Jack is delighted. “He doesn’t get a sticker for that, does he, Mum?”

“Be quiet, Jack. Archie, you must know who you were sitting next to after PE.”

“Well I don’t.”

I still can’t work out how he managed to put on someone else’s shoe; it’s the same color, but it’s entirely different. Archie’s got two Velcro straps on his, and this one only has one.

Bugger. I’ll have to ring round; I wonder if Jane has everyone’s phone numbers at home. I’ve only got some of them.

“Honestly, Archie, you need to be more careful. Come on, let’s get home and I’ll try to find out who’s got your other shoe.”

He’s walking like a duck. Things must be so simple on Planet Boy. Two left shoes, just waddle home and your mum will sort it.

Jack’s walking like a duck now too.

“Stop it, Jack.”

“No, he likes it, don’t you, Arch? Don’t be so grumpy, Mum, he didn’t do it on purpose. Grump, grump, grump.”

“Gump.”

Great, another new word for Pearl.

Jake Palmer’s mum rings as soon as we get in, and luckily Jake isn’t quite as dopey as Archie and remembered who he sat next to while they were getting dressed. Still dopey enough to go home in the wrong shoes though.

“Shall we do a swap tomorrow morning then, Jo?”

“Good idea.”

“You wouldn’t credit it though, would you? How could they not have noticed? I wouldn’t mind but Jake’s are a size smaller than your Archie’s. Boys are hopeless, aren’t they?”

“Tell me about it. I’ve got two of them.”

“I’m not sure I could do that. At least with my Charlotte she always comes home with the right shoes on, although the fuss she makes about her clothes drives me mad. I suppose it’s all swings and roundabouts being a mum, isn’t it?”

“Yes, where you end up dizzy and all the money falls out of your pockets.”

She laughs. “That sounds about right.”

“What’s for tea, Mum?”

“Omelets and salad?”

“Yuck.” Archie’s making being sick noises.

“Or scrambled eggs on toast, if people eat a small bowl of salad first.”

“Scrambled eggs with cheese?”

“Yes, or not for people who don’t like cheese.”

“Jack, she says we don’t have to have omelets.”

There’s a cheer from the living room, and Pearl claps her hands, and then trots off down the hall, only to return with one of my flip-flops, which she puts into the washing machine. How helpful.

It’s half past nine on the night before Archie’s party, and I’m trying to finish the party bags. There’s no need to spend a fortune like the mums did in London; we keep things fairly simply round here, thank God. So I’ve got some little packets of sweets and a magic wand each, and a magic writing pen with invisible ink, along with a bath bomb, which fizzes in the water, and a tiny flannel, which unfurls into a normal-size one. I’m hoping these will be popular with the parents. Perhaps I should write a little note and pop it in each bag: “I’m sorry your child is covered in ice cream, but there’s a flannel in the party bag.” Martin should be here any minute, he’s putting the finishing touches to the hutch, and then Gran and Reg will be round at the crack of dawn in the morning with the rabbit. Martin’s bringing fish and chips, and I’m starving. I should have eaten with the kids, but I’m trying to avoid having two suppers, however tempting, or I’ll have to buy new jeans again.

The phone rings just as I’m thinking about making an emergency sandwich.

“Hi Jo. Look, I’m sorry about this, but I think I’m going to have to bring the hutch round first thing in the morning. I’m not quite finished. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Are you on your way now?”

“Well, no, there’s a bit of a problem with that. I’ve got a bit behind with the laundry, so I’ve got nothing to wear.”

“Sorry?”

“I was round at the boatyard, and well, to cut a long story short, I fell in, and before you ask, Trevor was at home. I just tripped, that’s all.”

“You tripped?”

“Yes. And stop laughing.”

“I’m trying not to, I really am. Shame you weren’t wearing your new anorak.”

“Shut up.”

Elsie’s bought him an oceangoing anorak; it’s bright orange and looks like it would turn into a life raft given half a chance.

“I’m just saying, you could have tried it out, seen if it really was waterproof.”

“Yes, thank you. Don’t tell her, will you; I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Okay, I promise. What are you wearing now then?”

“Is this going to be one of those rude phone calls? I’ve never done one of those.”

“Neither have I.”

“Shall we give it a go?”

We both laugh.

“Seriously, what are you wearing?”

“Shorts, it’s the only thing I could find, and that sweater Mum knitted me.”

“The one with the stripes in all those different colors?”

“Yes. I bet you’re glad I didn’t turn up now. The problem was there was so much mud, my jeans were covered in it, and by the time I’d sorted them out I’d soaked my spare pair too. I must get a dryer.”

“Martin, you haven’t even got the washing machine plumbed in yet.”

“I’ve got a sink though. And stuff dries pretty quickly in front of the fire.”

“I’ll get you a mangle and then you can do the whole Victorian laundry maid thing. I’ll get you some carbolic soap too if you like.”

“Thanks, I knew I could count on you to make me feel better.”

“You can always bring your washing round here, if you don’t mind the occasional item of crockery in with your delicates. Although she seems to be moving on to shoes now.”

“I don’t have delicates, at least not the way I do the washing, and anyway, I’m not entirely useless, you know. I’ve got a system, it’s just I got a bit behind this week.”

“You mean Elsie didn’t pick up your dirty washing and return it neatly folded.”

“Basically, yes. I’m sorry about supper though, I was looking forward to it.”

Not as much as I was.

“Never mind, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“And, Martin . . .”

“Yes?”

“Get your washing tub ready. It’s a kids’ party, with ice cream, so whatever you wear will probably need a rinse when you get home.”

“You can get enough of sarcastic women, you know.”

“Can you?”

“Not tonight apparently. But I’ll let you know.”

“Night, Martin.”

It’s half past four on Sunday afternoon, and the party’s in full swing. Archie insisted on only inviting boys, apart from Nelly and Pearl, and they’re all having a marvelous time constructing ice cream sundaes, with Tom and Cinzia handing out the chocolate flakes, mini-sprinkles, and assorted sweets, including jelly babies and chocolate buttons. I’ve avoided nuts, not that any of them are allergic, as far as I know, but this would be the perfect moment to find out. We’ve got chocolate sauce, and strawberry and toffee, and I’ve also bought a couple of cans of that horrible squirty aerosol cream, which the boys love. Tom is giving Cinzia very longing looks in between passing out the flakes, and trying to grab the cream back off Archie. He’s been on two proper dates with her now, according to Connie, so I’m still expecting a visit from a large group of irate Italians.

Gran’s made mini-sandwiches, and I’ve done sausages on sticks, so we’ve made a token effort to balance out all the sugar, and we’ve had two rounds of pass the parcel and a rather brutal session of musical chairs, just to get everyone in the party mood. Alan the magician is sorting out his equipment upstairs in the workroom; he understandably chose to avoid performing his magic show in full view of the High Street through the café windows, so Reg is upstairs lighting the fire. Apparently Alan’s got a special powder to throw on it at a crucial moment, which makes a loud bang and produces lots of green smoke, so I’m hoping Elsie isn’t upstairs for that bit, or Gran either, come to think of it.