The Baby (13 page)

He knows about his dad. He's been told about him once when he was five and once when he was twelve. After that it was made clear by his mum that she never wanted to talk about him again. So there's an ache in his stomach when he
thinks that his nan might mention his dad. He holds his breath. Clutches the table with fingers like pliers.

His nan smoothes the baby's cheek with the back of her finger. She seems in a daze. ‘I'm sure she'd like to think that you'll make a better dad than your father. You know – more hands-on, more involved.'

‘That's not difficult.' He blurts. Hating the words which taste of spite.

His nan nods. She gets it.

His father's only involvement in Jonty's life is a fifty-pound note sent to him on his birthday. He always signs the card
Andy
. His father was his mother's boss. He was married. Perhaps still is. He doesn't know if he pays any maintenance because his mother refuses to speak about him. But he does know that he has his own children and doesn't want to get burdened with any others. His mother was frank about this. She said that Jonty was her choice and hers alone, and so she had to bring him up on her own.

Jonty hates the man. (Although likes the fifty pounds.)

He's never met him. But Jonty's seen the one photograph which he's allowed to see. His nan has a copy in an envelope with his birth certificate and passport: a smart-looking man with a suit, a short haircut and a tight smile hovering on his lips. Brittle blue eyes stare at the camera. He's sitting behind a desk with a phone to his ear. Jonty can't see or feel a connection with this man. Although on the rare occasion when he is mentioned, it's always this image which lingers behind Jonty's eyes.

‘How was Mum?' This is a whisper. There's a crack between the question and the answer.

His nan screws up her face and looks out into the garden through the French windows. ‘Oh, you know your mother. It'll take her some time to get used to the idea. She's still a bit shocked.' His nan squeezes a smile. ‘And I don't think she's that keen on being a grandmother!'

He looks at his nan staring through the window and has a strange idea, one that usually gets pushed to the back of his head; the children, the ones belonging to his father, they'd be his half-sisters or brothers. He can't believe he's not properly thought about this before. Like this baby in front of him, they'd be related.

It wasn't just him any more.

A gentle silence passes over the room. It is broken only by the baby's soft breathing. Jonty sits on the sofa and watches his nan lift the baby towards the window when she starts to whimper awake. His nan points to things in the garden. The birdbath. The gate. The rockery. One of Jonty's tops hanging on the line. These are all things which Jonty's sure that the baby can't see, but she quietens anyway at the sing-song sound of his nan's words.

‘It won't be long before she'll be smiling at you.'

Jonty frowns. His nan continues, ‘You know, one of the best things in life is seeing a smile on a person's face and knowing that you put it there.'

And then his nan stands before Jonty. ‘I have to go to the toilet. Will you take her? She is yours after all. You need to get
used to her.'

Jonty feels his eyebrows shoot high and he wants to melt into the cushions. But he can see how determined his nan seems to be, her eyes are aiming hard electricity his way. ‘What do I do?' Sounds like a small child himself.

‘Lean back against the cushions, hold your arms out and have your elbow ready to support her neck.'

It sounds complicated but he follows her directions all the same. He can feel blood rush behind his eyes. His nan lowers the baby into his arms. He feels the soft, warm presence of the infant's body. There's a milky, biscuit smell about her. It isn't bad. He stares. And when he hears his nan lock the bathroom door he finally speaks in a voice which is too loud to use for a baby, but he doesn't seem to have any control right now. ‘Hello,' he says, ‘I'm your dad.' And as her eyes spring wide at the sound of his voice, and their blueness bores into his, he has two fleeting thoughts.

One: Nicola's eyes are brown not blue. And two: the image of his own dad, in the photograph.

It's a murky day. There's a mist coming off the damp ground. The woods at the back of school are eerily silent apart from the call of crows which hover around the lower branches of the trees. Death-eaters. It would be a good day for a funeral.

A cluster of boys loiter in a circle. Their school trousers are low slung, and their sweatshirts hang off their shoulders. They're a pack. Hungry for something. Jonty stands on the outskirts, his hands heavy in his pockets.

On the floor is a kid in the year below. He's an emo, with studs and dyed-black hair splayed around his face. His hands and knees are in the mud. Jonty dislikes the kid. Emo-boy's crowd have been bad-mouthing Jonty and his gang for months now and he's finally getting what he deserves. Durant has this kid with his face in the mud. He's enjoying every last minute of it. There are beads of sweat above Durant's lip. It's ugly. The emo grunts as Durant's knee pushes further into his back. His sweatshirt rides up to reveal pale skin. Jonty spits on the ground. His hands delve deeper into his pockets.

The crows caw in dismay and rise to higher branches.

One of Jonty's crew rips open emo-boy's bag. There's a jeer as some papers fall and flutter from the open bag on to the grease of the ground. Durant picks up the bag and chucks it to Jonty. ‘You want him, Jonty?' He sneers.

Jonty shrugs. He's unsure. There's something about the whole scene that he doesn't like. They all turn to him, even the emo.

‘Jonty?'

He senses their unease. They're used to his direction. They can't seem to start anything major until they get his shout. And before today this would have come easily enough. But there's something Jonty doesn't like. And it's not the commotion in front of him. It's something inside. Something curdling at the bottom of his stomach.

Again he shrugs and looks at the kid in the mud. The kid returns his look. His eyes are a chemical mixture of fear and of
loathing. Their blueness reminds Jonty of someone.

Emo-boy grimaces under Durant's knee. Speaks with cracked words into the mud. ‘You've … got a kid now.'

Like a whirlwind behind his eyes, the image of Eliza appears. And with this there comes a realization that his half-brothers or sisters might have blue eyes too. That this kid on the floor could even be his brother for all he knows. It makes him shudder.

There are boots at the ready. Fists twitching and flexed for action. The kid cringes in anticipation. Jonty knows they're all waiting for his response.

He holds the bag. It smells of stale apples and sandwich boxes. He fights back a gag. He takes a step forward, then two more, until his feet are centimetres away from the face of the boy in the mud. The tips of Jonty's trainers are as close to his mouth as you can get without touching. There's a four-second gap while no one says a word, and then Jonty drops the bag. It splatters in the mud so that the kid gets sprayed across his forehead and on his over-white cheeks.

‘Nah,' says Jonty, ‘leave him.' He turns around, offers his back to his shocked friends.

He can feel the disappointment stabbing at him between his shoulder blades. Someone shouts, ‘You going soft, Jonty?'

He shrugs and makes his way back towards school. Perhaps he is. He's not sure. But as he leaves his jeering friends to walk through the mist, he has an unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth.

He spits on the ground. And thinks of Olivia.

Then of Eliza.

And then, strangely, of his unknown half-brothers and sisters. He doesn't even know their names. Spits again.

The third Sunday of looking after Eliza, his nan suggests he goes out.

‘No way!' he snaps.

‘Why not?' his nan snaps back. Her hair vibrates with the shake of her head.

‘What if she cries?'

‘Then you bring her right back. I'm not suggesting you take her on a trek round the country. Only up the road. Stop being so pathetic. She needs a proper dad.'

‘No, Nan. No way.'

His nan sighs. ‘So this is it, is it? This is how we're going to spend the next eighteen years of her life? Cooped up in here, in hiding?'

Jonty swallows. ‘I'm not ready, that's all.'

His nan flops on to the sofa and sighs. Her voice lowers a notch. ‘What are you really worried about, Jonty?'

He thinks about the question. What
is
he worried about? His friends seeing? The knowing looks from all the nosy old crones in the village? Not being able to deal with her if she cries? People seeing he can't cope? The list is endless.

‘I'm not. I'm not ready OK?' He hates the way he sounds aggressive.

She rocks Eliza. It's comforting to watch. ‘People know. This village is alive with the gossip. I think it'd show all those people who are judging you. You could show them how you're taking your responsibilities seriously.' She looks him in the eye. The greyness is steely. ‘That you're not like your dad.'

He looks away. That was low. She knows this is the one way she can get under his skin.

‘Here, take her. I'm going to warm her bottle.'

Nan passes Eliza from her arms to his. They've become pretty good at this in the last couple of weeks. He'll even admit to liking the feel of this small sack of warm potatoes in his arms.

So, on the fourth Sunday, he agrees. Only to the shop. No further. Only to get his magazine.

It's the hardest thing he's ever done. Nothing compares to this. Not his first day at school. Not his first fight. Not even the day when he found his mum gone from the house. It's hard because it's public. And he knows there's no going back. People know now. He's seen the looks and heard the whispers. Word's got around like it does. That's what it's like in a village. But nobody's seen him with her; nobody's seen if he can handle her. The thought gnaws away at his guts.

His nan scuttles about, fussing over blankets and changing bags and sorting the buggy. Jonty stands at the door, holding his breath, his arms hanging loose by his sides, wishing he could go back in time.

Because he would. And he knows exactly what he'd change.

In the end he grabs the handles. ‘Stop fussing,' he snaps, ‘she'll be fine.'

He bumps the buggy out of the door before his nan can say anything else. Squints into the sunshine and sighs. Eliza, he's pleased to see, wiggles her legs in the brightness.

The walk up the road is weird; the most bizarre thing he's ever done. He uses one hand to push the buggy. The other remains in his tracksuit trousers. Casual.

It's a bright day. Bursting with sunshine. It glistens off the pavement where there's been an early-morning rain shower. Hedges explode with sparrows. An aeroplane high in the clouds takes people to other countries. He wishes he could be one of those people.

He sees neighbours in driveways, washing cars, cleaning paths, weeding borders. He nods at a few of them, avoids the eyes of others. If he didn't have the buggy in one hand then it would be a pretty uneventful walk up to the shop. As it is, it's like he's holding an elephant.

He negotiates the buggy easily enough into the newsagents. Makes his purchase quickly and exits the building as swiftly as he entered.

The mistake is getting complacent. He wonders what all the fuss is about. Doesn't know why Nicola moans so much. Thinks that a quick stop in the park might make his nan happy. That she'll be proud and won't think he's rushed the trip and escaped home at the first opportunity. Besides, a while in the sunshine with his magazine sounds good. Ten minutes, at the most.

He doesn't expect the park to be so busy on a Sunday morning. And stupidly, so that before he realizes, he's already pushed the buggy through the gate, so there's no turning back. People would notice the U-turn. He'd never hear the last of it.

Thankfully, most of the kids hanging out are younger than him. Primary kids he doesn't know. But there are a few older ones playing football down by the copse, and the unmistakable figures of two mates.

Brandon, the smarter and more confident of the two, throws a look his way. Jonty hopes they are far enough away to avoid seeing him wince. They saunter up the hill towards him and he holds his breath.

It's interesting. Eliza's presence seems to affect his mates. They're awkward. Unsure. Looking from the buggy to Jonty, to each other and then everywhere else other than back to the buggy.

Brandon nods, ‘Jonty,' hardly pausing, he carries on walking.

Jonty nods back. ‘Brandon.'

The whole interaction lasts less than five seconds. But it's five seconds where Jonty's lungs inflate like over-pumped tyres.

He's not stupid. He knows that this little incident will be up and down the school like wildfire. Can picture the new laughter.

Jonty Newman's weakness
.

But then Eliza whimpers and he's dragged out of his
thoughts. He remembers what it was like to grow up without a dad. That raw, lonely feeling.

There's a bench by the swings. It's damp and saggy where one too many people have sat on it. And it's here where he decides to brazen it out. Ten minutes. He remembers the promise to himself.

He hasn't seen the girls coming up behind him. But he recognizes the voice as soon as he hears it and he can't stop the sudden swivel in his neck. The link with Olivia is too strong.

It's her mad sister, Alice. The crazy kid with some kind of syndrome. She always got on his nerves. She's the one person who he doesn't miss from that family. She's wearing wellingtons and a dress which is too short for her, but not in a slaggy way, more out of ignorance. And she has a friend. Someone even stranger looking, if that's possible.