The Christmas Surprise
Page 23
It hit her then like a ton of bricks. Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness. A family. I have a family. Everything I wasn’t sure I would be able to have. Sometimes, even, knowing Stephen’s fear of tradition and being tied down, she had had the tiniest suspicion in the base of her mind that he wouldn’t be that fussed if they couldn’t have children, even though that was ridiculous; he wanted her to be happy. But now … look … in the most unlikely of settings … here they were. My mum, she thought. Oh my God, I have to phone my mum. Then she stifled a giggle at the thought: and Stephen’s mum. Nobody here, of course, could possibly have any idea that the future Lord of Lipton had just been born.
She was still giggling, a little hysterically, as they changed the baby. The wet nurse looked covetously at the towelling nappies, so of course they gave her half. Apostil was, apart from his little arm, the most beautiful infant, Rosie thought. A pale coffee colour, which she knew would darken with time; great dark grey eyes with heavy lids and thick black lashes; a perfect round bow of a mouth and a little button of a nose, and soft black hair whorled on his head. He was utterly exquisite. Even though they were both exhausted – and the other members of the team were trying to sleep across the way in another canvas tent – they lay awake, looking at each other and occasionally tearing up a little, unable to believe the little miracle that was lying between them. When he woke, the wet nurse came and fed him. The medical team had brought powdered milk, but they didn’t want to use it quite yet; they would make sure the wet nurse had plenty of extra food and nutrients.
‘What are we going to tell people?’ said Rosie, twirling his tiny hairs around her finger, planting kisses up and down his shoulder blades.
‘We shall tell them precisely the truth,’ said Stephen, kissing them both gently. ‘That out of the worst of things, sometimes the best things can come.’
Chapter Seven
Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying
Sealed in the stone-cold tomb
They buried Célestine in the morning. There was wailing, and singing, and food brought from all around, and Rosie and Stephen stood frozen in the middle, witnesses to the pain, even as friends and relatives came and blessed the baby and wished them well.
Rosie wished she had thought to take a photograph of Célestine, but of course it would hardly have been appropriate. She stood next to the girl’s parents, with the uncomfortable realisation that they were barely older than herself. The father was strong and proud. The mother could not hold the baby, could not bear the pain, and Rosie understood.
‘One day,’ she said, as Stephen translated, ‘may we bring him back to meet his grandparents?’
The woman nodded fiercely.
‘You are the least crazy grandparents Apostil has,’ said Stephen.
They did have two photographs, both taken by Stephen on his previous trip: of the two boys, Jabo and Akibo, grinning fiercely and nervously, and peeping out from behind them, Célestine. Rosie snapped images of the photos to take with them, crying all the while.
‘She was only a child,’ she said.
‘Ssssh,’ said Stephen, his face serious. ‘I know. And now we owe it to her to raise her boy the best we can. He’s our boy now.’
The way he said ‘our boy,’ made Rosie’s heart burst.
The village sang, and a white missionary priest with a strong South African accent came by, looking harassed and tired out, his eyes tinged a notable yellow from repeated bouts of malaria. He said a Mass in a hurry, barely stopped for a cup of tea and was on the point of dashing off again when Stephen asked him if he would baptise the baby.
‘The baby lived,’ the priest said gruffly. ‘I heard. And what, you’re here to buy it?’
‘No,’ said Stephen. ‘Not quite. I owed this family a debt.’
The priest pulled down his glasses and peered at Stephen aggressively.
‘Oh yes? And now you want me to sign all your paperwork and give you certificates and make things easy for you to take away a baby and leave behind a mess.’
‘No, Father,’ said Stephen simply. ‘I just wanted you to bless this beautiful baby. But it is up to you.’
The man peered crossly at Apostil, who was snoozing, waking up, looking around him, making little purring noises, then dropping off to sleep again.
‘What’s wrong with this child’s arm?’ he said.
‘We don’t know,’ said Stephen. ‘But if there’s anything we can do for it, we will.’
The priest harrumphed.
‘Africa is not your shopping ground,’ he said.
‘I realise that, Padre,’ said Stephen quietly. Rosie looked at him, impressed by how hard he was struggling to keep his temper. ‘It is not why we came.’
The priest looked them up and down more closely.
‘Don’t I know you?’ he said shortly.
‘Yes,’ said Stephen reluctantly.
‘I do know you. You were here before. You’re that boy who got blown up.’
‘Yes.’
The priest shook his head.
‘Idiot you were.’
Stephen stared straight ahead, his gaze stony. There was a pause.
‘But you were a good teacher, hey? I remember you now. You were good. Good with the boys. Is this a boy?’
Stephen nodded.
‘What’s his name?’
‘It’s Apostil … apparently.’
‘Apostil. Is that it?’
‘Um …’ Stephen looked at Rosie for inspiration.
‘Oh goodness, names!’ said Rosie, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘I hadn’t thought … My goodness. Well. We should have Stephen in there too.’
‘I’ve never liked it.’
‘I like it. Stephen. Stevie. Steve-Steve.’
‘Stop it! No.’
Rosie smiled.
‘Okay. Akibo, then.’
Stephen nodded. ‘Yup. Good. Anything else?’
Rosie thought about it.
‘Do you know what would be nice? For Lilian?’
‘Henry?’ guessed Stephen immediately.
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘I think she’d be a bit annoyed about that. She likes to have dibs on the only Henry on earth. She gets really cross when the Fonz is on TV.’
‘Seriously? She hates Fonzie? Oh. Okay.’
She was still giggling, a little hysterically, as they changed the baby. The wet nurse looked covetously at the towelling nappies, so of course they gave her half. Apostil was, apart from his little arm, the most beautiful infant, Rosie thought. A pale coffee colour, which she knew would darken with time; great dark grey eyes with heavy lids and thick black lashes; a perfect round bow of a mouth and a little button of a nose, and soft black hair whorled on his head. He was utterly exquisite. Even though they were both exhausted – and the other members of the team were trying to sleep across the way in another canvas tent – they lay awake, looking at each other and occasionally tearing up a little, unable to believe the little miracle that was lying between them. When he woke, the wet nurse came and fed him. The medical team had brought powdered milk, but they didn’t want to use it quite yet; they would make sure the wet nurse had plenty of extra food and nutrients.
‘What are we going to tell people?’ said Rosie, twirling his tiny hairs around her finger, planting kisses up and down his shoulder blades.
‘We shall tell them precisely the truth,’ said Stephen, kissing them both gently. ‘That out of the worst of things, sometimes the best things can come.’
Chapter Seven
Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume
Breathes a life of gathering gloom
Sorrowing, sighing, bleeding, dying
Sealed in the stone-cold tomb
They buried Célestine in the morning. There was wailing, and singing, and food brought from all around, and Rosie and Stephen stood frozen in the middle, witnesses to the pain, even as friends and relatives came and blessed the baby and wished them well.
Rosie wished she had thought to take a photograph of Célestine, but of course it would hardly have been appropriate. She stood next to the girl’s parents, with the uncomfortable realisation that they were barely older than herself. The father was strong and proud. The mother could not hold the baby, could not bear the pain, and Rosie understood.
‘One day,’ she said, as Stephen translated, ‘may we bring him back to meet his grandparents?’
The woman nodded fiercely.
‘You are the least crazy grandparents Apostil has,’ said Stephen.
They did have two photographs, both taken by Stephen on his previous trip: of the two boys, Jabo and Akibo, grinning fiercely and nervously, and peeping out from behind them, Célestine. Rosie snapped images of the photos to take with them, crying all the while.
‘She was only a child,’ she said.
‘Ssssh,’ said Stephen, his face serious. ‘I know. And now we owe it to her to raise her boy the best we can. He’s our boy now.’
The way he said ‘our boy,’ made Rosie’s heart burst.
The village sang, and a white missionary priest with a strong South African accent came by, looking harassed and tired out, his eyes tinged a notable yellow from repeated bouts of malaria. He said a Mass in a hurry, barely stopped for a cup of tea and was on the point of dashing off again when Stephen asked him if he would baptise the baby.
‘The baby lived,’ the priest said gruffly. ‘I heard. And what, you’re here to buy it?’
‘No,’ said Stephen. ‘Not quite. I owed this family a debt.’
The priest pulled down his glasses and peered at Stephen aggressively.
‘Oh yes? And now you want me to sign all your paperwork and give you certificates and make things easy for you to take away a baby and leave behind a mess.’
‘No, Father,’ said Stephen simply. ‘I just wanted you to bless this beautiful baby. But it is up to you.’
The man peered crossly at Apostil, who was snoozing, waking up, looking around him, making little purring noises, then dropping off to sleep again.
‘What’s wrong with this child’s arm?’ he said.
‘We don’t know,’ said Stephen. ‘But if there’s anything we can do for it, we will.’
The priest harrumphed.
‘Africa is not your shopping ground,’ he said.
‘I realise that, Padre,’ said Stephen quietly. Rosie looked at him, impressed by how hard he was struggling to keep his temper. ‘It is not why we came.’
The priest looked them up and down more closely.
‘Don’t I know you?’ he said shortly.
‘Yes,’ said Stephen reluctantly.
‘I do know you. You were here before. You’re that boy who got blown up.’
‘Yes.’
The priest shook his head.
‘Idiot you were.’
Stephen stared straight ahead, his gaze stony. There was a pause.
‘But you were a good teacher, hey? I remember you now. You were good. Good with the boys. Is this a boy?’
Stephen nodded.
‘What’s his name?’
‘It’s Apostil … apparently.’
‘Apostil. Is that it?’
‘Um …’ Stephen looked at Rosie for inspiration.
‘Oh goodness, names!’ said Rosie, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘I hadn’t thought … My goodness. Well. We should have Stephen in there too.’
‘I’ve never liked it.’
‘I like it. Stephen. Stevie. Steve-Steve.’
‘Stop it! No.’
Rosie smiled.
‘Okay. Akibo, then.’
Stephen nodded. ‘Yup. Good. Anything else?’
Rosie thought about it.
‘Do you know what would be nice? For Lilian?’
‘Henry?’ guessed Stephen immediately.
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘I think she’d be a bit annoyed about that. She likes to have dibs on the only Henry on earth. She gets really cross when the Fonz is on TV.’
‘Seriously? She hates Fonzie? Oh. Okay.’
