The Christmas Surprise
Page 28
Rosie had decided just to take Apostil with her to the shop. She had the car seat on the floor where she could put him if he wanted to look about, but for now he seemed very happy trussed tightly to her back. Stephen had popped his head round the bathroom door earlier and grinned at the sight: Rosie was in her beloved bath, Apostil lying on her stomach happily kicking water in the air.
‘I can’t believe you’ve already got him into your interminable bath habits.’
‘Bath habits are good habits!’
‘Not the way you do it.’
Rosie stuck her tongue out at him.
‘Right, don’t drown the baby. I’ll see you later. Have a good day.’
He knelt down and kissed them both.
‘My two favourite people.’
Rosie reflected as she heard the cottage door close downstairs how funny Stephen was. When there was nothing to worry about, he could become introverted and difficult, turning his worries inside. When they had a million things to do, some of them incredibly tricky, he seemed to take it all in his stride. She was much less confident than he was about the social workers who were due to visit, not least because it was entirely within his power to be incredibly rude to people he thought were busybodies.
She dressed Apostil in some of the clothes Tina had thoughtfully left for her. They were Kent’s, who was nine now, and therefore a bit dated and heavily biased towards Cars and Ben 10, but that didn’t matter. She topped it all off with a brand-new cable-knit jumper and cardigan set – slightly too big, but that didn’t matter – and a pair of knitted bootees. There would have been knitted trousers too if she hadn’t thought it was a bit much and made him look like a dolly.
Lilian had obviously been making her new status of great-great-aunt very clear at the home, because the old ladies had been knitting like there was an Olympic medal in it for them. Not only that, but everything was absolutely perfectly done. Rosie had her suspicions that Lilian herself would have patrolled the lines, pointing out mistakes and demanding that people start over.
The shop was, as usual when Tina had been in, immaculate. Tina couldn’t bear a speck of dust, or a glass jar even slightly out of place. She had also put the Christmas decorations up, and it was lovely to see the little snow train again, running happily through a forest of lollipop trees and candy-cane avenues in the front window, cotton wool strewn about with the kind of abandon that implied that the twins and Edison had had a hand in it.
Fairy lights were strung up amongst the shelves, on little hooks that Jake had screwed in so they didn’t knock them over every time they went to fetch some liquorice torpedos (top shelf, rare buy, boys only). The lights worked very nicely, reflecting off the sweets in their original glass jars, making the boiled sweets look like stained glass and the rainbow pips shine brightly. There was tinsel too, reflecting the light again, and the shop was cosy (until you went out into the little back room, which was perishing). Rosie looked at her lovely apron that she normally wore, then realised she wouldn’t be able to get it on, so washed her hands and prepared herself for what was clearly going to be less a working day and more a full-on interrogation.
‘ROSIE!’ shouted Edison as the bell tinged. He ran towards her, then frowned.
‘What’s round you?’
Smiling, Rosie turned round.
‘OHHH.’
‘Didn’t Hester’ – Edison didn’t call his mum Mum, although Marie seemed to have learned ‘Mama’ and used it all the time, however much Hester tried to hush her – ‘didn’t Hester tell you?’
‘She said there was CLONAL PRIVILEGE,’ said Edison loudly. Rosie was trying to work out what cloning had to do with anything when she realised what Hester had actually said and raised her eyebrows.
‘Did she?’ she said merrily.
‘Hello!’ said Hester, totally unembarrassable, as always. ‘Oh, is that how you tie your sling? I prefer the more traditional way.’
Rosie wanted to say ‘More traditional than being taught in a village in the African bush?’ but had sworn absolutely blind that she wasn’t going to get into a pissing competition with Hester of all people, so she held her tongue.
‘Hello!’ she said instead. ‘Hello, Marie.’
‘She can’t talk,’ said Edison, his eyes narrowing. ‘Hester says she can, but she can’t really.’
‘Actually she’s developing her own language,’ said Hester. ‘It’s a sign of unusual intelligence.’
‘Ga ba bla BLAH ga dah!’ said Marie triumphantly. Rosie winked at Edison.
‘So let’s have a look then,’ said Hester in a sing-song voice. Rosie turned round again. Marie instantly put out a fat hand and tried to whack Apostil on the face.
‘I need a mirror in here,’ said Rosie.
‘Oh look,’ said Hester. ‘She’s communicating with him. Amazing.’
‘Stop whacking him,’ commanded Rosie.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Apostil,’ said Rosie promptly.
‘Oh,’ said Hester. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t go with something more traditional and African.’
Rosie was glad they were facing different ways.
‘That’s the name his birth family gave him,’ she said. ‘We thought we’d respect their wishes.’
Hester was unconcerned.
‘What’s wrong with his arm? Is it a tribal thing?’
‘No!’ said Rosie. ‘It’s just a birth defect. He’ll do perfectly well without it,’ she added fiercely, hoping as she said it that it was true.
‘Of course,’ said Hester soothingly. ‘And you’ll be teaching him to speak his own language, I expect.’
‘French,’ said Rosie.
‘You know,’ said Hester, sounding testy, ‘you have a very grave responsibility to his heritage. He will need to grow up knowing who he is.’
‘He will,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s our son, but he has a family in Africa that he’ll see as often as we can manage. I don’t know what else we can do.’
‘Lots!’ said Hester. ‘For a start, he won’t be able to digest bread.’
‘Right,’ said Rosie.
‘He won’t! Evolution! You’ll need to get special meal in for him.’
‘He’s not a dog.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve already got him into your interminable bath habits.’
‘Bath habits are good habits!’
‘Not the way you do it.’
Rosie stuck her tongue out at him.
‘Right, don’t drown the baby. I’ll see you later. Have a good day.’
He knelt down and kissed them both.
‘My two favourite people.’
Rosie reflected as she heard the cottage door close downstairs how funny Stephen was. When there was nothing to worry about, he could become introverted and difficult, turning his worries inside. When they had a million things to do, some of them incredibly tricky, he seemed to take it all in his stride. She was much less confident than he was about the social workers who were due to visit, not least because it was entirely within his power to be incredibly rude to people he thought were busybodies.
She dressed Apostil in some of the clothes Tina had thoughtfully left for her. They were Kent’s, who was nine now, and therefore a bit dated and heavily biased towards Cars and Ben 10, but that didn’t matter. She topped it all off with a brand-new cable-knit jumper and cardigan set – slightly too big, but that didn’t matter – and a pair of knitted bootees. There would have been knitted trousers too if she hadn’t thought it was a bit much and made him look like a dolly.
Lilian had obviously been making her new status of great-great-aunt very clear at the home, because the old ladies had been knitting like there was an Olympic medal in it for them. Not only that, but everything was absolutely perfectly done. Rosie had her suspicions that Lilian herself would have patrolled the lines, pointing out mistakes and demanding that people start over.
The shop was, as usual when Tina had been in, immaculate. Tina couldn’t bear a speck of dust, or a glass jar even slightly out of place. She had also put the Christmas decorations up, and it was lovely to see the little snow train again, running happily through a forest of lollipop trees and candy-cane avenues in the front window, cotton wool strewn about with the kind of abandon that implied that the twins and Edison had had a hand in it.
Fairy lights were strung up amongst the shelves, on little hooks that Jake had screwed in so they didn’t knock them over every time they went to fetch some liquorice torpedos (top shelf, rare buy, boys only). The lights worked very nicely, reflecting off the sweets in their original glass jars, making the boiled sweets look like stained glass and the rainbow pips shine brightly. There was tinsel too, reflecting the light again, and the shop was cosy (until you went out into the little back room, which was perishing). Rosie looked at her lovely apron that she normally wore, then realised she wouldn’t be able to get it on, so washed her hands and prepared herself for what was clearly going to be less a working day and more a full-on interrogation.
‘ROSIE!’ shouted Edison as the bell tinged. He ran towards her, then frowned.
‘What’s round you?’
Smiling, Rosie turned round.
‘OHHH.’
‘Didn’t Hester’ – Edison didn’t call his mum Mum, although Marie seemed to have learned ‘Mama’ and used it all the time, however much Hester tried to hush her – ‘didn’t Hester tell you?’
‘She said there was CLONAL PRIVILEGE,’ said Edison loudly. Rosie was trying to work out what cloning had to do with anything when she realised what Hester had actually said and raised her eyebrows.
‘Did she?’ she said merrily.
‘Hello!’ said Hester, totally unembarrassable, as always. ‘Oh, is that how you tie your sling? I prefer the more traditional way.’
Rosie wanted to say ‘More traditional than being taught in a village in the African bush?’ but had sworn absolutely blind that she wasn’t going to get into a pissing competition with Hester of all people, so she held her tongue.
‘Hello!’ she said instead. ‘Hello, Marie.’
‘She can’t talk,’ said Edison, his eyes narrowing. ‘Hester says she can, but she can’t really.’
‘Actually she’s developing her own language,’ said Hester. ‘It’s a sign of unusual intelligence.’
‘Ga ba bla BLAH ga dah!’ said Marie triumphantly. Rosie winked at Edison.
‘So let’s have a look then,’ said Hester in a sing-song voice. Rosie turned round again. Marie instantly put out a fat hand and tried to whack Apostil on the face.
‘I need a mirror in here,’ said Rosie.
‘Oh look,’ said Hester. ‘She’s communicating with him. Amazing.’
‘Stop whacking him,’ commanded Rosie.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Apostil,’ said Rosie promptly.
‘Oh,’ said Hester. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t go with something more traditional and African.’
Rosie was glad they were facing different ways.
‘That’s the name his birth family gave him,’ she said. ‘We thought we’d respect their wishes.’
Hester was unconcerned.
‘What’s wrong with his arm? Is it a tribal thing?’
‘No!’ said Rosie. ‘It’s just a birth defect. He’ll do perfectly well without it,’ she added fiercely, hoping as she said it that it was true.
‘Of course,’ said Hester soothingly. ‘And you’ll be teaching him to speak his own language, I expect.’
‘French,’ said Rosie.
‘You know,’ said Hester, sounding testy, ‘you have a very grave responsibility to his heritage. He will need to grow up knowing who he is.’
‘He will,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s our son, but he has a family in Africa that he’ll see as often as we can manage. I don’t know what else we can do.’
‘Lots!’ said Hester. ‘For a start, he won’t be able to digest bread.’
‘Right,’ said Rosie.
‘He won’t! Evolution! You’ll need to get special meal in for him.’
‘He’s not a dog.’
