The Christmas Surprise
Page 34
Her accent was a mixture of very posh English and American. Stephen narrowed his eyes.
‘Seriously? The bank just lets you take time off like that?’
‘You think I have a hidden agenda?’ snapped back Pamela.
‘YES!’ said Stephen. ‘I think you couldn’t wait to see your nephew. Come and meet him.’
‘My step-nephew,’ said Pamela, reluctantly agreeing to be led into the kitchen along with Apostil, who was regarding the goings-on from his baby seat with interest. Rosie knew as soon as he got into the warmth of the indoors he would start wriggling and want to go free, so she started to loosen his straps.
‘He’s not your step-nephew,’ said Stephen crossly. ‘I’m your brother. This is my son. He’s your NEPHEW.’
There was a short silence. Henrietta was in the kitchen, shouting at somebody on the telephone.
‘Forty-five and not a penny more.’ She put the phone down crossly. ‘I can’t believe I even have to speak to these people.’
‘What people?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, holding up an electricity bill sadly. ‘I knew an hour ago when I first got on the telephone.’
Rosie felt a sudden stab of pity for her. The world she had been born into and the world she now found herself living in were completely different places.
Stephen took the bill.
‘I’ll do that, Mum.’
Suddenly Henrietta looked older, a little confused. Then she shook herself out of it.
‘Come on then. Let’s have a look at him.’
Just as Rosie went to get him, Apostil gave a little lurch forward. Forgetting she’d already undone the straps, she almost let him topple head first on to the hard flagstone floor, before managing to catch him just in time, cursing herself to high heaven. Apostil of course let out an almighty roar.
‘Well that’s never happened before,’ said Stephen quickly, as Lady Lipton’s eyebrows went through the roof.
Desperately Rosie tried to soothe him, but Apostil obviously picked up on her slightly anxious body language, and could not be calmed, instead letting out a painful repeated wail. Lady Lipton attempted to make small talk about farming conditions, which didn’t help in the slightest, as Rosie jiggled him up and down. Finally Stephen came to her rescue and plopped him over his shoulder, whereupon Rosie immediately felt conflicted between relief that he’d stopped crying and resentment that Stephen had managed what she could not, and that the other women in the room were nodding fondly at his amazing ability to do what she did every day as a matter of course. She felt a bit like growling.
‘Well, he’s a handsome chap, even if he does only have one fin,’ said Henrietta eventually. Rosie felt obscurely grateful that she didn’t, as some people had, pretend that Apostil’s disability didn’t exist, or that it was hardly noticeable. Apostil, restored to his calm self, regarded his grandmother unblinkingly.
‘Well then,’ she coughed, ‘I suppose you’ll be spared those boring questions about who he looks like.’
‘Do you want to hold him?’ asked Stephen.
‘He seems a little unpredictable,’ said Henrietta.
‘No, he’s a sweetheart,’ said Rosie, as the others gave her patronising glances.
‘You know,’ said Pamela, apropos of nothing, ‘I had my eggs frozen when I was twenty-nine. Better safe than sorry, huh?’
‘So, you’re here for Christmas?’ said Stephen. ‘That’s nice.’
Pamela frowned and looked around the kitchen. Her eyes alighted briefly on the gin bottle, then moved on.
‘Yeah, well, thought it was time to check in.’
‘How are things with the bank? Brought down any major economies recently?’
‘How’s the school? Still accountable and paid for by our taxes?’
‘You’re right,’ said Stephen. ‘Mandatory education is just a step too far.’
‘Children,’ said Henrietta absent-mindedly.
Rosie found it astonishing that no one was more keen to ask about their trip, or Apostil, or what had happened to them. Her own mother had pestered her for details about every single second of everything that had happened, as had Pip’s wife Desleigh, who was, Rosie was prepared to concede, a slightly nosy gossip, but even so, this family’s coolness with one another was a complete mystery to her. She looked at the way Stephen was clasping Apostil to him, the baby’s little bum up in the air, his legs curled round Stephen’s chest, and felt a swell of reassurance. No way would Stephen be like that with his own child. Not for Apostil a cold and loveless childhood in a living mausoleum.
‘So,’ said Pamela, obviously wanting to get down to it, ‘I wanted to talk again about primogeniture.’
Of course she did. This was Pamela’s big bugbear: that even though she was older than Stephen, he would inherit after his mother died, because he was a boy. Stephen didn’t care in the slightest; in fact had often spoken of how much he wished the burden would be taken away from him. Lipton Hall was crumbling and needed extraordinary amounts of money they simply would never have, and he couldn’t bear the inevitable obsequiousness from total strangers. But his mother had been so insistent that it was what his father would have wanted, that it was his duty and reponsibility, that there had been Liptons in Lipton Hall for three hundred years and he had no bloody right to break that chain, etc. etc., that he had almost got used to it as a kind of hideous incoming necessity.
‘Ah,’ said Stephen. He glanced down at Apostil’s head, which was moving from side to side; he was used to his bottle, but he still rooted around for a nipple from time to time, which made Rosie a little sad, even though she reminded herself she was being a total idiot and loads of natural mothers didn’t breastfeed.
Then, as Mrs Laird brought in tea and ginger cake for everyone, Stephen gave Rosie a steady look. She looked back at him and returned it, with a slight, tiny nod, because she knew exactly what that look was and what it meant, and she needed him to know that she supported him all the way, whatever the consequences. Anyway, the sight of Henrietta trying to wrangle with the electricity department by herself on the telephone had told Rosie all she needed to know about the possibility of there being any money.
‘Well,’ said Stephen. He cleared his throat and glanced at Rosie again. She came across to put sugar in his tea – he couldn’t manage it himself holding Apostil – and squeezed him briefly on the shoulder, to show her support. ‘Well, Pamela. I don’t give a tiny flying fuck. You want it, it’s all yours.’
‘Seriously? The bank just lets you take time off like that?’
‘You think I have a hidden agenda?’ snapped back Pamela.
‘YES!’ said Stephen. ‘I think you couldn’t wait to see your nephew. Come and meet him.’
‘My step-nephew,’ said Pamela, reluctantly agreeing to be led into the kitchen along with Apostil, who was regarding the goings-on from his baby seat with interest. Rosie knew as soon as he got into the warmth of the indoors he would start wriggling and want to go free, so she started to loosen his straps.
‘He’s not your step-nephew,’ said Stephen crossly. ‘I’m your brother. This is my son. He’s your NEPHEW.’
There was a short silence. Henrietta was in the kitchen, shouting at somebody on the telephone.
‘Forty-five and not a penny more.’ She put the phone down crossly. ‘I can’t believe I even have to speak to these people.’
‘What people?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, holding up an electricity bill sadly. ‘I knew an hour ago when I first got on the telephone.’
Rosie felt a sudden stab of pity for her. The world she had been born into and the world she now found herself living in were completely different places.
Stephen took the bill.
‘I’ll do that, Mum.’
Suddenly Henrietta looked older, a little confused. Then she shook herself out of it.
‘Come on then. Let’s have a look at him.’
Just as Rosie went to get him, Apostil gave a little lurch forward. Forgetting she’d already undone the straps, she almost let him topple head first on to the hard flagstone floor, before managing to catch him just in time, cursing herself to high heaven. Apostil of course let out an almighty roar.
‘Well that’s never happened before,’ said Stephen quickly, as Lady Lipton’s eyebrows went through the roof.
Desperately Rosie tried to soothe him, but Apostil obviously picked up on her slightly anxious body language, and could not be calmed, instead letting out a painful repeated wail. Lady Lipton attempted to make small talk about farming conditions, which didn’t help in the slightest, as Rosie jiggled him up and down. Finally Stephen came to her rescue and plopped him over his shoulder, whereupon Rosie immediately felt conflicted between relief that he’d stopped crying and resentment that Stephen had managed what she could not, and that the other women in the room were nodding fondly at his amazing ability to do what she did every day as a matter of course. She felt a bit like growling.
‘Well, he’s a handsome chap, even if he does only have one fin,’ said Henrietta eventually. Rosie felt obscurely grateful that she didn’t, as some people had, pretend that Apostil’s disability didn’t exist, or that it was hardly noticeable. Apostil, restored to his calm self, regarded his grandmother unblinkingly.
‘Well then,’ she coughed, ‘I suppose you’ll be spared those boring questions about who he looks like.’
‘Do you want to hold him?’ asked Stephen.
‘He seems a little unpredictable,’ said Henrietta.
‘No, he’s a sweetheart,’ said Rosie, as the others gave her patronising glances.
‘You know,’ said Pamela, apropos of nothing, ‘I had my eggs frozen when I was twenty-nine. Better safe than sorry, huh?’
‘So, you’re here for Christmas?’ said Stephen. ‘That’s nice.’
Pamela frowned and looked around the kitchen. Her eyes alighted briefly on the gin bottle, then moved on.
‘Yeah, well, thought it was time to check in.’
‘How are things with the bank? Brought down any major economies recently?’
‘How’s the school? Still accountable and paid for by our taxes?’
‘You’re right,’ said Stephen. ‘Mandatory education is just a step too far.’
‘Children,’ said Henrietta absent-mindedly.
Rosie found it astonishing that no one was more keen to ask about their trip, or Apostil, or what had happened to them. Her own mother had pestered her for details about every single second of everything that had happened, as had Pip’s wife Desleigh, who was, Rosie was prepared to concede, a slightly nosy gossip, but even so, this family’s coolness with one another was a complete mystery to her. She looked at the way Stephen was clasping Apostil to him, the baby’s little bum up in the air, his legs curled round Stephen’s chest, and felt a swell of reassurance. No way would Stephen be like that with his own child. Not for Apostil a cold and loveless childhood in a living mausoleum.
‘So,’ said Pamela, obviously wanting to get down to it, ‘I wanted to talk again about primogeniture.’
Of course she did. This was Pamela’s big bugbear: that even though she was older than Stephen, he would inherit after his mother died, because he was a boy. Stephen didn’t care in the slightest; in fact had often spoken of how much he wished the burden would be taken away from him. Lipton Hall was crumbling and needed extraordinary amounts of money they simply would never have, and he couldn’t bear the inevitable obsequiousness from total strangers. But his mother had been so insistent that it was what his father would have wanted, that it was his duty and reponsibility, that there had been Liptons in Lipton Hall for three hundred years and he had no bloody right to break that chain, etc. etc., that he had almost got used to it as a kind of hideous incoming necessity.
‘Ah,’ said Stephen. He glanced down at Apostil’s head, which was moving from side to side; he was used to his bottle, but he still rooted around for a nipple from time to time, which made Rosie a little sad, even though she reminded herself she was being a total idiot and loads of natural mothers didn’t breastfeed.
Then, as Mrs Laird brought in tea and ginger cake for everyone, Stephen gave Rosie a steady look. She looked back at him and returned it, with a slight, tiny nod, because she knew exactly what that look was and what it meant, and she needed him to know that she supported him all the way, whatever the consequences. Anyway, the sight of Henrietta trying to wrangle with the electricity department by herself on the telephone had told Rosie all she needed to know about the possibility of there being any money.
‘Well,’ said Stephen. He cleared his throat and glanced at Rosie again. She came across to put sugar in his tea – he couldn’t manage it himself holding Apostil – and squeezed him briefly on the shoulder, to show her support. ‘Well, Pamela. I don’t give a tiny flying fuck. You want it, it’s all yours.’
