The Christmas Surprise
Page 38
‘Faustine,’ smiled Stephen, looking around. The photos were wonderful: pictures of the village children smiling, waving, showing off the little slates they shared one between ten. The tired-looking young, heavy female teacher, the beaten-down shed with more than sixty children crammed into it; even the scrawny pale-coffee-coloured cow who put her head through the gaps in the walls from time to time; they were all there. The contrast between the shimmering heat and arid plains of Africa and Derbyshire’s rolling fertile hills and frosted landscape filled with plenty and variety was striking. But so was the thing that didn’t change at all: the smiles on the faces of the children, both there and here. There was no difference between them whatsoever.
For fifteen minutes that morning, before work could begin, Stephen took lots of pictures of the children: reading in the little library corner; playing on their climbing frame; next to the whiteboard or clustered round the vivarium with their sad lizard, Blizzard, sitting inside. The huge disparity between what these children had and what there was in Apostil’s village was utterly compelling. After that, they all moved into the gym and Stephen hosted a Q&A session about his trip to Africa, about what it was like there and even, briefly, on how they had brought back Apostil.
‘So,’ said Emily, Tina’s daughter. She was normally quiet as a mouse, so when she spoke, people tended to listen. ‘So they don’t have books in their school?’
‘Not many,’ said Stephen. ‘People don’t have much there.’
‘So we should send them some of ours,’ said Emily. Lots of agreeing noises went round the room. ‘And,’ she added, ‘maybe we could send them some money to help them buy more books.’
Stephen nodded.
‘I think maybe we should try and raise a little money for that.’
‘Yay!’ said the children.
Rosie, meanwhile, was not having anything like as good a morning. Apostil had been grizzly, the bathwater had got cold almost immediately and there appeared to be frost on the insides of the windows. She needed to do a shop, which meant she had to scrape the insides of the tin for Apostil’s morning bottle, and he had looked at her in a very grumpy fashion as if he blamed her for that, then pooed twice in quick succession, so the entire downstairs smelled bad. She had an order list a mile long to get done with the wholesalers – frankly, if you ran out of Mars Bars, you didn’t really deserve to call yourself a sweetshop – and she was conscious that even by Lipton standards her hair was becoming an absolute disaster area (although it would have surprised her to learn – and she wouldn’t have believed it – that Stephen much preferred it loose and soft around her shoulders rather than lacquered and tonged into reluctant submission. He didn’t really understand the concept of ‘frizz’, he just thought it looked nice).
So when the doorbell rang sharply and she still wasn’t quite zipped into her long-sleeved dress (there had been a few jokes from Lilian about when she was going to lose the baby weight, none of which she appreciated), she cursed loudly under her breath. She did get the occasional person begging her to open early, normally on Christmas Eve or Valentine’s Day, but this was a perfectly normal December Monday morning.
‘Yes?’ she hollered, leaving Apostil on the floor and glancing at him to make sure he didn’t roll over. He couldn’t, not yet, but his strong left arm was constantly flailing that way and occasionally he made it almost on to his side. He thought this was a hilarious joke whenever he managed it.
‘Stay!’ she said, smiling at him. His huge dark eyes crumpled up in adoration. Even your worst day, she thought, with a baby in it has its ridiculous moments of joy.
The bell rang again. Frowning, and remembering she hadn’t brushed her hair, she opened the door a crack.
In front of her stood a large woman in a too-tight trouser suit, with short hair, a large pair of bright red glasses, and an iPad nestled in the crook of her elbow.
‘Hello?’ said Rosie. The air coming in through the door was absolutely arctic, and the fire was only embers. She didn’t want to let in any more than was absolutely necessary.
‘Joy Armstrong?’ said the woman, without glancing up from her iPad. ‘Derbyshire County Council? You’re expecting us?’
Rosie’s heart skipped a beat in panic. She tried to think back over all the reams of paperwork they’d read and completed, piled up and filed on the tiny kitchen table. The council had mentioned that they would be sending someone round, but did they have a meeting arranged? She absolutely couldn’t remember.
‘I’m so sorry, I don’t have you in my … diary,’ she said lamely.
Joy let out a short laugh.
‘No, we don’t tell you exactly when we’re coming,’ she said, as if this were totally obvious. ‘We need to see you in your normal environment. May I come in?’
Rosie swallowed.
‘This isn’t an ideal time. I’m just leaving for work …’
‘Ah,’ said Joy, a concerned yet slightly pleased look stretching over her face. ‘Are you finding things a struggle?’
‘No,’ said Rosie, and threw open the door. ‘Come in.’
As Joy entered, Rosie was suddenly conscious that the smell of dirty nappies was still in the air, and that the little front room, usually so cosy and homely, was looking cold and faded: the old chintz sofa, with its footrest that they scoffed at but which Stephen found incredibly comfortable for his leg on the wet days that swept in from the mountains and got into his joints; the old pictures of Lilian in her younger days, impossibly glamorous but probably in need of dusting; the nearly gone-out stove, the baby on the—
‘Is that baby on the FLOOR?’ said the social worker in horror.
Rosie dashed to where Apostil had managed to kick off his blanket and get one of the buttons on his lemon and purple striped mohair jumper almost into his mouth.
‘Oh LORD! Normally he loves being on the floor, don’t you, Ap?’
As if in response, Apostil felt the cold draught from the closing door, took one look at the tall, menacing stranger and burst into tears. Rosie did her best not to roll her eyes, knowing she was being observed. She felt hot and funny all over, as if she was being judged. Oh, she was being judged. Oh Lord.
She picked Apostil up, being very careful to support his head properly, and gave him a cuddle. Apostil howled steadily into her shoulder as she patted his little back unsuccessfully.
For fifteen minutes that morning, before work could begin, Stephen took lots of pictures of the children: reading in the little library corner; playing on their climbing frame; next to the whiteboard or clustered round the vivarium with their sad lizard, Blizzard, sitting inside. The huge disparity between what these children had and what there was in Apostil’s village was utterly compelling. After that, they all moved into the gym and Stephen hosted a Q&A session about his trip to Africa, about what it was like there and even, briefly, on how they had brought back Apostil.
‘So,’ said Emily, Tina’s daughter. She was normally quiet as a mouse, so when she spoke, people tended to listen. ‘So they don’t have books in their school?’
‘Not many,’ said Stephen. ‘People don’t have much there.’
‘So we should send them some of ours,’ said Emily. Lots of agreeing noises went round the room. ‘And,’ she added, ‘maybe we could send them some money to help them buy more books.’
Stephen nodded.
‘I think maybe we should try and raise a little money for that.’
‘Yay!’ said the children.
Rosie, meanwhile, was not having anything like as good a morning. Apostil had been grizzly, the bathwater had got cold almost immediately and there appeared to be frost on the insides of the windows. She needed to do a shop, which meant she had to scrape the insides of the tin for Apostil’s morning bottle, and he had looked at her in a very grumpy fashion as if he blamed her for that, then pooed twice in quick succession, so the entire downstairs smelled bad. She had an order list a mile long to get done with the wholesalers – frankly, if you ran out of Mars Bars, you didn’t really deserve to call yourself a sweetshop – and she was conscious that even by Lipton standards her hair was becoming an absolute disaster area (although it would have surprised her to learn – and she wouldn’t have believed it – that Stephen much preferred it loose and soft around her shoulders rather than lacquered and tonged into reluctant submission. He didn’t really understand the concept of ‘frizz’, he just thought it looked nice).
So when the doorbell rang sharply and she still wasn’t quite zipped into her long-sleeved dress (there had been a few jokes from Lilian about when she was going to lose the baby weight, none of which she appreciated), she cursed loudly under her breath. She did get the occasional person begging her to open early, normally on Christmas Eve or Valentine’s Day, but this was a perfectly normal December Monday morning.
‘Yes?’ she hollered, leaving Apostil on the floor and glancing at him to make sure he didn’t roll over. He couldn’t, not yet, but his strong left arm was constantly flailing that way and occasionally he made it almost on to his side. He thought this was a hilarious joke whenever he managed it.
‘Stay!’ she said, smiling at him. His huge dark eyes crumpled up in adoration. Even your worst day, she thought, with a baby in it has its ridiculous moments of joy.
The bell rang again. Frowning, and remembering she hadn’t brushed her hair, she opened the door a crack.
In front of her stood a large woman in a too-tight trouser suit, with short hair, a large pair of bright red glasses, and an iPad nestled in the crook of her elbow.
‘Hello?’ said Rosie. The air coming in through the door was absolutely arctic, and the fire was only embers. She didn’t want to let in any more than was absolutely necessary.
‘Joy Armstrong?’ said the woman, without glancing up from her iPad. ‘Derbyshire County Council? You’re expecting us?’
Rosie’s heart skipped a beat in panic. She tried to think back over all the reams of paperwork they’d read and completed, piled up and filed on the tiny kitchen table. The council had mentioned that they would be sending someone round, but did they have a meeting arranged? She absolutely couldn’t remember.
‘I’m so sorry, I don’t have you in my … diary,’ she said lamely.
Joy let out a short laugh.
‘No, we don’t tell you exactly when we’re coming,’ she said, as if this were totally obvious. ‘We need to see you in your normal environment. May I come in?’
Rosie swallowed.
‘This isn’t an ideal time. I’m just leaving for work …’
‘Ah,’ said Joy, a concerned yet slightly pleased look stretching over her face. ‘Are you finding things a struggle?’
‘No,’ said Rosie, and threw open the door. ‘Come in.’
As Joy entered, Rosie was suddenly conscious that the smell of dirty nappies was still in the air, and that the little front room, usually so cosy and homely, was looking cold and faded: the old chintz sofa, with its footrest that they scoffed at but which Stephen found incredibly comfortable for his leg on the wet days that swept in from the mountains and got into his joints; the old pictures of Lilian in her younger days, impossibly glamorous but probably in need of dusting; the nearly gone-out stove, the baby on the—
‘Is that baby on the FLOOR?’ said the social worker in horror.
Rosie dashed to where Apostil had managed to kick off his blanket and get one of the buttons on his lemon and purple striped mohair jumper almost into his mouth.
‘Oh LORD! Normally he loves being on the floor, don’t you, Ap?’
As if in response, Apostil felt the cold draught from the closing door, took one look at the tall, menacing stranger and burst into tears. Rosie did her best not to roll her eyes, knowing she was being observed. She felt hot and funny all over, as if she was being judged. Oh, she was being judged. Oh Lord.
She picked Apostil up, being very careful to support his head properly, and gave him a cuddle. Apostil howled steadily into her shoulder as she patted his little back unsuccessfully.
