have a theory about that CD. I’m not telling Will yet, because he is still totally puzzled by mummy’s almost-tears. He’s not admitting it, but look at him now, reading his lecture notes while he waits for me. He is drumming his fingers, drum, drum, drum, the way he always does when he’s stressed. Was doing it in his sleep last night. Really annoying – don’t need to wait until we have this baby for unbroken sleep. But yes, the baby – that’s why Gillian was crying. Because if your son has his own son with his wife, that’s him gone, right? He has this whole other family, that he’s co-head of (not head: things have moved on since Gillian was a girl). Never again can she put him over her knee and smack him, literally or figuratively. She becomes less and less relevant, slips away, into a kind of outsourced childcare provider.
“Shall we drive?” Will asks me, taking a break from his drumming and his notes. “Looks a bit dark out there. Forbidding.”
I follow Will’s nod to the windows. Yes, it is dark. That’s because it’s night. It happens.
“If my master plan were to allow my arse to take over the entire bed, maybe,” I retort. “But as it’s not, let’s walk.”
And I predict that when we get there, there will be more fun and games with Mrs S. Because when I have a theory, you see, as I do, I don’t let it go. Not until I’ve explored it thoroughly. Will may be the scientific breadwinner, but I can be just as forensic as him.
-Will-
Ah, of course, the walking thing. Ellie has informed me that this is the best way not to put on too much baby weight, and to lose it again quickly. It told her this in some magazine. It also told her to do pregnancy yoga. She bought all the kit, went to one session, and came back scowling. We didn’t speak of it again. But the walking is a lot easier. Not that I am thinking about her weight. All I generally think when I look at her is how much the pregnancy folklore about shining hair and glowing skin is true – look at it now, that dark-brown mane swishing as she brushes it. And if she’s pale, that only emphasises the line of her lips. But she seems convinced that I’m worrying about some post-baby age in which she is all pudgy and round – so anything that will reduce the chances of that is QED. The automatically right thing to do. But I’m not thinking about that at all. Not much, anyway.
So we grab a bottle of wine from the wine rack, I lock up the house, and away we go into the night.
“Let’s take the scenic route,” says Ellie. “Along the river.”
We go that route in the day, but I’m not so sure about night. I think of muggers and bandits and ghouls. Ellie is clearly just thinking of calories. Then her real reason becomes clear. The road we turn down takes us past a nursery, its sign covered with pictures of butterflies and smiling children (the chrysalis experience?). Sod a ghosts walking-tour. It’s clear Ellie is the chief tour guide for the ‘we’ll soon be parents’ walk.
“Doesn’t it look cute?” says Ellie, pointing at the nursery. “And it would be so handy, wouldn’t it? You can drop him off before work.”
I’d kind of like to know why she still won’t be going to work. Or if she’s not, why we need a nursery school.
“Is it expensive, do you reckon?” I ask, thinking maybe it will prompt the discussion.
Ellie just shrugs. “Childcare is expensive. We’ll have to deal with it. But anyway, imagine how cute he’ll look, our little Leo, with his father’s – ”
“Watch it,” I say, detecting a new poor taste in-joke.
“– appendage, all dressed up in his uniform, with a little briefcase.”
“Like I used to have, when I was in juniors? In the photos?”
“Exactly like that. I want to look at that later, it’s so sweet. Anyway, we’ll need to register Leo, like, as soon as he pops out. That can be your job. You can literally catch him, then sprint along here and register him.”
“Nah, I’m gonna be too busy smoking a cigar. Take my fatherhood traditions very seriously, I do.”
“My God, you’re such a cliché! I bet your father did that, didn’t he?”
I shrug. I’m yet to have the conversation. “I’ll ask him.”
The road leads us on past Tiffin Girls’ School.
“Ah, and here’s where he’ll spend much of his later years, I imagine!” says Ellie.
“What, cross-dresser is he, our son?”
“Don’t play the innocent. I bet you spent hours here, eyeing up the girls, as they all paraded out, with their skirts rolled up.”
“Think that’s a Northern thing, Ellie. No evidence of skirts being rolled up here.”
“Did they have short skirts?”
“Maybe. If you were looking. Mum always turned up to walk me home so I didn’t get much of a chance.”
“Didn’t like you getting into cars with strange leggy girls, I bet. And do you think you, as a parent, would allow the skirt-rolling?”
“As the father of a son, I would go further. I would advocate it!”
Ellie nudges me affectionately with her shoulder, pushing me off the pavement. “You old lech,” she says. “You just want to eye up Leo’s girlfriends. You’ll say: ‘see that there appendage he’s got, I’ve got one much – ’”
“Enough with the appendages! Besides, I’ll be too busy knocking you up with our little daughter to be worrying about Leo’s girls,” I say, nudging her back, taking a quick squeeze of her not-at-all-expanded backside as I do so.
“Will you now?” she asks.
“I will,” I return, kissing her. It was a good idea to walk. Out in the open, all the worries start to fall away. This is territory that I know. Apart from those four years in Dartington, before we moved, all my life has been here. I know these streets. It has the feel of my childhood.
“I used to walk along this road to the park,” I say. “Mum would collect me, and then we’d go feed the ducks, play on the swings. I’d have to drag along to the supermarket, afterwards. But then Mum would buy me a treat.”
“Such a mummy’s boy,” she says.
“Meh,” I say shrugging. “Daddy bought me sweets and took me places too.”
“You were spoilt rotten. We are so not going to spoil little Leo, are we hey, Leo?” Ellie has a small chat with her stomach before we continue.
“Spoilt for who?” I ask. “Not you. I’m perfect for you,” I say, expecting a kiss. I don’t get one.
“Ach, with your perfect little spoilt upbringing. Just perfect Little Lord Fauntleroy, with your briefcase and your ducks.”
“Is that jealousy? Grim up North, was it?”
I
