Cry Hard With A Vengeance

(Previously: We're on our way round to babysit for almost-strangers, as you do. Naturally, the baby has a Victorian name. Not that that's important.)

                                             * * * * *

India leads the way upstairs to the little nursery on the first floor at the front of the house. V and I follow her in. The room is tasteful and cosy, with not a hint of pink or any plastic tat in sight. I speculate idly as to whether there is even one item in this house that has been made in China or Thailand. Probably not, although Malcolm and India do have a cleaner who was made in Bulgaria. 

Nan is sleeping quietly in her cot. She lies on her back with her arms splayed out above her head. Her miniature left fist clenches and unclenches and her eyelashes twitch. She lets out a slight sigh. She is dreaming. She is perfect, and not particularly satanic. Without looking, I know that a warm smile is spreading across V’s face.

“Aww.”

“I know,” whispers India. “Sometimes I can’t believe she’s mine.”

“I’ll bet. Is she talking yet?”

“Not a peep. I’m half expecting her to sound like someone off Emmerdale when she finally pipes up. So are you two going to… sorry, no, it’s incredibly rude of me to ask.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Yes, we are. Soon, hopefully.”

India looks to me and smiles a bit sappily. I shrug and raise my eyebrows in a sort of neutrally sappy way. We leave Nan to her dreams and head back downstairs. Malcolm is at the open front door, clearly gagging to get out. India soon follows, leaving the house (and Nan) in our charge.

                                       * * * * *
I’m on the extraordinarily comfortable sofa, flicking through the film channels. The baby monitor sits on the arm next to me. I eschew Rosemary’s Baby, Parenthood, Baby Boom, Inconceivable and Maybe Baby and settle for The World at War. Just as Stalingrad is being liberated, V comes through with a bottle of red, grabs the doofer and flicks over to Sideways. While she opens the bottle, I take a moment to contemplate the prospect of watching a film about a failed writer who drinks too much red wine.

“Merlot,” she says, handing me a glass. We watch the first five minutes of the film in silence.

“They seem nice,” whispers V after a while.

“Yeah, they do. You probably don't have to whisper by the way. They didn't seem that into surveillance.”

“God,” gasps V, “They must be minted. The kitchen is unbelievable - size of our flat, practically. I half expected to find Gordon fucking Ramsey in there, prepping vegetables.”

“Oh yeah,” I reply, affecting a look of innate knowledge. “They’re money. Place like this… ”

V affects a sulky look and sinks into the sofa. “Do you think we’ll ever have a house like this?”

“Sure. It’s all part of the plan.”

“If – no when – you sell your book.”

“Indeed.”

“How’s it coming along by the way?”

“Hmm.”

“Like that is it?”

“Pretty much.”

“Don’t be dispirited,” says V, shuffling over next to me. “You’ll get there. Anyway. Isn’t Nan a cutie? Wouldn’t it be nice to have a Nan?”

“I don't want to talk about it. I'm pre-menstrual.”

“Oh, tres hilaire.”

“Sorry. I suppose it might be nice one day. Personally, I'd rather have the house."

"When did you become so materialistic?"

"I'm kidding. She's lovely, of course. But we don’t see her when she’s screaming the place down.”

A murmur comes from the baby monitor.

"Nice one Mark. Tempt fate, why don’t you.”

I let out a nervous laugh. Another crackly little murmur emanates from the monitor. V and me both stare at it, willing it to be quiet. A full blown scream blasts from the miniature speaker. We continue to stare, hoping the noise will go away. It does – for about a second, only to be replaced by a prolonged, animalistic howl.

“I’ll go,” chirps V. She bounds upstairs.

I listen to the monitor as she soothes Nan, first by shushing her and telling her everything’s alright, then by trying to reason with her (“Come on Nan, you should try to enjoy this as much as you can. It only gets worse, believe me, and when you get older lying down and screaming becomes socially unacceptable. Yes, you’re right, it is annoying, lying down and screaming should be socially acceptable, and dribbling down your front too. But there we have it.” After a few moments of indecipherable baby talk, Nan quietens. V is good at this, I think. I feel a swell of pride. She'll make a good mum. Then I feel a deep sense of guilt.

I distract myself from this unpleasant feeling by returning to the movie.

Seconds later a heavy-breathing, otherworldy voice splutters from the baby intercom, sending me vertically from my seat.The force is with you, Mark Skywalker, but you are not a Jedi yet. 

“Very funny!” I shout upstairs. I hear V giggling through the intercom. A second later, Nan starts screaming afresh.

Haha, I muse to myself. That'll teach her.

I hear V groan, then the sound of her picking Nan out of her cot. The two of them appear in the living room. Nan stops crying, looks quite angry and hard done by, and stares at me with wide eyes.

“Hello Nan,” I say. “Were you having a bad dream or something?”

Nan just stares, with an element of hostility.

“Do you think she wants something?” I venture.

“I’ll give her some juice,” says V. She thrusts Nan upon me while she hunts for the cup. I hold Nan up on my lap. She stares into my eyes. She forms her mouth into an ‘o’. Her face creases up into pre-scream mode but not a sound comes. Then she opens and closes her mouth as if she’s going to be sick.

Oh God.

She opens her mouth v-e-r-y wide and makes a funny sound. I close my eyes, waiting for inevitable deluge of projectile babyslurry.

I open my eyes. I check my shirt. No wom. I've got away with it.

I smile at Nan.

"Well done Nan!" I say.

“Dada!” she replies, poking me, hard, in the eye. "DadadadadadadadadadaDADA!"

V stands frozen in the doorway. She drops the cup.

Fortunately it is a spill-proof child's beaker, probably made in China.

Comments

[Elizabeth]

It's my first visit and I just wanted to say this is hilarious! Great post.

[Julia Buckley]

Sounds like you're very good at making the right noises around kids - the last time I asked if a child was talking yet I got a scornful, "well he's only 7 months", how do parents expect us kid-free folk to know all this stuff?!

Great post.

[NKY]

Jonathan - you really are too kind. Glad you liked the last volley of posts.

[jonathan]

I'm glad for his own sake that Malcolm is safely esconced in suburban Hackney cos by the evidence of this triple-header of cracking posts he'd last about ten minutes in Sheffield, Wednesday or no Wednesday (although any readers versed in the sociological nuances of the Steel City will no doubt concur that Modern Dance enthusiasts are slightly less thin on the ground at Hillsborough than would be the case over at Bramhall Lane...)

Nan meanwhile is clearly trying to tell you something vis a vis your latent but as yet untapped fatherly quailties. Or could it be that V, Leonie and India are in cahoots here and have been training the baby up parrot-like, to react to your presence in such a way as to awaken your procreational urges? No now I'm getting carried away...

Anyway Mark what I really want to say is welcome back... I never gave up on you, kept checking back every month or so... looking forward to more of the same whenever you can manage it!

[Portnoy's Whinge]

Surely india is a worse name than a victorian one?

[Emmachristian]

Heh heh heh. Very funny but it's LITERALLY impossible to buy kids toys that aren't made in China!