honors, Pauline?”
“The honors?” Pauline stares at Mum.
“Open them,” Clover prompts. “Sylvie won’t leave until you do. She has a thing about watching gifts being unwrapped. When she was a kid, she used to tear the paper off her birthday presents before the guests had even gotten in the door.”
Pauline sniffs. “Is that so? I always taught my Shelly to keep her presents until after her birthday party so she could write proper thank-you cards to everyone.”
“Oh, Mum, stop!” Shelly says. “I’d love to open my presents.” Then she turns to me. “Would you like to hold your sister, Amy?”
I feel a rush of nerves and excitement. She’s so minuscule — what if I drop her? “Can I?”
“Of course. You’ll need to get in practice. I’m hoping you’ll be her first babysitter.”
Pauline tut-tuts. “You can’t leave a teenager in charge of a newborn, Shelly. What are you thinking? And, of course,
I’ll
be Grace’s very first babysitter.” She puffs out her chest. “I intend to stick around for quite some time. At least a month.”
Dad looks up from his BlackBerry. He heard that all right! His shocked face is a picture.
“I know, Mum, but right now, Amy’s going to hold Gracie,” Shelly says brightly. “Now, sit down and get comfortable, Amy, and I’ll pass her to you. Her head’s pretty floppy, so you have to support it with your arm. Oh, and watch the heart-monitor wire.”
I sit down and Shelly passes Gracie over. She’s ultra light, like a doll. I support her head in the crook of my arm and gaze down. Her eyes are closed now, tiny purple veins running over the lids like road maps, and I can see her chest rising and falling under the yellow swaddling blanket. Her skin is reddish pink, and blue veins throb at her temples. She looks so wee, so vulnerable. I lower my head a little and breathe in her scent; she smells delicious, fresh cotton mixed with vanilla.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. “She’s a little miracle, Dad.”
But Dad’s too busy fiddling with his BlackBerry to notice.
“That she is,” Mum says, hunkering down and staring at her. She smiles at me. “And you’re a natural, Amy. You’ve always been brilliant with babies.”
“Now, let’s look at these famous presents,” Pauline says loudly, making Gracie’s eyelids flicker. (I think Pauline likes being the center of attention.)
“Hush, now,” I say to Gracie, rocking her gently. She goes back to sleep.
“Presents!” Pauline says again, handing the bag to Shelly, who sits down on the side of the bed and begins to peel back the tissue paper carefully. She pulls out the hat and three pairs of baby tights and smiles. “Tights. How useful. And what a cute little hat.” It’s red with a green top, like a strawberry.
“They’re from me,” Clover says.
Shelly sets them down on the bed beside her and then smooths and folds the tissue paper neatly. “Thanks, Clover.”
Meanwhile, Pauline has picked up a pair of the tights and is examining them, rubbing the wool between her fingers. “Can these be exchanged? I’m not sure they’re soft enough, and my Grace might be allergic to wool.”
“Mum!” Shelly frowns at her. “I’m sure they’ll be just perfect.” She opens the next parcel — pink corduroy dungarees and a striped navy-and-white sailor dress in soft cotton jersey, with matching knickers to go over Gracie’s nappy.
“Do you like them?” I ask nervously.
“Love them,” Shelly says. “The dungarees are so cute. And the little sailor dress will look darling. Maybe she’ll be big enough to wear it on Christmas Day.”
I’m touched. That’s a really nice thing to say. I know we haven’t had the best of starts, but I’m beginning to warm to Shelly.
“But my Grace will be wearing the red velvet dress with the Portuguese lace collar, darling,” Pauline twitters. “Don’t you remember? I chose it especially.”
“She can wear both,”
“The honors?” Pauline stares at Mum.
“Open them,” Clover prompts. “Sylvie won’t leave until you do. She has a thing about watching gifts being unwrapped. When she was a kid, she used to tear the paper off her birthday presents before the guests had even gotten in the door.”
Pauline sniffs. “Is that so? I always taught my Shelly to keep her presents until after her birthday party so she could write proper thank-you cards to everyone.”
“Oh, Mum, stop!” Shelly says. “I’d love to open my presents.” Then she turns to me. “Would you like to hold your sister, Amy?”
I feel a rush of nerves and excitement. She’s so minuscule — what if I drop her? “Can I?”
“Of course. You’ll need to get in practice. I’m hoping you’ll be her first babysitter.”
Pauline tut-tuts. “You can’t leave a teenager in charge of a newborn, Shelly. What are you thinking? And, of course,
I’ll
be Grace’s very first babysitter.” She puffs out her chest. “I intend to stick around for quite some time. At least a month.”
Dad looks up from his BlackBerry. He heard that all right! His shocked face is a picture.
“I know, Mum, but right now, Amy’s going to hold Gracie,” Shelly says brightly. “Now, sit down and get comfortable, Amy, and I’ll pass her to you. Her head’s pretty floppy, so you have to support it with your arm. Oh, and watch the heart-monitor wire.”
I sit down and Shelly passes Gracie over. She’s ultra light, like a doll. I support her head in the crook of my arm and gaze down. Her eyes are closed now, tiny purple veins running over the lids like road maps, and I can see her chest rising and falling under the yellow swaddling blanket. Her skin is reddish pink, and blue veins throb at her temples. She looks so wee, so vulnerable. I lower my head a little and breathe in her scent; she smells delicious, fresh cotton mixed with vanilla.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. “She’s a little miracle, Dad.”
But Dad’s too busy fiddling with his BlackBerry to notice.
“That she is,” Mum says, hunkering down and staring at her. She smiles at me. “And you’re a natural, Amy. You’ve always been brilliant with babies.”
“Now, let’s look at these famous presents,” Pauline says loudly, making Gracie’s eyelids flicker. (I think Pauline likes being the center of attention.)
“Hush, now,” I say to Gracie, rocking her gently. She goes back to sleep.
“Presents!” Pauline says again, handing the bag to Shelly, who sits down on the side of the bed and begins to peel back the tissue paper carefully. She pulls out the hat and three pairs of baby tights and smiles. “Tights. How useful. And what a cute little hat.” It’s red with a green top, like a strawberry.
“They’re from me,” Clover says.
Shelly sets them down on the bed beside her and then smooths and folds the tissue paper neatly. “Thanks, Clover.”
Meanwhile, Pauline has picked up a pair of the tights and is examining them, rubbing the wool between her fingers. “Can these be exchanged? I’m not sure they’re soft enough, and my Grace might be allergic to wool.”
“Mum!” Shelly frowns at her. “I’m sure they’ll be just perfect.” She opens the next parcel — pink corduroy dungarees and a striped navy-and-white sailor dress in soft cotton jersey, with matching knickers to go over Gracie’s nappy.
“Do you like them?” I ask nervously.
“Love them,” Shelly says. “The dungarees are so cute. And the little sailor dress will look darling. Maybe she’ll be big enough to wear it on Christmas Day.”
I’m touched. That’s a really nice thing to say. I know we haven’t had the best of starts, but I’m beginning to warm to Shelly.
“But my Grace will be wearing the red velvet dress with the Portuguese lace collar, darling,” Pauline twitters. “Don’t you remember? I chose it especially.”
“She can wear both,”
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