are,’ Elaine said.
‘So … I don’t blame Xan for feeling angry. But at the same time he’s thirty-seven, not twenty-two, and he’s far from poor, so I feel he could have been bigger and better about it all. Milly’s been in the world for three weeks now and he has yet to acknowledge her existence. It seems heartless,’ I added bleakly.
‘He’s probably terrified,’ Elaine said.
‘How could anyone be terrified of Milly?’ I murmured, stroking her head. It was as soft as swansdown.
‘He’s terrified of what it means. Because the minute he does acknowledge that she exists, he also has to acknowledge that he’s a father and that his long “boyhood” is over. Plus he wants to punish you.’
‘That’s certainly true. He said he’d never forgive me.’
‘But he won’t always feel as he feels now. Everything will change. Because it always does.’
It wasn’t that what Elaine said was ever startlingly original, but her insights were always comfortingly spot-on. And she had a gift for sympathy – an ability to relate in a thoughtful, imaginative way to other people’s feelings.
She worked six days a week and had Sundays off. On these she caught an early train to Bath to stay with her friend, returning twenty-four hours later. Dad spent the first two Sundays with me, then, on the third, Cassie visited me with a number of knitted garments. ‘Sorry they’re a bit wonky,’ she explained. There were visible mistakes on every one. ‘But because we all gossip so much at Stitch ’n’ Bitch – or Knit ’n’ Natter as I prefer to call it – I didn’t notice until it was too late and I hate undoing knitting.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘They’re … lovely.’ I wished that she could knit her own life into some more meaningful shape.
‘And this is for you.’ I opened the little pink gift bag. Inside was a tub of Crème de la Mer.
‘What a treat, Cassie – thanks!’
‘Well, I figured you’d need a bit of luxury having just had a baby. Anyway’ – she offered Milly her little finger to clasp – ‘she’s … adorable. Aren’t you, darling? Yes, you are , sweetie. She’s like Mum, isn’t she?’ she added quietly. And this surprised me as Cassie rarely mentions Mum – as though she can’t bear to.
‘She is a little. The mouth. And the chin.’
‘And is she good?’
‘As gold.’
‘Feeding well?’
‘Fairly champing at the tit.’
‘And has he been in touch?’ Cassie asked in her characteristically direct way.
‘No,’ I murmured. ‘He hasn’t and, to be honest, I’d rather not discuss him.’
Cassie slumped into a chair. ‘I think I know why it didn’t work out between you.’
‘How could you possibly know?’ I said wearily. ‘You only met him once, for five minutes.’
‘That’s true – but I could tell that he was somehow … restless. It was as though he was poised for flight.’
‘I don’t see how you could have known that when I didn’t,’ I protested. ‘Especially as I hadn’t told you anything about him.’
‘It was because of his footwear,’ she replied.
‘His what?’
‘I noticed that he was wearing desert boots and they’re often worn by men who travel a lot.’ I stared at her. ‘Plus you had hopelessly incompatible names. How could you go out with a man called Xan, when you’re called Anna?’ she went on. ‘“Xan ’n’ Anna” doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, does it? Nor does “Anna ’n’ Xan” – though you could have just called yourselves “Xanna”, I suppose …’ She wound her long dark hair into a thick knot and secured it with a pencil while she considered the question.
‘How was your Austrian spa?’ I asked, keen to change the subject.
‘Interesting,’ she said judiciously, ‘if a little rigorous. All we got to eat were these prison rations of plain yoghurt and sourdough bread, each bit of which we had to chew seventy-five times.’
‘And how much did you have to pay for this
‘So … I don’t blame Xan for feeling angry. But at the same time he’s thirty-seven, not twenty-two, and he’s far from poor, so I feel he could have been bigger and better about it all. Milly’s been in the world for three weeks now and he has yet to acknowledge her existence. It seems heartless,’ I added bleakly.
‘He’s probably terrified,’ Elaine said.
‘How could anyone be terrified of Milly?’ I murmured, stroking her head. It was as soft as swansdown.
‘He’s terrified of what it means. Because the minute he does acknowledge that she exists, he also has to acknowledge that he’s a father and that his long “boyhood” is over. Plus he wants to punish you.’
‘That’s certainly true. He said he’d never forgive me.’
‘But he won’t always feel as he feels now. Everything will change. Because it always does.’
It wasn’t that what Elaine said was ever startlingly original, but her insights were always comfortingly spot-on. And she had a gift for sympathy – an ability to relate in a thoughtful, imaginative way to other people’s feelings.
She worked six days a week and had Sundays off. On these she caught an early train to Bath to stay with her friend, returning twenty-four hours later. Dad spent the first two Sundays with me, then, on the third, Cassie visited me with a number of knitted garments. ‘Sorry they’re a bit wonky,’ she explained. There were visible mistakes on every one. ‘But because we all gossip so much at Stitch ’n’ Bitch – or Knit ’n’ Natter as I prefer to call it – I didn’t notice until it was too late and I hate undoing knitting.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘They’re … lovely.’ I wished that she could knit her own life into some more meaningful shape.
‘And this is for you.’ I opened the little pink gift bag. Inside was a tub of Crème de la Mer.
‘What a treat, Cassie – thanks!’
‘Well, I figured you’d need a bit of luxury having just had a baby. Anyway’ – she offered Milly her little finger to clasp – ‘she’s … adorable. Aren’t you, darling? Yes, you are , sweetie. She’s like Mum, isn’t she?’ she added quietly. And this surprised me as Cassie rarely mentions Mum – as though she can’t bear to.
‘She is a little. The mouth. And the chin.’
‘And is she good?’
‘As gold.’
‘Feeding well?’
‘Fairly champing at the tit.’
‘And has he been in touch?’ Cassie asked in her characteristically direct way.
‘No,’ I murmured. ‘He hasn’t and, to be honest, I’d rather not discuss him.’
Cassie slumped into a chair. ‘I think I know why it didn’t work out between you.’
‘How could you possibly know?’ I said wearily. ‘You only met him once, for five minutes.’
‘That’s true – but I could tell that he was somehow … restless. It was as though he was poised for flight.’
‘I don’t see how you could have known that when I didn’t,’ I protested. ‘Especially as I hadn’t told you anything about him.’
‘It was because of his footwear,’ she replied.
‘His what?’
‘I noticed that he was wearing desert boots and they’re often worn by men who travel a lot.’ I stared at her. ‘Plus you had hopelessly incompatible names. How could you go out with a man called Xan, when you’re called Anna?’ she went on. ‘“Xan ’n’ Anna” doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, does it? Nor does “Anna ’n’ Xan” – though you could have just called yourselves “Xanna”, I suppose …’ She wound her long dark hair into a thick knot and secured it with a pencil while she considered the question.
‘How was your Austrian spa?’ I asked, keen to change the subject.
‘Interesting,’ she said judiciously, ‘if a little rigorous. All we got to eat were these prison rations of plain yoghurt and sourdough bread, each bit of which we had to chew seventy-five times.’
‘And how much did you have to pay for this
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