Fenella.’
‘What's yours?’
‘Al.’
‘Short for Alan?’
‘No, Alistair.’
‘Ah.’
‘Know any Alistairs?’
‘Nope, You're my first.’
‘What's the baby's name?’
‘Cosima.’
‘That's pretty.’
‘I think some people think It's a bit pretentious.’
‘Is the mum a bit arty-farty then?’
‘The mum?’ Fen was simultaneously shocked and charmed again. ‘I am the mummy.’
‘No way! I thought you were the nanny.’
‘No. I'm the mother all right.’ ‘Cool. I see. Wow.’
There followed a pause that was simultaneously awkward yet heightened as they both scrambled around for some other common ground, just something to say, to prolong conversation.
‘Anyway, we'd better go – we're meeting my sister at Kenwood,’ Fen said, as if She'd been miles away and had suddenly come to. ‘It's been nice talking to you. And I'm sorry – about Kay.’
‘Thanks. Thanks. Nice to meet you too – and Cosima. How old is she?’
‘Eight months old,’ said Fen, now really wanting to know how old Al was and whether he was younger or older than his late sister. They'd paused too long for her to ask now. ‘Bye, then,’ she said, a little reluctantly. And just a little coyly too.
Fen walked on. She stopped and turned. Al was looking after her. She waved and he raised his hand. She strolled onwards to Kenwood House, breaking into a sudden grin every now and then. Flattery. How good it felt. ‘I don't know whether to be charmed or insulted,’ she said to Cosima as she walked. ‘I thought I had “Frumpy mum” written all over me.’
The unusual incident, the unexpected attention of a stranger, the break from the drag of just a normal day, served as a tonic that Fen wanted to keep private for utmost potency. So when Pip said how bright she looked, Fen didn't mentionAl. She didn't say that attraction is a peculiar, sly thing that can work wonders on the complexion. She pointed instead to a good night's sleep at last and that Cosima had gobbled up pear purée that morning that had no orange tinge to it whatsoever.
‘It wouldn't be wise to tell Auntie Pip anyway,’ Fen chattered at Cosima as they walked back. ‘Auntie Pip would only give me her worried look – her “Motherhood has made my sister loopy” look.’ Fen stopped at Al's flowers. Cosima was fast asleep. Fen tucked the fleece around the baby and stroked her cheek. ‘I feel a bit ambivalent that I should feel just slightly flattered that Al thought I was the nanny, not your mother. He said “Wow” when I corrected him. What did that “Wow” mean exactly? That I look good for my age? That I'm a yummy mummy? That I'm the first person He's met with an eight-month-old baby? I can't remember the last time I wowed someone. Daddy just calls me silly.’
Waterworks
‘Mr and Mrs York! Mr and Mrs Holmes and Master Holmes! Mr Holden, Ms McCabe, Miss Holden-McCabe! Welcome one and all.’ Django genuflected flamboyantly throughout his roll-call, much to everyone's amusement. He was wearing the jeans He'd worn to Woodstock, tessellations of denim patchworked together, teamed with a shirt swirling brightly with paisley motifs. His belt was all buckle, in the bashed bronze form of a mounted Red Indian, bow and arrow poised. Pip had seen similar go for princely sums on ebay. ‘Cuppa tea? Something to dunk?’
‘Can I have squash?’ Tom asked, but directed the question to his father. ‘And something to dunk?’ Although Django was certainly the most exotic adult he knew, Tom still passed all requests via his father first.
‘You can, my boy, you can,’ Django responded to Zac's nod, ‘but you'll have to tell me how to squash it – I'm sure to have the ingredients.’
‘You just untwist the bottle top, pour in about a centimetre and then top it up with water. Even water from a tap,’ Tom explained helpfully despite being somewhat incredulous. It occurred to Django only then that they were talking differenttypes of squash. He
‘What's yours?’
‘Al.’
‘Short for Alan?’
‘No, Alistair.’
‘Ah.’
‘Know any Alistairs?’
‘Nope, You're my first.’
‘What's the baby's name?’
‘Cosima.’
‘That's pretty.’
‘I think some people think It's a bit pretentious.’
‘Is the mum a bit arty-farty then?’
‘The mum?’ Fen was simultaneously shocked and charmed again. ‘I am the mummy.’
‘No way! I thought you were the nanny.’
‘No. I'm the mother all right.’ ‘Cool. I see. Wow.’
There followed a pause that was simultaneously awkward yet heightened as they both scrambled around for some other common ground, just something to say, to prolong conversation.
‘Anyway, we'd better go – we're meeting my sister at Kenwood,’ Fen said, as if She'd been miles away and had suddenly come to. ‘It's been nice talking to you. And I'm sorry – about Kay.’
‘Thanks. Thanks. Nice to meet you too – and Cosima. How old is she?’
‘Eight months old,’ said Fen, now really wanting to know how old Al was and whether he was younger or older than his late sister. They'd paused too long for her to ask now. ‘Bye, then,’ she said, a little reluctantly. And just a little coyly too.
Fen walked on. She stopped and turned. Al was looking after her. She waved and he raised his hand. She strolled onwards to Kenwood House, breaking into a sudden grin every now and then. Flattery. How good it felt. ‘I don't know whether to be charmed or insulted,’ she said to Cosima as she walked. ‘I thought I had “Frumpy mum” written all over me.’
The unusual incident, the unexpected attention of a stranger, the break from the drag of just a normal day, served as a tonic that Fen wanted to keep private for utmost potency. So when Pip said how bright she looked, Fen didn't mentionAl. She didn't say that attraction is a peculiar, sly thing that can work wonders on the complexion. She pointed instead to a good night's sleep at last and that Cosima had gobbled up pear purée that morning that had no orange tinge to it whatsoever.
‘It wouldn't be wise to tell Auntie Pip anyway,’ Fen chattered at Cosima as they walked back. ‘Auntie Pip would only give me her worried look – her “Motherhood has made my sister loopy” look.’ Fen stopped at Al's flowers. Cosima was fast asleep. Fen tucked the fleece around the baby and stroked her cheek. ‘I feel a bit ambivalent that I should feel just slightly flattered that Al thought I was the nanny, not your mother. He said “Wow” when I corrected him. What did that “Wow” mean exactly? That I look good for my age? That I'm a yummy mummy? That I'm the first person He's met with an eight-month-old baby? I can't remember the last time I wowed someone. Daddy just calls me silly.’
Waterworks
‘Mr and Mrs York! Mr and Mrs Holmes and Master Holmes! Mr Holden, Ms McCabe, Miss Holden-McCabe! Welcome one and all.’ Django genuflected flamboyantly throughout his roll-call, much to everyone's amusement. He was wearing the jeans He'd worn to Woodstock, tessellations of denim patchworked together, teamed with a shirt swirling brightly with paisley motifs. His belt was all buckle, in the bashed bronze form of a mounted Red Indian, bow and arrow poised. Pip had seen similar go for princely sums on ebay. ‘Cuppa tea? Something to dunk?’
‘Can I have squash?’ Tom asked, but directed the question to his father. ‘And something to dunk?’ Although Django was certainly the most exotic adult he knew, Tom still passed all requests via his father first.
‘You can, my boy, you can,’ Django responded to Zac's nod, ‘but you'll have to tell me how to squash it – I'm sure to have the ingredients.’
‘You just untwist the bottle top, pour in about a centimetre and then top it up with water. Even water from a tap,’ Tom explained helpfully despite being somewhat incredulous. It occurred to Django only then that they were talking differenttypes of squash. He
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