enables him to feel hands-on and useful.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Fen. ‘I like watching him.’
‘Watching or checking?’ Django posed. ‘It's good for him to feel useful – because, you see, you are so very capable , Fenella.’ Fen was taken aback by the use of her name in full and she detected a subtle note of warning from Django. ‘It must be easy for Matt to feel left out a little – on account of you being so very capable.’
Fen felt a little defensive but it was too early and she was too tired to express it with much vehemence. ‘It's not that Matt does things wrong,’ Fen attempted to explain, ‘It's that he doesn't do things quite right. It's often easier for me just to do it in the first place. It saves time. And tears.’ With that she took the warmed milk upstairs to feed a now grumbling Cosima.
Fen gazed down at her daughter, sucking contentedly on the bottle, locking eyes with her and sharing silent waves of intense love. She looked over to Matt who was sound asleep. How strange to feel simultaneously grateful but also resentful of the fact. Though nothing, not even a much-needed simple lie-in, was worth trading these silent waves of love, yet still Fen felt a little put upon that Matt never woke instinctively in advance of the baby stirring. However, though she knew that He'd be happy for her to boot him out of bed and be on early-morning bottle duty, she also knew She'd only lie there wondering if the bottle had been mixed correctly,whether it was the right temperature. She'd end up double-checking anyway. So what was the point in not doing it herself in the first place? There was no such thing as a liein. Did it slightly offend Matt? She rubbished the notion – he understood, didn't he? He understood that It's a mother's prerogative to be finicky. It's out of love for the baby anyway. No bad thing.
An hour later, swathed in his voluminous velvet dressing gown, his hair not yet pony-tailed and so fanning around his shoulders in silver skeins, Django sat in state, in the huge old Windsor chair in the kitchen. He looked like a Norse god, or straight from a William Blake painting, receiving his house guests one by one. First Tom, who scampered down, hair in hysterics, to see where his roommate was. Then Zac, to check his son hadn't actually woken Django. Then Pip, to check Zac and Tom were helping themselves to breakfast though of course she found Django busy rustling up his panffles, because He'd offered to make his highly complicated hybrid of pancake and waffle and Zac and Tom had readily accepted. Cat and Ben appeared because the scent of maple syrup warming over pancakes or waffles or some such, had drifted evocatively into their room and filled them with hungry memories of American breakfasts. Next came Fen and Cosima, the baby dressed immaculately down to the colour-coordinated tiny hair grip gathering together the few strands she had, while her mother wore mismatched socks. Finally, Matt emerged, still sleep-crumpled but characteristically cheerful.
‘The morning is for Chatsworth, the afternoon is for lolling and party planning, and the evening is for the Rag and Thistle – for men who are over the limit,’ Django announced.
‘Over the limit?’ Zac and Matt asked.
‘Over the age limit,’ Django said, with an apologetic ruffle to Tom's wayward hair.
‘I see,’ said Cat, hands on hips with consternation that wasn't wholly mock, ‘while we womenfolk keep the home fire burning?’
‘And do the washing-up,’ Django added calmly. The men cheered. The baby cried. Let the day begin.
If Django was a perk of being married to, or partnered with, a McCabe girl, it was definitely a high point of a trip to Derbyshire to share an evening at the Rag and Thistle with their eccentric host. While Zac, Matt and Ben donned a change of shirts, Django certainly dressed for his big night out; watched by Tom fascinated with the provenance of each article of clothing. Django gathered this was a
‘Absolutely,’ said Fen. ‘I like watching him.’
‘Watching or checking?’ Django posed. ‘It's good for him to feel useful – because, you see, you are so very capable , Fenella.’ Fen was taken aback by the use of her name in full and she detected a subtle note of warning from Django. ‘It must be easy for Matt to feel left out a little – on account of you being so very capable.’
Fen felt a little defensive but it was too early and she was too tired to express it with much vehemence. ‘It's not that Matt does things wrong,’ Fen attempted to explain, ‘It's that he doesn't do things quite right. It's often easier for me just to do it in the first place. It saves time. And tears.’ With that she took the warmed milk upstairs to feed a now grumbling Cosima.
Fen gazed down at her daughter, sucking contentedly on the bottle, locking eyes with her and sharing silent waves of intense love. She looked over to Matt who was sound asleep. How strange to feel simultaneously grateful but also resentful of the fact. Though nothing, not even a much-needed simple lie-in, was worth trading these silent waves of love, yet still Fen felt a little put upon that Matt never woke instinctively in advance of the baby stirring. However, though she knew that He'd be happy for her to boot him out of bed and be on early-morning bottle duty, she also knew She'd only lie there wondering if the bottle had been mixed correctly,whether it was the right temperature. She'd end up double-checking anyway. So what was the point in not doing it herself in the first place? There was no such thing as a liein. Did it slightly offend Matt? She rubbished the notion – he understood, didn't he? He understood that It's a mother's prerogative to be finicky. It's out of love for the baby anyway. No bad thing.
An hour later, swathed in his voluminous velvet dressing gown, his hair not yet pony-tailed and so fanning around his shoulders in silver skeins, Django sat in state, in the huge old Windsor chair in the kitchen. He looked like a Norse god, or straight from a William Blake painting, receiving his house guests one by one. First Tom, who scampered down, hair in hysterics, to see where his roommate was. Then Zac, to check his son hadn't actually woken Django. Then Pip, to check Zac and Tom were helping themselves to breakfast though of course she found Django busy rustling up his panffles, because He'd offered to make his highly complicated hybrid of pancake and waffle and Zac and Tom had readily accepted. Cat and Ben appeared because the scent of maple syrup warming over pancakes or waffles or some such, had drifted evocatively into their room and filled them with hungry memories of American breakfasts. Next came Fen and Cosima, the baby dressed immaculately down to the colour-coordinated tiny hair grip gathering together the few strands she had, while her mother wore mismatched socks. Finally, Matt emerged, still sleep-crumpled but characteristically cheerful.
‘The morning is for Chatsworth, the afternoon is for lolling and party planning, and the evening is for the Rag and Thistle – for men who are over the limit,’ Django announced.
‘Over the limit?’ Zac and Matt asked.
‘Over the age limit,’ Django said, with an apologetic ruffle to Tom's wayward hair.
‘I see,’ said Cat, hands on hips with consternation that wasn't wholly mock, ‘while we womenfolk keep the home fire burning?’
‘And do the washing-up,’ Django added calmly. The men cheered. The baby cried. Let the day begin.
If Django was a perk of being married to, or partnered with, a McCabe girl, it was definitely a high point of a trip to Derbyshire to share an evening at the Rag and Thistle with their eccentric host. While Zac, Matt and Ben donned a change of shirts, Django certainly dressed for his big night out; watched by Tom fascinated with the provenance of each article of clothing. Django gathered this was a
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