‘So nice to see you aren’t using gender-stereotypical toys for the children,’ said a cool voice.
Sam felt that tightening in her guts again. Her mother felt that non-gender-stereotypical toys were useful in that they might convince a girl to do higher level science and maths and go off to prove themselves in male-dominated worlds.
She didn’t seem to realise that a three-year-old wanting to play with trains was just a three-year-old wanting to play with trains. No, everything had to have a superior purpose down the line.
‘Isn’t this great, Posy,’ said Sam, trying not to grit her teeth in case the ensuing rictus grin frightened her niece.
There was something therapeutic about making a curved track, she’d found from previous visits. Finally, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time, with Jean exchanging idle chit-chat with Joanne while Sam studiously ignored it all and played with Posy, it was time to eat.
The calm of track-making vanished over dinner.
‘I sent you an email enquiring about the pregnancy,’ said her mother, looking at Sam over the top of her bifocals, precisely the way an irritated headmistress would look at a misbehaving student. For a moment, Sam felt just like a misbehaving student, preferably one from St Trinian’s.
‘I get so many emails, I just never got round to answering it, Mother, but I had been talking to Dad. I was telling him things were doing really well. Phone calls are easier – you can only imagine the number of emails I get from work.’
‘Yes,’ said her mother. ‘Talking of work, your father told me about this scandal of the missing money and some volunteer person who has been helping themselves with a credit card over the years. Goodness, what a mess that appears to have been. It’s . . . how shall we say . . .’ Jean seemed to be considering the correct Oxford dictionary definition of a mess, ‘. . . tricky to extract oneself from that sort of scandal. You don’t want your career blighted.’
Sam glared at her father, who mouthed sorry. What on earth had made him divulge this bit of information?
‘Have you sorted it out yet?’ her mother went on, excellent in the role of High Inquisitor.
‘We’re trying to get to the bottom of it but it’s complicated,’ said Sam, which was an understatement. ‘It’s an older lady who didn’t mean any harm.’
‘You shouldn’t make excuses for people,’ her mother interrupted. ‘We all make our choices in life.’
Sam stared down at her plate, rage surging up inside her.
Her inner voice was screaming: And your choice was to have children and then never be there for them! Where’s the apology for that? And you’re still doing it!
‘Wasn’t that a fabulous match yesterday,’ said Patrick, determined to break the impasse.
‘Yes,’ said Ted, picking up instantly. ‘Some great tries.’
‘Oh fabulous, fabulous match,’ said her father and the three men talked loudly as if they might somehow banish the frostiness by discussing tackles and points and really why was there not special eye surgery for referees because they kept missing fouls.
Posy wanted to clamber onto Sam’s lap and she let her.
‘Hello baba, what’s wrong?’
‘Not a baba, I’m three,’ said Posy crossly.
‘Three, I thought you were seven,’ said her Aunt Sam, hugging her and feeling the comfort of having this little scrap of beauty sitting on her lap.
Luckily Sam’s parents didn’t stay long and with a final hug from her father and a whispered, ‘I’m sorry I mentioned the problem in work, Sam,’ they were gone.
‘Please tell me when she’s invited for dinner again, will you,’ said Sam, sinking down into an armchair and then wondering why because she knew she wouldn’t be able to get out of it without help.
‘Don’t you like Granny?’ said Isabelle, standing in front of Sam, little hands on her tiny little girl hips. ‘I like Granny. She’s in charge of a school. I’m going to be in charge of the world when I grow up.’
‘You’re in charge already,’ sighed her father. ‘She is, you know,’ he said to Sam and Ted, ‘totally in charge.’
‘That’s because I’m the oldest,’ said Isabelle, staring smugly at her sisters. ‘I’m the oldest so what I say goes.’
As the tidying progressed, a mild scuffle broke out over who was really in charge, but a roar from Joanne settled them all down.
‘No TV all week if you fight. Shouting hurts Auntie Sam’s baby’s ears.’
‘Ooohh.’
Three little girls arrived to stand in front of Sam and looked at her belly curiously, as if wanting to see evidence of the baby’s ears, a diagram of possible ear damage or even a real, live baby they could dress up in dolls’ clothes.
‘You can touch if you like,’ said Sam.
Pixie patted the bump, but Posy laid her head on Sam’s belly.
‘I am your cousin,’ she whispered. ‘I will take care of you, but stay away from my trains ’cos they are mine, right?’
The grown-ups laughed and eventually, bored, the three girls went off to various parts of the room to play.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam, ‘I know I should be doing something to help but I just can’t – I have to sit here, I just feel like a, a . . .’
‘A whale?’ supplied her sister.
‘Yeah, a whale. Exactly. It’s really weird, this growing a person inside you.’
‘How does a baby get inside you?’ said Isabelle, arriving back at speed.
‘We want to know.’ Pixie and Isabelle were both staring at her now, fascinated.
Busy playing with her trains, Posy explained: ‘The mummy eats a seed from the daddy and the mummy has to be careful not to poo out the seed until the seed is a baby.’
Isabelle giggled.
‘Is that it?’ said Pixie. ‘I don’t want to eat one of those seeds because I don’t want a baby. Babies cry all the time, like Posy.’
‘I don’t cry.’
Suddenly there was a full-scale riot going on, complete with screaming. Posy, who had clearly been having ninja training from somewhere, began hair pulling.
‘I’d cancel the karate lessons,’ remarked Ted. ‘No need for them.’
‘Mummy, she pulled my hair,’ screamed Isabelle.
‘You were mean to me,’ shouted Posy, and to prove that she was indeed the youngest and most injured, she let forth a few blood-curdling roars that made her father pick her up. Her mother went to comfort the other two girls.