‘I finished!’ she announced as she dragged the remnants of the cookie mixture along the front of her apron.
Grace grabbed the greased baking tray. ‘Come on, baby, help Mummy put your cookie on here and then we can bake it.’
Chloe’s tongue popped out of the right side of her mouth, one of her many endearing habits that denoted extreme concentration. Grace had seen Tom do something similar when they were playing backgammon or when he was writing emails; she loved how nature asserted itself in the strangest of ways.
Many hands in this case did not make light work; instead it rather confused what should have been a straightforward task. As they wrestled with the dough and Grace tried to manoeuvre the metal tray, the slippery mixture somehow managed to end up in a squashed mess on the floor.
Tears at the injustice of this sprang instantly from Chloe’s eyes. ‘My cookie! Silly Mummy!’ Chloe wailed. ‘You silly Mummy!’
Grace pulled her little girl from her chair; she held her a little too tightly and cooed into her sweet-scented scalp. ‘I’m sorry, Chlo. Please don’t cry. We can scoop it up and cook it anyway and no one will ever know. Okay?’
‘‘Kay.’ Chloe sniffed and wiped her eyes with her dough-covered fingers, sticking blobs of cookie mixture onto her long eyelashes. ‘My eyes are sticky!’ She rubbed them again and blinked furiously.
Grace reached for the kitchen roll, hoping she’d saved the email she’d been composing before she’d had to abandon her phone. As ever, she wondered how things had deteriorated so quickly into farce.
That afternoon, the three of them sat on the sofa with their legs stretched out on the large, square, padded stool that doubled as a table, watching Mr Bloom plant things.
‘How was Paz?’
‘Good. Happy.’ Tom smiled as his daughter wriggled back into his arms and rested her head on him. ‘Wow, now
this
is the life.’ Tom winked at his wife.
Grace nodded, hoping for a sly snooze while Chloe was engrossed in the television. She looked at the utter contentment on her husband’s face and it made her smile. His own childhood had been privileged but lacking in affection and he’d been very clear to Grace about wanting them to parent Chloe in a different, if not a better way.
Tom was the oldest son of Maxwell and Fiona Penderford and home had been a solid mansion on the edge of the North Yorks Moors – not that he’d spent much time in it, as he and his younger brother Jack were sent away to school at the age of seven. Tom had once explained to Grace that he had always felt his visits home upset the delicate balance that was his parents’ existence. His mother always appeared to be slightly flustered by his presence, as though she really didn’t know what she was supposed to do with ‘the boys’ when they were home. It made Grace sad that Tom could recall no more than a couple of occasions when they’d sat down to dinner as a family; and when they had, there’d been stilted conversation and discomfort all round.
Maxwell Penderford had taken his family’s land and cash and established one of the country’s largest construction companies. He’d been delighted when Tom had announced his intention to be an architect; Maxwell assumed that it was a roundabout way of learning the family business. The fact that Tom then chose to carve his own way and, since the birth of Chloe, hadn’t worked at all, had been met with thinly disguised disgust. This was the latest reason why Tom chose not to speak to his parents unless it was absolutely necessary.
Grace’s upbringing could not have been more different. Her parents were wonderfully supportive. It had been no surprise for Tom to learn that Olive had not only baked three times a week for her family, but that Mac, despite being a bigwig in the Metropolitan Police, had been a school governor, making sure he was as fully involved as possible in the girls’ education. Tom knew with certainty that his parents had never known what class he was in, much less the name of any of his tutors.
Holidays for Grace had been idyllic, epic camping trips to the remote Scottish wilderness. Her mum and dad would share tea from the plastic cup on the thermos flask and she and Alice would argue over the last warm, squashed, cheese and pickle sandwich that languished in the bottom of their dad’s rucksack. Grace smiled at the memory of them bickering and paying no attention to the majesty of their surroundings while her parents tried to snooze hand in hand on a bed of heather. She knew her husband felt a physical twist in his stomach when he compared that with his own family’s summer breaks, where he and Jack would be collected from school by an ever changing nanny/au pair/housekeeper and flown to their house in Barbados. The neighbours there were an eclectic mix of writers, screen stars and minor royalty and his parents worked hard to infiltrate the club, conscious that it was a pretty good outcome for a family of builders from Yorkshire.
It upset Grace to learn that the feelings Tom associated most with his childhood were nervousness and an anxious tummy, not dissimilar to being obliged to live among strangers. He and his brother were close because they shared their unique upbringing, yet there was also a coolness between them as neither wanted too much reminding of what life used to be like for them. Tom hoped that Jack would be fortunate enough to find the kind of happiness he had with Grace and that he too would build a family that would heal him, in the way that his had.
Tom never wanted Chloe to feel the way that he had felt, never wanted her to feel she couldn’t be herself, speak her mind or ask for a hug if she needed it at the end of a tricky day. Her life would be very, very different. He would make sure of it.
‘Eat your biscuit!’ Chloe demanded, watching as her dad gingerly prodded the rather grey-looking pastry that was full of what looked like lumps of plastic and had a paperclip sticking from the top.
‘It looks lovely, Chlo, but I don’t want to spoil my tea, so I might save it and eat it later.’
Grace sat up straight and turned to her husband. ‘Nonsense! Don’t worry, Tom, your tea isn’t for ages. You can eat all of your cookie up and still have plenty of room for tea later.’
Chloe nodded in agreement.
Tom grimaced at his wife and narrowed his eyes as he spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Well, okay, thank you for that. But I insist that we share it, half each. Half for Mummy and half for me, that’s fair, isn’t it, Chloe?’
‘No! It’s all for you, Daddy!’ Chloe shouted and pushed the biscuit towards her dad.
‘You heard the girl.’ Grace smiled and sank back against the cushions and folded her arms across her chest.
Tom rolled his eyes at his wife as he tentatively took a small bite from the edge of the cookie. Grace heard the crunch of grit between his teeth.
‘Oh, Chloe, this is delicious!’ he enthused.
‘Eat it all up!’ Chloe again pushed the plate towards her dad’s face.
‘Yes, Daddy, eat it all up!’ Grace echoed.
‘I certainly will. But I’m just going to make a nice cup of tea to drink with it.’
‘Make sure you bring your cookie back in here so we can watch you eat it. That’s the best bit!’ Grace laughed.
Tom disappeared towards the kitchen and his voice drifted back along the hallway. ‘I was going to get the lamb out of the freezer for you, but you can P-I-S-S-O-F-F.’ Tom spelt out the endearing phrase to his wife; that was the benefit of having a small child who was too young to spell.
Grace laughed, which made Chloe laugh too. ‘I love you, Chloe.’
‘Loveoo, Mummy.’
Grace swallowed. Hearing those words uttered by her child still had the power to melt her heart.
People suffering from sepsis sometimes pass no urine in a day
Grace, Chloe and Tom watched as the little car chugged into their driveway. Chloe was beside herself with excitement. She trotted alongside the green Austin A40 Cambridge and banged on the passenger window. In her hand she clutched the painting that she had made for her grandma, now slightly ripped where her fingers had pushed through the paper when it was sodden with wet paint, but her creation was no less beautiful for it.
Olive heaved herself out of the passenger seat in the rather ungainly manner typical of many women of her height and stature. She was as usual resplendent in many mismatched layers, topped today with a grey cashmere wool cardigan of indeterminate shape, which was fashionably draped over one shoulder and held in place with a large kilt pin. Three strings of green glass beads sat on her generous chest. Mac, her husband, elegantly unfurled his long legs and raised his arms over his head to crack his back after the rickety journey. The Austin certainly looked wonderful, but it lacked the modern upholstery and suspension that made long journeys comfortable. Mac was dressed as if he had just come from a cricket match, as usual paying no heed to the season or temperature, in cream slacks, straw panama hat and cricket jersey, with a striped tie loose at the open neck of his shirt. For him, whether it was November or indeed January was immaterial; in sartorial terms, it was permanently August.
‘Hello! Hello, my little darling!’ Olive beamed at her one and only grandchild as she scooped Chloe up into her arms and covered her freckly little face in kisses.
‘Yuck, Grandma, stop! I don’t like that! Have you got me some sweets?’
Olive roared with laughter at the unabashed frankness of her granddaughter. She reminded her so much of Alice at the same age. ‘I might just have, my darling. Let’s go and dig in my enormous bag…’
Chloe glanced back towards her grandpa. Though preoccupied with the promise of sweets, she called over her shoulder, ‘Hello, my grandpa!’ and waved her chubby hand in the air.
‘Hello, my little one!’ He smiled after her as she disappeared into the kitchen. It was what he had always called her, his little one, the littlest of his girls.
Mac walked forward and embraced his son-in-law and ruffled his hair, in the way that only an upright man in his eighties can do with true confidence.
‘How’s it going, son? Keeping chipper?’
‘Kind of, Mac. Bit nervous about tomorrow, but trying not to be. Don’t want Chlo to pick up on it, but I really don’t like the idea of her having an anaesthetic.’
‘So I gathered from your call. You’re doing the right thing, Tom; it’ll all be fine. The medics do this day in and day out and it’ll be great for Chloe to come out the other side, no more rotten sore throats.’
‘That’s what I said,’ Grace chipped in as she hugged her dad. The three of them followed Chloe and her grandma into the kitchen. ‘And if they offer to fix me with a quick onceover, I won’t say no! I’m knackered! The joys of parenthood, I guess. No chance of flopping on the sofa all weekend with Princess Pickle around.’ Grace yawned.
‘Ah, darling, that’s the kind of exhaustion your sister would envy.’ Mac sighed.
‘Oh, Dad, I know. Poor Alice!’ She wrinkled her nose with a mixture of guilt and empathy.
‘What will be, will be, darling.’ His words were as ever both soothing and authoritative.
Mac and Olive had made the journey from the coast to Bedfordshire in no time at all on this quiet Sunday in January. When Mac had retired, they’d swapped their house in the suburbs for a little haven in Brighton. They loved being close to the sea and yet were only a short train ride away from civilisation, as they now referred to the Big Smoke. Like many couples their age, they spent a great deal of time and energy thinking and talking about their children and grandchild. Grace and Alice knew with certainty that they only had to pick up the phone and their parents would be on their way or reaching for the chequebook, whichever was required, without comment, questions or conditions attached. It had always been that way.
‘Cup of tea, Olive?’ Tom asked as he filled the kettle.
‘Lovely.’ She nodded. Grace’s mum had set up base camp at the kitchen table. Her vast handbag and its contents spilled over the surface and one of her many scarves was now draped over the chair on which she sat. Olive didn’t merely arrive somewhere; she seemed to alter the environment, spreading her wares about her, as if she was running a market stall or holding court in a regal fashion with her favourite objects and courtiers in close proximity.
She was thoroughly engrossed in the painting with which she had been presented. ‘Well I never, my darling! I didn’t realise what a clever artist you were. This is a magnificent picture! Have you seen this, Grandpa?’ She held it up for Mac’s scrutiny.
‘Well I never!’ he gasped. ‘It’s very Jackson Pollock!’
‘Is that rhyming slang?’ Tom quipped.
‘Don’t be mean!’ Grace whispered through her laughter. ‘She’s a very talented artist.’
Chloe wriggled about on her grandma’s large lap, playing with her beads and trying to get comfortable.
‘Did you do this by yourself, Chloe?’ Olive marvelled.
‘Yes, I did and Daddy only helped me a little bit.’ Chloe pinched her thumb and forefinger together to emphasise her point.
Olive winked at Tom, who was busy making tea and artfully arranging homemade cookies on a plate.
Chloe continued. ‘It’s a picture of up my mouth and my tonsils.’
‘Well of course it is, I can see that!’ Olive feigned offence as she surveyed the grey-black blobs that were scattered over the page. She was mightily glad that she hadn’t tried to guess at the subject; she’d been veering towards flowers or possibly a cat.
‘I’m going to hostipal the day after today and they are coming out.’ Chloe again opened her mouth wide and pointed down her throat.
‘Yes, and you will feel so much better! Grandpa and I brought you a little something to take with you.’
Chloe clapped her hands with excitement as Olive reached into her bag and produced a tiny, black and white, bean-filled bear. ‘He’s a panda and he’s a doctor and so we thought he could show you the hospital and you could show him what’s going on.’
‘I can!’ Chloe beamed.
‘What do you say, Chlo?’ Grace prompted.
‘Thank you.’ Chloe threw her arms around her grandma’s neck and kissed her on the lips.
‘Are there spare kisses going? If so, I’m in the queue.’ Mac bent down as Chloe jumped from her gran’s lap and ran towards her grandpa, leaping into his arms with no regard for his age or frailty as she threw her arms around his neck.