Little Bits of Baby Read online

  ‘I suppose,’ Robin told him, arching up to a pair of apples that bobbed behind his head, ‘I suppose that you’re my nurse, really.’

  ‘I’m your friend,’ Luke corrected him.

  ‘Well, yes. If you say so. But you’re my nurse first and then you’re my friend.’

  ‘Hardly. I don’t know the first thing about nursing. I trained as a structural engineer.’

  ‘Apples for you.’

  ‘Thanks. We can move trees in a second and I’ll give you a turn on the ground.’

  ‘No. I like it up here.’

  ‘So do I. I had a childhood too.’

  ‘All right. Damn!’

  Robin dropped an apple.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  Luke caught it and Robin carried on.

  ‘But you do tell Jonathan everything I tell you, don’t you?’

  ‘I did to start with, to let him know how you were opening up, but not any more. Not for about five months.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not his business any more.’

  ‘Who said so?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘So you were prepared to carry on reporting back?’

  ‘Not really. I’d already started leaving things out; things I thought you were telling me as friend rather than nurse.’

  ‘But he guessed and let you off the hook.’

  ‘Yes. For a kind man, he’s a perceptive one.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  There was a pause then Luke noticed that Robin had stopped picking.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re not picking anything.’

  ‘Nothing left to pick.’

  ‘Then come down and we can change trees.’

  ‘But it’s nice up here. I can see Dorset.’

  ‘That’s uninspired. Why not a small cloud in the shape of a man’s hand?’

  ‘Very funny. Mind your head then, Elijah.’

  ‘Do you want a hand?’

  ‘No. Get out of the way or I’ll kick you.’

  Luke stood back and Robin half leaped, half tumbled from the tree. Robin had his hair tied back with a knotted handkerchief into a kind of pony-tail. As he swept the handkerchief off to wipe the sweat from my face and neck, he caught Luke watching him and his body in a slightly pathetic way he had. After Robin’s summer in the garden Luke seemed slight and pale beside him. So Robin took the larger basket from him and they walked to the foot of the next tree.

  ‘Well, up you go,’ Luke said.

  ‘No. It’s your turn,’ Robin told him.

  ‘No. Go on.’

  ‘No. You had a childhood too.’

  He hesitated, grinning.

  ‘You sure?’ Luke checked.

  ‘Go on.’

  He swung himself onto the lower branch and half disappeared from view.

  ‘I can see Dorset!’ he shouted.

  ‘Ssh.’

  ‘What’s the matter? We’re allowed to talk.’

  ‘But if you shout, old Snapdragon’ll come out and put you on silence which would be very dull.’

  Robin watched the wind send a handful of tissue paper wheeling over the grass then thought to put a pebble in the box to stop any more from escaping. That was happening a lot then – a sort of delay between his eye and hand.

  ‘Here.’

  Luke handed him the first apples in exchange for the second basket.

  ‘Thanks.’ Robin started to wrap them. ‘Luke?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘No. Tell me.’

  ‘The nurse would tell you it’s none of your business.’

  ‘How about the friend?’

  ‘He’d say erm and change the subject.’

  ‘I mean, is it a God thing or a human thing?’

  ‘I don’t see how you can separate the two.’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap,’ Robin pursued and felt himself scowl.

  ‘Apples for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well?’ Luke held out his outstretched palm, ‘Give me the other basket, then.’

  ‘Not until you tell me.’

  ‘Oh, Robin!’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘My reasons are no different from anyone else’s here, except Jonathan’s perhaps. It’s a human thing – running away from something till you find the strength to cope with it – and the God thing helps. Some of the time. Most of the time.’

  ‘You don’t mean God; you mean the peace helps, and the sea and the old house and having apples to pick and unworldly women to picnic with one day a year.’

  ‘That is God, a part of Him, anyway.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ said Robin, quietly emphatic.

  ‘Can we talk about this another time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please, Robin?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I need to think,’ he begged, ‘and it’s hard to think while dangling between earth and heaven like this.’

  ‘But if it’s the truth – if you know why you’re here – it should be easy to say. The truth is what comes into your head first. We’re born with truth; we learn how to lie.’

  ‘How to Succeed in Comtemplative Society. Rule One: Hold your tongue.’

  ‘Coward. You always joke when you’re afraid I’m winning.’

  ‘Basket, please.’

  Robin passed Luke the empty basket. He knew he was frowning from the way that Luke smiled at him from a faceful of leaves.

  ‘I’ll tell you another time,’ Luke said. ‘I promise. Better still, I’ll show you.’

  ‘I’ll keep you to that.’

  Robin sat and tossed three maggoty apples into the cider basket.

  ‘Snapdragon’s coming our way,’ warned Luke. ‘He’s fairly trotting.’

  ‘Damn. He’s probably come to drag you off to Bible class.’

  ‘That’s not till this afternoon.’

  Snapdragon, proper name Basil, was one of the middle-aged monks, his habit an ungainly contrast to the younger men’s lither work-clothes, his complexion a testament to chair-bound decades. He puffed over the stile into the orchard and trundled towards them. His round, schoolboy’s face shone with unwonted excitement.

  ‘Here you both are,’ he said. ‘Luke, I’m afraid you’ll have to manage on your own; there’s someone on the telephone for Robin. They’re calling from London.’

  That was the first time Robin had truly run since he came there. Unless, that is, he ran in his madness. He could never be sure; Luke tried to spare him so much. Reaching the stile, he found an apple in his hand and hurled it into Luke’s tree. Then he sprinted across the upper lawn to the terrace outside Jonathan’s study. The Abbot had his back to the open windows and was talking into the telephone. Robin tapped on the glass and made him turn.

  ‘Ah. Here he is. I’ll hand you over,’ Jonathan said as Robin climbed over the sill and crossed the room, rubbing his hands clean on his trousers. ‘I’ll be next door, Robin. Come and talk when you’ve finished.’ He handed over the receiver and left the room.

  Robin sat and stared down at it for a moment then lifted it to his ear and listened. There was quiet breathing then a woman’s voice startled him by calling out,

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dob, darling. It’s your mother.’

  ‘Hello! How are you?’

  ‘Fine, darling. Fine. How are you?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. Well, actually I could but …’

  ‘Jonathan said he thought all was well. Did you get all my letters?’

  ‘Yes. Did you expect me to answer them? I think perhaps I should have, but not a lot happens here.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. I mean … Robin, I’m sorry to take you by surprise now, instead of writing.’

  ‘No. It’s great to hear your voice. It’s only that …’ He wondered coolly if he were
going to crack up but found himself laughing. ‘It’s only that I haven’t held a telephone in eight years and I’d rather forgotten what it’s like and the one here’s an ancient Bakelite thing. Weighs a ton.’

  ‘Oh, darling. Well, the reason I’m calling …’

  ‘Sorry. Yes. I’ll shut up. This must be costing the earth. You should have waited till the evening.’

  ‘Yes. No. The fact is I couldn’t wait. Dob, it’s rather extraordinary but I’ve just … I’ve just had Candida Thackeray on the phone.’

  He waited for her to go on, then sensed she was waiting for him to make an exclamation of surprise.

  ‘I thought she was Browne, now,’ he said.

  ‘Well, she is, but she’s still calling herself Thackeray for work and things.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ said his mother, then snapped, ‘Oh Robin, don’t ask stupid questions!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Her voice relaxed.

  ‘She’s just had a second child, I told you about the first one, didn’t I, the little boy?’

  ‘You must have done.’

  ‘Yes, well, now it’s a little girl, I mean, now there’s a little girl, and Candida would like you to be its godfather. They’d like you to be …’ Her voice trailed off. Again he waited. ‘Robin? Are you there?’

  ‘But she’s not a Christian.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s the point.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I think she, rather I suppose they are trying to make their peace with you. It must have been an awful effort for them and, well, to be honest, I think it’s only right that you should do it.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Be godfather. You wouldn’t have to come back for good, just for the service, and of course we’d love to have you home for as long as you’d like to stay. There’s still your room and … Oh, Robin.’

  Softly, his mother began to weep. He set the receiver down on the desk-top so that her grief was just a sort of insect-whisper, watched it a while, then held it back to his ear.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’ She sniffed.

  ‘Don’t cry.’

  ‘I can’t bloody help it,’ she snapped.

  ‘I’ll be home soon.’

  ‘Oh, Dob. Oh. Oh. I’m so glad! Can I tell her “yes”?’

  ‘What’s the baby’s name?’

  ‘Perdita. Perdita Margaux Browne. I’m not sure if it’s hyphenated.’

  He clutched the receiver to his chest and laughed. He continued to laugh, throwing his head back and banging the receiver on the arm of the chair in an effort to stop. His mother called to him nervously from the earpiece and Jonathan knocked at the door and asked nervously if he wanted him to come in.

  ‘No, no,’ he called to them both. ‘It’s quite all right.’ His laughter eased down into chuckles. He lifted the receiver again. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Ring her up and tell her Brother Robin says yes.’ Then he hung up.

  Three

  Andrea Maitland sat at her study window, cradling the telephone in gentle hands, carelessly weeping. The long garden below her was filled with infants at play. She and her husband ran a kindergarten from their basement, so apart from two cherry trees and a towering beech, their garden grew nothing but swings and slides, a see-saw, a roundabout and a sandpit. Peter was out there now keeping a watchful eye on the speed of the swinging while the Señoritas Fernandez cleared the tables for lunch.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Andrea muttered, and exchanged the telephone for a clutch of tissues which she used to dry her cheeks and blow her nose. She had visited Whelm only once since her son’s apparent decision to become a monk there. She caught the train and a boat on Whelm’s annual Visitor’s Day along with a crowd of tourists and other, happier relatives, but Robin had apparently not read her letters and, unaware of her visit, had gone off on a day’s sailing trip. Discouraged from visiting after that, she had sent the occasional parcel when requested and had telephoned the Abbot once every five weeks. She kept her telephoning days marked in her diary and always rang at the same time. He first broke the news that her son was, as he quaintly put it, ‘in Whelm’s care’, by letter.

  ‘By all means telephone me,’ he had written. ‘I cannot guarantee that you will always be able to speak to Robin, indeed I would not advise it, but I am always at your disposal between noon and one.’

  He would never tell her more than that Robin was ‘well’ or ‘progressing’, although he occasionally filled in comforting details such as that Robin was working in the garden today or that Robin had recently taken a long walk beside the sea. Brushing aside her enquiries concerning Whelm with the suggestion that she visit its female twin, Corry, and find out at first hand, he encouraged her to talk about herself. The conjunction of her worries and Jonathan’s stern sympathy had therefore turned these calls into an occasion for counselling. Andrea had long disapproved of psychotherapy as timewasting and economically suspect. Several people she knew had been off and on costly couches since their mid-thirties and seen less return for their investment than a less expensive lover or some voluntary work might have afforded. Her talks with Jonathan were different. She was sure of this. They had never met – on her one visit to Whelm she had been led from the boat to Robin’s empty little room by a prattling novice – and this lent their conversations the easy anonymity of the confessional. Unlike a priest, he offered no penitential solutions, but by voicing her worries she felt that she had passed them on and could leave her desk a lighter woman.

  She reached for the telephone again, dialled and waited, staring at the scene below where the Señoritas Fernandez and Peter were now corralling the infants for lunch. The week’s menu dangled from the board to her left.

  Friday, she read, Hazelnut Cheddar Bake, Watercress Sauce, Chick-pea Salad, followed by Apple Crumble and Custard. She and Peter were vegetarians and so was their school. Principles aside, this was both vaguely chic and an economy respected by parents.

  ‘Hello?’ called a child’s voice firmly.

  ‘Is that Iras?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s that?’

  ‘Andrea. How’re you?’

  ‘Fine. Except my cheek feels like a cushion. I’ve just been to the dentist. Still, I got the day off school, even if he did give me three fillings.’

  ‘Oh dear. Is your pa in?’

  ‘The dentist said I’ve got to go to a hygienist to learn how to brush properly,’ Iras pursued. ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Could I speak to him?’

  ‘Well, actually he’s painting.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ said Faber, picking up another receiver.

  ‘You were a minute ago.’

  ‘Get off the line, Iras.’

  ‘It’s your friend, Andrea,’ said Iras, getting off.

  ‘Andrea. Hi.’

  ‘Hello. You’re sure you weren’t painting?’

  ‘I was, but I’m stopping for lunch. What’s up? You don’t sound right.’

  ‘I’ve just been speaking to Robin.’

  ‘How lovely. Was it lovely?’

  ‘He’s coming home.’

  ‘Oh God. When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Come and talk this afternoon.’

  ‘Can’t. I’ve promised to take over from Peter downstairs and then he’s dragging me to some nasty French film. Can I come tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Of course. You can help me feed ducks. Come for a bite of lunch.’

  ‘See you.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Faber was one of Andrea’s young friends. Through their daily contact with young parents and through their stout refusal to grow up (e.g. change politics, accumulate wealth and stop sitting on the floor at parties), Peter and Andrea had lost touch with most of their generation and had a revised address book full of friends young enough to be their children. Faber lived with his adopted daughter on the other side of the common. He was a painter. His work was very challenging, certainly, but Andrea sometimes
wondered how he and Iras survived quite so well.

  Andrea left her study and followed nutritious smells to the basement. The children – there were twenty – were seated on dwarf chairs around five dwarf tables, wolfing their hazelnut cheddar bake while the Señoritas Fernandez, two satisfactorily bosomy creatures who came daily on a motorbike from Dulwich, clucked amongst them mopping up spillage, ruffling hair and topping up beakers of unfiltered apple juice. Peter, a lock of white hair tumbling over one eye, was crouching beside one table to correct a girl’s murderous hold on her knife. He glanced up at Andrea, turned to his left to stop a boy from flicking his chickpeas, then came to her side.

  ‘Have some,’ he said. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘I will in a sec,’ said Andrea. ‘Holá,’ she returned to Pilar Fernandez. ‘Peter, I’ve just spoken with Robin.’

  ‘Lord. How was he?’

  ‘He’s coming back to do their christening.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Soon.’

  ‘Oh, Andrea.’ He squeezed her hand, caught her eye, then laughed. At that she laughed too, and he hugged her. ‘That’s marvellous,’ he said and kissed her briefly.

  ‘Ooh!’ chorused several children.

  ‘Qué pasa?’ asked another, in perfect imitation of a Fernandez.

  ‘Never you mind,’ said Peter.

  ‘Our son’s coming home,’ Andrea explained, accepting a plateful of food and perching on a stool between two tables. Trusting herself not to cry again, she carried on. ‘He’s been away for eight whole years.’

  ‘Where’s he been?’ asked Jasper Browne, who told his parents everything.

  ‘He’s been living on an island.’

  ‘Which island?’ asked a little girl.

  ‘Whelm. It’s in the English Channel.’

  ‘That’s where all the holy people live,’ Jasper told his neighbours. ‘Her son’s a holy person but he used to be friends with my father.’

  ‘Eat up, Jasper, then we can all have some apple crumble.’

  ‘Your wife hasn’t finished hers yet,’ Jasper observed.

  ‘Oh, don’t wait for me,’ said Andrea quickly. ‘I couldn’t manage crumble too.’