friends are now defining themselves through their grandchildren’s achievements: the art prizes and choral scholarships, the A-stars and Russell Group offers. Something is pushing them to the side of their own lives . I put down the letters and feel the chord reverberating, and I resolve to be kinder this visit. More patient, more understanding. Nicer.
Sated, Cecily rolls off me, her cheek flushed and shiny with milk. I will be good , I think.
Downstairs, Dirk is showing off his new electric curtains (gizmo was a special offer at the back of the Telegraph magazine, he couldn’t resist), zapping them with a remote control, revealing and then hiding the spotlit lawn, the bare trees and birdbath, the topiary hens – themselves an excuse, I’ve always suspected, for the chainsaw.
‘What do you make of that, eh, Christopher?’ he says, over the high-pitched whine of the motor, making the sprigged curtains dance and sway: open, shut, open. ‘Clever, isn’t it?’
Christopher, hypnotised, transfixed with longing, puts out his hand.
‘Better not, old chum,’ Dirk says breezily. ‘Delicate mechanism. Not a toy, I’m afraid.’ He zaps the curtains so the view vanishes, and pops the remote on the highest bookshelf, next to the row of military history. That’s that. Peggy hands me my tea and admires Cecily in a rudimentary fashion: all very arms’ length. ‘What an absolute dear she is,’ she calls as she returns to the kitchen. ‘Would you like some Christmas cake, Emma?’
I would, and I deserve it, but I can’t cope with Cecily, hot tea and tiny plate (nor, indeed, the uncontrollable look of disapproval that would cross her face if I accepted: Peggy does three spin classes a week, plus a Friday Zumba, and views sugar as the enemy, though she seems bent on giving her menfolk type-two diabetes), so I say I’ll pass. Christopher returns his attention to the dish of chocolate fingers on the ankle-high coffee table. He won’t eat any supper after this, I know; but fuck it, that’s not my problem tonight. ‘Dirty hands!’ cries Peggy, rushing in with a damp cloth as he lunges for the ornamental chess set.
I close my eyes, feeling the baby’s solid dampish weight against me, imprisoned by it. But I need do nothing here: it’s all out of my hands, beyond my control. My life is such that these visits, which I used to dread, which are still full of uncomfortable moments, are now beginning to qualify as relaxation. In the kitchen, Dirk is showing Ben the pop-up plug socket on the central island, and the special bin system under the sink for separating wet waste from dry. ‘We saw that programme of yours, that one on the GCSE marking scandal,’ Dirk says as they come through. ‘Very good. Shame you couldn’t get the Secretary of State to comment.’
This is typical Dirk: many things go over his head, but he is always able to identify his son’s disappointments or weaknesses, eager to bring these failures out into the light. I catch Ben’s eye, and he glances away, at the Nordic pine in the corner.
‘Lovely tree, Dirk,’ I say, and – as I knew he would – he gives me its full provenance: it’s a bit of a tradition, Mike Caxton rings him when the delivery comes in so he gets first pick; of course they need a bit of a monster with ceilings this high.
The fairy lights wink on the tree, threaded between the coordinated balls and birds and angels. This year, everything is either silver or white. ‘Shall we do presents now, or after we’ve eaten?’ says Peggy.
Later that evening, as Cecily rustles sleepily in the travel cot at the foot of the bed, Ben and I undress in low light. At moments like these, I long for a proper therapeutic debrief, a bit of a giggle, as well as some sort of vaguely appreciative apology, but I won’t get either from him and I know it’s wrong, mean , to want them so much; just as I know it’s wrong, mean , to wish Dirk and Peggy might offer us a little financial help while
Sated, Cecily rolls off me, her cheek flushed and shiny with milk. I will be good , I think.
Downstairs, Dirk is showing off his new electric curtains (gizmo was a special offer at the back of the Telegraph magazine, he couldn’t resist), zapping them with a remote control, revealing and then hiding the spotlit lawn, the bare trees and birdbath, the topiary hens – themselves an excuse, I’ve always suspected, for the chainsaw.
‘What do you make of that, eh, Christopher?’ he says, over the high-pitched whine of the motor, making the sprigged curtains dance and sway: open, shut, open. ‘Clever, isn’t it?’
Christopher, hypnotised, transfixed with longing, puts out his hand.
‘Better not, old chum,’ Dirk says breezily. ‘Delicate mechanism. Not a toy, I’m afraid.’ He zaps the curtains so the view vanishes, and pops the remote on the highest bookshelf, next to the row of military history. That’s that. Peggy hands me my tea and admires Cecily in a rudimentary fashion: all very arms’ length. ‘What an absolute dear she is,’ she calls as she returns to the kitchen. ‘Would you like some Christmas cake, Emma?’
I would, and I deserve it, but I can’t cope with Cecily, hot tea and tiny plate (nor, indeed, the uncontrollable look of disapproval that would cross her face if I accepted: Peggy does three spin classes a week, plus a Friday Zumba, and views sugar as the enemy, though she seems bent on giving her menfolk type-two diabetes), so I say I’ll pass. Christopher returns his attention to the dish of chocolate fingers on the ankle-high coffee table. He won’t eat any supper after this, I know; but fuck it, that’s not my problem tonight. ‘Dirty hands!’ cries Peggy, rushing in with a damp cloth as he lunges for the ornamental chess set.
I close my eyes, feeling the baby’s solid dampish weight against me, imprisoned by it. But I need do nothing here: it’s all out of my hands, beyond my control. My life is such that these visits, which I used to dread, which are still full of uncomfortable moments, are now beginning to qualify as relaxation. In the kitchen, Dirk is showing Ben the pop-up plug socket on the central island, and the special bin system under the sink for separating wet waste from dry. ‘We saw that programme of yours, that one on the GCSE marking scandal,’ Dirk says as they come through. ‘Very good. Shame you couldn’t get the Secretary of State to comment.’
This is typical Dirk: many things go over his head, but he is always able to identify his son’s disappointments or weaknesses, eager to bring these failures out into the light. I catch Ben’s eye, and he glances away, at the Nordic pine in the corner.
‘Lovely tree, Dirk,’ I say, and – as I knew he would – he gives me its full provenance: it’s a bit of a tradition, Mike Caxton rings him when the delivery comes in so he gets first pick; of course they need a bit of a monster with ceilings this high.
The fairy lights wink on the tree, threaded between the coordinated balls and birds and angels. This year, everything is either silver or white. ‘Shall we do presents now, or after we’ve eaten?’ says Peggy.
Later that evening, as Cecily rustles sleepily in the travel cot at the foot of the bed, Ben and I undress in low light. At moments like these, I long for a proper therapeutic debrief, a bit of a giggle, as well as some sort of vaguely appreciative apology, but I won’t get either from him and I know it’s wrong, mean , to want them so much; just as I know it’s wrong, mean , to wish Dirk and Peggy might offer us a little financial help while
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