Odd Socks by Ilsa Evans Page A

her a balloon.’
    â€˜Mum, she doesn’t need a balloon!’
    â€˜She does so. This isn’t something that happens every day, you know.’
    â€˜Well, thank god for that,’ I say as I wearily watch the elevator doors close with me on the wrong side. ‘Otherwise my carpet would be more red than it is green.’
    â€˜You didn’t tell me you’d changed your carpet!’ Mum sets off towards the gift shop at a brisk trot. ‘You never tell me anything! Although I must say I’m quite pleased. I never did like that other colour. Always reminded me of mildew.’
    After an interminable fifteen minutes spent watching Mum minutely examine every single balloon before making her choice (pink with ‘It’s a girl!’ printed cheerfully across it), we head back towards the elevators, where yet another crowd has gathered. Funnily enough, they look exactly the same as the earlier lot. Same gifts, same stuffed toys, same balloons.
    This time the elevator arrives fairly quickly and we all crowd in, and then crowd out again at the maternity floor. Everyone else seems to know exactly where they are going. We have to ask at the desk and are directed by a rather harassed nurse to the third room on the left. Accordingly, with Mum’s damn balloon floating into my face every few seconds, we wander over to the third room on the left and poke our heads around the door. There are two beds in the room with the one closest to us, by the door, taken up by a bird of a female – tiny, bony and with hair like pale grey-brownfeathers. She glances apprehensively at us and then, as she realises we aren’t here for her, resumes looking totally miserable once more. I give her a sympathetic smile and turn my attention past the television set suspended from the centre of the ceiling to the bed on the other side of the room. And there’s Bronte, dressed in a pair of pink-striped flannelette pyjamas, sitting cross-legged with her long blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She looks clean, and fresh, and radiant. She is also surrounded by presents – and a multitude of pink balloons bearing the words ‘It’s a girl!’
    â€˜Mum! It’s about time!’
    â€˜I was unavoidably detained –’ I glance pointedly at my mother – ‘but better late than never. How are you feeling?’
    â€˜Fine. And you’ve brought Gran!’
    â€˜Hello, honey.’ Mum bustles over, drops her gift on the bed and delivers a firm kiss to Bronte’s cheek. ‘And congratulations! Where is the little darling?’
    â€˜Nick’s just taken her for a walk. They should be back in a minute or so.’ Bronte picks up the gift and rattles it. ‘The baby monitor! Thank you so much, it’s going to come in, like, really handy. And just see what everyone else has brought me, Gran! It’s fantastic!’
    â€˜Oh, show me!’ Mum sits down on the edge of the bed and immediately lets go of her balloon, which floats neglectedly up to the ceiling and bobs gently along towards a corner. ‘Look, Teresa! The size of these little shoes! Aren’t they just precious!’
    â€˜Yep, precious,’ I comment as I settle myself into an extremely uncomfortable green vinyl armchair. ‘Show me more. Please.’
    â€˜Well, here’s a little twin-set. And just look at this dear mobile! Oh, and what a simply adorable little teddy!’
    â€˜Gran, she was being sarcastic,’ Bronte says knowledgeably.‘Mum can’t stand babies and baby stuff – you should know that by now.’
    â€˜It’s not that I can’t stand them,’ I protest defensively, ‘it’s just that I don’t find them as fascinating as everybody else seems to.’
    â€˜Oh, Teresa,’ sighs my mother pityingly, ‘you are a duffer.’
    â€˜No, she’s not.’
    This last is said in a deep monotone, just like the donkey