Odd Socks by Ilsa Evans Page B

Eeyore, out of Winnie-the-Pooh. I turn with astonishment to the little bird in the other bed but, despite having just participated in our conversation, she’s staring straight ahead and refusing to make eye contact. I look back at Bronte and raise my eyebrows questioningly.
    â€˜Don’t worry about her,’ explains Bronte in a stage whisper. ‘She’s a bit, like, odd . Just had baby number eight – can you believe it?’
    â€˜Eight!’ I repeat with horror. ‘ Eight! ’
    â€˜Eight!’ says Mum, with a pitying glance at the bed.
    â€˜Eight,’ sighs Eeyore plaintively, without taking her eyes off the wall.
    â€˜Anyway,’ I continue after a few minutes, when it becomes obvious that that conversation isn’t going anywhere, ‘I’d like to know what you were doing at my place this morning, Bronte. I mean, what on earth were you thinking of, driving around in bloody labour?’
    â€˜Oh, you won’t believe it,’ says Bronte, slapping her hand to her head. ‘How stupid was I!’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ I encourage her, ‘tell me.’
    â€˜Well, I was just off to bed after Nick headed to work at midnight and –’
    â€˜I thought Nicholas was at university,’ Mum says, confused. ‘Nobody ever tells me anything. Did you know your mother changed her carpet, Bronte? I didn’t.’
    â€˜Mum, Nick is at university. He’s just got a job working acouple of nights at one of those twenty-four hour service stations. And I haven’t changed my – oh, never mind. Go on, Bronte.’
    â€˜Also, he’s put in for some extra shifts because it’s semester break, Gran. Anyway, Merrill and her boyfriend were both out, so I was all alone. I was just heading off to bed and I started feeling really queer. Like, really queer. And I made myself some herbal tea but it just got worse. There weren’t any contractions or anything, I just felt so yuck. So I thought I’d come home for the night. And maybe you’d know what was going on.’
    â€˜You’d have been better off coming to my place, honey,’ Mum whispers to Bronte conspiratorially before grimacing and then rolling her eyes theatrically. ‘Your mother wouldn’t know the first thing about childbirth. Drugged to the hilt, she was. You could hear her singing from the car park. Rather embarrassing. Your poor grandfather refused to get out of the car.’
    â€˜Hello? I’m right here,’ I comment.
    â€˜The same song, over and over. Something about a mountain, I think it was.’
    â€˜But why didn’t you ring, Bronte?’ I ask reasonably, deciding to ignore my mother’s little jaunt down memory lane. ‘Then at least I’d have known you were coming.’
    â€˜And she’s never been able to hold a tune. Never.’
    â€˜I didn’t want to wake you up.’ Bronte looks at me earnestly. ‘Like, it was the middle of the night, you know.’
    â€˜Thoughtful girl,’ comments Mum with a nod, forgetting all about my singing abilities whilst she looks at Bronte approvingly.
    â€˜But you were going to wake me up when you got there!’
    â€˜Oh. Yeah,’ says Bronte, frowning. ‘You’re right. I didn’t think of that.’
    â€˜Hmm,’ adds Mum thoughtfully, with an identical frown. ‘Hmm. Yes, I see.’
    â€˜Flaming hell.’ I look at them both and, not for the first time, marvel at the power of genetics. No wonder they get on so well together.
    â€˜Anyway,’ continues Bronte, ‘on the way, I started having some pains so I pulled over and tried to ring Nick but his mobile was off or something. Then I thought they’re probably only those Hexton Bricks ones –’
    â€˜Braxton Hicks,’ I interrupt.
    â€˜Who?’ asks Bronte, looking confused.
    â€˜Braxton Hicks,’ I repeat. ‘That’s what they’re