. . manfriend.’
‘Christ,’ says Ivy in a not-quite-shout. ‘Will you two stop squabbling.’
It takes the vast majority of my willpower not to tell Ivy that Harold started it. Even though I’m pretty sure he did.
‘Sorry,’ says Harold.
‘Thank you,’ says Ivy. ‘We’ll be okay now.’
Harold smiles at Ivy, glares at me, and slinks back into his house.
I pick up the flowers and show them to Ivy. ‘Flowers,’ I explain.
Ivy shakes her head and it dislodges a hint of a smile. I pick up the groceries and follow her up the stairs. And my word, she does look good in those shorts.
While Ivy showers, I put the flowers in a vase and the ingredients in the fridge. The kitchen and living room comprise a single open-plan area, the boundary between the two ‘rooms’
delineated by a waist-high breakfast counter. A baby could crawl unimpeded from the fireplace to the under-sink cupboard where Ivy keeps cling film, cleaning products, rubber gloves and bleach.
From the kitchen the baby has access to the hallway. Crawling past a flight of steep stairs the little bundle of joy will come to a small bedroom (or modest-sized nursery) on the left and a
bathroom on the right. The latch on the bathroom door doesn’t close, giving easy access to further ground-level cleaning products and a toilet brush. If the infant is lucky enough to survive
this treacherous expedition, he or she will arrive at the master bedroom where, as far as I know, there is nothing lethal or spectacularly unhygienic. The floorboards, however, are in a sorry state
(‘original’ an estate agent would tell you) and on more than three occasions I have ripped a bloody great hole in my sock on a Victorian splinter or proud nail.
I’m pondering all of this from the sofa in the living room when the doorbell rings, and I am suddenly convinced the midwife will take one look around this death-trap and mark us as unfit
parents. The bell rings a second time.
‘Can you get that?’ shouts Ivy from the bedroom.
The midwife, a rotund lady with a thick Caribbean accent, introduces herself as Eunice. I lead her up to the flat, muttering non-sequiturs about the banisters and stair gates and child-proof
locks and DIY and floorboard sanders.
‘Plenty of time for that, darlin’,’ says Eunice, smiling, but at the same time casting an appraising glance around the flat. ‘Let’s worry ’bout mum first. She
home?’
Ivy arrives on cue, hair still wet from the shower, no make-up, beautiful. Her skin is slightly flushed from the shower, highlighting the scars on the side of her face. Ivy must be used to them
by now, but it’s still new to me and I feel embarrassed and protective on her behalf whenever we meet people for the first time.
‘Hello, darlin’,’ says Eunice. ‘Don’t you look lovely. Not showin’ yet?’
Ivy puts a hand to her tummy. ‘I don’t know,’ she says, beaming. ‘Maybe a little.’
And it’s true, Ivy is beginning to show a hint of a bump behind her tight T-shirt.
Eunice waves a hand in the air dismissively. ‘Pshh, I never bin that flat in me life.’ And she laughs deep and hearty. ‘Come,’ she says, sitting on the sofa and patting
the cushion beside her, ‘sit.’
Ivy looks as bashful as a schoolgirl as she takes a seat next to Eunice.
‘How far along are we, sweetheart? Ten, eleven weeks, is it?’
‘Nine and a half,’ says Ivy, sitting beside the midwife.
‘Excitin’ time,’ says Eunice, widening her eyes. ‘Very excitin’.’
Over the next half-hour or so, Eunice asks Ivy questions, she takes samples of blood and urine, and together they fill out various forms. Besides making tea, I’m essentially surplus to
requirements.
Before she leaves, Eunice asks if we have any questions. Ivy says, no, they’ve covered everything she can think of for now.
Eunice turns to me. ‘And what ’bout dad?’
It’s the first time anyone’s called me ‘dad’, and the effect is astonishing. As if
‘Christ,’ says Ivy in a not-quite-shout. ‘Will you two stop squabbling.’
It takes the vast majority of my willpower not to tell Ivy that Harold started it. Even though I’m pretty sure he did.
‘Sorry,’ says Harold.
‘Thank you,’ says Ivy. ‘We’ll be okay now.’
Harold smiles at Ivy, glares at me, and slinks back into his house.
I pick up the flowers and show them to Ivy. ‘Flowers,’ I explain.
Ivy shakes her head and it dislodges a hint of a smile. I pick up the groceries and follow her up the stairs. And my word, she does look good in those shorts.
While Ivy showers, I put the flowers in a vase and the ingredients in the fridge. The kitchen and living room comprise a single open-plan area, the boundary between the two ‘rooms’
delineated by a waist-high breakfast counter. A baby could crawl unimpeded from the fireplace to the under-sink cupboard where Ivy keeps cling film, cleaning products, rubber gloves and bleach.
From the kitchen the baby has access to the hallway. Crawling past a flight of steep stairs the little bundle of joy will come to a small bedroom (or modest-sized nursery) on the left and a
bathroom on the right. The latch on the bathroom door doesn’t close, giving easy access to further ground-level cleaning products and a toilet brush. If the infant is lucky enough to survive
this treacherous expedition, he or she will arrive at the master bedroom where, as far as I know, there is nothing lethal or spectacularly unhygienic. The floorboards, however, are in a sorry state
(‘original’ an estate agent would tell you) and on more than three occasions I have ripped a bloody great hole in my sock on a Victorian splinter or proud nail.
I’m pondering all of this from the sofa in the living room when the doorbell rings, and I am suddenly convinced the midwife will take one look around this death-trap and mark us as unfit
parents. The bell rings a second time.
‘Can you get that?’ shouts Ivy from the bedroom.
The midwife, a rotund lady with a thick Caribbean accent, introduces herself as Eunice. I lead her up to the flat, muttering non-sequiturs about the banisters and stair gates and child-proof
locks and DIY and floorboard sanders.
‘Plenty of time for that, darlin’,’ says Eunice, smiling, but at the same time casting an appraising glance around the flat. ‘Let’s worry ’bout mum first. She
home?’
Ivy arrives on cue, hair still wet from the shower, no make-up, beautiful. Her skin is slightly flushed from the shower, highlighting the scars on the side of her face. Ivy must be used to them
by now, but it’s still new to me and I feel embarrassed and protective on her behalf whenever we meet people for the first time.
‘Hello, darlin’,’ says Eunice. ‘Don’t you look lovely. Not showin’ yet?’
Ivy puts a hand to her tummy. ‘I don’t know,’ she says, beaming. ‘Maybe a little.’
And it’s true, Ivy is beginning to show a hint of a bump behind her tight T-shirt.
Eunice waves a hand in the air dismissively. ‘Pshh, I never bin that flat in me life.’ And she laughs deep and hearty. ‘Come,’ she says, sitting on the sofa and patting
the cushion beside her, ‘sit.’
Ivy looks as bashful as a schoolgirl as she takes a seat next to Eunice.
‘How far along are we, sweetheart? Ten, eleven weeks, is it?’
‘Nine and a half,’ says Ivy, sitting beside the midwife.
‘Excitin’ time,’ says Eunice, widening her eyes. ‘Very excitin’.’
Over the next half-hour or so, Eunice asks Ivy questions, she takes samples of blood and urine, and together they fill out various forms. Besides making tea, I’m essentially surplus to
requirements.
Before she leaves, Eunice asks if we have any questions. Ivy says, no, they’ve covered everything she can think of for now.
Eunice turns to me. ‘And what ’bout dad?’
It’s the first time anyone’s called me ‘dad’, and the effect is astonishing. As if
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