Suki linked her arm in mine, and, instead of us taking the coffees straight back to the ward, she motioned for us to sit at a window table. Here she told me how, apparently, Lyla had been sitting alone, engrossed in a novel on a bench in Princes Street Gardens, and along had come Eddie and asked what she was reading … She broke off and we laughed.
‘Oh, Suki. Not that old one.’
‘I thought it was so cute!’ She shook her head. I didn’t want to tell her that Eddie would never askanyoneabout a book they were reading.
‘I still can’t understand it,’ I added. ‘Why Lyla concocted all that …’
‘Oh, it’s probably my fault,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m far too controlling. Her dad was always telling me that. Following poor Lyla to Edinburgh, when all she wanted was to enjoy her student life … I mean, who wants their mum living down the road? I’m sure she’d chosen Edinburgh to get away from me!’ She shuddered.
‘I can’t imagine that,’ I said. Although, in truth, I could.
‘And she knows I like a romantic story with a happy ending,’ Suki added. ‘But I realise that real life …’
‘It’s a bit more messy than that,’ I remarked, and she nodded.
‘It is.’
‘But it’s also wonderful,’ I added, as we got up and carried the coffees back to the ward. Ana was there, chatting to Lyla, having come over from Dundee. And next day my dad came in with us, admiring Grace from a distance, although he didn’t seem to know what to say, other than a gruff, ‘Well done.’ And when Lyla started breastfeeding – well, that nearly ended my father. I had to whisk him off for a cup of tea. Then Lyla’s dad, a loud man in corduroys and a cream linen shirt, arrived from Gloucestershire. And on another visit, by coincidence Frank and Oliver arrived together.
If a certain static charge fizzled in the air – a sense of something off-kilter – then I quickly dampened it down. And when Oliver caught my eye, we exchanged a look that seemed to say everything we needed to say. That our day together on Arran had been special, and perhaps something both of us had needed. But that was that. It was a lovely memory that could be put away now, as there were more pressing matters to think about.
And now Lyla and Grace are home, staying at Kilmory Cottage for the time being. ‘I like it here,’ she announces one morning, installed on our worn-out brown sofa with Grace latched on to her breast. ‘It’s so peaceful and I love the thought of the first part of her life being by the sea. Is that all right, Carly? I don’t really want to take her all the way across the country just yet.’
It’s only Edinburgh, I reflect; ninety minutes away. But I understand how she feels, because when Eddie, Bella and Ana were born I just wanted to hunker down in our own little world.
‘Yeah, I hope you don’t mind,’ Eddie offers.
‘Of course I don’t,’ I say truthfully. ‘I love you being here.’
‘Thanks so much, Mum,’ he says. I look at my son, realising how different he seems already. No longer the boy who’d shudder at the sight of lettuce on his plate, or leave a loo roll unravelled on the bathroom floor. In fact, he and Lyla have taken to parenthood as if this is what they were designed to do. They feed, soothe, change and bathe their daughter, seemingly without needing to refer to any instruction manual. I remember the battered old book –Your Essential Guide to New Motherhood– I’d pored over endlessly, as if that would save us. I’d always believed that the answers to everything could be found in books.
Meanwhile, I’m on hand to do whatever they need me to do. Mostly, it’s support worker duties: laundry and cleaning and making sure we have food to eat. I try to stay in the background, reminding myself that I must not interfere. Having managed to take leave from work, I keep the kettle at a rolling boil, and the washing machine perpetually churning.
We have simple meals, with Lyla’s requested exotic ingredients remaining unused. The powdered mushroom has been shoved to the back of the cupboard. There are no dual mealtimes now. Dad has to eat with us – it’s the only option because I’m not a short-order cook! – andI’ve banned blaring teatime TV. Our home is strewn with muslins and babygrows and the array of toys Suki brought over, which Grace can’t play with yet.
So there’s noCash or Crashat this present time. We don’t even know who’s gone through to the final. Dad is put out, of course he is. And although he’s admitted that Grace really is the most perfect little thing, he reels back whenever she’s brought near him, as if she is a bomb about to blow up in his face. Whenever Lyla starts to feed her, he scuttles out of the room.
‘So are the new parents managing okay?’ Jamie asks, one crisp Sunday morning as we step around seaweed on the beach.
‘They’re doing amazingly well,’ I reply. ‘It just seems natural. Honestly I don’t know why I’m surprised!’
‘See, he’s more grown up than you gave him credit for,’ Jamie teases, and I smile. He is staying at Prish’s temporarily, having had enough of the pretence whenever Lewis’s parents were around. ‘I’m thirty-eight,’ he reminded us. ‘I’m not living like this anymore.’ He likened their situation to dating a married man ‘who keeps promising to leave his wife and never does. It goes on and on, and the years slip away and if Lewis wants to change things, he knows where I am.’ I’d expected him to be heartbroken but in fact there’s a lightness about him now. A sense of relief, perhaps, that at least he’s taken control.
Today Jamie, Prish and I have brought Grace out to see the sea. However, full of milk from her morning feed, she’s been dozing peacefully in the baby carrier on my chest.
‘I’m so glad they’ve taken to all of this,’ Prish remarks, meaning Eddie and Lyla.
‘Me too,’ I say truthfully. ‘Y’know, less than a year ago Eddie was lying around in that hooded robe, horrified when I found a job he might apply for. It seems like worlds ago now,’ I add. Paris, too, I reflect – when Frank and I were celebrating finally being empty-nesters.
My phone rings, causing Grace to stir against my chest. I step away from my friends and take the call. ‘Carly? It’s Thelma. Is your dad still keen, do you think?’
We hatched a plan last time the Natural History Society convened in the library. Bravely, I strode over and broke my way into the group. I explained that, after Dad went storming into Sandybanks’ sole pharmacy – from which he is now barred – I needed to find him something to focus on. Something other than unsolicited orange-flavoured powders, to be mixed up with water.
‘He’s looking forward to it,’ I tell her now. ‘He loves nature – birds especially. And he’ll be glad to be out of the house. We have a new baby at home at the moment—’
‘Oh, goodness!’ she gasps. ‘You’re a grandmother?’
‘Yes, I am,’ I say proudly. ‘So it didn’t take much persuading for Dad to agree to try something new.’ I hesitate, aware of treading carefully. ‘I have to tell you, Thelma. Dad isn’t exactly the society-joiner type …’
