My children clearly thought she was an alien.
Max stared at me. Jackson looked at his feet. Claire struggled to be put down, which I did, watching her beeline for Marie.
“But we made a mess. We should be in trouble.” That was Claire.
Marie looked around at what was indeed a mess. “Messes happen. We have to tidy it up though. That can be now, or after our pyjama party or in the morning. I’ll help, but I don’t know where things go.”
“I think we should do it now before we have baths.” Max kept glancing at me as if he expected me to erupt like a volcano, which if Marie hadn’t been with me I probably would’ve done. Then called a cleaner to sort it out.
“Agreed. I think that’s very sensible. Are you Max?” Marie looked at him seriously.
My eldest nodded. “I am. This is Jackson. That’s Claire. And you’re holding Callum; he’s the baby. I’ve been giving him his baths.”
“Then how about after we tidy, you show me how you bathe him and then we can do it between us and your dad.” The look she sent me was clear: this is your job too.
Max nodded, too serious, too old for his age.
Too shocked with Marie.
They were used to serious people. Adults who still thought children should be seen and not heard. That wasn’t Marie.
That wasn’t me, really. We were all living up to what we thought was expected of us, really.
“And I tell you what we’ll do, if we can get tidied up before five o’clock, so when the big hand is on twelve and the little hand is on five, then your dad will go to the supermarket and get us ice cream.” She glanced at me, clearly I was getting no say in this.
“I like ice cream.” Claire looked up at Marie as if she was a Disney princess, which she did resemble.
I noticed that Claire’s hair was definitely not right.
“So do I. Chocolate’s my favourite. Shall we get started?”
It wasn’t something I’d seen before, my kids being constructive rather than destructive. Maybe it was the novelty of an adult who spoke to them like they were people instead of just children, or maybe it was Marie’s accent, as I was pretty sure they hadn’t heard an Irish accent before. It could also have her manner, asking a question, offering different solutions, getting them to think what the consequences would be.
“I don’t know where this goes,” Jackson said to Marie, holding up a screwed up table cloth that’d probably been a wedding present from some distant relative.
“What is it?” Marie asked back. “It looks like you’ve blown your nose on it.”
Jackson eyed the material warily. “I haven’t, but Claire might.”
“So where does it need to go if your sister’s used it as a handkerchief?”
“Laundry basket.”
“Do you know where it is?” Marie was still putting pieces of lego into a box.
“Upstairs.”
She didn’t say anything, just waited for Jackson.
“I don’t want to go upstairs yet.” His shoulders sagged. Max looked over, forever checking on his siblings.
“Why’s that? You can leave it on the bottom of the stairs for now and when you go up, take it with you then. Is that a solution?” She put more lego in the box.
Jackson nodded rapidly. “I don’t like going upstairs on my own.”
Marie gave him a gentle smile. “How about I come up with you and you can show me where the laundry is. I’ll need to know it anyway so that would be helpful.” She tried getting up off the floor and pretended to struggle. “Would you give me a hand?” She held her hand out to Jackson, who pulled on it.
Marie got up, thanking Jackson. “It’s hard getting up off the floor when you’re old.”
