‘Three a.m. apparently.’ She gave a small laugh to mask her embarrassment. It bothered her that this was the first she knew of her grandson’s birth – a picture of him, freshly arrived. The deal had been that Georgie would make contact when Cleo went into labour, so she and Bernie could be on standby, or at least be able to share the excitement of what was about to happen. They had agreed this several times! What did he think? That they might turn up at the hospital with a balloon? The more she considered this exclusion the angrier she felt about it. They had agreed!
‘I just got a text from Dad.’ Cassian held up his phone. ‘To tell me Auntie Cleo has had the baby; I guess it’s doing the rounds!’
‘I was going to call him and let him know,’ she added curtly. ‘I wonder who else knows? Oh, I do hope they haven’t put it on Facebook or anything like that. Not that it would surprise me.’
‘I think everyone puts everything on Facebook nowadays.’ Her grandson offered the depressing view.
‘Mmm.’ The only way she could express her disapproval without being explicit. It upset her that she didn’t know how Cleo was, what kind of birth she’d had and, as Cassian had pointed out, whether this new addition even had a name! Why was she being left out like this? What had she done to deserve it? Christ, hadn’t she and Bernie bought the cot, the pram, the bloody car seat?
I bet Georgie has filled in his parents with all the details. What a mean thing to do. Oh God! They might have even seen the baby already, how is that fair? Cleo is my daughter, the mother of this child!
Her phone rang, it was Cleo!
‘Darling!’
‘Hey, Mum.’
‘Oh, darling girl! How are you?’
‘I’m ...’ Winnie recognised the faint, slow speech of someone either in a state of euphoria, shock or still a little drug-addled, possibly all three. ‘I’m brilliant. He’s here, I can’t believe it, but he’s here.’
‘Congratulations, I’m so proud of you, so proud! And I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘I’m coming home today!’
‘You are? You didn’t have to have a caesarean? I know there was talk ...’
‘Nope. All very straightforward and a little quick once we got going. We didn’t even call you, didn’t call anyone, quite swept upin the moment. Just arrived at the hospital, straight in and whoosh, here he is. I mean, notwhoosh, but you know what I mean.’
‘I do know what you mean and don’t worry about letting us know; I didn’t give it a second thought. You just did what you needed to do and now he’s here! That’s all that matters. Does he have a name?’
‘Not yet. Well, we’re almost there. Anyway, look, better go as I promised to call Georgie’s mum too. She still doesn’t know. We’ll come straight to you, Mum, if that’s okay?’
‘Oh, it’s more than okay! Of course, I can’t wait. Take care, my darling. And well done, Cleo, well done, my girl.’
‘All okay?’ Cassian asked from the sink where he sipped water.
‘Yes! I’m the first gran to know; they haven’t told Georgie’s mother yet.’ She liked the fact she had been chosen to know before Georgie’s mother, feeling it gave her a certain status. ‘They’re going to come straight here from the hospital. Isn’t that wonderful? Cleo will be tired, but we can all rally around, welcome the little chap and make him feel at home.’ It was satisfying to know it was her side of the family that the little chap would meet first.
‘That’ll be good. I’m going home first though, Nan. I want to have a shower and get changed.’
‘Of course, darling, see you in a bit. I’m going to take your grandad a nice coffee and break the wonderful news.’
‘A new little Richardson!’ Cassian raised his glass as if in a toast.
‘Well’ – Winnie studied the image of her grandson – ‘technically, I suppose, but his mother is a Kelleway, and he certainlylookslike a Kelleway.’ She turned the picture so Cassian could see it. ‘Don’t you think?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MARTYHARROP
‘Give her my love!’ Marty Harrop parroted as he shut the back door, imitating the woman next door and her fake, slightly nasal tone that got right on his goat. There was something about her, the way she looked at him, the way she let her eyes dart behind him as if checking out the house, while trying not to; what did she want, a guided tour? And the way she spoke with a tone that reminded him of someone who’d arrived at the scene of an accident and was trying to keep the situation calm. He couldn’t help it; she irritated the shit out of him. It bothered him, the way she smiled while unable to hide her judgement. He could well imagine the kind of slurs that passed back and forth across their breakfast table.
He still hasn’t shaved...
Would it kill him to pick up a paintbrush?
What would old MrsKnowles say if she could see the place?
