She didn’t care what anybody else said, London was just bloody freezing. Holly was cold all the time, even though people kept telling her it was summertime – the best summer they’d had in years. She wasn’t sure if it was the weather that made her feel like that, or the constant, icy knot in her stomach. Everything was so strange, such a wrench. It was ten years since she’d last lived here. So much had changed, both in the neighbourhood around her mother’s house, and in her. A crowd of teenage boys stood on the corner of the road, talking and laughing, and, as far as Holly could see, spitting incessantly. The old-fashioned corner shop she used to go to on her way home from school had been replaced by a Tesco Metro, and the pub up the road had closed down, to be replaced by a giant betting shop that was open till eleven every night. And what about Holly herself? The Holly who had climbed on the plane to South Africa, twenty years old, full of ideals and energy, couldn’t be more different from the thirty-year-old woman hunched by the radiator, staring out of her mother’s window at the suburban street. She’d been back to London in the intervening years, but only as a tourist, coming home for the odd Christmas or for family weddings or occasions. She always knew then that at the end of the week, or two weeks, she would be getting on a plane back to Jo’burg, to her large, sunny workshop, and the sprawling house she shared with Damon.
But now she was back. Back for good? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t be in Johannesburg right now. Not with all the memories, not with the constant possibility of bumping into one of Damon’s friends, or his mother. Not a chance. So she’d packed up her stuff, put most of it in storage in a friend’s garage and got on a plane. And here she was, back in Ealing, with nothing to show for the decade she’d been away.
She’d kind of lost contact with the friends she’d had in London, and she didn’t feel like explaining to anyone why she was back, what she was going to do or how long she’d be staying, especially as she didn’t know the answers to the last two questions herself. As a result, she hadn’t seen anyone or gone anywhere in the week since she’d been home. Her sister had rung her every day and kept offering to come and see her. Until now, Holly had managed to put her off. She’d done some grocery shopping for her mum, finding the aisles of an English supermarket strange and confusing after so many years away, and she’d sat shivering on a bench in the park for an hour each day, mainly to avoid her mum’s constant offers of tea and overly sympathetic expression. She couldn’t do another day of it though. She had to get out and do something, so she decided she’d get on a bus and head for North London to see Miranda.
Holly’s sister was four years older than her, but the age gap might as well have been three times that, their lives were so far apart. Miranda was married with two children, and keen to add at least two more to her brood. Her husband Paul did something with hedge funds in the City, and as a result they had a lovely big house and no shortage of money. Miranda didn’t need to work, didn’t want to work, and devoted every fibre of her being to her children.
Holly sat upstairs on a number-83 bus, looking out of the window at the endless rows of houses and shops that made up suburban London. Everyone behind each of those doors had something to do: a job, a family, a purpose. She had sod all, right now. First of all, she was going to need to get a job … she’d brought what little money she had back with her, but the exchange rate was not kind to her savings at all. She knew it wouldn’t be hard to find work of some sort – she had transferable skills – but she needed to think about what she wanted to do. She needed to set some life goals. She’d had some, pretty clearly marked out ones, but then Damon had decided to change everything.
Maybe going to see Miranda was a mistake. Her mum’s sympathy was bad enough, but in Miranda’s eyes Holly would be a real failure – no man, no prospect of a family. Miranda wouldn’t even care that Holly’s career plans had gone down the pan. She’d never understood Holly’s rather unconventional career path anyway. Like some kind of terrifying 1950s throwback, Miranda thought work was something women did until they had children. Holly seriously considered texting to say she was ill, getting off the bus, crossing the road and getting on another one going in the opposite direction. But when she thought about the silent house and her mother’s face arranged in an expression of perpetual pity, she decided Miranda was the lesser evil.
When she got there, she expected to find Miranda calmly engaged in some perfect maternal pursuit – making cup-cakes or reading an educational book to the kids. But instead she opened the door holding a screaming baby Oscar and smelling distinctly of vomit.
‘Oh, thank God you’re here. It’s lovely to see you, but please forgive me if I don’t kiss you.’
‘Lovely to see you too, Randa, and no worries, I really don’t need a kiss.’
‘Oscar’s come down with the twenty-four-hour bug. He’s vomited up everything I’ve given him so far today. Most of it in my hair.’
‘Delightful.’
I think he’s empty right now. Could you hold him for five minutes while I dash through the shower?’
Without waiting for an answer, Miranda handed the fat, bald baby to Holly, who held him rather gingerly away from her. Miranda dashed off up the stairs, pulling her stained shirt over her head. ‘Martha’s in the living room!’ she yelled over her shoulder.
Holly carried Oscar into the perfectly tidy living room. Martha was sitting in the middle of the enormous sofa, her legs stretched out in front of her, watching a Barbie film on DVD.
‘Hey,’ Holly said, and perched on the edge of a chair, still holding Oscar as far away from her body as she could. He was very sweet, she was sure, but he smelled decidedly iffy. Martha looked over at her.
‘I’m your aunt Holly. The one who lives … lived in South Africa? We’ve talked on Skype, remember?’
‘You look different.’
‘That’s because I’m not trapped inside a computer screen.’
Martha, a serious little girl, nodded her head and turned back to her film.
Holly bounced Oscar lightly on her knee and watched the screen too. Then it occurred to her that bouncing a nauseous baby might not be such a good idea, especially over Miranda’s immaculate golden carpets, so she stopped. He didn’t look happy, poor little chap. He was very round, but his little face looked drawn and pale. Even though he still smelled pretty gross, she drew him closer to her and he rested his head against her chest. It was the first time she’d ever seen him: the last time she’d been in the UK, Martha had been about eighteen months old and Miranda was pregnant with Oscar. Now Martha was three, and this sturdy little chap must be about nine months old.
Miranda came back down the stairs, dressed in fresh clothes, her wet hair combed back from her face.
‘That’s better!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Now, can I get you a cup of tea? Something to eat?’
‘I’m fine.’ Holly handed Oscar over to his mum, and Miranda settled herself on the sofa opposite.
‘I know that you must be sad to be back, but honestly, Holls, it’s such a treat to see you. I’ve been dying for you to get to know the children. Oscar’s starting to crawl, and Martha can count up to thirty, can’t you, darling?’
‘One, two, three …’ began Martha dutifully.
‘You don’t need to do it now, sweetie,’ said Miranda. ‘But I’m sure Auntie Holly would love to see some of your drawings.’
Martha trotted off dutifully and came back with a stack of paper, which she put on the table in front of Holly. She lifted each page one by one. Every picture was pretty much identical … a round face with stick legs and arms coming out of it, in shades of pink and purple. Holly made what she hoped were encouraging auntly noises.
‘Why don’t you draw some more?’ said Miranda, and Martha went to fetch a pink princess pencil case, and knelt on the floor by the coffee table. Oscar, who looked wrung out, cuddled close to Miranda and chewed on his little fist.
‘So how is it being back?’
‘Awful? Freezing? Don’t know. I’ve really just hidden in Mum’s house; I haven’t rung anyone. You’re the first people I’ve been to see.’
‘Well, we’re flattered,’ said Miranda. ‘Sorry you’ve come to the house of puke though.’
‘Ah, from the house of sighs, to the house of puke,’ Holly grimaced.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you know what Mum’s like … she keeps creeping around me, offering me cups of tea in this sympathetic whisper, like I might die or something if she speaks in a normal voice. I must be such a disappointment to her.’
‘Really?’ said Miranda, surprised. ‘I mean, I know she’s sad that you’re sad, about … you know … Damon and everything, but she was so excited about you coming back. She’s been boasting about you to her church ladies for years, you know – her exotic, creative daughter, living in the wilds of Africa.’
Holly snorted. That hardly seemed likely. At that moment, Oscar sat up bolt upright and began to retch, his pale little face suddenly bright red.
‘Oh dear, here we go again,’ said Miranda, jumping up and racing for the downstairs bathroom. She just made it and held the poor little thing over the toilet bowl.
‘Martha’s okay so far,’ she yelled out at Holly. ‘I’m trying to keep everything spotless so she doesn’t get it too. I’ll have to scrub this bathroom again now.’
‘Would it help if I took her out for a while?’ called Holly.
‘Oh, would you?’ said Miranda coming out of the bathroom. She’d washed Oscar’s little face, and within seconds he fell asleep, exhausted, on her shoulder.
‘Where can we go?’
‘Oh, the park is at the end of the road. Martha will show you where. Just let her have a go on the swings and the slide and have a run around for half an hour. Oh, and make sure you take some baby wipes. I like to give the swings and things a clean before she uses them.’
Holly nodded and accepted Miranda’s Cath Kidston nappy bag, although she had no intention of being the crackpot in the park wiping playground equipment down with baby wipes. She helped Martha to put on a pink cardigan, which matched her pink tights and white and pink spotted skirt, and, taking her hand, set off for the park. They walked in silence. Holly didn’t know a lot about small children, and she didn’t know Martha at all, and Martha didn’t seem inclined to chat like some little kids would.
The entrance to the park was around the corner at the end of Miranda’s quiet little road. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d be unlikely to happen upon it. It was a beautiful park, Holly noted with surprise, with plenty of unusual trees, green lawns and beautifully cared-for flower beds. Close to the entrance, there was a well-equipped children’s play area, with sturdy, brightly coloured equipment and a soft rubbery surface. It was far from the grim tarmacked playgrounds she remembered from growing up, which were always full of scary teenagers smoking. Even though the park was well hidden, there were plenty of people in the play area on this weekday afternoon: lots of mums with their children, but also a fair smattering of grandparents, and some young women who looked too young to be mums and Holly guessed were au pairs.
They stood at the entrance to the park. Holly had expected Martha to run off and play immediately, but she stood quietly, still holding Holly’s hand. ‘What do you want to do?’ Holly asked tentatively. Martha said something so softly that Holly had to get down on her knees and ask her to repeat it several times. Eventually she worked out that Martha was saying, ‘I like to swing.’
She walked her over to the swings and carefully lifted her in. Martha sat very straight, her hands in the air as if she was being held at gunpoint. ‘Mamma always wipes the bar before I touch it,’ she said, clearly distressed, so, against her will, Holly was forced to dig the pack of baby wipes out of the nappy bag and wipe down the swing after all. Once she’d done it (and disposed of the wipe in the bin, on Martha’s instruction), she was allowed to push the swing, very gently. If she got too vigorous, Martha wailed in distress and she had to slow the swing down and resume the slow back-and-forth pace. She asked a few times if Martha would like to go on the slide or the roundabout, but Martha shook her head and continued to sit like a little statue in the swing. It was very dull.
Holly looked around and saw a lot of the mums (and most of the au pairs) were looking at their mobile phones or chatting to each other, rather than watching their children. She wasn’t surprised. Doing this every day would bore her rigid. As she was babysitting her niece for the very first time, she thought hauling out her phone for a Facebook session or a game of Angry Birds would probably look bad, so she contented herself with people-watching. It was definitely a rather well-off area: all the mums looked very well groomed and nicely dressed, and the pushchairs lined up along the fence of the play area were all new and expensive-looking. She felt scruffy in her old jeans and sandals, and the brightly coloured shirt she had made herself.
After a while, she got the feeling that someone was watching her. She looked around and saw a tall blonde woman looking at her. The woman was holding a baby girl who had a wild halo of fairish curls, and there was a little boy with a similar cloud of hair, jumping up and down in front of her, talking nineteen-to-the-dozen. The little boy saw his mum was distracted and turned to look at what she was looking at. When he caught sight of Martha on the swing he came running over. He stood squarely in front of Holly and said, ‘You’re not Martha’s mum.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m her aunt.’
‘At home. Baby Oscar is sick.’
‘Snot sick or throw-up sick? Or bottom sick?’
‘Throw-up sick. And maybe bottom sick. I’m not sure.’
‘I was bottom sick. I pooed on the kitchen floor,’ said the little boy with great satisfaction. Holly wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, but at that moment his mum came over.
‘Hi,’ she said, smiling. ‘Zach saw Martha and wanted to say hello. I’m Jo. Oh … and this is Zach, and Imogene.’ She indicated the baby in her arms. ‘Zach and Martha are nursery friends.’ She was a strikingly attractive woman, tall and strong-boned, with a wide mouth and very blue eyes. ‘Statuesque’ was the word people used to describe women like that, Holly thought.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Holly, Miranda’s sister.’
‘Miranda!’ said Jo, smiling widely, as if Holly had somehow given her the answer to a riddle. ‘Miranda, of course! How is she?’
‘Home with a sick baby. Zach and I have just been discussing whether it was throw-up sick or snot sick.’
‘Oh dear, did he share the kitchen-floor incident with you? He’s very proud of that. It’s a worry.’
Jo laughed, and Holly found herself laughing too, for the first time since she’d stepped off the plane from South Africa.
‘Miranda never mentioned she had a sister,’ Jo said. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
‘Well, for the last ten years, I’ve been the sister who lived on the other side of the world. South Africa. I’ve only just got back.’
‘I think so. Not sure yet. Everything’s a bit up in the air at the moment.’ Holly tried to keep her voice as steady as she could, but she found herself pushing Martha’s swing a little harder than she should, and it wasn’t until Martha let rip with a wail that she realised what she was doing. She caught the chain of the swing and stopped it.
‘Why don’t you hop out and have a go at something else?’ she said sweetly.
‘I want to go on the roundabout with Zach,’ whispered Martha.
‘Zach,’ said Jo to her little boy who was running around and around, pretending to be a very noisy aeroplane, ‘will you take Martha on the roundabout?’
‘Naaaah!’ shouted Zach. ‘I hate the roundabout. And she’s a smelly girl!’
‘Sorry,’ Jo said, smiling ruefully. ‘He’s in that sexist phase. All boys are brilliant and all girls are smelly or boring. I’ll beat it out of him eventually.’
‘I think nature will probably do your work for you … In a little while, he might start to see girls differently.’
‘No hurry for that!’ said Jo.
Martha whispered something, and Holly had to lean over the swing and ask her to repeat it three times before she worked out that the little girl was saying, ‘I want to go home, please.’
‘Of course,’ she said, and lifted her out of the swing. She turned to Jo. ‘I’d better take her home and see how Miranda’s coping in the sea of baby sick.’
‘Oh, what a pity,’ said Jo. ‘I was just about to ask if you wanted to get a coffee. Another time, maybe.’
‘Another time,’ said Holly, and smiled. She couldn’t imagine when she’d next be in North London in a park full of small children and mummies, but Jo seemed a nice woman. She took Martha’s hand and they walked slowly home. Martha didn’t speak the whole time, and Holly was aware of how small Martha’s hand was in hers. The little girl seemed permanently slightly bewildered, as if the world was too loud, too busy and rather frightening, and she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to join in. And Holly certainly knew how she felt.