Little George was the most perfect, most beautiful baby that anyone had ever seen.
No woman on the planet had ever given birth to a child blessed with such soft, downy cheeks or such adorable tiny toes that made Amelia want to weep when she looked at them. Though the private maternity nurse said that although little George’s cheeks and toes were very nice, it was likely that Amelia had ‘a slight case of the baby blues’.
But Amelia wasn’t blue at all, she was happier than she’d ever been. She realised now that she’d never experienced love until a squalling little George, covered in blood and vernix, was placed on her chest and immediately latched on to her swollen nipple.
Of course, she was still a little cross that big George hadn’t been at the birth but he’d had to vote on a very important bill to privatise huge swathes of the NHS, so he’d missed the moment when his son was born.
‘But you are a very, very clever girl giving me a son and heir at the first attempt,’ he said warmly, when he eventually turned up at the Lindo Wing. ‘Should smooth things over nicely with my Pa too.’ He’d even bought her a beautiful platinum charm bracelet as a push present and said that he’d add to it with every new Wylie that Amelia produced.
Terrified that little George’s physical, mental and emotional development would be blunted if she’d had an epidural or even gas and air, Amelia had had a completely natural birth. She was still high from the endorphins that the bossy woman at her NCT class swore her body would release, and high from the fierce and frightening force of love she had for little George. But she didn’t mind sharing that love with big George. He might not have done any of the heavy lifting, but he’d done his bit to bring this wonderful new life into the world. ‘Would you like to hold your son?’ Amelia asked, holding the tiny miracle towards her husband.
George stared down at the red-faced and wrinkly baby that was still smeared with gunk and couldn’t prevent the shudder that rippled through him. It was splendid that the family name and genes had been secured for another generation but until the infant was old enough to be put on a pony, then George had absolutely no use for him.
‘Thanks awfully, Emmy, but I won’t. New suit,’ he explained and when Amelia’s face darkened, he backtracked. ‘Anyway, don’t want to get in the way of your first few precious hours with young George. Don’t all your baby books say that you should spend the first forty-eight hours skin-to-skin?’
Amelia had bought and read so many books on pregnancy, birth and childrearing that it wasn’t at all surprising that George had managed to acquire some of that conflicting knowledge, even if it was by osmosis. Or maybe it was because Amelia had been banging on about it for months and months.
She sniffed. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said and George leaned down to kiss her cheek, holding his breath at the raw animal scent, the milkiness of her. Now probably wasn’t the time to suggest that she take a shower or do something with her hair. And it definitely wasn’t the time to ask when and how she planned to lose the baby weight, he knew that much. ‘Look, I’ll leave you to get some sleep. You can ring for a nurse to take him away so he doesn’t keep you up by screaming his head off.’ He couldn’t help but shudder again. ‘My younger sister did nothing but howl for the first year of her life. She and Nanny had to go and sleep in the East Wing so she didn’t disturb us.’
It wasn’t the most auspicious start to George’s relationship with his son but they had all the time in the world to get to know each other. Though perhaps it would be helpful if George would stay for longer than fifteen minutes when he came to visit.
Apart from George senior’s intermittent appearances, there was a steady stream of visitors. Amelia’s mother and father, of course, though they’d had to go almost as soon as they arrived as the soft mood lighting in Amelia’s private room made her mother’s head throb. The last specialist Mrs Sedley had been to, paid for by Amelia from the allowance that George gave her, had opined that Mrs Sedley’s migraines were psychosomatic and suggested that she saw a psychotherapist. That suggestion had gone down like the Titanic. Meanwhile Mr Sedley had developed a nervous twitch and an obsession with clearing his name, which mostly involved studying the stock-market reports going back twenty years or so and writing detailed reports on his findings which he’d send to everyone from the Governor of the Bank of England to his local branch manager at Barclays. The pair of them were shadows, an echo of the people they used to be before they’d been ruined.
However, marriage to the most handsome MP on the Conservative backbenches and the subsequent securing of the Wylie baronetcy had finally restored Amelia’s reputation. To that end, she’d been visited by the wives of some of George’s parliamentary colleagues – he was particularly pleased that the life partner of the Minister for Social Justice had popped in for five minutes – as well as her old friends from school and university, including every single one of the five M’s. She’d even entertained a couple of her Big Brother housemates because there was nothing like forcing a human being out of your vagina to let bygones be bygones.
Only one person from Amelia’s past and her quite recent present was absent – Becky Sharp. She had sent a beautiful gift basket full of exquisite things for the baby, though every single item was pink despite the announcement in The Times stating very clearly that Amelia had had a boy. Amelia didn’t like to think it was a deliberate slight, but then she didn’t like to think much about Becky at all. Of course, little Georgy didn’t know they were pink and, according to many independent studies, had no concept of gender constructs, but George senior did, so Amelia asked one of the nurses to distribute the pink contents to the mothers in the NHS bit of the hospital.
In fact, there had been so many people in and out of the room and interfering with the bonding process that Amelia was quite pleased that on a quiet evening six days after Georgy had arrived, it was just the two of them.
She was just settling down for a much-needed nap, Georgy fed and changed and tucked into his darling little sleepsuit, when there was a quiet knock on the door. She pushed herself up, brushing her hair back and pinching her cheeks with the hand not clutching Georgy – how like George senior to drop in so late!
The door opened, revealing Captain Dobbin of Her Majesty’s Royal Regiment. He came timidly into the room, then promptly skidded on the water dripping from the absolutely massive bouquet of mixed blooms he was clutching in one hand, and careered into the bassinet, which thankfully was empty. Amelia had no intention of placing little George in it; why, it would be like putting him in a cage!
As it was, Georgy woke up from where he’d been slumbering on his mama’s breast and let out an ear-piercing cry.
‘Sorry, so sorry, Emmy. What a clumsy oaf I am,’ Dobbin stuttered. ‘Two left feet. I’m a bloody liability … Oh, Emmy … he’s a wonder, isn’t he? What a splendid little chap you’ve made,’ he added, his voice husky with emotion.
Amelia, who’d been about to tell Dobbin off for swearing in front of Georgy, simply smiled beatifically at him. She was exhausted and grey, her hair still sweat-tangled and limp, but Dobbin thought she’d never looked more beautiful. ‘He is rather wonderful,’ she agreed. ‘He’s already my very favourite person in the world. Are those for us?’
As well as the flowers, Dobbin was holding a huge helium balloon with ‘It’s a boy!’ printed on it, which ordinarily he’d have considered common, as well as a plush blue elephant which was twice the size of Georgy, who’d weighed in at an impressive nine pounds and six ounces.
Then, tenderly and carefully, when Amelia proudly showed off Georgy’s ten toes, Dobbin bent down and kissed his perfect, perfect feet, so that if it weren’t so battered, Amelia’s uterus would probably have clenched in delight. If only George had shown a fraction of Dobbin’s delight, she thought, as he straightened up and perched warily on the side of the bed.
‘So, that’s you and George settled then,’ he said, as though that wasn’t already the case. They were married, after all, and despite George having a lovely little flat in Victoria, he’d bought a house in Leakington, a village in his constituency, and had intimated very strongly that Amelia might like to spend most of her time down there ‘doing mum things. London is no place for a baby. All the pollution.’
‘Well, yes,’ she said gently, because she had come to realise – had always known, really – that Dobbin had feelings for her, which was very sweet of him, but George had always been the heir to her heart. Even when he was beastly, Amelia would always remind herself of how he’d rescued Pianoforte (who was now enjoying retirement in Leakington because the house came with fifteen acres and a stable) for her at a time when the rest of her friends and acquaintances had spurned her. ‘But you always knew that George was the only man for me.’
Dobbin sighed, his earlier joy gone. ‘I can’t stay,’ he said heavily.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. I suppose visiting hours are almost over.’
‘I mean, I’m leaving London. Britain. Signed up for another tour.’
And despite her assertions about George, Amelia felt an icy dread settle over her.
‘But I thought you were done with active duty.’ Amelia shifted the baby at her breast so she could sit up properly, wincing as she did so, while Dobbin tactfully averted his gaze from her pendulous, blue-veined breast and straining nipple. ‘Your focus is training new officers and ceremonial duties, isn’t it?’
Dobbin placed the tips of his huge fingers on Georgy’s downy head. ‘Things change. I’m not needed here and so it’s best to go where I am needed.’
‘Maybe not needed, but valued and liked very much,’ Amelia protested, though it was a weak argument and her heart was so suffused with joy and love for a little being that had only existed for a few days, that already she had a little less love for the other people in her life. Even so, the thought of dear old Dobbin back on active duty, where all sorts of wrong ’uns would try to kill him, cast a dark shadow over her newfound bliss. ‘You will come back to us, won’t you, Dobbin? I’ll be furious if you don’t.’
This time, Dobbin placed his hand on Amelia’s cheek, the backs of his fingers caressing her hot, flushed skin. ‘I’ll always come back to you, Emmy,’ he said throatily, but the baby was fussing and Amelia turned to her son, and by the time she lifted her head, Dobbin was gone.