‘Why’s your tummy so fat, Mummy?’
Three-year-old Iain poked his podgy finger into his mother’s pregnant body and looked up into her face, his eyes demanding an instant, truthful answer.
Fiona Angus sighed. She had known it would come but, coward that she was, she’d put it off as long as she could. Gently, she lifted him on to her knee, her brain searching wildly for the proper words.
Her son snuggled against her, his question already forgotten. ‘A story, Mummy?’
She relaxed against the cushions of the wide armchair, relieved that the awkward moment had passed, then made up her mind that it would be best to get it over after all. She couldn’t face having to go through this panic another time. ‘No story just now, Iain,’ she smiled, shifting her position slightly to be more comfortable. She dreaded his reception of what she meant to tell him, but took the plunge. ‘Mummy’s going to tell you why her tummy’s so fat.’
She got a flash of inspiration when his hand rested on her ‘bump’. ‘Can you feel something moving inside there?’
After frowning in concentration for a few seconds, he smiled broadly. ‘Ooh, yes, it’s a frog jumping about.’
Fiona had to laugh. ‘It’s not a frog, it’s a baby, a little brother or sister for you. I’m sure you’ll like that, won’t you?’
He nodded absentmindedly, still engrossed in feeling the movements under his hand.
‘Mummy and Daddy thought it would be a good idea for you to have somebody to play with. Once it’s grown, of course,’ she added hastily, ‘and we’ll still love you just as much as ever when the new baby arrives.’
He lifted his head now and studied her face earnestly, making her apprehensive of what was going through his mind. ‘Did I grow in there, too?’ he asked slowly.
‘Yes, darling. All babies grow in their mummy’s tummies.’
‘How does it come out?’ His eyes were wide open, but very interested.
This was the tricky bit. This was where the difficulty lay. ‘It can’t come out by itself,’ she said, carefully. ‘Mummy has to go to hospital to have it taken out.’
‘Oh.’ He fell silent, obviously trying to picture the hospital staff making a door for the infant to pass through.
Fiona held her breath, waiting for an avalanche of further questions about this strange phenomenon, but Iain seemed to accept it with no thoughts as to why or where. ‘When will I have my new brother?’ he asked eagerly, taking it for granted that it would be a boy, because his little friend next door had recently acquired a baby brother.
‘It should be around Christmas time,’ Fiona said, very glad that her son was showing no signs of jealousy. ‘It’ll be like the story about Baby Jesus that Gran told you, remember? Won’t that be fun?’
‘I bet it’ll be better than Mark’s brother,’ Iain boasted, jumping off his mother’s knee. ‘And I bet it’ll have more hair.’
She gave a relieved giggle, recalling the tiny bald head that had both fascinated and disgusted Iain when they had gone to see the new arrival next door. He ran off now, full of excitement, to let Mark into the secret, while she lumbered to her feet to prepare the evening meal.
After Iain had been put to bed, she told her husband how their son had received the announcement. ‘He wasn’t a bit jealous. He’s just sure our baby’ll be better than Mark’s.’
Gavin Angus chuckled. ‘I told you not to worry about it. Iain’s not spoiled even if he’s an only child - but not for much longer.’ Picking up the newspaper, he asked solicitously, ‘How have you been today, darling?’
‘Fine, really, but I wish it was all over. The last few weeks are always the worst.’ She lifted her knitting from the workbag at the side of her chair, and held up the tiny white matinee jacket for him to admire. ‘Iain’s sure it’s going to be a boy, but I’ve played safe by not using blue or pink.’
‘Mmmm.’ Gavin was already engrossed in the sports page.
‘You’re not listening!’ she said, sharply.
‘What? Oh, yes, it’s very nice, but isn’t it a bit small?’
Grinning, she shook her head. ‘It’s not meant for a monster. Remember how small Iain was when he was born?’
‘You’re right there. I was terrified to hold him at first, in case he slipped through my fingers. He soon grew, though. He’s a real boy now, and I’ll be taking him along with me to football matches in no time at all.’
‘Oh, you and your football! It’s all you think about nowadays.’ She sat down heavily, to crochet the strings for the tiny jacket.
‘Not exactly all,’ Gavin teased with a twinkle in his eyes.
The days passed slowly for Fiona until, at long last, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, she felt the unmistakable signs of her baby’s imminent arrival. ‘Mum,’ she told her mother, who was to be staying in the house until Fiona was back on her feet, ‘you’d better phone for a taxi, while I tell Iain.’
Mrs Simpson went out to the hall, saying over her shoulder, ‘I’ll tell Mrs Baxter next door to be ready, as well.’
Fiona grabbed her son as he rushed past shouting to an imaginary playmate. He’d be much better with a brother or sister to keep him company on rainy days like this, she assured herself. ‘Mummy’s going to the hospital now, darling, to have the baby,’ she told him. ‘You’ll be a good boy to Granny, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Mummy. When are you going away?’
‘Quite soon, dear.’ She fully expected a flood of tears, but Iain seemed to be anxious for her to be gone.
It only took the taxi little more than five minutes to arrive and Fiona asked the driver to carry out the travelling bag that had been sitting ready in the hall for the past four weeks. Then she went back to her son. ‘I’m going now, but don’t come outside. It’s absolutely pouring with rain.’ She kissed him quickly, but he wriggled out of her grasp.
‘I’ll hold him up so he can wave from the window,’ her mother consoled. ‘Now, you’re sure you’ll be all right? Is Mrs Baxter there?’
‘Yes, Mum, she’s waiting in the taxi. She’d been looking out for it. And don’t worry about me - I’ve done it all before.’ Fiona turned to Iain again. ‘Bye, darling, and look after Daddy and Gran until I come home. We’re lucky it’s going to be a real Christmas baby, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, Mummy, but hurry.’ He didn’t appear to care that she was leaving, and it was a rather downhearted Fiona who joined her neighbour in the taxi.
His grandmother held the small boy up to the window, but felt his little body suddenly stiffen. He’s just realised his Mummy’s away, she thought, keeping a firm grip on him as he turned and buried his face in her shoulder. ‘It’s all right, my wee lamb, she’ll be back in just a few days,’ she comforted. ‘Wait till you see the bonny new baby she’ll be taking home with her.’
‘Don’t want any silly baby,’ came the muffled reply.
Mrs Simpson was puzzled by this sudden change of heart. Fiona had told her how Iain had been delighted with the idea of a new baby, so why should he be in tears about it now?
Was he beginning to be jealous? Was he scared they wouldn’t love him if there was a new baby? Depositing him on the floor because he was growing a bit heavy for her to carry, she tried to take his mind off himself. ‘Come on, my dearie, we’ll have to phone Daddy to let him know.’
He withdrew his chubby little hand from hers but held his head down, so she went into the hall by herself. ‘I’ll go straight to the hospital when I’m finished here,’ Gavin told her when he heard the news. ‘I wish I could have gone with her, though. Was she all right?’
‘She was fine, and Mrs Baxter went with her in the taxi.’ She hoped that she wasn’t going to be saddled with two disconsolate males while her daughter was away.
At teatime, Iain ate his scrambled eggs in silence, this new sulkiness worrying his grandmother. She had never seen him like this before. After she had washed the dishes and tidied up, she took his hand and led him upstairs. ‘Come away, my dearie, and Gran’ll tell you a nice wee story when you’re tucked up in bed.’
She ran the water for his bath and watched him as he undressed, spurning the help she offered. By the time she was rubbing his hair with the huge striped towel, she had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t just pique that was troubling Iain. He was really a sad little boy, she mused, as the fair curls sprang to life from the head that had, a few minuted before, been wet and bedraggled. ‘What’s wrong. my pet? Tell Gran.’
But he just shook his head and ran through to his bedroom. She decided to tell him the Christmas story again. It might help him to accept the coming child without feeling neglected and resentful. He listened, unmoving, as she began the tale, but his wide blue eyes never left her face.
‘And so Mary and Joseph had to go to Bethlehem. Joseph knew that Mary couldn’t walk all that way when she was going to have a baby, so he got an ass, that’s just like a donkey, for her to sit on, and they started … ‘
‘It’s not true!’ Iain shouted suddenly. ‘It wasn’t an ass, or a donkey. It wasn’t!’ He burst into tears, deep, racking sobs that shook his whole small frame.
Mrs Simpson was utterly perplexed as she held him close and patted his back. What on earth could be upsetting him like this? ‘Aye, my dearie, Mary did ride into Bethlehem on a donkey, and the Baby Jesus was born in a stable because they couldn’t find anywhere else to stay.’
He cried until he was exhausted, while she sat, at a loss how to deal with him, until she was sure that he was sound asleep. His face looked so peaceful now, still wet with tears, so she tiptoed out, leaving the door open.
It was almost one o’clock before Gavin came home. ‘It’s a boy,’he announced joyfully, ‘and they’re both doing well. Seven pounds four ounces, and lovely with it. He was born at twelve minutes past midnight, so Iain’ll be glad it’s a real Christmas baby.’
‘Poor wee Iain,’ said his mother-in-law, and told him what had happened.
Gavin was just as perturbed as she was, and went upstairs to make sure that his elder son was sleeping. The sight of the small face, so angelic in repose, brought a lump to his throat. Small children were so vulnerable. He pulled the quilt up gently, and vowed that he would never give Iain cause to resent the new arrival.
At that moment, the boy opened his eyes. ‘Daddy,’ he whispered, ‘is that you?’
‘Yes, son.’ Gavin gathered up the pathetic little figure, quilt and all, and carried him downstairs. He sat down in an easy chair by the fire and cradled his first-born in his arms. ‘Mummy’s got our baby now - a real Christmas baby.’ He was quite unprepared for Iain’s reaction, as the boy jumped off his knee on to the floor, tears steaming down his cheeks.
‘It’s not a real Christmas baby! It’s not! Mummy didn’t go on a donkey! She went in a silly old taxi!’
Gavion sat, mystified, as his mother-in-law, enlightened by the boy’s outburst, knelt down beside her grandson and her arms round the sleepy, pyjama-clad figure. ‘Mary and Joseph lived a long, long time ago, my wee lamb. Long before there were any motor cars. If there had been, Mary would have gone in a taxi just like Mummy. So you see, it is a real Christmas baby, after all.’
‘Really and truly, Gran?’ Iain hiccupped, his face breaking out in a huge smile.
‘Really and truly.’ She brushed a tear from the corner or her eye. ‘Now, you’d better go back to bed quickly, because Santa won’t come if you’re not sleeping.’
She held up the old football sock of Gavin’s that Fiona had explained was to be used for this purpose. ‘Look, your Christmas stocking’s all ready and waiting.’
Using the sleeve of his pyjama jacket to dry his own eyes, the astonished boy said, ‘I forgot all about Santa.’
He took his father’s hand to go upstairs, then anxious again, looked into the man’s still bewildered face. ‘Is our baby better than Mark’s baby?’
‘Of course he is,’ Gavin grinned. ‘He’s absolutely beautiful, with fair hair just like ours.’
‘Wheeeee!’ Iain jumped up abnd down with excitement. ‘Just wait till I tell Mark that our baby’s got hair. Can we call him Jesus?’
***
Word count 2197
Written July 1986 - rejected by People’s Friend and the Sunday Post