Odd Socks (7 page)

I close my eyes in shock, but when I open them again it hits me even harder. An all-consuming fierce intensity of emotion that wallops me like a piece of two-by-four to the side of the head. The baby herself seems to be perfectly unaware of the emotional turmoil that's taking place before her, and there are certainly no clues in her appearance as to why I suddenly feel the way I do. She's the shade, and texture, of a boiled beetroot. Relatively lipless, totally hairless and with eyes the same colour as the barrel of a particularly oily SLR semi-automatic after it's been fired several times. Yet here I sit, frozen on the outside and completely melted on the inside – sort of like a Choc Wedge that hasn't been in the freezer very long.

‘Want to hold her, Mum?' Bronte seems oblivious to the life-changing event that has just taken place. ‘Come on, she won't bite.'

‘Humph,' says the mound of blankets on the other bed.

‘Oh, okay, Bronte,' I attempt to sound nonchalant, ‘if you insist.'

Bronte passes the baby over and I take her gently, nestling her neatly onto my lap. She looks up at me and yawns, her tiny little mouth stretching to the limit with the effort. And, if anything, I fall in even deeper as I hold her. In fact, if you don't count the rather distracted glimpse that I got of her last night (and I'm not), then I've just fallen in love at first sight for the first time in my life. And I don't even
believe
in falling in love at
first sight. But she is so incredibly little, so soft, so pliable, so perfect, so absolutely superlatively precious.

‘What do you think?' Bronte interrupts my mental inventory of the baby's perfections. ‘Isn't she just gorgeous?'

‘Do you know . . .' I look up and realise that they are all looking at me expectantly. ‘You're right. She's lovely.'

‘Oh, I knew it!' Bronte hugs herself with glee. ‘I knew you wouldn't be able to resist her! She's just too . . . too
special
, isn't she?'

‘She certainly is,' I say slowly, looking back at her tiny face. ‘Really special.'

‘Damn straight,' agrees Nick with obvious pride.

‘So what are you going to call her?' Mum asks Bronte and Nick eagerly while I concentrate on stroking the baby's tiny fingers. ‘Have you thought of any names?'

‘Yeah, as a matter of fact we have.' Nick grins at Bronte. ‘Haven't we, Bron?'

‘Yes. We're going to call her –'

‘Sherry,' finishes Nick. ‘We're going to call her Sherry.'

‘But that's
my
name!' Mum looks at them both with amazement. ‘What a coincidence!'

‘It's no coincidence, Gran,' laughs Bronte. ‘We're calling her
after
you, duffer.'

‘Oh. Oh, I don't know what to say.' Mum shakes her head and stares at her grand-daughter open-mouthed. ‘I'm really touched. I really am.'

‘Hello, Sherry.' I put one of my fingers in her tiny palm and she curls an impossibly minuscule set of digits around it. I'm a bit taken aback at their choice of name. What a lovely gesture for my mother. Besides, as if I wasn't already totally infatuated, her parents have sealed the deal by naming her after an alcoholic beverage. It might not be my absolute favourite, but then ‘Champagne' doesn't quite make it as a first name.

‘I just can't believe it,' Mum mutters, and then gets up off the bed quickly. ‘You'll have to excuse me. I'll be back in a minute.'

‘I think she's really pleased,' says Nick as he watches my mother clumsily open the bathroom door. ‘In fact, I think she's crying.'

‘What about you, Mum?' asks Bronte. ‘Do you like it?'

‘Yes – nice name, nice gesture,' I answer without taking my eyes off Sherry. ‘Well done, both of you.'

‘Her full name is going to be Sherry Rose Woodmason,' says Bronte. ‘The ‘Sherry' for
my
Gran, and the ‘Rose' for Nick's.'

‘Lovely,' I reply supportively. Although, despite the name's obvious liquid attractions, I do have a few reservations about the whole ‘Sherry' thing. Because there's a pretty good chance the child will be tall, blonde and blue-eyed like her parents, and there's an equally good chance that she, like her mother and myself, will also be big-breasted. And the thing is that the world is not particularly kind to big-breasted, blue-eyed blondes named Sherry – or, at least, kind in the way I'd prefer.

‘Hello? Anyone home?'

‘Nick! Bronte! Congratulations!'

‘Hand her over! I want to hold my first grandchild!'

I automatically tighten my grip on the baby while I look towards the doorway of the room. David, Diane and their brood are crowding in bearing huge smiles, a variety of gifts, and the obligatory pink balloons. David and his other three sons, Evan, Christopher and Michael, are all built in the exact same mould as Nick. All tall, blonde and Nordic-looking. Diane, on the other hand, looks a lot like my best friend, her sister Camilla. They are both fairly short, around five foot three or so, with light-brown hair, green eyes and a neat figure. They
are also both very good value to have around, and have gone a long way towards convincing me that height and IQ don't have to be mutually inclusive.

‘Terry! I hear you turned midwife last night.' Diane smiles at me with admiration. ‘Rather you than me, I have to say!'

‘She'd do anything to be the first to see the baby!' David says with a grin as he shakes his son's hand heartily. ‘Congratulations, mate! And now you get to see what life's really all about!'

‘Aargh,' says Eeyore from within her blankets.

‘Nappies, night-feeds, and never having a top without a stain on the shoulder,' adds Diane, with a curious glance towards the other bed. ‘Speaking of which, David, what have you done with
our
two?'

‘What?' David looks around distractedly. ‘Oh, outside in the hallway. Couldn't get the stroller through the door.'

‘So you
left
them there?' queries Diane with a sigh. ‘Chris, Michael – can you go and get the twins out of their stroller and bring them in?'

‘What kept you?' I ask curiously. ‘You said you were on the way when I rang you hours ago.'

‘Oh, we stopped to grab some presents for the baby,' says Diane as she unloads the gifts onto Nick's lap. ‘And you try taking this lot anywhere near a shopping centre! It's sheer torture.'

The two boys who had left to fetch their sisters come back in with a dark-haired baby girl each. One of the babies has her thumb shoved in her mouth and is leaning against her brother's chest placidly, while the other one is straining to get down and screeching what definitely sound like baby obscenities. The twins, Robin and Regan, were born in February and are, I suppose, about six months old.

My mother chooses this moment to re-emerge, rather
red-eyed, from the bathroom. She shuts the door gently behind her, looks at the now crowded room and smiles happily.

‘Did they tell you what they've named the baby?' she asks eagerly. ‘Go on, Bronte, tell them!'

‘Sherry Rose Woodmason,' announces Nick grandly. ‘After Bron's Gran and mine.'

‘That's lovely,' says his mother approvingly. ‘You
are
a thoughtful boy.'

‘So where's the bundle of joy?' asks David. ‘Hand her over, Terry, you've had more than enough.'

Although I disagree strenuously, I also realise I've got little chance of hanging on to the object of my desire for now. So I get up reluctantly, and David slides into my seat and takes Sherry. My arms immediately feel weightless and uncomfortably empty. I stroke my finger across her face briefly before retreating to the opposite side of the room, where I lean against the corner cupboard. The Woodmasons all crowd around David and the baby and utter various words of admiration.

Christopher deposits the twin he is carrying on the floor where she immediately flips herself neatly over onto her back. Then, to my admiration, by arching her back and then relaxing it in turn she proceeds to concertina herself along the floor in a slow but steady backward motion. I don't know much about babies but I do believe this is quite an achievement, albeit an odd one, for a baby of her age. I look over at the wonderchild's mother and raise my eyebrows questioningly. Diane just grins and shrugs, then transfers her gaze to her mobile daughter, who has now reached the wall and is changing direction.

Meanwhile, the other twin has also been placed on the floor. However, she is obviously not up to the crawling – or flopping – stage yet. Instead, her brother has just ducked down and thoughtfully laid her out of the way under the bed where
she can't be tripped over or trampled on. After gazing at the underside of the bed in opened-mouthed awe for several minutes, the baby slowly rolls to one side, picks up a large bit of fluff, and crams it in her still-open mouth.

‘Diane! Don't you watch what your children are eating? Really!'

I turn towards the doorway and there's Diane's mother, making her usual entrance with her husband in tow. Rose Riley is only a shade taller than my own mother and about the same age, although she looks much older. She's also twice as sharp. She keeps her three daughters and each of her nine grandchildren firmly within sight, and does not hesitate to let them know when she disapproves of their actions. Harold, a portly gentleman with tonsured white hair and a permanently worried smile, is her perfect match. He's as round as she is thin and as self-deprecating as she is self-confident. He also happens to be her fourth husband and, as all the others died relatively prematurely, had better enjoy himself while he can.

‘Mum! Robin, spit it out.' Diane squats down and inserts a finger expertly into the baby's fluff-filled mouth. ‘Here, give it up.
Thank
you.'

‘Search and Destroy!' laughs Nick from the bed.

‘Hello, everybody,' says Harold, with a general beam all round. ‘I hear congratulations are in order. Is that right?'

‘It certainly is,' agrees his wife firmly, ‘and where is the darling baby?'

I cram myself further into my corner as I watch Rose smoothly take over both the darling baby and the green vinyl armchair. She settles herself in and starts cooing to Sherry, who looks rather bemused.

‘Hello there, early bird,' she says to the baby. ‘Harold, give them their gift. So, what's her name?'

‘It's Sherry Rose Woodmason,' Nick proudly announces again. ‘After both her great-grandmothers.'

‘Like, we just thought that Sherry Rose sounded a bit better than Rose Sherry,' explains Bronte nervously as she takes a tissue-covered gift from Harold and starts to unwrap it. ‘Oh, look, Nick! A sheet-set for the cot! We needed one of these, Mrs Riley, thank you so much.'

‘I knew you'd both neglect the practical things.' Rose glances briefly at the ceiling and purses her lips. ‘Young people always do.'

‘What do you think of the baby's name, Rose?' Mum moves over to stand next to Rose. ‘Isn't it a lovely gesture?'

‘Why hello, Sherry!' says Rose with obvious pleasure. ‘I didn't see you there! You
are
looking well!'

‘So are you, honey,' says Mum. ‘I like what you've done with your hair.'

We all stare automatically at Rose's hair, which to me looks exactly the same as it always does. Short, wavy and a light Wedgwood-blue colour. Today it matches the twin-set she is wearing with a brown tweed skirt and woollen scarf.

‘Yes, I thought I'd try something different. Nice of you to notice.' Rose gives her daughter a fleeting glance. ‘Nobody
else
seems to have.'

‘So what do you think, Mum?' Diane wisely refrains from commenting on her mother's hair. ‘Isn't it nice of Nick to name the baby after both of you?'

‘Yes, it is. Thank you.' Rose gives the parental pair on the bed a brief but approving nod. ‘Although I can't see that Sherry Rose sounds all that much better than Rose Sherry. But each to their own. After all, who am
I
to comment?'

‘You're the matriarch, that's who you are.' Elizabeth, Diane's youngest sister, crowds her way into the room accompanied by her fiancé, Phillip, and yet another pink balloon. ‘Isn't that the
way it works? When you're a grandmother, you're just a grandmother, but when the next generation starts arriving – well, you get promoted to matriarch and then you can start bossing everyone around.'

‘Bit late now,' mutters Diane under her breath to me, ‘she's already been doing that for years.'

‘Bloody hell,' says David with feeling, and receives a narrow glance from his mother-in-law in response. ‘Not you, Mum – I meant Robin. She's crammed a tissue in her mouth. Can you grab her, Di?'

‘Sure,' says his wife with annoyance as she bends down to the daughter under the bed. ‘I wouldn't want you having to move, after all.'

‘Hello, all,' says Phillip, looking exceptionally tall, dark and well groomed, as usual. ‘Congratulations, Nick and Bronte.'

‘Thanks, mate,' responds Nick, who seems to be in his element. ‘Come over and have a better look.'

‘Okay.' Phillip grabs Elizabeth by the hand and they move slowly across the crowded room. Elizabeth gives me a smile as she passes and I smile back. She is a taller version of her two older sisters but, apart from that and a tendency to add chestnut highlights to her much longer hair, looks almost identical.

‘Is this Bronte Diamond's room?' asks a young female at the door. She has flat black hair, flat black clothing and a large gold hoop through one eyebrow. She is also holding what looks like a badly wrapped pogo stick.

‘Merrill!' yell Bronte and Nick in unison from the bed. ‘Come in!'

Merrill comes in, and is immediately followed by about four other young females and one extremely reluctant-looking male. They head over to the bed and deliver a series of kisses to Bronte's cheek and a pile of presents to Nick's lap. I'm shoved even further into my corner and the cupboard handle
digs painfully into my back. I'd dearly like to call it quits and escape but I don't like my chances of dragging my mother away. She has firmly ensconced herself on the armrest of the green vinyl chair and is deep in discussion with Rose Riley who, obviously taking the matriarch role seriously, is showing no inclination to give up either the baby
or
the only seat. For some reason, which I've never been able to fathom, Rose and my mother get along extremely well and even go on quite a lot of outings together. Perhaps opposites really
do
attract.