The Generation Game (34 page)

“Good.” He ignores the subtext. “That’s good.” He scoops Lucy out of the little cot and rocks her gently. Maybe he is using her as some kind of human shield as he
is about to set the record straight.

“Go on, then,” I say. “Enlighten me. Who is it?”

“Haven’t you guessed?”

“I think so.”

“Someone who wants a baby more than anything in the world,” he says.

“Toni.”

He nods his head, carries on rocking you back and forth, back and forth, jiggedy-jig, jiggedy-jig.

I feel sick.

“I’m sorry,” Phil, he says. “I guess I never stopped loving her. Not really. I thought it would work, you and me, but when you told me you were pregnant, I didn’t
feel like I was supposed to. Not for long. It felt wrong somehow. Like it should’ve been Toni with the growing belly, the wind, the heart burn.”

“I’ll give you heart burn.”

But how can I feel anger at what he is saying? Of course it shouldn’t have felt right. I deceived him. Deceived him into thinking it was his child. That I’d given him a miracle. When
all along it was Justin. For the second time in my life, it is Toni’s brother who’s come up trumps. Bingo. Happy Birthday. Surprise!

“It’s not your baby,” I say.

“I know you’re mad with me Phil, but you’re going to need me. And Toni will do her bit. You know she will.”

“No, it’s not your baby.”

“You needn’t worry we’ll take over. Of course, it’s your baby.”

In the words of Morrissey, it’s time the tale were told. Oh dear. Take a deep breath, Philippa Smith, and tell him.

“It’s Someone Else,” I say, looking him in the eyes, which are sad and full of the burdens of life and finally… realisation.

“You mean… ”

“You didn’t hit the jackpot. Someone Else did.”

“Who?”

He pins me to the bed with his astonished stares, waiting for my answer so I give it to him.

“I thought I’d keep it in the family. It’s her brother. It’s Justin.”

“That loser?”

“Yeah, that loser. Terry. T-J. Justin. He’s the father of my baby. He’s the daddy. Which makes Toni an auntie. That should be some comfort to her, eh? She gets you back and she
gets a niece into the bargain.”

We don’t get much further because my bodyguard, Fran, muscles her way into the denouement, dispersing my astonished, gob-smacked husband with efficiency as lethal as tear gas. I hear her
telling him I need my rest which seems like a luxury that will quite possibly be out of my reach for good. After that there is the squeak of footsteps, the heavy thud of a door. Then the comfort of
Lucy’s breathing. The beating of her heart. That’s all I need.

The next day we have another visitor. Not the visitor I was hoping for, but one I knew would come. And now she’s in front of me, standing still and awkward, all nasty
thoughts are dissolving into a messy pile of emotion.

“Hello, Philly,” Toni says. “How are you?”

“News travels fast.”

“When it’s this important yes, it does.”

She drinks you up, your smallness, your babyness, and within seconds Toni’s eyes are wet and shiny and my own emotions are on the slippery slope.

“She’s your niece. Did you hear that too?” I try to make my voice kind, try to care enough about how she must feel in all this.

“Yes, I heard. I’m so pleased. Pleased it’s not Adrian’s. Pleased for you. For Justin. Pleased this one made it all the way.”

I hold you up and Toni reaches out and takes you, a precious parcel, holds you close and smells your head. She sits down with you on the bed next to me so I am subjected to a waft of perfume
that transports me back to the house with all the empty rooms in Belsize Park, the flat on Haverstock Hill with the bijou bathroom, Toni’s teenage bedroom of the pink shagpile and woodchip,
honing her make-up skills. The young girl trotting down the road, Margot Fonteyn hair. The tinkle of glass on the shop floor.

“Are you going to tell Justin?” she asks, after a while.

“I couldn’t bear the look on his face,” I say quietly, because I sound stupid, a wimp.

“Don’t you think it’s about time he knew? About both babies?”

“Are you mad?”

“No, I’m stark raving sane. Tell him. Stop being a martyr.”

A martyr? I am not a martyr. Or am I? Is that what I am doing? Why am I so set on doing this myself, dealing with it all on my own? Maybe she is right. Maybe he should know about both babies.
No. I can’t tell him. He’ll think I am being a child, that I still haven’t grown up. But why should I care what he thinks? Of course I care what he thinks. I’ve always cared
what he thinks, ever since I was a little girl leaping over Bernie’s bamboo canes…

“Are you alright, Philly?”

“Will you tell him for me?”

“It’s something you should really do, Phil.”

“I can’t.”

She shrugs. “If that’s what you want, I will. It’s about time he settled down.”

“He’ll never settle down. Not with me at any rate.”

“Do you want him to?”

“I’ve always wanted him to.”

And, not surprisingly, she asks: “Then why the bloody hell did you marry Adrian?”

Good point.

“Lots of reasons. Stupid reasons. All the wrong reasons… I’m sorry.”

“So you should be.” She smells Lucy again, to keep her on the straight and narrow. “It happened. Can’t change that. And I suppose I should be apologising too. For taking
him back.”

“Yes, you are supposed to be saying sorry. Adrian is actually technically my husband. I’d almost forgotten.”

“Sorry.”

There is an ocean of silence in which we thrash about, trying our best to get back to dry land, then I catch hold of you, my little bobbing life-raft… well, Toni hands you back to me
after planting a kiss on your little boxer nose.

“Lucy might make him settle down,” she says, ever the optimist.

“We can manage on our own.”

“You need a family.”

“She’s my family.”

Toni gets up to leave, but can’t quite bring herself to go.

“Do you remember Diana?” she asks.

“Ye-es,” I say, unsure where she is going with this.

“Then you’ll know there’s no such thing as a happy ending.”

And I remember that day, early Sunday morning, Joe waking me up with a mug of tea, his rugby player legs. Bob in tears on the phone. The underpass in Paris. And the week that followed.

“But we still have to aim for it,” Toni goes on. “Adrian’s my happy ending. Not your archetypal happy-ever-after ending, a little 21st Century, but an ending all the
same. With a chance of some happiness attached to it.”

“And I’ve got Lucy.”

“Yes,” she says, “you have. But it would be nice to have someone else too, wouldn’t it? Someone else to share it all with.”

She leaves us then and makes a very important phone call to her mother, who is a great aunt of sorts but, more importantly, a grandmother – news that will take Sheila completely by
surprise. Toni then tracks down Justin on his mobile, in Warsaw. Tells him she is an auntie.

Then it is Sheila’s turn to break the news, working the grapevine. She goes to the shop and tells Bob he is a grandfather. I don’t know what look passes over his face but I sense
that in that moment I am forgiven. I am his daughter once again.

It is left to me to tell Helena and I finally pluck up courage early the next morning, while you are still sleeping and there is comparative hush in the vicinity. I get my
hours mixed up and realise too late that it is in actual fact the middle of the night in Toronto. But the phone is picked up and above the crackly line I can make out a faint, husky voice murmuring
a panicky
Hello?

“Congratulations!” I say. “You did it!”

“Philippa? Is that you? What exactly have I done?”

“Become a grandmother!”

“No, I’m not… really… am I? Tell me.”

So I tell her. I tell her everything.

“Terry,” she murmurs, bemused. “Who would’ve guessed?” There is a pause where all I can hear is the crackly line… or is it her wheezing chest?
“I’d come and see you if I could.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I’ve got emphysema.”

“I thought that’s what old coal miners got.”

“And old smokers.”

Oh dear. Emphysema. That doesn’t sound too good. I don’t go into detail about Adrian or Justin nor any of the other things I really should be saying, like
why were you such a
rubbish mother?
Not right now.

“It was good talking to you,” I mumble. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you, Philippa. I’m so glad for you. Take good care of that little girl of yours. What’s she called, by the way?”

“Lucy,” I say. “She’s called Lucy. It’s the closest I could get to Lucas.”

“Lucas,” she breathes and I realise the crackles are definitely down to her. “Well, you’ll know soon enough then. You’ll know what this has all been
about.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve gotta go. Orville’s calling. We’ll speak soon.”

And she is gone.

As I put the phone down and contemplate crying, who should walk in but a slightly older, slightly balder Bob, fresh off the Paddington train, carrying a bunch of Andy’s wilted roses.

“I’ve come to stay for a bit,” he says, kissing me on the cheek as if he’s just back from a therapy walk on the moors. “If you’ll have me.”

My Mr Bob Sugar.

You are three months old. You are small and doll-like but your eyes do not click shut when you lie down; they flutter closed and then I can see the shell-skin of your lids that
reminds me why I chose your name. And your heart? It’s beating well, stronger and stronger.

We live on our own, you and I, getting on like a house on fire (whoops, memories of Wink), in the big four bedroom house in East Dulwich. Adrian has crossed back over the River Thames to old
familiar territory, the double-fronted Victorian villa where he and Toni are living together again. They are soon to go to Africa, several months ahead of Madonna, to acquire a baby. But Toni and
Adrian will do it with the help of Adebayo, quietly and without fuss. They will bring home a plump little orphan girl with no family to her name. She will live happily in Belsize Park surrounded by
people from all four corners of the globe in a family house that has been crying out for her for years. In a house that has finally become a home, its cavernous kitchen finally filled with noise
and mess that even Toni’s cleaner won’t keep on top of so that, to Auntie Sheila, it will look like that burglar has returned at long last.

You and I, on the other hand, are now ready to leave this cosmopolitan city behind, heading west to the place that is part of my very blood and bones. We are leaving Paddington and its huge iron
and pigeon-splatted glass canopy, my own little girl wrapped in a yellow shawl on a warm August morning. A shawl I bought because it reminds me that Helena once swaddled me in a similar one
(haven’t I learnt anything?) which was passed onto Andy, his burial shroud.

We are not alone on our journey. We have someone to escort us across the capital and through the Underground. Someone to help us onto the train. To help stow the luggage on the overhead rack. To
hold Lucy while I eat my egg and cress sandwich. That someone is Bob.

We are taking the train as Bob no longer drives; his nerves are not up to it these days. I myself have given my Laguna to Joe and Rebecca who need a second car with their kids’ schedules
and no money.

“You have a political conscience after all, Phil,” he says as I hand him the keys.

“You obviously don’t have an ecological one,” I retort, quick off the mark for once. ‘Fancy owning two cars.’

Valerie and Lesley, the fluffballs, are so happy with Evelyn and Judith that they are staying put. So I needn’t worry about them curling up in the cot or triggering asthma attacks.
I’ll do anything to keep you safe. To keep you with me.

The rest of our worldly goods – rather more than Helena and I owned – are following on in a removal truck. The house in East Dulwich has a For Sale sign (guess-which-estate-agent?)
nailed to a post in the front garden. For now, we’ll be living with Bob, at the shop, the only place in the world I want to be.

“A new start,” says Bob as he spots me gazing wistfully at the white chalk horse on the hill at Westbury.

“A new start,” I agree. I make a bold move and reach into the pocket of his cardigan where I know I’ll find his bottle of pills. “You don’t need these anymore, not
with me looking after you.”

He frowns, uncertain how exactly I plan to do that when I already have plenty to keep me occupied.

“Have you heard from Sheila?” I ask, changing the subject.

“She’s picking us up from the station,” he says. And when I don’t respond to this, he adds: “I should’ve told you.”

The last time I saw Sheila was on Bernie’s soggy lawn, running full pelt at me, shrieking like a mother gull protecting her young. Protecting Toni. I’m not exactly looking forward to
seeing her now, with my own maternal instincts kicking in. Kicking off. But she has to meet you sometime.

“She’s pleased,” Bob says, sensing my anxiety. Which is bordering on terror. “Really pleased.”

“Is she?”

“She just wishes Justin would come home.”

“He will be soon.”

“He will?”

“I had a letter. Here, have a look.”

I rummage in the changing bag and pass it to him, a much longer affair than the note scrunched into my hand on the eve of my sixteenth birthday. Not in his unjoined-up scrawl but typed on his
laptop in a hotel somewhere in Eastern Europe. I’ve read it over and over, each time hearing his Brummie twang, hardly daring to believe the words I never thought I’d hear. Showing them
to Bob might make them come true.