Encounters

‘I’m all alone, Pen,’ he had said, on the phone. The liar. ‘All alone, and it is Christmas Eve. Couldn’t I come?’

I had been trying to forget it was Christmas Eve, in spite of the cards around the room, in spite of the coloured lights around the church and the village pub. Christmas is for families, not for the orphaned unmarried like me, however sociable we might be the rest of the year. But the crackle of sentiment in his voice had got to me.

‘Come on in, Joe,’ I said now, wearily. ‘The house is getting cold. You’d better ask her in. One drink and you can go to the pub. Both.’

I turned my back on the door and stood, folding my arms defensively around me, in front of the fire. What did I care how many women he brought. No doubt he’d come for my approval before popping the question to someone who had finally been fool enough to say yes. It was the sort of crazy tactless thing Joe might do. I kicked a log and watched the shower of sparks. Whoever she was, she was a bitch.

There was a click as Joe quietly pushed the front door shut behind him with his foot. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten …

Slowly I turned.

Nobody. He was standing there with a basket in each hand, and he was looking sheepish again. What the hell was he up to?

‘OK, Joe. Have a drink.’ I sighed and went for the bottle as he set down the two baskets and came forward.

He took the glass from my hand. ‘You’re a real brick, Pen. Did I ever tell you that?’

Of course, I could have stepped back in time to avoid that kiss; as it was I stepped back just a little too late. As an experiment it was a success.

‘I like your hair long. You look fabulous; really good.’ He took a deep drink from his glass. I waited smugly for his eyes to water as he swallowed, but they didn’t. I was impressed. It was neat and he had taken a big gulp. Perhaps he had been practising.

‘Happy Christmas, fella,’ I whispered. ‘Now, stop flannelling and show me this friend.’

‘His name is Paul.’ He set down the glass.

‘Paul?’

I watched as he went to the shopping. One of the baskets was stuffed with blankets and – I felt my eyes growing enormous – a small baby.

I stood there, for the first time in my life speechless, as Joe tenderly scooped it up and brought it to the fire. It had delicate, tiny features and warm pink cheeks. It was asleep.

‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Joe’s voice was very gentle.

‘Whose is it?’ I don’t think my voice was as harsh as it should have been. It really was, now he came to mention it, rather beautiful.

‘This is my son.’ There was no mistaking this time the pride in his voice.

And there was no mistaking the jealousy and disappointment that swept through me as he said it; silly fool that I was, still caring for a man like him.

‘Do you want to hold him?’ He spoke with the voice of one about to bestow a rare and lovely treat. I stepped back and firmly picked up my glass again.

‘I’m not used to babies,’ I said. ‘I’d drop him.’

‘I expect you want to know where he came from?’ The shifty look had gone and the old mischievous grin was back, teasing me.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve no doubt you have as many gooseberry bushes in town as we do here.’

‘His mother doesn’t like children. We had a conference when we split up and she said I could take him. So I did.’ He was grinning all over his face.

‘So you did.’ I was stunned. ‘Do you know anything about babies, Joe?’

He shook his head. ‘She gave me a manual. It’s quite straightforward, really. I’ve got all the gear. It’s in the car, actually.’

‘But, Joe, what’ll you do when term starts? Who will look after it then?’

Joe, like me, teaches.

He shrugged. ‘I’ll find someone to keep an eye on him.’

Gently he laid the child down on the sofa and unwrapped a layer of shawl. I was torn between indignation and curiosity.

‘Hadn’t you better tell me who his mother was? Is?’

‘Was. It has all been made legal. A lovely lady, Pen. You would like her …’

Like hell, I thought.

‘… She’s tall and dark and quiet, but absolutely set on being a top dancer. And she’ll do it. She’s good. And she’s definitely not the maternal type. She nearly killed me when she got pregnant. Lovely girl.’

He positively licked his lips.

‘You are a swine, Joe.’ I thought it was time I said it out loud.

He laughed. ‘You know, none of them have ever been like you, Pen. None of them.’

It was my turn to look modest. ‘And how many of them have there been, if I might enquire?’

He shrugged. ‘Trade secret, love. Who’s counting? It’s you I’ve come back to.’

‘You and who else,’ I said.

When he went to unpack the car I had a look at the baby. It was very like him, I had to admit.

I pulled back the shawl to have a better look and the infant Nureyev opened its eyes – and then its mouth. I leaped back as though it had bitten me. The squalling was deafening.

Joe was beside me in an instant. ‘Did Penny frighten you, den?’

I put my hands over my face. ‘Joe! I don’t believe it. Not you. Not baby talk. Surely your son is an intellectual?’

‘Of course he is.’ Joe drew himself up. ‘Who is an intellectual, den? Daddy’s boy.’ He laughed. ‘You should see your face, Pen.’ He put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze. ‘Come on. Are you going to feed him? It’s time he was asleep.’

‘Me?’ I hit an unseemly falsetto. ‘I couldn’t feed him.’

‘Why not? Women do these things by instinct.’

‘Evidently his mother doesn’t. And neither do I,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s all up to you, Joe.’

I watched fascinated as he bent and, rummaging in a paper bag, produced a feeding bottle.