Odd Socks Read online

  ‘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, than
k 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.

  One of Diane’s boys elbows me in the stomach as he tries to manoeuvre his way past. While I double up in pain, he apologises quickly and then steps over a sister as he continues pushing his way towards his brothers, who are leaning casually against Eeyore’s bed-end on the other side of the room. Eeyore herself is still buried.

  ‘Look what I’ve got!’ He brandishes the television remote control at them and they respond with various hoots of encouragement. Within seconds the television is on, the sports channel has been found, and all the males in the room are watching with varying degrees of interest. I glance over to see how Eeyore is taking all this, but she has simply buried herself still deeper and now even her head is covered. Diane follows my gaze and, when she sees the small mound of blankets, takes the remote from one of her sons and turns the volume down as well as shooing them away from the bed-end. But it doesn’t make any real difference either to the level of noise in the room or the feeling of claustrophobia.

  Meanwhile, the mobile twin has flip-flopped over to me and has her neck bent back at an impossible angle while she looks up at me with interest. After a few moments contemplation, she gives a sudden, sideways jerk and rolls herself onto her stomach. Then she reaches up to hook a finger into the lowest side pocket of my cargo pants and, using this as leverage, slowly but surely pulls herself into a wobbly standing position. Once upright, she looks around for applause.

  ‘Bravo, Regan!’ says Regan’s mother with enthusiasm as her offspring leans forwards and starts sucking wetly on my knee. ‘Did you see that, David?’

  ‘Yes!’ responds her husband heartily. ‘What a clever girl!’

  ‘Did you know, I only just found out that my daughter has changed her entire carpet?’ Mum asks Rose incredulously. ‘She never tells me anything!’

  ‘I know the feeling, dear,’ says Rose, shaking her head sympathetically as she adjusts the bunny-rug around Sherry and slaps Elizabeth’s hand away. ‘Always the last to know.’

  From my position in the far corner, I can barely see any more of Sherry than her pink bunny-rug. I raise myself on tiptoes and peer over the heads of the various visitors in front of me. This has two immediate benefits. One is that the knee-sucker loses her grip and falls backwards, landing with a solid thump on her behind. And the other is that now I can see the top of Sherry’s bald little head.

  Diane dives forwards and collects her daughter just as the infant limpet opens her mouth and begins screaming with anger. I don’t take much notice because I’m still stretched out and focusing on a glimpse of pink scalp across the room. As my ankles start to send distress signals up towards my thighs, I lower myself down, smiling in amazement as I remember what it was like when I first saw her properly about twenty minutes ago. Who’d have thought that I, of all people, would have such an extreme reaction to a baby? All I want to do now is get rid of these people, sit down with her on my lap, and spend a few hours admiring her in peace.

  The child in question, who has been remarkably well behaved so far, now begins to fret and Rose picks her up expertly and pops her up on one shoulder, with her hand behind Sherry’s head for support. Then, in answer to yet another query from my mother, Rose turns slightly and suddenly I’m rewarded with a complete facial view of the object of my devotion. For a brief instant it’s almost like her eyes lock in with mine and I get a thrill of connection that echoes through my bones and turns my stomach to porridge. I know, on a sensible level, that not only can the baby not see me, but that she’s really only interested in where her next feed is coming from. And, in that regard, I’m totally useless. But rationality doesn’t matter, and logic doesn’t count.

  Because I’m in love.

  MONDAY

  1710 hrs

  I flick my right-hand blinker on and slow to a halt while I wait patiently for a learner-driver, and the long line of cars trailing her, to pass by on the opposite side of the road. I congratulate myself on my patience because, really, I haven’t had a good day at all.

  After finally dragging my mother away from the hospital, I discovered that I’d left my car lights on and the battery was flat. It took three-quarters of an hour for roadside assistance to turn up. Three-quarters of an hour spent leaning against the car in the freezing cold, listening to inane
chitchat from the person who was responsible for the lights being on in the first place. At some point I tuned out but apparently during that period, or so she informed me later, I promised I’d take her grocery shopping as soon as we were mobile again. But first, because we hadn’t had lunch and she couldn’t possibly shop on an empty stomach (apparently this is an economic no-no), we had to visit the pub for a counter lunch. And it had to be the pub because after eating she likes to play the pokies for half an hour or so to settle her food down. It certainly didn’t work that way for me. After watching various elderly gentlemen push my mother’s buttons while I lost twenty bucks in ten minutes flat, my food was anything but settled.

  Then, by the time I dropped her off with her twenty-five bags of groceries, it was late afternoon and she insisted on supplying me with coffee and biscuits as a thank-you for running her around all day. So I sat and yawned and ate dutifully while she filled me in on the goings-on of my brother, my uncle, my cousins and each of their families as well as all the gossip from the old neighbourhood. Which, if even half her stories were true, certainly makes my current neighbourhood sound incredibly dull by comparison. Thank god.

  The long line of cars continues to crawl by and I idly glance past them and down my street, immediately spotting the rear of Fergus’s distinctive yellow panel van parked against the nature strip adjoining my block of units. Hell – I’d forgotten he was coming over this evening! Without really giving it any conscious thought, I flick my blinker off and quickly head back out in the direction that I am pointed. As Fergus usually waits in his car if I’m not home, I very much doubt he saw me in the few minutes I was stationary. Nevertheless, I feel guilty and rude, and downright sneaky. Also a tad confused. Why did I do what I just did? I mean, I enjoy Fergus’s company – that’s why I’ve been going out with him for almost six months. So why did my stomach just sink at the sight of his car?

  All I know for sure is that I’m not changing my mind – my unit is off limits until Fergus gives up and goes home. Which means I’ve got a few hours to kill because he’s a very patient man. I briefly consider going to the supermarket again because, although there’s nothing I can think of that I forgot earlier, I’m sure I’d still be able to fill a trolley without much difficulty. It’s one of those truisms that grocery conglomerates rely on. But I really don’t feel like facing a supermarket twice in one day.