Page 16 of Clever Little Thing

“She likes the water no more than lukewarm,” I began, swallowing back saliva. “You have to—”

“I understand.” Irina nodded towards my belly. “You can rest.”

I was about to explain that Stella also needed the door closed while the water ran. Then a wave of dizziness washed over me, and I sank onto the sofa. Irina followed Stella up the stairs. My urge to be sick passed. Edith would never have offered to give Stella a bath. When Stella was a toddler, she went through a phase of refusing to wear nappies—tight waistbands were torture—so I had to watch her like a hawk and whisk her to the potty any time she looked like she needed to go. I hadn’t had a shower or eaten a meal sitting at a table for two days. While I knelt on the floor, awaiting a telltale grimace from Stella, my mother watched from the sofa with her weak Earl Grey (“Barely let the tea bagtouchthe water.”), making me feel even more flustered. Her idea of reassurance was to tell me, “It seems hard at the moment, but motherhood is only one phase of your life.”

But now someone else was in charge, and for a minute, I would enjoy it. I picked up my phone and started watching an old episode ofNeighbours, the Australian soap I’d watched after school with Maureen, our cleaner. Even when I grew too old to need a babysitter and Maureen only came once a week to clean, she still stuck around after work to catch the show.

After school on other days, I found myself borrowing cookbooks from the library, imagining meals meant to be shared. Edith only liked plain food, but one day, to accompany a special episode when two characters got married, I made a pavlova for Maureen. She had three helpings.

The following week, she brought the ingredients for shepherd’s pie and asked if I wanted to learn how to make it. We peeled and chopped, side by side. I dared ask if we could add a little Dijon mustard, and Maureen was intrigued. When the pie was done, she set it on the table with a flourish: “Madam, dinner is served!”

After a few mouthfuls, she said, “The mustard makes it”—she kissed her fingers. “We should open a restaurant and make this our signature dish.”

I felt warm inside. I stood up, did a silly bow, and picked up the salad servers: “Would madam like somesalade verte?”

“Ooh la la!” She held out her plate.

As we ate the salad, I said, “What would we call it? This restaurant.”

Maureen’s eyes sparkled. “Something French, because that’s fancy. Only I don’t know a single word of French.”

“You knowooh la la,” I pointed out. “And maybebonjour?”

Maureen giggled. “We’ll call it the Ooh La La Bonjour restaurant.”

After that, we made dinner most Thursdays, and when Maureen wiped a smear of sauce from a dish rim or scattered parsley over the top, she said, “Nothing’s too good for the Ooh La La Bonjour restaurant.”

Edith wasn’t home until seven, so if we ate early, we had the kitchen to ourselves. When Edith eventually got home, I told her I’d already had supper, and didn’t mention that I’d eaten with Maureen. Somehow, I knew she wouldn’t approve.

Then one night, I pretended to be a snobby French waiter, pouring a splash of water into Maureen’s glass and making her sample it as if it were wine. “Does it have zee delicious tang of London pipes? Nothing but zee best for madam!”

Suddenly, Edith stood over us—we were laughing so much we didn’t hear her come in. Maybe it was the cold that made her look so drawn, her cheekbones sharp, a bright spot of pink on each one. She turned to Maureen. “What are you still doing here? I thought we agreed nine to four.”

“I was keeping Charlotte company while she has her tea.”

“I can’t pay for extra hours.”

“I wasn’t expecting any pay.” Maureen stood up and carried her dish to the sink. Her posture was queenly as she squirted soap onto a sponge.

“Charlotte will clear up thesupperthings,” Edith said. “I’m sure you’d rather be at home with your family.”

The boeuf bourguignon we’d made roiled in my stomach. Edith might as well have said, “Your real family.” As Maureen left, Iwanted to run after her and fling my arms around her, promise I’d call the evening meal “tea” for the rest of my life.

After that, although Maureen and I still managed a chat at the end of her workday, she didn’t stay long. When I left home, we had a few stilted phone conversations, but soon our only contact was Christmas cards. One year hers had my name on the envelope but nothing written inside. I felt hurt that she didn’t care enough to scrawl something, but then, during one of my monthly calls with Edith, she told me Maureen had early onset Alzheimer’s and was now living in a care home. The next time I was in the UK, I visited her, but she didn’t remember my name.

I stopped the episode and swiped at my eyes. Then the sound of splashing and Stella chattering came from the bathroom. She was in the bath, and she soundedhappy. I was stunned. How had Irina managed that?

Stella was lying full-length on her stomach in the bath. Irina sat on the toilet lid, smiling. I perched on the edge of the tub and dipped my hand in. I jerked it back. The water washot, or rather, the temperature of a normal bath. When Pete had run a bath of this temperature, Stella had acted as if he were trying to boil her alive. But now she wriggled about, making little waves. I found myself grinning at Irina, and she smiled back. Stella rolled onto her back, her skin as pink as a newborn’s. I felt a surge of joy. This was a glimpse of another realm. It was the same way I’d felt once, when while out surfing, I’d seen dolphins riding the waves.

10.

The next morning, a Saturday, Stella put her clothes on before emerging from her room—a first—although she chose a shapeless dress that came almost to her feet. I checked the label: it was ten-year-old size, much too big. Pete’s cousin had sent it along with some other hand-me-downs. It was black, and I’d bundled it into a drawer because I didn’t think little girls should wear black.

“I made waffles, your favorite,” I said. “It’s family day today. Daddy’s spending the day with us.”

Pete was already at the table, halfway through his second waffle.

“Can I eat in my room?” Stella asked.

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