Page 80 of Close to You
‘Do you want to come out?’ I ask.
She points at the radiator: ‘Tree.’
‘It’s not a tree,’ I say.
‘Tree.’
I actually look, though the radiator is still a radiator.
‘Tree,’ she insists.
I’ve looked after Norah before – but only in small doses. There was once for an hour at Jane’s house because she had some sort of meeting, then a few times where it’s been minutes at a time because Jane’s had to go to the toilet or something like that. An entire afternoon is a new one.
When Norah was first born, Jane would say things like, ‘It’ll be you again soon’, seemingly oblivious that my husband was gone. She was thinking of herself while trying to be comforting – but I suppose we’re both guilty of that. Either way, it quickly tailed off. We never talk about me having children now. I suppose I wondered myself if seeing someone else with a young daughter would somehow get me broody, but, if anything, the opposite is true. Parenting always seems like so much work.
‘Tree,’ Norah says again.
I crouch so that we’re at the same level. I’ve never told Jane this, but she and her daughter look nothing alike. Norah has the same big, blue eyes of her father, along with Ben’s light hair. Jane has been dyeing hers for so long that I forget she isn’t a natural blonde.
‘Do you want to go and see the trees in the park?’ I ask.
She puts her fingers into her mouth and starts to chew on them. ‘Tree,’ she says.
‘I’m going to take that as a “yes”.’
It’s still cold, but there’s none of the biting fury from previous days. It’s back to feeling more like a winter’s day in Britain, as opposed to somewhere in the Arctic Circle. Norah is already wrapped up in a coat, scarf and gloves – and I find a folded blanket on top of the other things Jane has left below the buggy.
‘Do you want to walk?’ I ask her.
Norah stares at me and gurgles something that I’m almost certain is not a word. I finger walk across my palm, wondering if this might be a better way of communicating. When she doesn’t respond, or make any attempt to get out from the buggy, I strap her in, grab my phone and keys and then set off.
Walking with a child in a buggy is something close to having an internal monologue that is no longer internal. I find myself asking Norah if she can see the cars, the trees, the clouds – and more or less everything else directly in front of us. She makes almost no indication that she can hear me, let alone understand what I’m waffling about. It is a little bit like having a conversation with a wall.
Elizabeth Park is a short distance from the centre of Gradingham. Whoever named it had such a level of inventiveness that he or she must have looked at the monarch and said, ‘That’ll do.’
There’s a path that loops around the park, so I start to push Norah along. She is happily pointing at various things and saying ‘tree’. I’d give her a fifty per cent hit rate of actually identifying a tree. The sky, the grass, the toilet block and a bloke with a bottle of cider are all accused of being trees. I stop a couple of times, wondering if Norah might want to hold my hand and walk for a little bit. Each time I attempt to undo the straps holding her in, she starts to scowl, seemingly moments from tears, so I secure her back into the buggy and she smiles once more. I don’t blame her – I wouldn’t object to someone wheeling me around a park all day.
We get to the pond and Norah shouts something that I hope is ‘duck’. If not, she’s been overhearing some words that are definitely not child-friendly. After the third such declaration, a woman on her way past with a pair of shopping bags stops to turn and look.
‘She likes the ducks,’ I call across to clarify, although I’m not sure the woman hears.
It’s a mild day, although there are the usual park weirdoes with their hoods up, who have congregated in the bushes to drink cider. A little away from them, some lads who should probably be in school have created a goal with their bags and are playing football.
I try again to see if Norah wants to get out of the buggy, though she’s happily identifying crows as ducks. Occasionally, she’ll point at an actual duck – although her hit rate for this is a lot lower than when she was identifying trees.
I look across to the other side of the pond and the empty bench, wondering if it really was David who Jane saw here. It’s a smaller distance than I thought, definitely close enough that someone should be identifiable. Jane knew David for long enough that she should be able to distinguish between him and someone else… except that she won’t have seen him in two years. My memory of his face has faded in that time – and hers will have done as well.
Norah seems happy enough, so I crouch by her and we watch the birds for a while. She points a lot, along with opening and closing her mouth vicariously. She’s one of those children who constantly seem on the brink of letting out full, eloquent sentences, though she isn’t quite there yet. I’ve known grown adults who are much the same.
I find myself drifting back to the package of clothes, wondering who sent it and what it means. Someone is playing with me. Someone who knows me.
As we set off for a second lap of the park, I’m beginning to think that this parenting lark isn’t that tough, after all. A grandmothery type stops us partway round and starts making goo-goo noises towards Norah, while saying how she’s got my eyes. I don’t correct her, although, when Norah points at the woman and shouts ‘cow’, the moment is somewhat soured.
Clouds are starting to mass and it’s the time of year in which it never quite gets light anyway. Aside from the footballing boys, there are only a handful of people in the park, almost all of whom are wearing heavy, thick coats. It’s only as I pass the toilet block that I realise I really need to go. In some parks, it would be a strict no – but these were renovated a couple of years ago and, as public toilets go, they’re more or less acceptable for human use.
I wheel Norah around the zigzag doorway and then leave her next to the sinks. I’m not sure whether to face her towards the graffiti that accuses someone named ‘Claire’ of a rather graphic act or the open stalls.
I’m also not certain of the etiquette for going to the toilet while looking after a young child. It doesn’t feel right to leave her, while, at the same time, I don’t think I can take her into the stall with me. Do mothers walk around all day holding their bladders? It’s not the sort of question I can believe anyone has ever asked out loud.
