Page 29 of The Ex

‘The things they have nowadays,’ Joyce said. She did not ask how much it all cost.

In the nursery, he is sanding the repair on the window frame. He has worked every evening and most weekends, determined to have something to show Naomi when she comes this Wednesday. Joyce joins him, begins to fill the crack in the back wall, the two of them working in companionable silence. Maybe it was this silence Naomi couldn’t stand, she thinks, tries not to, thinks again. Maybe she couldn’t stand Sam’s ability to lose himself in a project and not have to talk for hours on end. In that sense, Joyce and her grandson are peas in the proverbial pod.

Saturday turns to Sunday, then Monday. Sam works late into the night, black shadows deepening under his eyes. In bed, Joyce falls asleep to the muted babble of Radio 5 Live from down the landing. In the morning, she is about to inspect the nursery but stops herself. He will want to show it to her himself.

Sure enough, she is popping a couple of jacket potatoes in the range that evening when he calls her from the top of the stairs.

‘Joyce? Gran? Nonna?’

Wincing at the soreness in her hip, she makes her way slowly up to the mezzanine, pausing to get her breath before continuing up to what they now call Tommy’s room.

She knocks at the door. ‘Dorset Council building inspector.’

Sam opens the door, clearly beside himself with proud delight. ‘Welcome!’

She steps inside, feeling her mouth drop open, her hands meet at her chest, her fingers interlock.

‘Oh my,’ she whispers. ‘Oh my heavens.’

The room is perfect, the paintwork pristine, the cot in the centre, bedding carefully made and fluffy as egg whites, a large floppy-eared rabbit on top, the mobile toy attached to the side and turning slowly; in one corner an old Ercol chair from Joyce’s first London flat, painted to match the room; in the other corner the old tallboy she last saw chipped and covered in cobwebs in the garage. The Roman blinds she ran up on the Singer last week have been fitted to the window, and a pale blue paper shade covers the light bulb.

‘When did you finish the tallboy?’ she says. ‘How did you get it up the stairs?’

‘Very slowly and with great difficulty.’ Still grinning, he walks over to it and turns the little key, now a shiny silver rather than a rusty brown.

‘I barely recognise it! I was going to chuck it out. Did you change the key?’

‘Fitted a new lock. I had paint left over from the walls and half a tin of varnish, so I just thought, may as well, you know?’

He pulls open the drop-down door of the main compartment, which used to house the spirits and mixers back in the day, a million years ago. Instead of the drinks, there’s now a changing mat, which he has attached to the inside so that it flattens when the door opens, making a chest-high changing bed. On either side are smaller compartments where he has put cotton wool balls, a pot of nappy cream, wipes.

‘Welcome to the changing station! Upcycled!’ He closes the drawbridge door and bends to the drawers below. ‘And we can put his spare clothes here. And shoes once he can walk. And, you know, anything else he needs.’

He stands up, switches on the lamp on top of the tallboy, sending circus acrobats tumbling round and round, and on the wall, larger, fuzzier figures roaming like shadows on a cave.

‘Your mum would be so proud,’ she manages to say. ‘It’s beautiful, love… Oh, Sam, you’ve done a grand job. I just hope Naomi appreciates it.’

‘There’s no way she’ll let you have him at weekends?’ Joyce asks him over dinner.

He shakes his head. ‘She’s still wary. I know our break-up had been coming for a long time for me, but I think for her, it was sudden. I should’ve told her I was unhappy.’

‘Don’t blame yourself for all of it, love.’

‘She even suggested we go to couples counselling, but I…’ He shifts in his chair as if he can’t get comfortable.

‘I didn’t know that. About the counselling.’

‘No, well… I suppose I never gave her a chance to…’

‘Do you wish you had?’

He shrugs, doesn’t look at her, drives his fork around his plate after a lone cherry tomato. ‘She always said I was a coward, and maybe I was. And now the baby’s here…’

‘You wish you were back together?’

‘A bit. Maybe. I know Nomes can be stroppy, but maybe I should have been more… I dunno, stronger? A man. But don’t you think she’s different?’ When he looks up at her, it’s as if he is a boy again, handing her his school report.

Joyce takes a mouthful of her supper – the mackerel Sam picked up from Dave at the fish shop on his way home, which she has griddled and served with the jacket potatoes and her home-made tomato and bean salsa; dynamite, if she says so herself.

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