Homing Instinct Read online

  Monday 19 January

  A week to go. Claire is now very much In Charge, and I am forcing myself to take a back seat. But when Tom cries I immediately surge forward to pick him up, and Claire and I knock heads. I had a teeny little complain about her to Mike last night over dinner, and he said I was being an ungrateful witch. ‘What’s the matter with her? She seems fine to me, and the house has never looked tidier.’

  I have to say it took superhuman effort not to quietly reach over and pull him tie-first into his pasta. ‘Nothing at all,’ I said icily. ‘That’s the problem. What am I for, if someone can just come in and, after just two weeks, take over my house and my children and do it much better than me?’

  As an attempt to find sympathy this scored nul points. ‘She does seem to be pretty well organized,’ said Mike, nodding in agreement.

  Not only has Claire turned my baby into Designer Child, she has also sorted out the airing cupboard. Half of me is delighted that all my pillows, sheets and towels are now in neat little piles, whilst the other half is infuriated at the inherent criticism of my own sluttish habits. Memo: I must be more positive and learn to embrace the art of delegation.

  Kate rang this morning from work. ‘God, I can’t wait for you to come back. Nick is being a complete pain and I have no-one to have a really good whinge to.’ Just hearing her voice cheered me up and made me feel part of the human race. What is it about really good friends that makes you feel life is bearable and you don’t have to commit immediate hara-kiri? I have friends with whom I put up the false front that everything is marvellous, darling – like Harriet, married to Martin who is something-in-the-City and lives in a huge house in the next village, whom I met at National Childbirth Trust having Rebecca. She spends all her time subtly undermining me and we have a constant and totally childish battle, never spoken but always implied, about who has the best life. (Men never do this, do they?) Fortunately I also have the sort of friends I can ring up, like Jill and Kate, and say, ‘I hate Mike, my house is a slum and my children are taking no notice of me whatsoever, let’s have a bottle of chardonnay.’

  When Kate actually rang, I was sitting alone in my bedroom staring in awe at a breast pump. (It was 10 a.m., structured play with wooden jigsaws, I think). The idea is that for the first few weeks I will express milk and leave it in the fridge for Claire to give Tom his occasional bottles. ‘You’ll have to be quick,’ I said to Kate. ‘I’m just about to milk myself.’ There was a stunned silence at the other end of the phone.

  ‘You are so disgusting. It’s high time you got back to real life. Oh, and by the way, Peter’s nicked your chair and there are papers all over your desk. We’ve got a new computer system everyone’s making a right bollocks of, the budget’s been slashed to hell and the cameramen are threatening to strike. Maybe I’ll come and join you in nappyland.’ Like hell she would. In her tailored suits and suede platforms, she’d be shrieking in horror at the first sign of puréed cauliflower cheese. She is a woman welded to her mobile phone and Chanel briefcase.

  After she’d rung off, I had a good long think about what returning to work will actually be like. At the moment, it seems like an alien planet. Has all that work-type activity been going on while I’ve been at home? Somehow I imagined them all in suspended animation, frozen at their desks, the daily news programme put on ice while I’ve been pottering about with nappies and sterilizers. Maybe no-one’s noticed I’ve been away. My job was filled on attachment by an over-ambitious bimbo with a blond bob and perfect teeth. Perhaps they like her more than me. Perhaps I can’t actually do my job any more. I broke out in a cold sweat. What if no-one speaks to me on my first day?

  Since having Tom my brain has felt like blancmange: facts go in, but they kind of sink into the mushy pink gunge and I have to ferret around for ages to find them again. I can’t even remember my children’s names, so how will I ever be sharp enough to cope with the cut-and-thrust of office politics? And, more importantly, will I care? And why does it feel so much harder to go back having had Tom? With Rebecca I was only twenty-seven, and my career seemed like the most important thing in the world. We desperately needed the money to pay for our first house and there wasn’t ever a possibility that I wouldn’t go back. When she was born I felt like we’d been given the world and it was Christmas every day – but I still yearned to return to work almost from her birth. Work was what I did. It was what I am. I’m sure it still is.

  Wednesday 21 January

  Last night, in despair, I roped Mike in to help me with the breast pump. He sat on the edge of the bed, with his nice clean work suit on after a hard day being an important television person, manoeuvring the funnel onto my terrifying chest while I squeezed. He really is a saint. The milk, instead of dripping into the bottle, shot out at an angle and hit him in the eye. I began laughing helplessly, and he dropped the bottle. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Your tits are positively certifiable. We could be talking decommissioning here,’ he said.

  ‘Shut up,’ I said, ‘and keep pumping.’

  To achieve some kind of privacy we’d closed the bedroom door, which is always a red rag to Rebecca, who immediately began thumping on it saying, ‘What are you doing in there?’ Eventually after persevering for what felt like hours, we had about two inches of milk.

  ‘That’ll last him about two seconds,’ said Mike. ‘We’ll have to get him to take powdered milk.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You try.’ And, bless him, he spent all night sitting in front of the TV with Tom, trying to push the bottle into his mouth. Every time he slipped it in one side, he pushed it out the other. I left them to it, and then woke suddenly at midnight, realizing there was an empty space in the bed beside me. Tip-toeing downstairs, I found Mike fast asleep on the settee. Tom was lying prone on his chest, both of them snoring away. The milk bottle, still half-full, was drip-drip-dripping onto the carpet.

  Friday 23 January

  Claire took Rebecca to school for me this morning, and it was agonizing to see her little white face pressed up against the window as they drove away in Claire’s very clean car. I think she’s actually getting really anxious about my going back to work, although she refuses to talk about it. Babies are so easy, really – as long as they’re fed and warm they’re happy with anyone, like puppies. Rebecca is a much more tricky kettle of fish. As well as being a bit cold towards Claire, she’s already begun to withdraw from me, refusing to let me read her The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe last night, insisting that Daddy did it. She knows exactly how to hurt me. That’s daughters for you. Mike, miraculously, was home on time, so he went in and made her hoot with laughter doing lots of silly voices. This morning she made me go over and over exactly where Claire must meet her when she picks her up from school. Normally so sure of herself, she’s asked a million times if Claire knows it must be four o’clock.

  Once Claire had gone with the children this morning, the house felt unbearably empty. I was meant to be laying out my clothes and packing my briefcase, but instead I mooched about, picking up Tom’s clothes, straightening his duvet and rearranging the pile of teddies on Rebecca’s bed. The house felt like a haven – warm, domestic, familiar – and everything out there seems hostile and frightening. I’ve got so used to the rhythm of my days in the house over Christmas – the leisurely breakfasts, with Mike kissing a smeary Tom goodbye in his high chair, me still in my dressing gown, Rebecca in her pyjamas and the dogs stretched out under our feet. Then the gradual tidying-up, pausing to sit down and play with Tom, everything taking an age, but not really caring. Then lunch, and in the afternoon a dog-walk, Tom strapped into his pushchair, craning forward to catch hold of branches and being totally thrilled at being given a stick. I suppose it was rather pointless, but there was a freedom to those days that I loved – not really having any responsibility other than to the children, just having to meet the deadlines of meals and bedtimes. It was Cloud-cuckoo-land to think it could go on for ever – and to be honest with myself, the reason I’ve enjoyed
this time off with the children so much is because I know it will end. It’s like holidays – you enjoy them like mad, but you wouldn’t want to be on them all the time. It’ll be great to be somewhere where it actually matters where I am every minute of the day and I get to talk to people over the age of six.

  Monday 26 January

  Hardly slept at all last night. I kept going through all the things I had to tell Claire to do, and whether I’d packed everything Rebecca needed for school today. Book bag, reading record book, recorder, ballet clothes, pumps, tracksuit for games and clean pair of knickers, because you still never know. I had that awful feeling of dread I used to get when I was going back to school. In the end I got up at six and crept downstairs. Tom was still snoring in his cot, clutching his favourite rabbit and looking too adorable for words, but I resisted the impulse to pick him up and kiss him, because I’m not that brave and I was enjoying the peace. Rebecca was firmly asleep in her fierce little way, legs out of the duvet, pieces of paper strewing her bed as she’d been practising joined-up writing, her hair matted into a thick nest.

  The dogs thumped their tails at the unexpected early rising, and joyfully rushed out into the frosty garden. I made a cup of coffee, and stood looking out over the lawn. So much to do – those roses need tying up, and that hedge is becoming really overgrown. No time now. The day was no longer mine to organize. At half-seven, Tom’s seagull cries began, and I started to get him up and dressed. Then, promptly at quarter to eight, Claire arrived. ‘You see to yourself,’ she said, taking Tom firmly from my arms, her immaculate hair swinging, and Tom immediately reached up to put a strand in his mouth, as he always does with me. Mike had already gone – his morning meetings seem to get earlier and earlier – kissing me goodbye and wishing me luck. I wish I could talk to him about how I feel, but work is such an integral part of his life, I don’t think he could get his head around the concept that it might be considered an option. Which of course it isn’t. I just have to get on with it.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, faintly, to Claire.

  Rebecca came and sat in the middle of my bed as I pulled clothes out of my wardrobe. ‘You look fat in that,’ she said helpfully, as I levered on the largest of my suit skirts. My breasts – although I’d already had a quick session with the breast pump – felt uncomfortably large and full, like water-filled zeppelins. God forbid anyone comes near me with a pin. I put on a dark blue silk shirt, and then tried to tame my hair from wild bush into Meg Ryan. My briefcase was already packed: purse, breast pads, Always pads, make-up bag and biros. I’ve almost forgotten what I need to take to work, and there seemed to be far more Mummy-disaster-avoidance-kit than serious work implements.

  At the breakfast table, I hovered nervously away from the children, suddenly aware of the mess a jammy hand could make. My face felt odd – why? – and then I remembered it was because I was wearing make-up. While I’ve been on maternity leave make-up has been for special occasions – going out for meals, having people for dinner, or simply out of sheer desperation – but now it would have to be a regular morning ritual. How would I find the time every day?

  Claire was busying about, fetching Tom’s Weetabix and insisting on milk rather than Ribena.

  ‘Rebecca must clean her teeth before school,’ I said.

  ‘Claire’s already helped me,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Oh. Rebecca needs her recorder today.’

  ‘We’ve packed it,’ said Rebecca.

  I hung about, reluctant to leave but knowing I couldn’t be late. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ said Claire.

  A coffee? At breakfast time? Before the children have finished their cereal? We’re talking serious luxury here. ‘Lovely,’ I said, and then drank it standing up, hopping out of the way of Claire clearing up my plates, already mistress of my home.

  I edged towards the door. Tom immediately let out a huge yell, stretching out his little arms like a bush-baby. Rebecca, who was trying to be so cool and collected, realized that I really was going, and hurtled towards me, sobbing bitterly into my skirt. Of course I should have just left and let Claire deal with it, but I couldn’t resist going back over to Tom, lifting him out of his high chair and holding him close, closer than I felt I’ve ever done before. After a few moments I mouthed at Claire, ‘You take him,’ and tried to hand him over to her. But he clung to me like a barnacle, his shrieks reaching a crescendo. Rebecca was also stapled to my legs, and I gently tried to prise her away from me. ‘I have to go, darling, you know I have to,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t,’ she wailed. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Oh darling,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’ I managed to push her away as gently as I could, and Claire, who now had a screaming Tom in one arm, tried, to hold her too. I slid towards the door, wrenched it open, and almost fell through it. My heart was heating wildly as I ran towards the car and I felt a deep, sharp pain inside me, almost as if I had been physically hurt. The old Volvo estate looked nude without Tom’s car seat, which was now in Claire’s car. I’d cleaned it out the day before, as part of the bright shining new me, but as I put my briefcase into the well of the passenger side, I found I’d missed something. One of Tom’s soft shoes. I tucked it into my briefcase, next to the breast pads. Putting on the radio, I tried to distract myself. But I sobbed all the way to work, trying not to catch people’s eyes at traffic lights. I felt like a large part of me had been left behind.

  Tuesday 27 January

  Quelle journée. I am absolutely exhausted. I felt absurdly nervous when I pushed my way through the swing doors to the newsroom. There’d been a bit of a hassle getting into the car park, because the passes had changed and no-one had thought to tell me, so I immediately felt wrong-footed. I’d also spent ten minutes reapplying my make-up to try to cover up all signs of sobbing. Not very professional. Everyone seemed to turn and stare at me as I walked in – I must have looked like a pink-eyed rabbit. Thank God I managed to catch Kate’s eye, who realized I’d been crying and gave me a hugely sympathetic smile. Predictably, my chair had been swapped for the one with the broken back, but after a short but vociferous argument with Peter I managed to get mine back. Then I tried to switch the computer on – and a completely foreign screen appeared, not the old system I had just about mastered. I hissed, ‘How do you get in?’ to Kate, feeling completely helpless. My hands were like great flappy fish and I couldn’t get used to the noise of the office.

  It was even a relief when the morning meeting was called. News editor Nick made a big point out of welcoming me back and Georgia – the blonde bimbo who’d replaced me on attachment – gave me a very smarmy smile. What has the management promised her now I’ve come back? She must hate me. No, I Must Not Be Paranoid. By eleven o’clock, I was on the phone to Claire, hunched over so no-one could hear I was ringing home. ‘Hi, just me. Everything OK?’ Falsely bright and unworried tone.

  Claire sounded irritated when she picked up the phone. Tom was crying in the background. Crying? Why? He never cries. I could almost hear her sighing with annoyance at my interference. ‘I’m just changing his nappy. Everything’s fine, and no, of course, I won’t forget it’s four o’clock to pick Rebecca up. Don’t worry. Really, Tom’s perfectly happy. We were just about to go out for a walk and we must go, mustn’t we, Tom darling? Bye.’ She put the phone down very sharply. Neurotic Working Mother Syndrome. Don’t worry? How could I not worry, so far from home, helpless to influence matters? Let go, I told myself. You’re being absurd. Then, At least if he was crying I know he’s still alive . . .

  As the morning wore on I began, slowly, to enjoy myself. I rang lots of old contacts and said I was back, and did they have any stories for me, and then enjoyed a long, gossipy, child-free, grown-up lunch with Kate. How nice it is to be able to talk (OK, bitch) about other people instead of endlessly about children. Nick has put me on planning for the first few weeks, ‘to ease me back into the swing of things’, which is a long way from the stress of churning out items for the programme. He’s been reg
arding me with a kind of wary suspicion all day – perhaps he thinks I’ll suddenly whip Tom out from my briefcase, lob out a terrifying boob and breastfeed him there and then.

  I’d brought Tom into the office to show everyone when he was about three months old – I remember pushing my way through the doors holding Tom very tightly, somehow uneasy about this merging of my mummy-self and my work-self. I felt so beamingly proud of him, but at the same time very off-balance – as if I’d walked into the office naked. Predictably it was all the women who crowded round me to exclaim over his cuteness – the men just came over and harrumphed a bit, looking me over cautiously as if I’d sprouted feathers. Nick slid out of his office and peered hesitantly at Tom, as if he might suddenly explode. Honestly. He has two children of his own, but I bet his wife makes sure they’re all tidied away like toys when he comes home from work.

  It was great to be so free. No-one said, ‘Muuuuum,’ in a long whiny voice. People listened to what I was saying. I was making things happen. I could go to the toilet on my own. The first time I went in the morning, I automatically left the door unlocked, so Rebecca could wander in as usual and ask me long complicated questions about dinosaurs and volcanoes. But then as I settled down something struck me. Silence. There was no-one else in here. I was a grown-up person in a grown-up toilet, and I was sitting having a wee with the door open. A little eccentric, don’t you think? I had to lunge forward mid-wee and slam it shut, hoping to God that smarmy Georgia wouldn’t wander in at this moment to give her bob a quick respray and check there wasn’t the teeniest smudge of her mascara under her eyes, whereby catching large whale-like person stranded on toilet with outstretched feet. Thankfully, she didn’t.