Mr. Commitment (21 page)

This is Little Elvis

“
A
re you cold?”

“No, Mum.”

“You must be cold.”

“I’m not, Mum.”

“These hospital waiting rooms are incredibly drafty and you’re only wearing a shirt.”

“But I’m not cold.”

“You’re bound to catch a cold. Why don’t you go home and put on a cardigan?”

“I’m fine, Mum,” I said, making contact with my inner Dalai Lama. “Honestly I’m fine.”

Three days had passed since Julie had ruined the Plan. Three event filled days that had begun on Tuesday with a telephone call and ended with me lodged on a hard plastic chair in a waiting room in Whittington Hospital.

It all began at the beginning of the week with a long and confusing answerphone message left by Pete Berry, a comedy promoter at the Chuckle Club in Hackney. In it he informed Dan and me that he wanted to book us for a gig in a fortnight because he’d been hearing good things about our new act. He then went on to reveal that if the gig went well he would consider us as a support slot for the previous year’s Perrier Comedy Award Winner on a six-date national tour he was organizing. All of this was news to me because to the best of my knowledge Dan and I hadn’t written a single joke together, and the only people who knew about Carter and Duffy the double act were Carter and Duffy the double act.

I had to wait two hours for Dan to get back from his weekly shopping trip to Muswell Hill Sainsbury’s before I discovered that all this was his doing. “If you’re going to make a splash,” he said, “you’ve got to make a few waves.” By “waves,” I think that he meant the following complete and utter fabrications:

a. that we’d been approached by Channel Four to develop a new sitcom called
Dexter’s Plectrum
about a bunch of geeky no-hoper sixth-formers who turn out to be the next U2;

b. that we’d accepted a “substantial five-figure sum” to do voice-overs for a series of adverts selling a well-known brand of cooking oil;

c. that a talent scout from a U.S. talent agency had spotted our act and signed us up and we’d already been flown to Los Angeles for casting auditions in two Hollywood pictures as “Limey bad guys.”

Dan had pitched his lies perfectly. In the world of comedy, where one day you could be bottom of the bill in the Dog and Duck and the next taking meetings in Hollywood, anything was possible, and our fictionalized success was just wild enough for anyone who heard it to believe every single word.

“Honestly,” said Dan, nearly doubled over in laughter, “I told two of the regulars on last Sunday’s bill at the Laughter Lounge in Hammersmith, and by Monday night the whole of the London comedy circuit knew about it. We are hot!”

The second event to occur was the arrival of my mum at Euston station on Tuesday afternoon. One of the first things she’d said to me when Charlie and I picked her up from the station was that she was coming round to see where I lived first thing Wednesday morning. As the flat was in the worst state I’d ever seen it, I made Dan stay up with me until three o’clock in the morning so we could have it tidy for her inspection. In the process we discovered £7.86 in change down the back of the sofa, fungus the size of a small yucca plant at the side of the washing machine, and Dan’s car-boot-sale copy of
ET
lodged behind the sideboard.

By the time we’d finished it looked like a completely different flat. My mum would’ve been well impressed by our efforts had she ever got to see them, which she never did because of the next big event: Vernie going into labor.

Mum called me from the hospital on Charlie’s mobile to tell me. This was just about the funniest thing ever: my mum and “newfangled technology” just did not go together, so for the first few minutes all she said was “Can you hear me?”, “Am I speaking into the right end?” and “Am I doing it right?” As it was 3:20
A.M.
and I was on my way to bed after my cleaning fit, I told her that I’d be there before lunchtime on Wednesday. She promised to call me if there was any other news and I went to sleep.

As soon as I woke up I made my way to the hospital and I sat in the waiting room, listening to Mum’s constant questions.

“Do you want a cup of tea or coffee from the machine?” she asked, her change purse open to display a vast collection of coins of the realm. My mum liked to be ready for every sort of occasion and collected change like some people collect stamps.

“No thanks, Mum,” I said, refusing for my usual reasons.

“I was going to have a cup of tea,” she said, closing her purse, “but I think I’ll wait just a little bit longer as well.”

She dropped her purse into her handbag, rooted around a bit and pulled out a packet of sweets. “Trebor Mint?”

“No thanks, Mum.” I smiled. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

That thought hadn’t occurred to me. Was I nervous? I think I was. I was excited. I was going to be somebody’s uncle. There was going to be a child who would have an uncle Duffy; someone to whom I’d be able to pass on the skills of making the perfect slice of toast, and read books Mum used to read to me as a kid. Someone to be around for when they wanted to talk about how much their parents drove them up the wall. This felt good.

It didn’t require a huge leap in my thought processes to make the connection between what was happening here and what was happening in my own life. I was going to be somebody’s dad too quite soon. I hadn’t thought about it in France, or since I’d got back, or even when Mel had told me. It was easy not to think about it because it hadn’t happened yet. But sitting here in this admittedly now chilly waiting room, it struck me: I’m going to be a dad.

Suddenly I felt sad. Sadder than I’d ever felt before. Not about the baby, but about Mel and me. Our having a baby was bound to be one of the best things that would ever happen in my life, and yet here I was not making the most of it. Whatever decision Mel made, nothing would change the fact that I was going to be responsible for a life other than my own. A greater privilege than that, I couldn’t think of.

“Mum,” I said, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“I know,” said my mum.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know exactly what it is, but I can tell when you’re troubled, Ben.” She handed me a mint, took another one from the packet and put it in her mouth. “I’ve got something to tell you too. Two secrets, in fact. One big, one not so big. I’ll tell you my secrets first—that way it’ll make it easier to tell me yours.”

I was kind of perturbed by the whole situation. I couldn’t imagine what kind of secrets my mum would have that she’d think I needed to know about.

She put her hand on mine and began. “The small secret first: I may be moving down here to London permanently. Vernie’s been asking me to come and live with her and Charlie since they knew about the baby. I told them I didn’t want to, but she said that she didn’t want the baby just to see her gran on special occasions. I told her I’d visit as often as I could, but then Charlie insisted too. I finally gave in, but I told them I’d give it a go for a few months first to see how it went. I’m keeping the house in Leeds until I’m sure.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Vernie will love having you around. Me too.” I couldn’t think of anything more to say, so focused was my mind on secret number two. “So what’s the big thing you’ve got to tell me?”

“Confess rather than tell,” she said quietly. “I don’t know how to say this so I’ll come straight out with it: when you broke up with Mel I was really worried about you. I know that you’re a grown man and I should’ve kept my nose out, but I couldn’t help thinking it was wrong: you loved each other—anyone could tell that. When you told me you’d split up because you weren’t sure you could commit, I blamed myself. I hated the idea that you weren’t getting married because of what had happened with me and your dad. Which is why I wrote to him and asked him to get in touch with you.”

“
You
wrote to
him
?” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “You’ve been in contact with my dad?”

“I got his address from his sister in Tamworth and I told him that he had to get in contact with you and arrange a meeting to explain to you that you’re nothing like him.”

It was odd being subjected to this much love. To think that my mum would open all sorts of painful memories just to try and make me happy. I gave her the biggest hug I could manage and she started crying.

“I was only trying to help, Ben,” she sobbed quietly. “He wrote and told me that you never got back to him. I didn’t want to upset you. I just wanted you to see that you were nothing like him. You’re your own person. You always were and you always will be.”

When she’d finished crying I fetched a cup of tea for her from the machine and a coffee for myself so that she didn’t feel like I was being left out. While it went cold I told her the story of Mel and me, right from the beginning, from when I first saw her four years ago through to the last time, less than a week ago at Meena’s wedding.

Mum didn’t say anything for a moment: I think the shock that in a few months she’d be a grandmother for a second time had left her speechless. She drank her tea silently. “So Mel’s going to make her decision in two days’ time?”

“The arrangement is she comes back from Glasgow on Friday,” I explained. “She’ll call me as soon as she gets home. I’ll go round to her flat and one way or the other we’ll sort this whole thing out. We both want what’s best for the baby, and for what it’s worth, if she decides that she doesn’t want to be with me, then at least I think we’ve learned enough from the past to make it work as friends.”

Mum looked at me and said in the manner that only mothers can use convincingly, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“I know, Mum,” I said. “I believe you.”

L
ook,” said Charlie, holding up his daughter for Mum and me to see as we walked into the delivery room. “I’m a dad!”

It had taken ten and a half hours for Vernie to give birth, which according to the doctors was an “easy labor.” Judging by the state of Vernie, who to be frank looked like she’d just run a marathon, the phrase “easy labor” was something of a misnomer.

Still holding the baby, Charlie pointed to me. “This is your uncle Duffy! He’s the one who’ll be giving you your pocket money.” He pointed to my mum. “This is your gran and anything you want she’ll get it for you!” As he passed the wriggling bundle into Vernie’s outstretched arms he introduced the baby. “And finally everyone, the star of the show . . . this is Little Elvis.”

“Don’t start, Charlie,” sighed Vernie in a good humored sort of way. “No matter how much I love you, we’re not calling our baby Little Elvis.”

“But she looks like Elvis,” said Charlie.

“She’s bald, her head’s a funny shape, and in case it has escaped your attention she is a little girl. Her name’s Phoebe. You know her name’s Phoebe because you helped choose it. If this child grows up thinking that her name is Little Elvis I promise you there will be trouble.”

Charlie smiled. “Beautiful baby Phoebe.”

The next half hour was spent playing pass the baby. After Vernie it went to Mum, who then passed her back to Charlie, who then passed her back to Vernie when she started crying, who then quieted her down and then offered her to me.

“I think I’ll pass this time,” I said, declining as politely as I possibly could. Babies always made me nervous—they were so fragile that I felt they’d fall apart in my hands if I so much as looked at them in the wrong way. Plus, I wasn’t entirely convinced by the Theory of Universal Baby Cuteness that so many people subscribed to. I mean, she looked fairly okay, but not exactly what I’d call attractive. My main problem, however, with babies was that I couldn’t reason with them. It was why I’ve never been all that keen on cats either. It’s the ability to reason that separates us from the animals, and until Phoebe could talk, an animal she would remain.
She may well be my niece,
I thought,
but I’ll wait until I can chat to her like a regular human being before I really bond with her.

In the end Vernie passed Phoebe to Charlie, who clearly couldn’t get enough of her.

After five minutes she began crying again. “She’s crying again,” said Charlie needlessly to Vernie. “What shall I do?”

Vernie smiled at him all sweetness and light and said, “You’re her dad.
You
do something.”

Ten minutes and two circuits of the ward corridor later and Charlie handed her back to Vernie in triumph. “Somehow she’s managed to scream herself into a sort of blissful state of peace,” explained Charlie.

As she lay in Vernie’s arms, her eyes firmly shut and her tiny fingers flinching sporadically as she dreamed of whatever it is that babies dream of, I peered at her closely.

“She looks like you,” I said to Vernie.

“I think she looks like Aunt Margaret sucking a sherbet lemon,” said Vernie. “The likeness is uncanny.”

B
y the time I got home it was late afternoon. I felt totally drained and was just contemplating a long spell in bed when I heard the electronic beep of the answerphone. I listened to the messages: a sycophantic Greg congratulating me and Dan on our sitcom deal; Dan calling to see if the baby had been born yet; my old temping agency to see if I was interested in a six-week block at an accountancy firm; and one other. I listened to the one other twice. Searched out my address book. Picked up the phone and dialed.

“Julie, it’s Duffy here. I just got your message. You said you had something to tell me.”

I heard her taking a deep, momentous breath. “You know that thing that you asked me to do?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I’ll do it.”

I was stunned. Miracles could happen. The plan was back on. “Excellent!” I cried a little too enthusiastically, and then added calmly but sheepishly, “I couldn’t ask you for another favor, could I?”

“What is it, Duffy?” sighed Julie impatiently.

“You couldn’t meet me tomorrow after you’ve been to work, could you? I sort of need a lift.”

“Where to?”