The Illustrator's Daughter

By Gideon Burrows

What is any parent's greatest fear?

 

"From the award winning author of Portico, comes a novel that will challenge everything you thought you knew about your relationships."

 

Loving parents. A brand new baby girl. They should have been an ideal young family.
It doesn't always turn out that way.

 

Matt Carron is desperate not to lose his perfect wife. But he can't hide his jealousy when his daughter is born.

 

The baby takes up all of his wife's attention, leaving nothing left for him.

 

As Minnie becomes a toddler, he's driven crazy by her tantrums. When she gets a jigsaw wrong. When she won't listen to his bedtime stories. When she won't eat what he feeds her. When he has to pin her to the ground so hard she bruises her arms.

 

When she reaches her pre-teens, Minnie is stubborn and argumentative. But every mother is bound to side with her own daughter, isn't she?

 

Any sign he resents his daughter, or can't cope with her behaviour, might lead to her leaving him.

 

So when Minnie becomes seriously ill, it's best that Matt tries to hide his fears. And follow his wife down a desperate path.

At least until he comes to terms with the unbearable choice he's been avoiding for twelve years.

 

His daughter, or his wife?

 

The Illustrator's Daughter is a heart-wrenching novel about the deep challenges any of our relationships might face, living with the decisions we make, and choosing between unbearable futures.

 

 

"A brilliant book. Having several people in my life impacted by cancer the book really captured the feelings of watching someone impacted by cancer and the lengths we'd go to help them. Couldn't put it down."

 

"This book took my breath away. Absolutely couldn't put it down. Beautifully written, it explores some hugely emotional issues with honesty and grace."

 

"An excellent read that explores human emotions both good and not so good when stressed by life . Heartbreaking."

 

"Superbly written, engaging, would thoroughly recommend."

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gideon Burrows
• Release date: Apr 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201937850

Book preview

1

My darling. My beautiful, precious daughter. My wonderful little girl. The day you died was the best day of my life.

They say, Minnie, that the day your first child is born is the best in a father’s life.

Who are these people?

It was an agonising, painful, bloody mess. A horror. It wasn’t even a day. It was two. Nearly 48 hours of desperate pain you put your own mum through.

Two days of her begging me to scoop you out of her with a spoon.

Two days of your mum on her knees, standing, sitting, lying down, crying, screaming. Scratching ridges into the back of my hands.

Two days begging for relief.

In your birth plan, she’d written - we’d written - that a C-section should be the last resort. I promised your mum that I’d keep to that plan, no matter how delirious she became. I’d sworn I’d challenge the midwives if they wavered from the plan. None of that home birth and whale song stuff. Pain relief drugs, spotlessly clean, safe environment. All the way.

I hadn’t expected your mum to beg for a cesarean. By the end, I didn’t know what she wanted. I didn’t know how to love her best as she lay there on the slab.

By the time I was demanding you be sliced out, dead or alive, it was too late.

That was the first time I hoped you would die.

Mum was biting the pillow. You were stuck, tearing her insides. Stubborn. Refusing.

Trying to steal her away from me.

The doctors came. With their scalpels and probes and suction cups. Your mum’s own blood, the blood you’d gorged from her for so many months, that you’d become so fat you got bunged up inside her, gushed onto the floor when you finally emerged.

It splashed onto my legs, soaked my trousers and the blue plastic bags I’d pulled over my shoes.

You soaked your mum’s nightdress in her gore and her guts. The nightdress was the pretty green one. The one we’d chosen together on one of our last special days.

Just Mum and me.

You ruined it.

Did I want to cut the cord? Sentimental shit. I could barely look at you. The damage you’d caused. You were red, wrinkled, bulging. They wrapped you in a towel and Mum took you. You scrunched up your face, refused to return the love you owed to her. You owed to me.

Her eyes watered as she held you close for a few moments. She looked up at me, her eyes questioning.

She’s beautiful, I said.

She? said your mum.

A baby girl, I said. I felt sick, but I hugged you both. They’d given me a paper apron, a gore barrier that had failed to protect me from the insides of your mum. The flesh that you had scraped from her abdomen.

Figures moved around between your mum’s legs. Calling for pads, gauze, needles, stitches.

Then a midwife took you away. Freeing me to hold your mum properly. To give her the comfort she needed. To make up for the pain. The terror you’d caused.

You came back. A little cleaner, in a tiny nappy. A white tag around your left foot, another around your right wrist.

Baby girl Griffin. Your mum’s name, not mine. 8lbs, 2oz. Your date of birth.

Your mum pushed me away a little, to let you in. I clung to her. The midwife pushed a little and finally I let you between us.

You cried. Your mum cried. The same deep blue eyes, the same tears. Though the rest of your face was still scrunched and ruddy, I saw your mum’s eyes in yours.

You’ve always had the most beautiful eyes.

Bodies came and went. Hospital rags cleaned up your mum’s blood. They brought new sheets. Then the others were gone.

I kissed your mum on the head. I kissed you on the head too. I wanted to taste some of her on you. To make sure you were part of her.

How could I love you otherwise?

We all slept. Minutes? Tens of minutes?

A kind woman came and offered to help your mum to take a shower.

I did the good thing. I told Mum to go; she needed a moment to clean up.

I opened my shirt, then the towel they had wrapped you in. I pressed your body against mine. Like the books said. You slept, I felt your skin - your mum’s skin - against mine.

I held you tight. At that moment you were Mum. You needed to be comforted. Reassured that it would be okay. The pain you’d caused Mum would go away. The blood you’d released would replenish. The damage you’d done would heal.

I held you against my warm chest. I could feel my heart beating. And I began to cry.

Big tears. Angry tears.

Another midwife entered the room with a cup of tea for Mum. Nothing for me. She smiled and tipped her head to the side, offered me a thin smile.

How sweet.

She had no idea.

Let me tell you a fairy story, Minnie. A story of instant true love. Love at first sight.

You know that picture that hangs in mine and your mum’s bedroom. The one that looks like a scribble, and you have to get right up close to see what it is?

Let me tell you about that picture. It was my most treasured object.

I met your mum at a wedding. That much you know, but do you know how?

I’d been booked for the gig. I was supposed to be paying attention to the guests, of course. The bride and groom, mother- and father-in-laws were always on the list. Also the big personalities, the ones with the enormous egos. The ones that would be most easy to goof, to make gentle fun of with my little cartoons. After the speeches, I’d then go to each table, giving those large personalities my goofs. Showing their friends, laughing with them, telling their stupid little jokes back to them. Then doing little pen and ink goofs on other guests’ serviettes, or the back of their place label. Or fresh blank cards I kept in my jacket pocket.

I’ve always called what I draw goofs. They’re not like those caricatures you get in newspapers, or at the seaside, with extended noses, big ears and big fat cheeks. My goofs are more like… Well, think of how you would look if you were a character from The Simpsons. That. Only not The Simpsons. My particular version of The Simpsons.

They were characters from a world I’d developed over years. My world, where characters existed in a cartoon I used to send to the Beano and Dandy comics. I’d always liked those comics. They were drawn where I was born. Dundee. Though my Scottish accent smoothed out by the time I was gigging in London.

I had some sketches of the top table already, from photos the best man had sent me ahead of the gig. They gave me something to work from. So my goofs looked on-target. But your mum was new to me. The bride’s second sister, not quite in the firing line of bride’s maid.

Her looks were striking, so plainly beautiful against her overly made up sisters. The sisters had been easy to goof: heavy on the lipstick, the updoo hair and curls and braids. Overdone accessories, the flowing dresses, the slightest roll of fat spilling out in the wrong place.

But your mum. Karren. I felt I couldn’t find the slightest fault to emphasise. I decided I couldn’t do her as a goof.

I satisfied myself with an everyday sketch of her face in my notebook. The way her blonde hair lay on her shoulders. From the side on, in pencil, smudged slightly.

Later on, after they’d cleared the tables and the disco had started, I showed her the picture. She was distracted, I guess, but said she liked it. I asked for her email address: I could send her a scan, or a better version. She seemed ambivalent, but gave me the email anyway.

I decided to keep the picture for myself. A remembrance of the day. Of her.

The next morning, she called me. Said she was embarrassed. She’d been drunk. Had asked the bridegroom for my number. She’d love to see the picture again.

Actually, she said, she’d like to see me again too. Maybe I’d do a proper portrait?

£650? You have to be joking.

Your mum always thought I was joking when we talked about how you would be received (read ‘presented’) into the world.

To me, a basic carry cot, a car seat of course, a push chair when the time came. Up and done for maybe £200 from the catalogue. That’s if I couldn’t get it all second hand. How many babies were born last year? Surely most of them had car seats that would be on sale. We were supposed to be saving the planet, weren’t we?

Mum wanted a Bugaboo. A full travel system, whatever that was. In plum and crimson. The full fitting, car seat, pushchair, face-in/face-out, rocking motion, super bloody secure. It would only last for a year. After that, we’d have to upgrade.

I hope it makes a cup of tea too.

It has a coffee cup holder, she said, smiling.

Oh, well, that makes all the difference

We both laughed, but then I got moody.

Okay, how about we go for a second hand Bugaboo? Then we can sell it, and if they’re as popular as you say, we’ll recoup some costs.

Your mum’s eyes started to well.

She said people don’t buy second hand car seats. The manufacturers didn’t advise it. In case they’d been in a crash. They weren’t safe.

Oh, come on, Karren. Do the sums, I said. "How many car crashes with babies in the car happen each year? Say, a hundred? Okay, now how many parents would be crass enough to sell a car seat that’s been in one of those crashes? At most, 10 percent? Narrow it down to buying locally? The likelihood of us picking up a damaged car seat would be practically zero.

It’s all a ruse to sell more seats. Expensive ones at that. Not based on the evidence.

There’s always a risk, your mum said.

There’s a risk for everything, I said. A bus could hit me tomorrow.

That’s when your mum really cried.

Hormones, I guessed.

Okay, fine, I said. We’ll buy everything Mumsnet tells us to. Get the latest stuff from that pile of Positive Parenting magazines you’ve bought. The works. Keep up with the Jones’, right? I’ll begin painting the spare room now, shall I? Let me just go find my overalls.

I went out to the garden. I say garden. We only had a little sun terrace at the back of the house. I didn’t have any overalls. I sat on some greying plastic furniture.

We’d bought a pair of new plastic chairs from the garden centre with money we’d got from your gran after our wedding.

Two chairs. One for your mum. One for me.

We’d spent long summer evenings in them. Sitting up until midnight in those chairs. Laughing until our bellies hurt. Drinking red wine. Chomping on Japanese crackers or cashew nuts. Sharing the odd joint. Then going to bed to make love.

They had sat outside in the rain and the sun and the wind and the snow those chairs. They became ever duller as the seasons passed.

I stretched out my legs and knocked over a mouldy plant pot. It smashed against the floor. I kicked the debris into the weeds.

This’ll all have to go. Make room for a playpen. One of those massive trampolines that kids never use after the first week.

It took me 15 minutes to calm down. Usually it would be quicker. There was a process, you see Minnie. First, I’d swear I was right and sit in a grump. Expecting your mum to come out and apologise.

Then I’d think again. Of course, I was right. But I didn’t have to be so right. I might go in to your mum and pretend she was right. Smooth over the cracks.

Then with more thought, I would realise that she was right. In fact, I’d been wrong all along.

Finally, I’d realise I’d behaved terribly.

And if I couldn’t make it up to your mum, I’d lose her. I’d suddenly feel sick. Desperate. Hope she hadn’t gone out in the car, become unreachable. I wouldn’t be able to make it all better again.

What then?

I leapt from the chair and had to prevent myself from running up the stairs. Your mum was in the bedroom, sorting some washing on our double bed.

I’m so sorry, I said.

She looked up from the washing. Her eyes were dry, her face bright. She was humming along to the radio.

Sorry for what? she looked puzzled, pushing together some of my socks.

For shouting, for disagreeing.

Did you shout? I couldn’t judge her tone.

Please, please, don’t let’s carry this on, I approached her, opened my arms for her. She came into them and held me. I didn’t detect any resistance.

Honestly, I was joking. Tell me it’s going to be okay.

Of course it’s going to be okay, you idiot. We’re having a baby.

I loved it when she called me an idiot.

What do you want? she said, pulling away.

I want you, I replied, trying to pull back in. To feel her warm body pressing against mine.

No, the buggy.

Anything. I meant it. I want to make you happy. And you’re so totally right. You can’t trust that cheaper stuff. Nor second hand. Let’s go for the safest. Cost is irrelevant.

Can we afford it?

We’ll take it from the holiday stash, I said. Babies aren’t cheap. We know that.

On that day, we’d only known you were going to come for a couple of weeks. Though we’d been trying for a year.

Isn’t it a bit early, your mum said.

Come on love, that crimson one is a limited edition. I know you love it.

I do, she smiled and re-entered my embrace. Forgiveness.

I’ll make you a cup of that herbal tea you like. I do love you, you know.

I told her that every day. Many times a day.

She started sorting the washing again. I watched her from the door, waiting.

She looked up. I love you too, darling.

I went downstairs.

While the kettle boiled, I checked our bank balance on my phone. I moved £700 across from our holiday savings to the joint account.

To be honest, I thought your mum would be happier when you came along. She wanted you so much. I did too, but I guess I wasn’t in such a rush.

Two weeks after you were born, it was like we all were in a dream world. Mum especially. She couldn’t stop looking at you, Minnie, stroking your cheek. You’d done some damage downstairs, so I was bringing you to her in our bed while she recovered. She would stare at you all scrunched up, red and pig like, with your squashed alien head.

She fell head over heels. So did all your mum’s friends when they came to visit in that first fortnight. She was delighted to haul her body out of bed during the night. Delighted by the idea of feeding you and holding you close. Often you’d fall asleep between us, and it made Mum glow. The books said it wasn’t safe to let a baby sleep in your bed, but Mum had been through so much.

Then in the morning, she would do her hair, then hobble downstairs and sit on the sofa like a queen about to be visited by her subjects. I’d present the royal baby to her, and group after group of friends would come to pay homage. You were too young to notice, but despite the pain she was in, Mum’s eyes shone with every visitor.

I’d answer the door, and everyone would give me a big smile. The men, a firm handshake. Well done, that man, or something equally pally. I didn’t know who the hell these guys were. I was then quickly pushed aside as the girls rushed to the lounge to find you and Mum. Pink wrapping paper, smellies, baby grow after baby grow, little wooden toys with bells attached.

After three days, I’d got into the routine. I’d welcome the couple or family member in. Your mum would be pampered. They would fuss over you. Delighted smiles, congratulations. Stupid tiny cupcakes.

Then the excited chatter would turn to whispers. It was my cue to invite the bloke and/or blokes into the kitchen for a beer. We’d make small talk about football. I didn’t know a thing about football. But the women were then free to talk about the wonder of birth. To compare notes on how freaking long it took to squeeze their kids out of bleeding vaginas.

I’d clean up afterwards - the gifts I mean - piling all the stuff upstairs. So the next visitors would get their turn. By the end, we had twelve baby grows. Three bottles of Hawtree and Lime shampoo. Various teddies. Little knitted boots. Some of those squidgy baby books that dangled above the Bugaboo. Two bottles of Prosecco, another three of white wine and one - just one mind - four pack of Stella Artois. Presumably that was for me.

I didn’t know Mum had so many friends. Work, university and stuff. Not that they hung around for long once the actual work started.

And nor did your gran. She came and visited a few times. She always baked a cake. But apart from that visit a couple of days a week, she stayed away. She had this or that committee at her church to attend to. Must have been a massive church.

Your mum said Gran wanted to give us space to enjoy Minnie for ourselves. I suspected it was more like she didn’t want to hear endless crying, smell your shit or see your constant sicking up after feeding.

For a good time afterwards we looked back on that time and called it ‘The Aftermath’. We’d put the words in inverted commas with our fingers. Just as you were waking up, stretching your tiny arms and legs, getting some sandy colour into your skin, and beginning your incessant crying, Mum’s smile, her sparkly eyes dimmed.

Mum’s wounds were healing by then. But she wanted to stay in bed. The stream of visitors had slowed. She’d sleep a lot during the day. She ignored it when you cried at night. I’d have to wake her up so you could breastfeed. Then afterwards, she’d just roll over and stare at the wall.

I’d put you back in your cot or take you downstairs. I held you to my chest. I rocked you backwards and forwards. I’d place you in the Bugaboo and rock that while I watched the snooker.

Changing your nappy was mechanical. Bathing you a chore. Not like you see on the adverts. I’d take you on walks in the pram, but you’d bleat after 10 minutes. Or it would rain. Or I got bored. Or you got bored. I took you to a coffee shop once. You were less than a month old, and people just stared. There were half a dozen mums with their own prams. Not one said hello.

You were an extra body in our house, but I don’t think I’d ever felt so alone.

So most of the time we were at home. You and me. Mum upstairs. I’d take her endless cups of tea, which she never drank. And toast and pasta and fruit. She smiled, but most of the time her eyes were red.

For the first few days of the aftermath, I kept quiet. I knew what the blues looked like from long stag weekends abroad. We would spend three or four days drinking ourselves stupid, then suddenly come back with mammoth hangovers and a return to normal life. It was a pretty miserable experience. But it only lasted a few days, then we’d be back in the pub.

But the longer ‘the aftermath’ went on, the more awake you became, Minnie. The more needy: a feeding, shitting, crying machine, with little sleep in-between. I was endlessly carrying you. Putting on washing, tidying up, shopping, all the time juggling you and your demands. My biceps doubled in size.

It became second nature to me, really. Routine. I was pretty proud of myself.

Only I needed to get back to gigging. Sending cartoons out. On one particular morning, maybe two weeks into ‘the aftermath’ you just would not settle. You’d fed fine with Mum that morning, then I’d burped you, and changed you, and taken you downstairs, and jiggled you around, shushing you and rocking you for about an hour. Dad of the Century. Mum had said she might get up later, but I knew she wouldn’t. Not until feeding time again.

I left you in the Bugaboo and went to see your mum. I was knackered. She was asleep. I sat on the side of the bed, but she didn’t wake. I stood, huffed out some air, then sat down again. A bit harder. Eventually, I put my hand on your mum’s shoulder and shook gently.

She opened her eyes.

What is it? Is Minnie okay?

Yeah, she’s fine, I said. Well, pretty grizzly, but nothing I’m not used to.

I emphasised the ‘I’m.’

It didn’t seem to register. She just looked at the wall.

Darling, I said to her. I cradled her chin and turned her head towards mine so she would look at me. She resisted.

What?

How long is this going to go on? I said.

I’m just tired, she said. Minnie has taken a lot out of me.

Out of you? I said.

This time she got the intonation.

I don’t know. It’s just, I guess, not what I thought it was going to be like, she said. I don’t feel I’ve bonded with her. I don’t know what to do.

You’ve not given it a chance, I said. I think I interrupted. You can’t bond just lying here all day. She wants a cuddle from you. She’s very sweet once you get to know her.

Your mum turned over and looked at the opposite wall.

She needs some attention from her mum. It’s no good just wallowing up here.

Your mum cried. It hurt inside. I could hear you crying downstairs too.

Jesus.

I thought this was what you wanted? I saw you with your friends. You were so happy. What’s changed? Can’t you just, I don’t know, look on the bright side?

Your mum stayed silent.

Look, I know how you feel. The baby blues. It’ll go away. You just need to get up and about. Do some exercise. Take Minnie for a walk. It’s lovely out there, people are so kind.

I can’t face it, she said.

You can’t face it? I was a little cross. "What about me? With you up here, I’ve no choice but to face it. Some people don’t get kids at all. We’ve got what you wanted, and now you can’t face it?"

Your mum was sobbing now. I leant over and held her close. She was still.

I whispered.

I know it’s not your style but I could call the doctor? Just to get you over the hump?

Your mum just cried and cried.

Okay, what can I do? I said. What can I do for you? I’ll do anything. I just want my wonderful wife back. My special lady, I played with her hair.

She turned to me, all serious.

I want us to go back to before, she said. Before Minnie. Before being pregnant. Before any of this.

Oh darling, I said. I could still hear you crying downstairs.

I miss you so, so much, she said. She started heaving with sobs.

My heart glowed. I cradled her tight and blocked out my ears to the world.

2

M innie, I told the old lady in the church hall. She’s just under a year. My wife, Karren Griffin has brought her before?

Well, you’re welcome, Mr Griffin, the woman said. She had ‘Sheila’ written in thick red marker pen on a white rectangle sticker. It was stuck to her cardigan.

Carron, I said. Mr Carron. My wife and I don’t have the same name.

Oh, she said, that’s unusual, isn’t it? She looked down her list, found your name Minnie. It said Carron next to it.

And what’s your Christian name, Mr Carron?

I don’t have one, I said.

She scrunched up her face.

"I have a first name, I said. I’m not a Christian. It’s Matt. Sorry, have I got something wrong? Do you have to be religious to come here?"

No, of course not, Sheila said.

Oh, I’m sorry, I said. I caught my heart beating too quickly. I leant into her a little. I’ve never been to this baby club before.

Oh my goodness, she said. Her face lit up. Then you must come in quickly and meet everyone. And bring baby, of course.

Minnie, not baby. I thought, but didn’t say it. It was just like when the midwifes kept calling me Dad. I’m not your fucking dad.

She scrawled out two stickers, one for me and one for you. I lifted you out of the Bugaboo and put you on your feet. When Sheila placed your sticker across your back, it almost covered your shoulders. She’d written ‘Minny’, which made me cross.

I held your hand and pushed the Bugaboo along. We parked it at the side of the hall, alongside a dozen other pushchairs. Like our once perfect crimson carrier, the other baby seats and pushchairs looked worn, covered in stains and crumbs, with empty packets of corn snacks scrunched up in the swinging baskets below the seats.

A double-buggy sat at the end of the row. If I had been Christian, I’d have thanked God it wasn’t mine.

I’m not saying you’ll enjoy yourself, but it’s good for Minnie, your mum had said. She had started back at school. The deal was I would do the childcare during the day, when she was teaching. Then when she came back from work, I’d get on with my own. And of course, any weekend gigs I had.

She needs to socialise more. It’ll give you a break.

Can’t I just take her for coffee? I’d told your mum.

What’s she going to do at Nero’s, sup on a latte made with this stuff? She indicated her boobs, which were out and currently being pumped to provide the milk she insisted we still needed to feed you. Even though you were long onto solids.

Making small talk with a bunch of women totally in love with their little babies sounded like hell to me. But your mum said it was a relief for her to meet some other mums with babies the same age. She said it had helped with ‘the aftermath’. The babies could roll around on a mat together, and she got to have a chat.

Only the coffee sounded like bliss to me. And I guess the chance to put you down and not have to jiggle constantly to stop you wailing.

Sheila delivered me to a group of natterers, who shifted uncomfortably as I approached. One woman who was breast feeding under a muslin cloth turned her back. Offence intended, I thought.

Once they’d registered me, their gaze immediately moved to Minnie.

How old is … asked the woman closest to me.

She, I said. She’s a she. And she’s just under one. First birthday next month. Stumbling around, as you can see.

Hah, just like the others, she replied. The entire group looked behind me at their babies, who were stumbling like donkeys, none of them interacting with each other.

A couple of mums took the opportunity, diving to the mat to pick up some bells to ring in their child’s face. Or dangle a toy snake for them to ignore.

You might have met my wife, I said to the woman who was stuck with me. Tammy, according to her sticker, though I didn’t dare use her Christian name. She’s called Karren. About my height, blonde hair?

Tammy looked doubtful.

I guess we all recognise parents by their babies, she said. I smiled.

Silence.

Well, what happens next? I asked her.

The mums chat, said Tammy. Then they bring out snacks for the kids, then we drink coffee, then we go home.

Any dads?

A few grandads every now and again, she said. All the other women had moved far away from us now, like a flock of starlings moving over a bridge.

I’m just going to check on Minnie, I said. Like Mum said, I was only there for you.

You were pushing around what looked like a mangy horse covered in weeks’ old gunks of dried porridge.

Do you want to take this lovely pushchair, I said, bending my back to wheel up a shocking-pink plastic bit of crap decorated with fake Disney princesses. I felt like an idiot, but I was pleased to escape. You rejected the pushchair, sticking with the horse.

I didn’t want to create a scene.

I sat in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs to watch you, as you bashed the horse around. Into a plastic mini kitchen, a plastic police car, over some Duplo blocks. As I watched you, I toyed with the pink pushchair. Pushing it forwards and backwards, as if to rock to sleep the dirty baby sitting in its hammock. It had one eye stuck open and felt tip scribbled across its face.

I would much prefer to have had you at home without the gaze of those women. But you seemed to be having fun. Though I kept a straight face, I smiled inside when you knocked things over with the horse.

Oh, did you just bump into another kid with that rabid pony?

Snack time was murder. Selfish hands grasping with fat fingers at lumps of cheese, cocktail sausages, foul smelling crisps. The kids were doing it too. Dad joke.

I pushed you between a knot of toddlers, who were all elbows, drooling and chewing with mouths open. A couple of mums were hand-feeding their kids cucumber slice after crisp after squished up banana, like they were seals at the zoo. Some kids were squidgeing tuna in their fists (tuna, for God’s sake!), before trying to shove it in their gobs. I almost retched. Others were grasping from other children’s plates, their mums looking on at their kid’s behaviour like it was the cheeky display of loveable rogues.

I laid out some carrot sticks neatly on your plastic plate, a couple of Hula Hoops, some sticks of cucumber, a tiny triangle of cheese sandwich on brown bread. I chose an open cup, with water rather than juice. You ate quietly, ignoring the others. You picked up your cup with both hands. I went around to the other side of the table to watch you. I crossed my arms and breathed deeply. That’s my girl.

At home it would have been a different story. Chucking food, dribbling down your bib. Chewing and spitting out. Then crying for me to spoon it back in again. Knocking your sippy-cup to the floor again, and again, and again. Until I would slam the cup down on the table.

Just drink it!

I saw one of the older women bring out a tin of Nescafé, another wheel in a two litre flask of hot water. A bucket of stained teaspoons and a Tupperware of tea bags.

I looked at you and I swear you raised your 11-month-old eyebrows.

We made our excuses. After wiping your hands and fastening you back into the Bugaboo, I took you around the corner to Nero’s. I had an American, and we shared a croissant with jam. Both of us sucking on our fingers.

I took some photos of you covered in pastry flakes and sticky with jam. I messaged them to Mum. She texted me back some of those emojis with big red hearts. We were well over the aftermath by that time. Whenever she mentioned you, it came with hearts or kisses.

We did good, Minnie, I said. Mum had also suggested song time at the library, but you agreed - I’m sure you did - we’d had enough for one day.

We went home, and I left you in the Bugaboo to take a nap. I tucked a little cloth giraffe next to you, its head poking out of the covers close to your hot cheeks. I might have kissed you, but I didn’t want to wake you. I sent a photo to Mum instead.

I guess I ought to have put a wash on, or pre-made some tea for me and your mum, but I felt a little drained. Mum hadn’t texted back a second time.

Later, you cried. A lot. I tried pulling you onto my knee, and reading a book. Some touch and feel thing. You kept pulling your hand away. I grabbed your fingers, tried to get you to touch the damn corrugated card and the fuzzy penguin wings. You kept crying.

Okay, fuck that. I threw the book across the room. What about this?

It was Peppa Pig. A sure-fire winner. You stopped crying. I tried reading the story, but you kept grabbing the card pages and pushing them over before I’d finished. I wanted you to touch each of the characters. I tried to get you to understand as I counted, pushing your finger at George and his pissing dinosaur. Roar!

No, Daddy does the reading, I told you. You listen. Look, a pig. A fucking pig.

I pushed the page back down again, and you tried to lift it.

NO! I’m reading.

You snatched your hand away. Then arched your back and started kicking out at me. Oh, I knew where that was going.

Fine, let’s have it your way.

I lifted you up, your legs flailing, your face streaming. I lowered you onto the carpet and left the living room, shutting the door firmly behind me.

I could still hear you screeching as I set about making tea. Chopping onions, carrots. I checked the time. Three o’clock. Jesus, another hour. Probably two.

I prepared some broccoli for you to spit out for dinner. Twice I went back to the door, listened in, but you were still at it.

I put some lentils into the soup, and a tin of tomatoes.

Stock. I didn’t look in the cupboard. I was pretty sure we needed stock for the soup. I turned off the hob and found a packet of rice crackers.

You had settled a little. You were pushing about the Peppa Pig book, trying to open a page with your fingers. You looked up at me for help.

Too late, my dear lady, I said. You had your chance.

You started to cry again. You fought me fiercely as I pushed you into the Bugaboo. I struggled to fasten the straps, leaning my knee against your chest. Once fastened in, you were wild as a banshee, kicking and screaming like an omen of death. But I had you pinned.

I waved the crackers in front of your face, shook the crackling packet next to your ear. You calmed a little.

That’s good, Minnie, I said. Now we can be friends, can’t we?

I opened the packet and gave you one. You stopped crying and sucked the salt out of it. I wrestled the Bugaboo out of the door and we walked down to the shops. You wiped your hands on the crimson cover.

By the time we’d got to the mini-Sainsbury you were smiling and prodding your multi-coloured shiny bell thing your gran had bought you. I stuffed the crackers in my pocket, and wiped your face down with a throwaway. I took a photo and texted it to Mum.

I let you hold the stock until we reached the till, while I took a few bottles of Rioja and leant them gently together in the pram's hood. And then also a packet of Bombay mix. Your mum’s favourite.

When Mum walked through the door at 4.30, you were sat up at the table with your broccoli in front of you, and the soup ready to reheat.

Your mum came into the kitchen, her eyes glowing. She came to you, bent down and kissed your head.

I was second. I was always second.

How was today? she asked, with a sigh I’d become to recognise as the pre-warning of a short evening to come.

Ah, we had a lot of fun at baby club, I said.

You’re a liar, she smiled. She was feeding you broccoli.

Okay, we had an okay time. Some of the kids there…

I know, no-one is as perfect as our Minnie right?

Don’t make me go again. They’re animals. Mum lapped it up. "I’ll take the stocks, hang me upside down, but not that torture. Anything but the