Monday, October 30, 2006

Chapter Two (part three) - Tasha the Bodysnatcher

Skim-reading the list of names in my hand I catch sight of Tasha’s address. No number or email. I decide I have to be proactive. I will call on her and offer my congratulations! – But maybe it’s too soon to turn up on her doorstep? I contemplate this. I mean, she may not even recognise me, (although I guess my form would give her a good headstart on the memory stakes). I decide to buy her some flowers. That way I can just call round and say congratulations at the door, leaving my number for when she’s ready for a coffee. The ball is in her court then! My resolve steeled, I set off to buy her my favourite, alium lillies.

As I rap on the big, heavy blue door on the other side of the Common from my flat, I wait apprehensively for sign of life on the other side. Perhaps she isn’t even in I reason, or, maybe she is staying with relatives or something. But, no sooner had the thoughts crossed my mind than the dull sound of footsteps-in-socks travels towards me. The door swings open and Tasha is revealed. Her hair is half tied back. She wears out-of-shape charcoal-coloured jogging pants, falling down at her hips. Her baby is slung over a muslin-draped shoulder that looks well used – the muslin that is! She looks exhausted, dark circles stalk her eyes.

With doubt flooding my mind I raise my arm to offer her the flowers by way of an explanation, but within a split-second she grabs me and drags me across her threshold. Slamming the heavy door behind me she blurts out;
“Thank God! a real person. Come through. Ignore the mess, or get used to it because it’s bloody unavoidable!”
I follow her through a hallway, lined with Moroccon rugs. A dried-up plant stands stick-thin to my right; balancing precariously on its wooden stand. My head frozen with fear in one direction, I move only my eyes, surveying my surroundings as we pass by three doorways before reaching (what I assume to be), the back of the house. As we turn left into the fourth doorway that meets the foot of a large sprawling staircase, gnarled and unvarnished, we walk from the dark into a light-soaked room. Sunlight drenches the kitchen-diner through the large French doors at the back of the house that lead out to a luscious overgrown garden.

A huge white comfy sofa slouches up against the nearside wall, facing (what can only be described as), a banqueting table which runs along the far-side wall. Bright and colourful contemporary oil paintings are slung from the picture rails around the room. The floor is carpetted in a rattan matting, scratchy underfoot but softened by soft, sumptious cotton rugs. A chrome kitchen shines out at me from the far end of the room: A Range cooker – six hobs – is sandwiched between a dishwasher and washing-machine which themsleves are parasolled by a flu reaching up through the ceiling. The walls are sliced through with railway sleepers masquerading as shelving. Cupboards encircle a butcher’s-block table that stands defiantly in the centre of the kitchen, under a torrent of mashers, ladels, collanders and other kitchen utensils that hang dripping from meat hooks.
It should have been beautiful all that design, but instead it moarned a life-less-ordinary; of sodden evenings and late night dinner-parties that turn into early morning recovery sessions. Of more time, more space, lazy days, and calm.

Now, the table cowers under magazines, open books and a pile of crumpled washing, just washed or ready to go, who knows. Swollen nappies, suffocate in pale green plastic bags at the feet of chair legs, and the rug is lost in tubs of cream, cotton wool and a changing-mat strewn with baby toys.

Moving a pile of books out of the way I take a seat on the sofa. There are flowers everywhere. Clinging to the walls and the edge of the floor they are reluctant players in the dancefloor of chaos that is stretched out before them. My own floral offering begins to droop at the prospect.

“Cup of tea?” Tasha calls to me from the kitchen. I hear her flick the kettle on.
“Mmm, yes please!” I answer politely still acutely aware of my intrusion.
“Oh shit! Sorry, are those flowers for me? I’ll get some water and a vase.............of some sort.” Her words trail off as she clears a space on the armchair for her baby-bundle to lie down and then heads out of the room and into another further down the corridor. I freeze, petrified that the small bundle of pink will suddenly move and fall off the chair whilst in my care. Still holding my breath Tasha returns clutching a gold vessel resembling a sporting trophy.

“Here, this will work. It’s one of Will’s ‘fencing’ trophies but it will do until I get him to bring back another vase this evening on his way home from work.”
I cringe that I have added an additional chore to their life.
“Oh sorry! Maybe I could go out now and get you something?”
“NO WAY! It’s fine. Will can pick something up, I’ll just text him now.....and anyway I don’t want you to walk out of here thinking I am completely mad when I’ve only just got you in here! You wouldn’t believe how many relatives and well-meaning ‘friends’ I have had to entertain over the last three days, it’s such a relief to see someone who can actually relate to my newfound situation!”
I smile again, not entirely sure she had got the right person.
“Oh God, tea! Do you take sugar?”
“Look, sit down for a moment and I’ll make it” I motion to the sofa where I have been sitting, as I get up and make my way over to the kitchen.
“Oh would you? Thanks. Avril is due another feed and I am knackered!”.

With a task in-hand I take control; whisking up two cups of tea, I pull out an empty spaghetti jar that is hiding behind other empty storage containers. Filling the jar with water I decant the lillies and save her husband an unwanted detour on his way home, and probably their marriage given the high sheen on the prized trophy! Placing her mug of tea down on a side table I take a seat on the chair already warmed from the babies little body. Sipping my tea I watch as the baby now suckles contentedly on her beloved mother’s breast. Both are silent, lost in a world of their own. Tasha helps her fledgling back on to her breast each time she loses her grip and the baby suckles for England.

For the first time since my arrival Tasha looks tranquil, smiling down at her newborn. I was forgotton and it was a privelege to bare witness to.

I broke the spell.

“Umm, I bumped into Flea earlier and she gave me a list of addresses and telephone numbers for everyone at yoga.” I felt I was explaining.
“Oh yeh” laughs Tasha, “Monica accosted me in the street with her business card and insisted I gave her my details!”
“Really?” I ask her; starting to feel a bit more at home and less of an intruder,
“Yeh!” Tasha gasps, astounded and checking for my agreement.
I decide to take the diplomatic angle,
“Well, I’m glad she did, I was so crap I didn’t even manage to speak to anyone at yoga, much less get their details!”
“Me neither” replies Tasha, “Apart from that last night at yoga with you! I was so bursting for the loo I had to run off. Sorry about that by-the-way – I thought that running off was better than pissing myself as an introduction!” she giggles and I laugh, snorting through my tea. Encouraged, she adds,
“My timing has never been good!” Tasha laughs out loud and I join her picturing the scene, but also remembering my own mistake that night! I could see now that it would take more than a silly faux pas to embarrass this girl. I liked her, alot, and was pleased I had taken the risk in coming to see her.

“Soooo, how was the birth then?” I ask conspiratorially.
“Pffff, I’m not going to tell you that when you are about to give birth for the first time yourself, you nutter!” She looks at me disbelieving....”Suffice to say I am glad it is all over and will spare you the gory details until after you have given birth”,
“But that’s worse!” I appeal.
“No it’s not. You will be fine” She is resolute, so I drop my questioning and relay Flea’s birth story, which didn’t seem so bizarre when she told me, but now sounds, well, quite alternative. Tasha whoops and laughs at each stage and as I finish the story, and my tea, I carry my mug to the kitchen for a rinse.
“I should go and leave you to it.” I say as I make my way toward the door.
“My number and email are on the back of the card, give me a call when you fancy a cuppa. I’ll text you when I’m giving birth!” I raise an eyebrow and a grin at the unlikeliness of this.
“Oh God, that’s the last thing you will be doing! Don’t worry just text me when you feel half human again. I don’t plan to leave the house for at least another week. It’s hard enough managing with all the shit around me, I can’t even concieve throwing a pram and a weather-system into the equation!”.
I smile inside and out at her exagerrated description and insist on seeing myself out.

As I click-shut her front door a smile spreads across my face. She is completely mad, I say to myself, but this chapter in my life looks like it might be alot of fun!

Finding the list of names in my back pocket I give it a squeeze and make my way across the Common and back to my cosy basement.

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