‘You can see why I’d find a trip to Tesco more appealing than trying to tackle this.’ Beckett gripped the back of his neck. Any lingering shame Mary might have felt after the birth had to be eclipsed by this disgrace. ‘I’ll take us back to your house.’
‘What? Why? My house is hardly any better.’
Beckett simply looked at her.
‘Okay, it is better, but the whole point of me being here is to help.’ Her face softened as she leant in to whisper, ‘Beckett, I’ve spent only a few hours with Gramps, but it’s enough to understand how all-consuming that must be.’
‘This isn’t a fit place for a baby.’
Mary rolled her eyes. ‘Really? Then how did our ancestors survive slums, and shacks, and caves?’
‘I’m not sure many of them did…’
‘He’ll be fine in his car seat. Germs can’t crawl that fast. I don’t think.’
Gramps, who’d wandered into the living room, stomped back into the corridor. ‘Where’s the baby? I want to hold him.’
‘There you go. Looks like Gramps is cleaner than me. Bob’ll be fine with him.’
Beckett didn’t want reminding of the wrangling it had required to get Gramps presentable. Mary unclipped Bob while Gramps shuffled into the living room, where he happily collapsed into his recliner, arms outstretched for the baby.
‘You’ll have to hand him back when I bring you a cup of tea, mind.’
He gave an absent-minded nod, already engrossed in tenderly stroking the black wisps on Bob’s crown with a gnarly finger.
‘Are you sure?’ Beckett asked, the apprehension clear in his voice.
‘Stay with him if you’re worried. I’ll make you both a drink.’ Mary grinned as she waltzed out of the room.
‘Once I’ve decontaminated the kitchen,’ she called a couple of seconds later, prompting Beckett to trust Gramps for a few seconds and hurry after her.
‘Mary, you said yourself you’ve had a rough morning. There’s no way I’m going to be the ass who lets you clean my kitchen.’
‘Um, what, like you cleaned mine?’ She twisted around from where she was already running the hot tap.
The kitchen was a dump. Pots piled up everywhere because the slimline dishwasher was full. Empty food cartons, the lingering smell of eggs from breakfast. Sticky worktops, hob, tiles. He could only bear a split-second glance at the floor.
‘I’ve had no one to take care of but myself for a long time.’
‘You’ve got Bob.’
‘That’s different. I would happily die for Bob. I’m biologically programmed to look after him. I haven’t been able to do anything nice for anyone in months.’
Beckett didn’t ask if this was because of lack of opportunity, or because she’d not been up to it.
‘I’ve been pickling in my own problems for far too long. Being able to do this for you isn’t a chore, it’s a pleasure. I’m actually being quite selfish. So, how many sugars is Gramps allowed?’
Beckett jerked awake to hear Mary singing in the kitchen, Gramps and Bob both gently snoring in their respective seats. He quickly checked the time and, to his chagrin, had been asleep for almost an hour. His plan had been to drink his tea, respecting Mary’s insistence upon cleaning the kitchen, and then go and help her as soon as he thought he could get away with it.
Stretching the kinks out of his neck – honestly, he’d never have dreamt that waking up to the sound of ‘Christmas Every Day’ being sung out of tune could be so un-annoying – he quickly went to find her.
‘Wow.’
‘Looks better, doesn’t it?’
Mary had washed up, cleared all the worktops, sorted the mess on the table into orderly piles and was sweeping the floor. Loose tendrils of hair curled around flushed cheeks as she smiled, and an image of her as Cinderella flashed through his head.
In which case, he was obviously Buttons. And he hoped Prince Charming, whoever he might be, ended up with an ugly sister.
