it with her fingers, looks at the wetness, looks up at the ceiling. There is a small gathering of drips, trembling on the ceiling, waiting to fall.
‘Fuck!’ says Manon. ‘The fucking bath!’
She gets up and makes for the hallway with every molecule of haste she can muster and generates all the speed of an 80-year-old. ‘Fly! Flyyyyy! Pull the flipping plug out!!!’
Upstairs, the water is tumbling over the edge of the bathtub – rather beautifully, she notices, like an infinity pool at a posh hotel. She turns the tap off and pulls out the plug, wetting her sleeve and hearing the gushing of water down the waste pipe. The sound prompts an urgent need to pee. She grabs all the towels hanging on hooks on the wall and flings them onto the floor to soak up the wet; sighs, closes the bathroom door.
Only five months pregnant. Is it possible she will become still more ungainly?
When she emerges and walks into Fly’s room, he predictably hasn’t lifted his face from the page. Solly is squatting happily in his nappy. ‘Dine-soar,’ Solly says, pointing with his little pointy finger. He sets the universe in order with the naming of things with the pointy finger and she hopes he never grows out of it.
‘Right, so thanks for flooding the bathroom, Fly,’ Manon says.
He doesn’t look up.
‘Fly, listen. There was water coming through the ceiling in the kitchen. Really! Jesus, Fly!’
Was he this disrespectful when they were in London, or is his disdain part of her punishment for uprooting him? For being pregnant? She snatches his book away. He is forced to look up.
‘What?’ he asks, genuinely nonplussed. It’s as if he’s been in a bubble, the outside world on mute.
‘You flooded the bathroom.’
‘Oh my God, sorry. Did I?’
She is furious, but he genuinely didn’t notice.
They cannot take their eyes off Solomon, especially Mrs Ross.
All movement and talk swirls about them in the lounge; offers of tea, isn’t it awful, you must be devastated, but Mrs Ross doesn’t take her eyes off Solly.
Sitting forward, on the edge of the sofa, she drinks him in as he plays with his Duplo, making a tower in order to knock it down. He is delighted by knocking things down.
Fly is at school (Manon hopes). She has been tempted to walk him in each morning, to make certain he arrives, but stopped herself. The headmaster didn’t think it was a good strategy either. ‘You want to rebuild trust, not infantalise him,’ he said.
For everyone else in the room, with grief as with illness, normal service has been suspended, hence the midday tea party.
‘Isn’t he like Jonno?’ Mrs Ross whispers to Mr Ross. (They have not offered their first names – not, Manon suspects, because they are formal, but because the moment has passed and they are not smooth operators who can re-route the social flow.)
A smile plays about the corner of Mrs Ross’s mouth as if she dare not find happiness at a moment such as this.
‘The very spit,’ says Mr Ross.
Their voices have a lovely Welsh song to them, but subtly and not all the time.
‘We never met you,’ Mrs Ross says, looking up at Ellie as if she is confused by the way in which Ellie and Jon-Oliver had this child, without marrying or meeting the parents.
‘Where are your people?’ Mr Ross asks. He holds his tea with one hand under the mug’s base. Thick hands.
‘Our dad’s in Scotland,’ Manon says. She is about to say, ‘With our stepmother Una,’ but it is all wrong. There is nothing of the mother in Una. Instead she says, ‘Mum died when we were kids – teenagers.’
‘Oh how terrible for you,’ says Mrs Ross.
‘Yes, it was,’ says Manon.
Mr and Mrs Ross have gone back to drinking Solly in, as if they can soak up enough of him to take back to Wales.
‘You’ll have to visit us,’ Mr Ross says. ‘We’ve got a tractor, Solomon. Do you like tractors? I could take you on a ride in it.’
Sol looks up at his grandfather. Manon has been observing her nephew and he seems to have got around the difficulty of this social occasion by ignoring these elderly interlopers entirely. But the tractor is too much. He is awed by chunky vehicles. Manon has become accustomed to screeching to a halt in the car and bellowing, ‘DIGGER!’ She’s even found herself doing this when no one is strapped into the back seat.
‘Yes,’ Mr Ross is saying, and his whole face crinkles in a most kindly way, ‘a real tractor. Brum brum! Would you like that, Solly?’
‘Trac-tor,’ says Solly. He swills words, like a wine taster. ‘Too-day’ and ‘birf-day’ and ‘Babe Buntin’ when they’re reading Each Peach Pear Plum.
‘Trac-tor,’ says Mrs Ross, with a look of wonderment. ‘Oh he’s wonderful,’ she says to Ellie. ‘You are wonderful,’ she says to Solly.
Ellie smiles at them but Manon thinks it is brittle. Then Ellie leaves the room. She has not sat down since they arrived, first making the tea, searching for biscuits, asking where they’d like to sit, plumping cushions, offering to open or close windows, put the fire on. In and out of the room. It has reached such a pitch of fidgetry that Manon is concerned her sister is being rude. As Ellie makes for the door, she hisses, ‘Can’t you sit down for one fucking minute?’
‘Fresh pot,’ Ellie says.
Manon frowns, nods at the olds. Perhaps it is next to the Rosses’ stillness that Ellie seems manic and incapable of contemplation.
‘She’s off again!’ Manon says to the room, as Ellie bustles out with the teapot.
Sol starts to fuss and whine. Mrs Ross immediately pitches onto her knees on the floor next to him, proffering him another block for his tower.
‘You really should stay here with us,’ Manon says. ‘It’d be no trouble.’
‘We don’t like to be a burden,’ says Mr Ross. ‘It’s a nice place, where we’re staying. Mrs Linton, she cooked a full English this morning. Not that we felt like it. We’ll go home tomorrow, I think. Police – well,’ he nods at Manon, ‘you’ll know better than me. But they can’t see a reason for us to hang on.’
The double meaning of those last words seems to suspend in the silence that follows.
Solly’s whining is increasing, harder to mollify because really, he needs a nap but doesn’t always take one (Ellie and Manon are clinging on, resolutely putting him to bed at lunchtime in the vain hope of retaining their midday hiatus). Sol is doubly exhausted by all the tension between the adults; tired from being lapped up by his grief-stricken stranger-grandparents.
‘I’m going to have to put this one to bed in a minute,’ says Ellie, bustling back in with the teapot.
‘I think we’ll go back for a nap too, Gareth, shall we?’ says Mrs Ross. ‘We didn’t sleep much last night.’
‘Won’t you have a fresh cup first?’ asks Ellie.
‘No thank you,’ says Mrs Ross. They have risen. ‘I wish I’d brought him a present. I didn’t know …’
‘No need for presents,’ Ellie