Mimi was born to be a granny. She’s been round here most days, ever since Bean got out of hospital, putting on washing or taking Skye for a little walk round the block. As she’s pointed out often enough, she never did give birth or look after a newborn, so it’s a new adventure for her too. For all of us.
I feel different in the family, these days. More equal to my siblings. When Adam got caught up on a work trip and couldn’t make one of Bean’s scans, it was me who went and held her hand. And I keep sending her vitamins. It’s become a running joke.
Bean still tries to do too much. She can’t help herself. But Gus and I now try to get there before her. So at Christmas, I organized all the presents. I even hosted family festive drinks on Dad’s birthday, and we decorated my tiny tree.
We all shifted generation, that day that Adam phoned up with the news about Skye. I became an aunt. Dad, a grandfather. We all instantly went up a level. Gus said it best, when I saw him at the hospital the next day. He gave me one of his wry, comical looks and said, “We’re really not the kids anymore, are we, Effie? We’d better grow up or something.”
He’s been dating a bit since Romilly, although he hasn’t found anyone long term. And Dad’s been dating too. It took a while for everything to shake down following the party, but a few months later, he announced at one of our new, regular lunches that he was buying a modest flat in Chichester.
It suits Dad, Chichester. He’s started to sail a bit, and he’s neighbors with an old friend from university days. Recently he’s been talking about a “rather special lady friend” he’s going to introduce us to, but he’s keeping her low profile for now. No photos on Instagram this time round. We’ve been to visit him lots, and the last time, as we walked along the coastal path, I actually found myself saying to Joe, “Aren’t you glad Dad moved here?”
Bean is blissfully happy in her cottage, with Adam and little Skye gurgling in her nursery. I’m loving being engaged to Joe. （Apart from that hideously unflattering photo of me in the Daily Mail, caption: Childhood sweetheart of Doctor of Hearts flaunts new engagement ring on coffee-shop outing. I was just getting coffee!）
I’ve had so many messages from old school friends, saying things like, We knew you would and What took you so long?! Humph was particularly charming in his card and promised us, as a wedding present, an alpaca blanket from one of his seventy new alpacas. （He’s given up on the Spinken method and now describes himself as a “farmer.”）
And I have a job. At last. At last. I just kept applying. Every day. Never giving up. And at last I struck gold, with an events agency that I’d already applied to but had a new opening. It’s early days, but so far, so good.
Gus is thriving too. Ever since he got rid of Romilly, he’s been a different person. Less lost in work, more engaged in the real world. Maybe because the real world is more appealing now.
Our family is like one of those games where you shake the plastic box and then try to get the silver balls into all the little hollows. Sometimes it seems impossible. But if you wait long enough, it’ll happen; everyone will eventually find their place.
As we head downstairs from the nursery to the kitchen, I hear Dad chatting with Adam about bread dough and chew my lip, trying not to laugh. Something we’ve learned about Adam since he joined our family is, he’s borderline obsessive about making bread. He’s twice pressed a jar of sourdough starter on Dad, and twice the sourdough starter has died because Dad didn’t take care of it properly. But it sounds as though he’s trying for a third time.
“Yes, gluten content,” I can hear Dad saying as I walk into Bean’s kitchen. “Absolutely. I must bear that in mind.”
“Hear this sound? That’s the sound you’re waiting for—” Adam looks up from tapping his loaf as I walk in. “All OK?”
“She’s even more adorable than she was last week,” I say with a loving sigh.
“Especially at three in the morning,” says Bean, setting Skye in her bouncy chair, which is secondhand and re-covered in tasteful vintage fabric, because she’s Bean and she doesn’t do “just any old bouncy chair.”
“Aperol spritz?” Adam puts his loaf of bread on a wire rack.
“Yes please!” I say.
“Always.” Bean smiles at him. “I’ll get the hummus.”
We head out to Bean’s terrace with drinks, bread, dips, and Skye, who is deposited in her bouncy chair in the shade, near to the old stone birdbath from Greenoaks. It’s perfect in Bean’s little garden. In fact, better than it ever was before, because you really notice it here.