Poison penmen sneak, have no nerve to speak
Make up lies then they leak 'm out
Behind a pseudonym, the rottenness in them
Reaching out trying to touch me
'She doesn't really... do very much, does she?' Minnie says, behind me.
'What?' I ask, not listening to her. I put my hands on the window ledge and try to push myself up, leaning forward, pressing my nose against the glass in an effort to see a little more of the street below.
'She's just... there,' Minnie continues. 'Sleeps, cries, feeds, sleeps, cries...'
'She's four days old. What do you expect her to do? Magic tricks? Dance the can-can?'
I still can't see anything. I give up with a short sigh and turn away from the window. Minnie leans with her arms folded on the baby's cot at the side of the hospital bed. The baby's sleeping. I will strangle her if she wakes her up. She was crying all morning. She'd only finally drifted off to sleep just before Minnie arrived.
Minnie twists her mouth and straightens up, stepping away from the cot. 'When are you going to give the poor mite a name?'
'I don't know. George and I can't agree on one. Everything I like, he doesn't, and vice versa.'
There's a burst of noise from the street below. Laughter. The small crowd laughing at something terribly witty or amusing.
'Why don't you flip a coin for it then? Whoever wins picks the name.'
I stare at her, aghast. 'Are you kidding? What if George won?!'
I return to the window, pressing myself against the glass, trying to see him, but I'm no more successful than I was a minute ago. I put my foot on a black painted water pipe which runs the length of the skirting board, testing if it will take my weight so I can get another few inches higher.
'What are you doing?' Minnie asks, alarmed. 'That old bag will murder you if you break that.'
'I won't break it,' I say, but as I'm speaking the pipe moves under my foot. I step down off it, unwilling to risk it. 'It's George,' I tell Minnie. 'He's down there. I want to know what he's doing.'
Minnie joins me at the window. George is at the front of the hospital, standing on the steps up to the door. He's just out of my view, although occasionally I see the flap of his jacket, or a shoe, or the top of his head if he moves forward. There are lots of press camping outside, photographers mostly, a few journalists. George has been there for at least five minutes, chatting with them. They're calling out questions, laughing at his jokes and quips, while they continually snap his picture.
'So?' Minnie says, trying to peer with me. 'He just talking to them.'
'Well, that's it, isn't it? He hates the media at the best of times. Why is he suddenly so enamoured with them today? What are they asking him?'
Minnie pauses, then she turns away from the window. 'He's just doing his doting father lark,' she says, her voice sounding odd. 'You know, proud new dad.'
I frown. 'There's still something... odd about it. Did they photograph you, when you arrived?'
'They tried to,' she sniffs. 'But I stuck two fingers up at them and told them if they take my picture, my manager will want to speak to them.'
'Your manager?'
'Yeah. Albie.'
'What? Who's Albie?!'
'Albert Golding. My manager.'
'Since when? I thought you worked through an agency.'
'I did, but they dropped me when those pictures came out in the paper.'
'What pictures?' I ask, stupidly, before I pause to think.
'Those pictures,' Minnie repeats. 'The ones that were for 'Men Only' magazine.' She raises an eyebrow, with a sly smile. No shame in her now about it, although I suppose there wasn't at the time either. It was the article and what he said that upset her, not particularly the publication of the photos. I suppose she wouldn't have done the pictures at all if she would be humiliated when they were published.
'They dropped you because of that?'
'After we got back from that weekend in West Bay, the agency rang me and said I was no longer on the books. That was it. No discussion or anything. And not because the pictures were a bit racy or anything, but because it'd been third party work and they'd been annoyed they didn't get a commission from it! So I was sacked, and I thought that was that as far as me and modelling would go, but a week or so later I met Albie.'
I shake my head at her. 'You've never mentioned him. You've never told me you had a manager.'
'Well, I'm mentioning him now. Besides, Hannah, you were... missing for quite some time, remember?'
I give her a smile and decide to drop the subject. 'Does this window open?'
'What do you want to open it for? It's freezing today,' Minnie says, her voice taking on that strange tone again. 'You can't go flinging yourself out of window's now you know,' she jokes, weakly. 'You've got others to think about.'
'I want to hear what he's saying,' I tell her, fiddling with the catch. It's been painted over, stuck, but with a bit of effort, it moves.
'Hannah--' Minnie says, warningly, losing her mirth.
She steps towards me before she can reach me, I've thrown the window up and open wide. A gust of cold, February air rushes in, raising goosebumps on my bare arms. I'm wearing a short sleeved night dress in thin, floaty chiffon-like fabric. I should have put a dressing gown on or something, but there isn't time now. I put my hands on the ledge and lean out of the window to listen. Minnie sweeps her arm across my chest, forcing me to step back.
'I'm not going to fall out!' I say, laughing.
Minnie puts her finger to her lips. 'Don't let them see you,' she says in a low voice. 'You don't want them to start taking your photo too.'
'They wouldn't--'
'Keep your voice down,' she says, waving her hand at me. 'Either shut the window, or... or just listen if you must.'
I frown at her. Minnie puts her finger to her lips again. We stand facing each other, next to the window and listen. There is some sort of impromptu press conference going on the street below. The handful of reporters shout out questions and fall silent when George speaks. It's possible to hear his answers, his voice carried upwards, but not always the question he's replying to.
'Yeah, that's correct,' George says. 'She was born on the afternoon of the thirtieth, an hour or so after the rooftop thing.'
A rabble of voices.
'She's fine. Fit and healthy. Both of them are.'
More shouting. Something about the name of the baby.
'No, we haven't chosen one yet,' George replies. 'We can't agree on a name we both like.'
There's a ripple of laughter and I smile. Someone else asks something, a female voice too soft for me to pick out the words.
George clears his throat. 'Uh, yes, that's true, we are.'
The woman adds something else that I miss again.
'We haven't decided yet,' George says, stiffly, his voice losing it's friendliness. 'But whatever we do, it will be together. As a family.'
'Is it true you didn't even know about the baby until six weeks ago?' says another voice. I hear that one quite clearly this time. I cover my mouth with my hand as I realise I don't know what we're supposed to say about that. Do I just tell the truth about what happened? Or are we supposed to pretend that everything was normal about this pregnancy and birth? Minnie sighs silently and puts her hand on the window to close it. I wrap my fingers around her wrist to stop her. Minnie purses her lips, but waits.
'No,' George says, bluntly, on the street below the window.
'It isn't true?' the same voice replies, confused.
'No,' George repeats, testily. 'Why? Is it important when or how Hannah told me she was pregnant?'
'There have been reports that the... uh, mother didn't inform you she was carrying your child until six weeks before the birth? And that you and Ms Boyd were--'
'It wasn't six weeks,' George says, frostily and I can hear the ersatz smile in his voice. 'It was only four weeks ago, and yes, I was still living with my wife at that point.'
The reporters burst into questions. A louder, male voice booms over the top of them. 'That's it! That's all! You've had your interview, now back off! I said BACK OFF!' - but the journalists continue clamouring, shouting George's name and questions about me, about the baby, about Pattie.
'Can you really be sure the baby is yours, George?' someone yells before Minnie slams the window shut. The bang wakes the baby and she starts to cry.
'What have they been saying?' I ask her. 'Is this in the papers or something?'
'Of course it is,' Minnie says, shortly. 'Secret Beatle Baby. It's a scoop.'
'What are they saying about me?'
'You? Nothing. They're interested in George, that's all.'
That's a barefaced lie.
'They're saying that it's not George's baby? Why would they say that?'
Minnie bites her lip. 'Anyone who looks at her can see she is George's daughter,' she says, calmly. 'Now, I think she's screaming for you.'
I huff, unsatisfied, but go to lift the baby out of the cot. I hold her against my chest as she squeals and cries with all her strength, her face already beetroot red with the exertion.
'Shhh, it's alright,' I murmur to her. She's been crying a lot. I know babies do cry, but even so, it seems a lot. I shush her and rock her and stroke her back but it doesn't comfort her. Minnie's right, we need to give her a name, if only so I have something to call her when I'm trying to stop her crying.
'What are they saying about George then?' I ask, Minnie, raising my voice above the baby's cries.
Minnie turns back to the window, looking down at the street.
Nothing I'm doing seems to have any effect on the baby. She can't be hungry. She's only just had a feed a little while ago, although I'm not too sure how well that's going. I'm perpetually worried she's not getting enough to eat, she's even lost a little bit of weight, but the nurses say it's normal. I check her nappy but that's fine as well. I try to make soothing noises but it does no good.
'Don't keep things from me,' I try to say to Minnie, my voice drowned out by the wailing baby. 'If they're accusing me of something, I want to know what.'
'They're all packing up and leaving now,' Minnie says, still gazing out of the window. 'They must have told them to clear off.'
The door opens and George comes in, his face full of plastered on smiles and his arms full of flowers and boxes tied with ribbons. He unceremoniously dumps then on the bed and crosses to me.
'Oh dear, what's the matter?' he coos to the baby, offering her his finger.
'She won't stop crying,' I tell him. 'Minnie woke her up,' I add, shooting a look at Minnie. She widens her eyes at me in response. George smiles and holds his arms out for her and I gratefully pass her to him.
'Did you have to bring more flowers?' I ask him, a little bit more snappishly than I intend to. I move back to the bedside. He's brought three or four separate bouquets of flowers and a couple of thin, white boxes tied with pink bows.
'Ah, Mummy's in a bad mood, isn't she?' George says to the baby, jigging her gently.
'Well, honestly, George. Look at them,' I say, sweeping my arm to the wall side of the room. 'It's starting to look like Kew Gardens in here. All they do is wilt and die. They're a waste of money.'
The hospital staff have had to move the baby's cot from the end of the bed to the opposite side to accommodate the addition of a table to hold all the flowers we've been sent. A few cards and gifts, but mostly flowers. Every inch of the table is covered in vases and makeshift vases when they ran out of the proper ones - bottles, jugs, even a sample bottle, holding pink, white, yellow, blue and purple flowers of every shape and size.
The London Standard was the only paper to run the story about the baby on the day she was born, but the next morning every paper was carrying it. It was the front page of some. Not 'Raindrops Singer Gives Birth At Old Bailey' though - more along the lines of 'Beatle George's Secret Baby With Married Woman,' or worse, 'Kray's Girl Gives Birth To Beatle Baby'.
Beatle Baby. It makes her sound awful. Like she's a thing, a piece of Beatles merchandise, rather than a real, living, breathing person.
The first day brought the gawkers, the rubberneckers and the so-called well wishers, all wanting to catch a glimpse of George Harrison's baby. Not strangers, not the press, but people who had a right to be here. Doctors, nurses, orderlies and other patients. So many that the blinds at the window of the room which look out onto the hospital corridor had to be closed and have remained closed ever since.
Then on the second day, came the flowers. And cards, balloons, teddy bears, all sorts of useless giftware. Flowers from friends, George's relatives, Apple employees, the record company, people I haven't even heard of.
And one small bouquet of six white lilies without a card.
No card, no name, no note, nothing. It makes me uneasy to look at it, to wonder who would send me something like that, anonymously. What are they trying to tell me? I've put that one to the back of the table where I can't see it.
'Don't worry. The flowers aren't for you,' George says, cheekily, smiling and pulling faces at the baby. 'They're for the nurses. The chocolate boxes are as well.'
From initially being frightened of holding her, George has taken to it quite naturally now. He seems to have a knack with the baby. Within a couple of moments she's calmed down, her cries have trailed away to practically nothing and she's resting quite happily against George's shoulder.
'Oh,' I say, deflated, and go to sit on the side of the bed. Minnie laughs at me.
George gently lays the baby back in her cot and covers her with the white waffle blanket. 'She was just tired,' he says, softly. 'Crying because she's tired.'
'Well, why doesn't she just go to sleep if she's tired,' I mumble, sulkily.
George lifts his head to me and cocks an eyebrow towards Minnie. 'Sounds like someone else is tired,' he says to her.
Minnie folds her arms over her chest. 'Did you really just bring all those for the nurses?' she asks, jerking her head toward the yellow and pink blooms wrapped in white ribbons.
'Well, your flowers are back at the house, Min,' George says, facetiously, and Minnie throws him a sardonic smile. 'The chocolates are for Amy.'
'Who's Amy?' Minnie asks quickly.
'The nurse taking care of Hannah and the baby. The one who changed the identity bracelet.'
'First name terms, are we?' she asks.
George tuts and turns back to the baby.
'And what about Hannah?' Minnie asks, sounding like she's quite annoyed with George now. 'I don't see an awful lot of things from you in this room.'
'That's from me,' George says, gesturing to the baby and Minnie rolls her eyes. 'I do have some for you, actually, Han,' he adds, coming over to the bed. From below all the bright, pristine flowers, George pulls a handful of white gerbera daisies tied together with a piece of green garden twine. He comes to the top of the bed and presents them to me with a flourish.
I take them from him and hold them in both hands, managing a small smile. They're a little crushed, the petals bent and browning where they're creased, the stems snapped or bent unevenly.
'What the hell is that sorry thing?' Minnie says, snippily.
'A squashed daisy, for my squashed daisy,' he says, and plants a quick kiss on the top of my head. George steps back from me, grinning at Minnie. 'I'll just take these out,' he says, gathering up the other flowers.
All at once, my eyes fill with tears. It's so fast I don't have time to swallow them, to stifle them, before they spill down my cheeks in fat, large drops and I take an involuntary, ragged sob.
'Now look what you've done with your crappy flowers,' Minnie scolds sharply, moving to my side. She sits on the bed next to me and puts her arm around my shoulders.
'Oh, Han,' George says, dropping the flowers again. He sits on my other side, bending over in front of me to get into my eye line as I bow my head, trying in vain to stop my tears. 'It was only a joke, love,' he says, gently, wrapping his hand around mine where I hold the flowers. 'I'm sorry. It's just that thing we used to do, remember? The flowers from Calderstones Park? Where you only liked the sad old daisies?'
'You could maybe spend five minutes with your girlfr-- with the mother of your child before you go chasing the fucking nurses!' Minnie snaps, pulling me into her, away from George.
'I'm not chasing nurses!' George exclaims. 'They're just chocolates and that to say thank you to the girls who are looking after Hannah and the baby, that's all. I've told you, Minnie, how things are now--'
'And I've told you how things had better be now--'
'Stop it! Stop arguing, both of you!' I tell them. 'I'm not crying about the bloody chocolates.'
'Just that pathetic bunch of flowers,' Minnie adds for me.
'Not the flowers either,' I say wearily. And it's not, it's really not. In fact, it's touching that he's gone to the trouble to find these daisies for me, in February. They're not shop bought, like the other bouquets.
'Just this idiot in genral then?' Minnie asks and George narrows his eyes at her. 'She was fine before you came in.'
'It's not George, or the flowers...' I say, miserably. 'It's just... everything.'
Gingerly, George extracts me from Minnie. She reluctantly releases me and George gathers me into him. I put my head against his chest and sigh as he puts his arms around me. I can see why the baby likes it so much. His embrace dries my tears as well. Above me, George jerks his head a couple of times but I can't see what he's doing.
'Piss off,' says Minnie, behind me. 'I'm not going anywhere.'
'Just for two minutes,' George says, through gritted teeth.
I sit up again, but George keeps his arms around me.
'All this is your fault,' Minnie snaps at him. 'What did you think you were doing outside? She was bloody trying to climb out of the window. She heard every word.'
George flicks his eyes to me. 'That wasn't my idea,' he says, apologetically.
'What wasn't?' I ask, wiping at my eyes. ' What were you doing? What's going on? Will someone please tell me?'
George and Minnie exchange a look. No one moves and no one answers me.
'What's happened between you two?' I ask. 'What have you been saying to each other?'
'Not much,' George says, flippantly. 'I just told Minnie we're back together and she doesn't believe it.'
I turn to Minnie, questioningly.
Minnie glares at George then smiles thinly at me. 'It's not that I didn't believe it,' she says, gently. 'I just told him he'd better get his fucking priorities straight this time. If he'd done that in the first place, there wouldn't be a host of fucking paparazzi outside permanently.'
'Why are they here?' I ask George. 'Surely they've done their stories now?'
George and Minnie pass a look again and both fall silent.
'What aren't you telling me? I don't like the two of you scheming together. In cahoots.'
'What's a cahoot?' Minnie laughs and stands up.
'Stop avoiding it. Whatever it is, tell me.'
'Give us ten minutes,' George tells her.
'Not now, George,' Minnie replies. 'We said. Wait til she goes home.'
'What did you say?' I demand, my voice quivering.
Minnie widens her eyes at George.
'Please?' he says, testily.
Minnie huffs, annoyed, but she steps towards the door. 'I'm not far away, Han,' Minnie says. 'If you need me, I'm just outside.'
She closes the door quietly behind her. George moves closer to me and kisses me lightly. 'Are you alright?' he asks. 'What are you upset about?'
'I don't know. I'm a bit emotional at the moment,' I sigh. 'I'm happy then I'm sad. I don't know if I'm coming or going. I think it's being locked up in here. It's like a prison cell. I'm going a bit stir crazy.'
'That's all it is?' George asks. 'You're sure?'
I nod, and then burst into tears again, unexpectedly and uncontrollably.
'Hannah,' George says. 'What is it? Please tell me?'
'It's... The baby's ill,' I sniff, reaching for the box of tissues on the cabinet beside the bed.
'What?' George asks, shocked. He gets up and crosses to the cot, resting his hands on the side of it. 'Why didn't you say so? What's wrong with her?'
'She's got jaundice,' I tell him, morosely, blowing my nose.
And that was what the third day brought. The third evening to be exact. Everyone had already been to visit and gone again, so I've been carrying this information on my own. I didn't tell Minnie earlier. I couldn't bring myself to say it. I feel like I've failed the baby already.
George sighs and leans over, studying the baby. 'Well, now you say it, I suppose she does look a bit... off colour. What are they doing about it?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'They said she should get better by herself in a few days, but they're going to keep an eye on her.'
George returns to the top of the bed and sits down next to me again. 'That's why you were crying?'
'Yes... No... I don't know. I just keep bursting to tears. I can't help it.'
He smiles sadly and sits down on the bed again. 'I think it's quite common in newborn babies,' he says. 'Jaundice. It's just one of those things.'
I blink at him. 'I don't want her to be poorly,' I say weakly.
'She'll be alright. A few days they said, didn't they?'
I nod and sigh deeply. 'What were you doing outside?'
George stiffens and twists his mouth.
'Don't lie to me, George. It works both ways. We have to both be honest with each other. Why did Minnie say to wait until I go home?'
'She doesn't think we should tell you while you're in here.'
'Tell me what?'
'Well... firstly, it's not important, and it doesn't mean anything,' George says earnestly. 'It's a load of hot air and they'll get tired of it soon...' He pauses, struggling for words. 'But... some of the papers - the tabloids - have been printing, or reprinting I suppose, stories about...' He coughs. 'Us.'
'What stories?'
He sighs. 'When you left it was all in the papers. About me and you and... and they made you out to be some kind of... gangster's moll, because the Krays had just been arrested and you'd sung in their club. And now the baby's born, and they're back in the news again because of the trial... It's just raked it all up. And I've split up with Pattie too, so there's that in the mix.'
I take a deep breath. I know I was in the papers when the Krays were arrested. I saw the headline about my affair with George. It's been far too easy to hide in Bobby's flat these last few weeks. I should have expected this.
George reaches and take my hand. 'Honestly, Hannah, it's nothing. Sensation and no substance. We thought if we just stopped and answered a couple of questions they'd leave us alone.' He rolls his eyes. 'When have they ever left us alone?'
'They've been saying your not the father? That I'm lying?'
George frowns. 'Who told you that?'
'I heard one of them say it to you.'
'They can say what they want, Han. Me and you know the truth and that's all that matters.'
'I'll be glad when we can leave and go home.' I give him a small smile. 'We can go back to the flat, lock the door and never come out again.'
George shifts uncomfortably. 'The baby things we ordered were delivered,' he says, brightly. 'To the, uh, to the flat. All of it, in one go.'
'So? That's good, isn't it? We'll need it soon.'
'I think we might have... overestimated how much space we have. The cot doesn't fit in the bedroom.'
'Well, we knew it would be a squeeze. Can't you move the bed over?'
'I have. I've tried. There's just... It's not just that. I've got it all in the living room, half unpacked, but there's nowhere to put it all.'
I shrug. 'We'll just have to manage somehow.'
He smiles that same smile again. More of a grimace. There's more. 'Yes, we will, because, uh... my parents want to come down soon. To see the new baby. Pete and Pauline might come too and uh, Harry and Irene maybe a bit later on...'
I frown. 'Couldn't they stay at a hotel?'
George gives me a look like that suggestion is ludicrous.
'So what are we going to do then?' I ask, a little annoyed.
'Well... There is Kinfauns?'
'Pattie is living there.'
'She's not anymore. She's moved out.'
'How--'
He smiles. He's spoken to her. It's been arranged. Everything has been arranged. He's not asking me what I want to do, he's telling me what we are doing.
'You'll like it, Hannah,' he says, enthusiastically, squeezing my hand. 'Esher is nice and Kinfauns has lots of rooms. You can chose whichever one you want for the nursery and there's garden for the baby to play in when she gets older.'
I smile wanly and nod. What other choice have I got? 'Yes, that'll be lovely,' I say, with as much conviction as I can muster.
George moves over the bed, closer to me. He kisses me again, closed mouthed but longer lasting this time. 'Everything will be fine, Han. You'll see. All this crap will blow over. They'll lose interest as soon as some other scandal comes along. The baby will get better soon too, so don't worry, don't cry and upset yourself. We'll all be happy at Kinfauns. I promise.'
* * *
'Give me the fucking camera,' George growls, holding his hand out.
'I can't do that,' the man whines, pulling it into his chest, wrapping his arms around it as if he expects George will try to snatch it from him.
'The film then,' George says.
'George, don't, please,' I say behind him.
It's nearly a week later and the press still haven't lost interest. They've been camped outside the hospital, anticipating us leaving. Photographers mostly, desperate to get the first photo's of the baby the press have been writing about all week.
We tried to leave at a time people wouldn't expect - on a Sunday, no one is discharged from hospital on a Sunday - and through the back entrance, but someone must have got a tip off or else guessed what we might do. As soon as we stepped out, there was a photographer waiting for us, camera raised.
'The film!' George demands again. 'Or we'll sue you so fast it'll make your head spin.'
The photographer twists his mouth and looks down at the camera in his hands, considering. I should have insisted the baby and I found our own way home, alone. I suggested it, but George wanted it to be the three of us. He wanted to take his - yet still unnamed - daughter home himself.
Bundled up in her carry cot, in George's hands, the baby starts to whimper.
George glances at the baby and then returns his glare to the photographer. He takes a step towards him and the man cowers back. It's almost funny seeing George like this. He's not aggressive, not confrontational in the least, but everyone's nerves are frayed after the last few days.
The baby recovered from her jaundice, but they still wouldn't let me go home, despite the hassle it was creating at the hospital. There have been a couple of instances where reporters have tried to get up to the ward to speak to me. I know that when Maureen had Ringo's two sons, they had a photographer come and picture them in hospital both times, but George wouldn't hear of it following the initial nasty newspaper stories just after she was born. It was maybe the wrong thing to do - it's just made the press worse and the race for the first photograph even more heated.
'George, I don't care if he took our photo. I don't care about any of it, I just want to... go.'
George stops and turns back to me.
'The picture he got will most likely be blurred anyway,' I tell him.
'And as soon as we try to walk to the car, he'll take another one,' George says.
I wet my lips. 'You can have one photo,' I say to the photographer. 'One of all three of us, and then you'll let us leave.'
'Hannah!' George cries.
'It's the quickest way we'll get out of here.'
'Yes! Thank you miss! That would be perfect!' The photographer raises his lens again.
George stares at me in disbelief.
'It's only a picture,' I tell him.
George chews his cheek, then climbs the steps to where I stand, holding the baby's carrycot in front of him protectively.
'One photo,' I reiterate to the photographer, holding my finger up.
'I just need to take a couple, in case the light--'
'One photo. Then you will go that way,' I point to the entrance of the hospital. 'And we will go the other way, and if you tell your journalist buddies what's happening, or if you follow us, then... then George will run you over with his car on our way out.'
George looks at me, eyebrows raised, but doesn't say anything. We stand next to each other stiffly, not touching, while we wait for the photographer to take his picture. George draws the baby's carrycot into us. From the angle, I don't think he'll be able to get the baby and us both in shot. It will just be me and George and a basket.
As soon as the camera flashes, George crosses the carrycot into his other hand and laces his fingers through mine with his free hand. We walk down the steps briskly, past the photographer as he still tries to speak to us, trying to convince us to wait for another photo. We don't stop or look back, even when the camera flashes again behind us.
As we round the corner of the building, George relaxes a little and then starts to smile, then chuckle, then laugh.
'What?' I ask.
'I think he took a second picture,' George laughs. 'Now I have to run him over with my car?!'
'Well, I just said that to get rid of him.'
'I think this gangster's moll thing has started to rub off on you!' he says, shaking his head. He passes the baby to me so he can unlock the car.
It's starting to get dark by the time we reach Kinfauns. Home as George keeps calling it. I stand behind him, holding the baby's woven carrycot in both hands, as he unlocks the front door. He whistles to himself, any bad mood from what happened outside of the hospital evaporated.
I look down at the baby. She's sleeping soundly now. Once we escaped the hospital, she fell asleep and slept the whole journey here. I feel like I should wake her up. It's the first time she's been outside and she's missing it.
As we drove here, quite a way from the middle of London, George relaxed, leaving the problems behind us in the city. He started whistling, enjoying the drive, putting music on the car radio, then switching it off again when he remembered the baby was asleep. Meanwhile, I felt more and more tense the closer we got to Esher. I don't think George noticed, but I was holding my hands together so tightly in my lap, my knuckles were white.
'Here we are. Home, sweet home,' George says as he opens the door and flicks the light on inside the hall. He sighs contentedly and steps inside, leaving the door wide for me. He leafs through a few papers which have been left on a sideboard near to the door, whistling again as he reads.
He flicks his eyes up to me. 'Come in then,' he says.
I smile wanly and step over the threshold. I haven't been here - George and Pattie's home - since that party they had when we first moved to London. It's changed, but not by very much. I remember very clearly crashing through this door, trying to hold back tears, after speaking to George in his bedroom. After accidentally eavesdropping on Pattie and her fears that George would cheat on her. Never in a million years could I have imagined that I'd be returning here to live, and holding George's daughter in my arms.
George turns away from us and busies himself, shrugging his coat off and hanging it on a peg on the wall. He walks around the other rooms leading off from the hall, switching lights on as he goes. Although it's still light enough to see, it's quite dark inside the bungalow.
As he pushes open another door, a slender, fawn coloured Siamese cat with black ears slinks out, placing its feet delicately one in front of another. It rubs against George's legs in a greeting and he bends down to stroke it.
'You have a cat?' I ask, surprised.
'Catsss,' George replies, elongating the 's'. 'This is Jostick, and there's Rupert around here somewhere.'
George straightens up and goes towards the kitchen. The cat views me suspiciously, a stranger in his house. He pauses, not approaching me, unsure if I'm friend or foe. I suppose, as he was formerly Pattie's pet as well, I am a foe. In the kitchen, George opens a cupboard with a creaking hinge and calls the cats name. The Siamese turns and trots in the direction of his voice.
How is it possible that I didn't know George owned cats? I trawl my memory, but I can't remember a single instance when he's mentioned any pets, and then I realise why. They were part of this world. His home life. Life with Pattie in Kinfauns, their fashionable Esher home, with their Siamese cats and goodness knows what else. A world that he kept apart from me; apart from our sordid affair that was conducted behind the lowered blinds of a shabby little flat in North London. He never talked about his wife, their home or anything to do with it. There is potentially a whole universe of things I don't know about George's life.
'Do you want tea or coffee?' George calls from the kitchen, over the sound of a tap running. 'We'll go and get some of your things from the flat tomorrow. I brought most of the baby's stuff, except the bulky stuff. I only took the mini. I couldn't fit everything. I don't know how we'll get the cot out of the flat. I don't know how they even brought it in! It's wider than the doorway...'
I look down at the baby. I'm holding her carrycot awkwardly in both hands, resting it against my knees. She's only tiny, but the basket is bulky and heavy. I could put her down now, but I don't want to. She's eleven days old today, and we can't even agree on a name for her yet. George's cats have cute names. George's daughter is yet to receive her identity. She's still just Baby Harrison.
I cast my eyes around the room. There are framed photos on the wall further down the hall. Faces of people I don't recognise. Friends and family of George and Pattie. I remember the other pictures in the dining room. The pictures from their wedding. I wonder if they're still there, or if they've been subtly removed in preparation of my arrival, leaving discoloured tell-tale rectangles behind on the wallpaper.
George is still talking to me, but I haven't been listening. Glancing down at the baby again, I turn on my heel and go out of the door again.
George's garden and driveway at the front of the house are shadowy in the evening twilight, but the dying light doesn't disguise the bright, psychedelic-esque motifs and murals painted on all the walls of the outside house. They're a new addition. The house was painted white the last time I was here.
I set the baby's carrier down on the raised doorstep and sit down on the step next to her. She sleeps on, oblivious. Behind me, the front door of the house drifts closed, not shutting fully, but muffling whatever George is still talking about inside. I don't make any effort to open it again.
There's a large garden surrounding the bungalow. I know there's a swimming pool at the back of it and to one side a large field with trees and tall grass. The other side of the house is separated with a tall wooden fence, the neighbour's gardens are beyond that. I don't know where we are in relation to the nearest town. There are no buses which go past here, no shops within walking distance. It feels far away and isolated.
'Han?' George says, his voice louder, on the other side of the door, as he realises I've gone. 'Hannah?!' He opens the door, casting light over me and the baby. I twist my head around to look at him. 'What are you doing?' He frowns.
I don't know how to put it into words. I give him a weak smile and turn around again.
George steps outside and sits down next me, so I am in the middle between him and the baby. He sits with his knees pulled up, his hands clasped together and he waits. I can't look at him directly, but I steal glances at him every few moments, through the corner of my eye.
'I can't live here,' I say, eventually.
George draws a deep breath, but doesn't speak.
'I'm not trying to be difficult,' I say, preempting what he's going to say. 'I'm sorry, George. I don't think I - we - can live here.'
'We?'
'Me and... and the baby.'
He gives a short nod, as if this is what he expected. He moves his feet further apart and pulls a squashed packet of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. Drawing one out, he lights it.
'She needs a name,' he says. He turns his head to exhale his cigarette smoke away from us.
I nod. Neither of us say anything for a moment.
'What about Lisa?' George suggests, taking a drag on his cigarette.
'Deborah?'
He shakes his head. 'Suzanne?' Twists his mouth in distaste. 'Lily? Grace? Delores?'
I sigh. 'She's just not... any of those names. They don't suit her.'
'Amy?'
'Like the nurse's name?'
'Okay, then. Nicola? Amanda?'
'No, something more... Something different. So there won't be half a dozen kids with the same name when she goes to school. Something like... Persephone?'
'Stephanie?'
'No, Persephone, with a Puh--'
George raises his eyebrows. 'What's that?'
'She's the Greek Goddess of the Spring and the harvest... And the underworld.'
'The underworld?'
'Persephone brings the spring. Her mother is Demeter, she's like mother nature. She misses her daughter when she's in the underworld, so everything freezes - winter comes. Then when Persephone returns to visit her mother, she's happy again, so it brings on the spring and the warm weather...' I stop, because George is staring at me like I'm mad, after all the stories and parables he's always telling me.
'We're not calling her anything that I can't spell,' George says, dismissively.
'Well, I don't know then. I give up,' I say, annoyed.
George laughs. 'At this rate, she'll be old enough to choose a name for herself.'
I smile, grimly.
'We can't live here,' I repeat, quietly. 'This is your home with Pattie. It's Pattie's house. It's not ours. It doesn't feel... right.'
George chews his lip. 'I knew this was going to bother you,' he says, shortly. 'But Bobby's flat is too small. I did try, Han. The cot won't fit in the bedroom. There isn't enough floor space. Even if we moved the bed into the corner, it would still mean wedging it in at the end or putting it where it blocks the door. The only other room is the living room, but we'd still have to put it in the centre.'
'Well... maybe that cot was too big,' I say, looking down at the baby. She's wearing the pram set suit George's mother gave me. It's a bit large on her. 'She's only tiny. She could sleep in the basket for a while.'
George raises himself up to look over me at the baby. 'She won't be that small forever. The basket is okay short term, but she can't sleep in it all the time.'
'She's alright now,' I protest. I sigh. 'I can't, George. Everywhere in there, it's you and Pattie. Pattie's furniture, Pattie's cats, Pattie's home.'
'My cats, and it's not,' he says, softly. 'She's left, Han. She moved out. All of that is over. We said, didn't we? We'll draw a line under the past and...'
His voice drifts away. He lowers his head, flicking ash from his cigarette to the side of the step. I swallow, pulling my knees up to my chin. The weather is quite mild today, but it's getting cold now. I'll have to take the baby inside soon.
'Okay,' George says. He extinguishes the cigarette on the ground and flicks the butt away.
'Okay?'
'If you don't want to live here, we don't have to,' he says.
'Really?'
He turns his head to me and smiles thinly. 'But, honestly, we can't live at the flat either. It's much too small. How about we find somewhere of our own?'
'Like where?'
He laughs. 'Anywhere. Somewhere that will be just ours. Somewhere new. Somewhere that we'll make ours.'
'You'd do that? You'd move?'
He gives me a strange look and nods. 'Hannah, I will do anything that will make you happy. You being happy is what's important to me. Your happiness and... and the baby's.'
I slip my arm through his, resting my head against his shoulder. 'I'd like that. Can we do that? Find somewhere new to live?'
He moves forward so he can kiss me. 'We'll start looking tomorrow, but... just for now - can you manage one or two nights here?'
I nod, albeit still reluctantly. 'Where do I sleep?'
He grins. 'With me, of course.'
'In your... bedroom?'
George presses his lips together. 'There's a spare bedroom. We'll sleep in there instead.'
I smile. 'Thank you, George.'
He laughs. 'What are you thanking me for?'
'For... For just being you.'
He kisses me again, sweetly. 'Will you come inside now?'
I nod, and George gets up, holding the door open for me and the baby.