No matter how often I begged my motherinlaw not to turn up at the witching hour, she never listened. For some unfathomable reason she convinced herself that she owned the right to drop in unannounced at our flat in Camden. My little boy is just a year old, and I have coaxed him into a strict routine. If he doesnt drift off by about eight, I simply refuse to tuck him in at all; the next two hours become a miniature inferno of wails.
Talking to my motherinlaw about it feels pointless. Every plea I make for her not to arrive so late slides past her like a ghost through a wall. She simply cannot grasp that paying a visit to a oneyearold at that hour is madness.
I work late, she says, slipping in for a halfhour, playing with him, making him giggle, then rousing him. I am left to wrestle the infant through the night, his cries rising like wind over the Thames.
What am I to do?
That evening I began the familiar bedtime ritual. My husband, Tom, and I had already chosen a film to watch. Suddenly a knock echoed at the door. Tom opened it to find his mother, Eleanor, standing there with a suitcase that seemed to contain the whole of a nursery.
Describing my feelings is like trying to catch fog. I was furiousfurious. The baby had just started teething and was already a bundle of restless energy, so we cherished any quiet hour. I tried to steady my breath. One must remain calm; after all, she is Toms mother.
I feigned a sudden pain, pressed a hand to my cheek and shrieked,
Youve come at the perfect time! My tooth is throbbingI cant bear it. I wont go to the dentist alone. Stay a while with the baby, then well be off.
Tom could make no sense of my outburst. He threw on a coat in a rush and we fled the flat.
What sort of circus act is this? Tom whispered.
At least we can slip away somewhere alone. And dont forget to switch off the phone! I replied.
We staggered back home after midnight. Eleanor had to hail a black cab to get back to her own house. The baby lay in a tiny wooden cot, surrounded by a sea of soiled nappies, strewn clothes, toys, rattles and a lone, abandoned pacifiera chaotic tableau of infant art.
Eleanor looked exhausted, her makeup smeared, her dress splattered with baby mess. Since that night she has turned up less often, and never again at the ungodly hour that haunts this dream.
