Iggy and Me and the Baby Page 4

  “Wow, Flo,” said Iggy, skinny and scruffy without her cardboard box, and grinning from ear to ear. “Wow.”

  And we waved.

  Iggy and me were lounging about, watching TV and feeling a bit bored. Mum was on the phone. Suddenly we heard a noise. It was a shouty, excited noise. It wasn’t coming from the TV. Then Mum danced past the door, hopping up and down in the hall. The noise was coming from Mum.

  “What’s happened?” we asked, but Mum didn’t tell us.

  She spoke into the phone.

  “Got to go now, bye!”

  “Who was that?” we said.

  Mum smiled. “Nobody.”

  Iggy pointed her finger at Mum. “You can’t talk on the phone to Nobody.”

  Mum’s smile got bigger. “True. It was somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “Somebody with some very exciting news.”

  Iggy loves news, but if she can’t find it out in an instant, she gets all tense and tightly coiled, like a spring.

  She shot forward in her seat. “What is it?”

  Her forehead was crinkled with questions.

  I wanted to know too.

  Mum smiled an especially big smile, but she still wouldn’t tell us.

  “You’ll have to wait until Dad gets home.”

  “I don’t like waiting,” Iggy said, banging her shoe against the wall. “I’m not very good at waiting at all.”

  “If you practise waiting,” said Mum, “you will get better at it.”

  “I don’t think I want to get better at it,” Iggy said. “I think I just want to know now.”

  Iggy sighed as loud as she could sigh. She banged her shoe against the wall and Mum asked her to stop. Then she started picking at the wallpaper and Mum asked her to stop that too.

  “Stop hanging about sighing and banging and picking at things,” said Mum. “Go and do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Draw a picture, put your roller skates on, watch some more telly, go outside and throw a tennis ball against the wall.”

  “I can’t do anything until I know the extra special and exciting news,” Iggy said.

  This is how Iggy gets to know a thing, by refusing to do anything else until you tell her. Dad says this technique is very effective. He says it can wear a person down.

  But Mum wasn’t being worn down.

  “Out,” she said. “Go and run twenty times around the garden.”

  “And then will you tell me?” said Iggy.

  Mum said she would think about it.

  Iggy said, “And so will I.”

  “Is it really, really special and exciting news?” I asked, when Iggy had gone. “Will we be delighted?”

  “I think you will,” said Mum. “I think we all will.”

  Iggy didn’t run around the garden twenty times. She walked around it twice and then she came back in, more desperate to know than ever.

  “Are we getting a dog?” she said.

  “No.”

  “A cat?”

  “A budgerigar?”

  “Are we going on holiday?”

  “No.”

  “Did we win something? Did I win something?”

  “No and No.”

  “I can’t bear it,” Iggy said, like the ladies in the black-and-white films that Granny watches.

  “Oh dear,” said Mum. “That’s a shame.”

  Iggy flopped into a chair and did some more sighing. She drummed her hands on the table. She drummed them fast and loud.

  “Please don’t do that,” said Mum.

  “If I stop,” said Iggy, “will you tell me?”

  “If you stop,” said Mum, “I won’t send you to your room on your own.”

  Iggy stopped straightaway. Iggy is not a fan of being alone.

  Just then, Dad walked in.

  “He’s here!” said Iggy, shooting out of her chair. “Tell us the news!”

  “What news?” Dad said. “Is there news?”

  “Yes!” said Iggy, holding on to herself like she might be about to take off. “There is extra special and exciting news and we have been waiting all day for you to come home so we can know it.”

  “Half an hour actually,” said Mum.

  “Well,” said Iggy. “It felt longer.”

  “Well, go on then,” said Dad, sitting down at the table and ruffling up my hair. “Tell us.”

  Mum smiled at Dad and Iggy and Me. “I have a big surprise for you,” she said.

  Iggy sat with her chin on her knees. She couldn’t be folded up any tighter.

  “What’s the big surprise about?” I asked.

  “Not what,” Mum said, “but who.”

  “Well, who then?” asked Iggy, and she started banging her shoe against the leg of her chair.

  Mum said, “Stop banging please, Iggy,” and Iggy said, “Only. When. I. Know.”

  Mum and Dad looked at each other.

  “Let’s play Twenty Questions,” Dad said, and Iggy groaned.

  Twenty Questions is a game we play on long journeys when we have run out of snacks and other things to do. You think of a person, and everyone else has twenty questions to work out who the person is. They are supposed to be the sort of questions you can only say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to. Sometimes this can be quite tricky.

  “Let’s play,” Mum said, “and then you can work out what the big surprise is for yourself.”

  “Who is it?” Iggy said, one more time.

  You are not allowed to ask, “Who is it?” in Twenty Questions. If you were, it would be called One Question and it wouldn’t be much fun at all.

  “Nineteen questions left,” said Mum.

  “Have we met them before?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Mum.

  “Are they real?” Iggy asked.

  “Yes,” said Mum, and Dad said, “Who do we know who isn’t real?”

  “Famous people or something.” Iggy shrugged. “I thought it might be a big exciting surprise about somebody famous.”

  “Famous people are real,” Mum said.

  “No they’re not,” Iggy said. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Seventeen questions,” said Mum.

  “Is it somebody famous?” Iggy said.

  “No sorry, Iggy, they’re not famous,” Mum said.

  “Are they nearby?” I asked.

  “No. They are a very long way away,” said Mum.

  “Ooh,” said Iggy. “Are they aliens from another planet?”

  “No. They’re not aliens.”

  “Oh. Are they human beings?”

  “Yes. They are definitely human beings.”

  “Not animals or cartoon characters or film stars?”

  Mum shook her head. “Human beings,” she said. “Ten questions.”

  “Are they younger than you?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Mum. “They are younger.”

  “Everyone’s younger than us,” said Dad.

  “Except for Granny and Granddad,” Iggy said, “and Mrs Butler from next door.”

  “True,” said Dad.

  “Nine questions,” said Mum.

  “Are they funnier than you?” Iggy said.

  Dad gasped in horror and put his hands on his cheeks. “Nobody is funnier than us,” he said. “Nobody.”

  Iggy giggled.

  “Are they handsomer than you?” I said, and Dad sighed and slumped his shoulders and gazed forlornly at his reflection in the window.

  “Probably,” he said.

  “Definitely,” said Mum, grinning.

  “Seven questions,” Dad said.

  Iggy jumped up and down on the spot and made a funny nervous noise. She loves it when the questions start running out, because she is getting closer and closer to knowing.

  “Do we like them?” she said.

  “We like them a lot,” Mum said. “We love them.”

  “Four questions,” Iggy said, and she rubbed her hands together in anticipation.

  “No, Iggy,” said D
ad. “Six questions. No cheating.”

  Iggy put her head in her hands. “I just want it to be finished. I just want to know.”

  Suddenly I thought I knew who it was.

  “Oh! Do they live in America?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Mum.

  “Are they in our family?” I asked.

  “Yes!”

  “Ooh! Ooh!” said Iggy, with her hand up, jiggling about so much that the cups and plates on the shelf were jangling and shaking, like in a little earthquake. “Is it…? Is it Auntie Kate and Uncle Chuck?”

  “Yes! You guessed it, Iggy! With three questions to spare!”

  Iggy did a little dance. She pitter-pattered her feet on the kitchen floor and she flapped her arms and waggled about.

  “Auntie Kate and Uncle Chuck,” she sang, while she waggled.

  Auntie Kate is Mum’s little sister. She is three years younger than Mum, just like Iggy and me. She lives in America. Uncle Chuck is Auntie Kate’s boyfriend. He is from New York. He is very big and tall and he has extremely white teeth. He is a photographer and he has enormous feet. Mum thinks he is very handsome. Dad thinks Chuck is a silly name, but he says when someone is that big and tall you don’t tell them.

  Iggy and me love Auntie Kate and Uncle Chuck.

  “What is their extra special and exciting news?” I said.

  Mum’s smile was even bigger than Iggy’s.

  “What’s the thing that Iggy wants more than anything else in the world?” she asked.

  Iggy gasped and put her hands over her mouth.

  “Can you guess?” asked Mum, and Iggy nodded. Her eyes were big and wide and round.

  “Auntie Kate and Uncle Chuck are having a baby!” Mum said, and she danced about in the kitchen, just like a grown-up Iggy.

  And then we all danced. Even Dad. It was the most extra special and exciting news we had ever heard.

  A baby.

  After Mum told us that Auntie Kate and Uncle Chuck were having a baby, we found out three very interesting things.

  The first thing we found out was that most babies take a bit more than nine months to grow. A bit more than nine months is forty weeks, or two hundred and eighty days.

  Iggy said, “That is so so so long to wait,” but I thought it was quite a short time for making a human, and Mum and Dad thought so too.

  “And anyway,” Mum said, “Auntie Kate is already nearly four months pregnant, so there are only five months left to go.”

  “Which is only twenty weeks,” Dad said. “Or one hundred and forty days.”

  Iggy groaned.

  The second thing was that babies don’t actually have to be born in a hospital. Some babies born at home, even in the bath, and some just pop out on the way to the shops or at the hairdressers or in the backs of taxis.

  Auntie Kate would like to have her baby in a birthing pool, which sounds like a bath, only bigger.

  When I told Dad, he said, “That sounds like Auntie Kate.” He said, “I bet there will be candles.”

  The third thing we found out was that Mum is an extremely brilliant knitter. As soon as she knew there was a baby coming, she started making things. When she wasn’t working, or playing with us, or cooking, or sorting out the airing cupboard, suddenly she was very busy with a bag of wool and two clickety-clackety knitting needles.

  The first time we saw Mum knitting, we were on our way past the sitting room. Iggy was in front of me, and I nearly walked right into her because she suddenly stopped and pointed to what Mum was up to.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “It’s a shoe,” Mum said.

  “No it’s not,” Iggy said. “Shoes aren’t made like that. Shoes are made by shoemakers. They are made of leather and buckles and things. Not wool.”

  “Shoes for babies are made of wool,” said Mum.

  Iggy folded her arms. “Shoes made of wool are socks.”

  “Good point,” Mum said. “It’s a sock then,” and her needles went clickety-clack. They were moving so fast they were almost a blur.

  “How do you make socks?” I asked. “Is it hard?”

  Mum shook her head, but she kept her eyes on her knitting and she was frowning with concentration. “Not really. Maybe a bit.”

  “If socks are hard to make,” said Iggy, “why don’t you just buy some? They are everywhere, in all the shops.”

  Mum smiled, but she didn’t stop knitting. “You sound just like your dad.”

  The next time we looked, after we had played five games of snakes and ladders, the sock had grown a little bit. And the next time, when we were in the middle of making a den in Iggy’s room using all the cushions and sheets and towels, there it was – a sock, perfect and finished on the arm of the sofa. Mum was already making another one.

  “What a lovely tiny woolly sock,” said Iggy, holding it in her palm.

  It was soft and fluffy and the colour of porridge. It looked just the right shape and size for a baby’s foot.

  “That’s very clever,” I said to Mum, and Mum said, “Thanks.”

  “Will you teach us to knit?” I asked her. “I’d like to make something for the baby.”

  “Ooh, me too,” said Iggy, diving into Mum’s bag of wool and ferreting about. “But I don’t want to make socks. I want to make something special and useful.”

  “Like what?” Mum said.

  “Like a sausage-dog doorstop,” Iggy said. “Or a tea cosy. Those are the sorts of things that I want to make. You can’t buy them in the shops.”

  “But babies don’t need sausage dogs or tea cosies,” Mum said. “They need socks and hats and jackets and blankets.”

  “Why?” said Iggy.

  “To keep them warm.”

  Iggy frowned. “Why wouldn’t a sausage-dog doorstop keep them warm? Isn’t that what it’s for?”

  “Yes,” said Mum, “I suppose it is. But you need to start with something easier.”

  “Like a tea cosy?”

  “Or maybe a scarf. Scarves are always useful and they are a good place to start.”

  “Do babies wear scarves?” I said.

  “Babies might wear a big scarf,” Mum said, “like a blanket.”

  Iggy put the sock back on the arm of the sofa. “Well then, I’ll make a big scarf. But does it have to be the colour of porridge?”

  “No. What colour do you want it to be?”

  “Purple,” Iggy said. “And green and blue and orange and red and yellow.”

  Iggy thinks that babies should wear bright and loud and happy colours because babies are bright and loud and happy.

  “I’ll see what I’ve got,” said Mum. She rummaged in her bag and found some red wool. “Will this do to start with?”

  She patted the sofa either side of her, for us to sit down and watch.

  Iggy rubbed her hands together and jiggled in her seat. “Let’s do it,” she said.

  Mum picked up a knitting needle and the ball of red wool. She made a loop in the end of the wool and put the needle through it.

  Iggy stopped jiggling. She said, “When and how did you do that?”

  “Just now,” Mum said. “Like this,” and she took the needle out of the loop, pulled the wool back into a straight line, and did it all again before we could count to three.

  “Wow,” said Iggy, staring at Mum and then leaning forward to look over at me.

  Mum smiled. “I’ll just start it off,” and she picked up another needle. Her hands started moving and the needles clicked and clacked together. Soon she had more than twenty loops on the needle, just like the first one. We were amazed, but all Mum said was, “That’s called casting on.”

  We couldn’t believe what we were seeing. Mum was a magician performing tricks.

  Iggy’s eyebrows were as high as they could go, and she pursed her mouth as if she was about to whistle and then let out a very high-pitched squeak. Iggy thinks that’s what whistling is.

  “We will never be able to do that,” I said.

 
; “Oh yes you will,” Mum said, and even though she was looking at us, her magic hands knew just what to do and her needles carried on clickety-clacking.

  “When I was little,” she said, still knitting, “about the same age as Iggy is now, my mum taught me a rhyme.”

  “What rhyme?” we asked.

  “In the rabbit hole, round the tree, out the rabbit hole and off go we,” Mum recited.

  Iggy scratched her head. “Well, it’s a very nice rhyme,” she said, “but it’s a bit babyish. And I thought we were learning how to knit.”

  “You are,” Mum said. “It’s a knitting rhyme. It’s a rhyme about knitting.”

  Iggy looked at me and shrugged. She said, “How can it be about knitting when it’s about rabbits?”

  “Watch,” Mum said, and she did exactly what she had been doing, only she did it very, very slowly.

  “In the rabbit hole,” she said, and she put one needle into a loop on the other needle.

  “Round the tree,” and she wrapped the wool around it once.

  “Out the rabbit hole,” she said, pulling the needle out again and making a new loop.

  “And off go we!”

  Iggy rubbed her eyes.

  “Do it again,” I said, and this time we watched extra carefully.

  “In the rabbit hole.” The needle went in.

  “Round the tree.” The wool went round.

  Iggy was kneeling on the sofa now to get a better look. She was getting a bit fidgety.

  “Out the rabbit hole.” The needle came out like before.

  “And off go we!”

  Iggy smacked her forehead into the palm of her hand. “I’m not doing that. I’m going outside to ride my bike. Knitting is too difficult for me.”

  If Iggy can’t do something straight away, she just gives up. Dad says she will grow out of it.

  “You have a go,” Mum said to me, and she gave me the needles to hold. They were joined together by the wool. I felt very strange and clumsy, like the time I tried to write my name with my foot instead of my hand.

  “In the rabbit hole,” Mum said, helping me. “Round the tree. That’s it. Out the rabbit hole…”