Free Odd Socks by Ilsa Evans Page A

she looks much older. She’s also twice as sharp. She keeps her three daughters and each of her nine grandchildren firmly within sight, and does not hesitate to let them know when she disapproves of their actions. Harold, a portly gentleman with tonsured white hair and a permanently worried smile, is her perfect match. He’s as round as she is thin and as self-deprecating as she is self-confident. He also happens to be her fourth husband and, as all the others died relatively prematurely, had better enjoy himself while he can.
    â€˜Mum! Robin, spit it out.’ Diane squats down and inserts a finger expertly into the baby’s fluff-filled mouth. ‘Here, give it up. Thank you.’
    â€˜Search and Destroy!’ laughs Nick from the bed.
    â€˜Hello, everybody,’ says Harold, with a general beam all round. ‘I hear congratulations are in order. Is that right?’
    â€˜It certainly is,’ agrees his wife firmly, ‘and where is the darling baby?’
    I cram myself further into my corner as I watch Rose smoothly take over both the darling baby and the green vinyl armchair. She settles herself in and starts cooing to Sherry, who looks rather bemused.
    â€˜Hello there, early bird,’ she says to the baby. ‘Harold, give them their gift. So, what’s her name?’
    â€˜It’s Sherry Rose Woodmason,’ Nick proudly announces again. ‘After both her great-grandmothers.’
    â€˜Like, we just thought that Sherry Rose sounded a bit better than Rose Sherry,’ explains Bronte nervously as she takes a tissue-covered gift from Harold and starts to unwrap it. ‘Oh, look, Nick! A sheet-set for the cot! We needed one of these, Mrs Riley, thank you so much.’
    â€˜I knew you’d both neglect the practical things.’ Rose glances briefly at the ceiling and purses her lips. ‘Young people always do.’
    â€˜What do you think of the baby’s name, Rose?’ Mum moves over to stand next to Rose. ‘Isn’t it a lovely gesture?’
    â€˜Why hello, Sherry!’ says Rose with obvious pleasure. ‘I didn’t see you there! You are looking well!’
    â€˜So are you, honey,’ says Mum. ‘I like what you’ve done with your hair.’
    We all stare automatically at Rose’s hair, which to me looks exactly the same as it always does. Short, wavy and a light Wedgwood-blue colour. Today it matches the twin-set she is wearing with a brown tweed skirt and woollen scarf.
    â€˜Yes, I thought I’d try something different. Nice of you to notice.’ Rose gives her daughter a fleeting glance. ‘Nobody else seems to have.’
    â€˜So what do you think, Mum?’ Diane wisely refrains from commenting on her mother’s hair. ‘Isn’t it nice of Nick to name the baby after both of you?’
    â€˜Yes, it is. Thank you.’ Rose gives the parental pair on the bed a brief but approving nod. ‘Although I can’t see that Sherry Rose sounds all that much better than Rose Sherry. But each to their own. After all, who am I to comment?’
    â€˜You’re the matriarch, that’s who you are.’ Elizabeth, Diane’s youngest sister, crowds her way into the room accompanied by her fiancé, Phillip, and yet another pink balloon. ‘Isn’t that theway it works? When you’re a grandmother, you’re just a grandmother, but when the next generation starts arriving – well, you get promoted to matriarch and then you can start bossing everyone around.’
    â€˜Bit late now,’ mutters Diane under her breath to me, ‘she’s already been doing that for years.’
    â€˜Bloody hell,’ says David with feeling, and receives a narrow glance from his mother-in-law in response. ‘Not you, Mum – I meant Robin. She’s crammed a tissue in her mouth. Can you grab her, Di?’
    â€˜Sure,’ says his wife with annoyance as she bends down to the