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It went well for all of five minutes. Havelock had settled himself down in front of the fire, stretching his legs and getting out a book of poetry. He had been thinking that the whole thing was not that bad - at least it had not been a reason to fret so much.
And then, Young Sam started to cry. One moment there was comfortable silence and the next the nursery was filled with piercing wailing.
Havelock winced and turned to glare at the cot. Of course Young Sam could not see him and so he got up with a sigh. Only when he arrived at the place of his distress he remembered Sybil's rather stern words: 'Do not use the voice on him, and no funny looks.'
Which was entirely unfair. For one, Young Sam would not be able to tattle, and two, Havelock didn't do funny looks. He glared, or raised a pointed eyebrow, or looked sharply at the object of his displeasure. Which were all very effective means of getting his point across, although he had to admit, lately they had become less effective with the older Sam. And not that they had ever worked on Sybil.
And thirdly ... how exactly was he supposed to deal with the crying child? Again, Sybil's voice was clear in his mind ... 'That, my dear, is exactly the point. For you to get to know him better, and for him to get to know you. You'll manage.'
You had to admire Sybil for her optimism ...
"Young Sam," he said as softly as he could manage. "Would you be so kind as to stop this noise?"
Nothing happened.
"Please?" He added hopefully.
The wailing got louder.
There was a rather loud, if still polite knock on the door. Havelock was glad to get some distance between himself and the crying child.
“Sir,” the butler, Willikins, stood on the other side of the door. “Do you require assistance?”
Havelock stepped outside and pulled the door shut, using the moment to consider the offer. Sybil had been adamant about it – he was not to give the child to one of the staff. He was to take care of him himself, though it would be so easy to just hand Young Sam over and have a nice and quiet evening after all. The problem was, he was not sure his authority as Patrician extended to Sybil's butler.
“Perhaps …,” he said slowly. “A recommendation would be much appreciated.” Surely Sybil could not berate him for asking for help.
“Of course, Sir. Well, the young man has been fed fifteen minutes ago, before his parents left. Thus, it's unlikely he is hungry. The second thing to consider is the matter of his diaper.”
“I … would rather not,” Havelock felt a pang of panic.
“It is not an enjoyable activity, that is for sure. However, it is necessary to check it once in a while, and to change it if it's soiled.”
“How … how does one check?”
“Usually it is enough to give it a sniff from the outside.”
If Havelock had not felt this panicky, he would have been impressed at how collected the butler looked. No smirk, no sparkle in his eye betrayed any emotion.
“A sniff,” he repeated slowly. “Alright. And then … he cannot change it himself, I presume.”
“No. It will be two years or so until he can go to the potty himself.”
“That's … rather inconvenient.”
“It's what we all went through,” Willikins pointed out. “You will find everything you need on the dresser over there. There is a basin of water. When you have cleaned the young man, put some of the cream from the white jar on his skin, as well as some of the powder from the red before you put on the fresh diaper. I will be back in ten minutes to collect the old one.”
“And if it does not need changing?” Havelock asked against all hope.
“Then he needs attention. Hold him, talk to him, rock him, sing a lullaby … he also loves being read to.”
“But … surely he does not understand books.”
“Probably not, though there are people who say that it helps with the development. In any case, he still responds very positively to it.”
“I see,” Havelock said. “I'd like a brandy then.”
“I shall bring you some, Sir,” Willikins bowed and retreated.
“Now then,” Havelock muttered and went back inside to the still crying child. He carefully approached and took in a deep breath of air – there was the smell of the fire, whatever wood-polish they used in this house, a hint of Sybil's sweet perfume, and a scent he could not quite place. But it did not smell like poop. He relaxed a tiny bit, but then had another thought: What if 'from the outside' meant he had to go closer? With a suffering sigh he bent down, but then found the arrangement quite undignified. So, he straightened himself and very carefully reached for the child. Young Sam was quite heavy and he made sure to grip him properly as he lifted him up into the air. The wailing stopped for a moment – and then continued. Havelock turned him, so he was looking at his back and then … slowly closed the distance between his nose and Young Sam's backside.
“Thank the gods,” he muttered as he still could not smell anything. But as he changed his grip to set him down again, he thought he could feel something wet on the boy's legs. Well. It certainly was the better option of the two.
Child in arm he went to the dresser. He put him down on his back, hoping that was the right way. The lavender coloured romper opened conveniently along the front side. Young Sam had stopped crying now, and was looking up at him with big, bright eyes.
“I have to inform you,” Havelock said, “that I have never done this before. So while I am aware that you cannot help me, I would appreciate if you stayed quiet and did not make a fuss. Then we can get this affair quickly behind us.”
Young Sam made a kind of … blubbering sound and Havelock took it for agreement. Having taken off the romper and putting it on the side he looked at the diaper. It was folded in a way that looked quite complicated and he gingerly pulled at one of the corners. Alright, he could do this – he just had to remember how it was done now. He was good at remembering things, after all.
Taking off the diaper was easy, as well the cleaning and then putting cream and powder on. He realised that the scent he had not been able to recognise was from the powder, which smelled fresh and clean.
He did feel a bit silly handling another human like that, but figured that there was no way around it. And no one was seeing him, apart from Young Sam of course. And he could neither tell nor remember. At least Havelock hoped so.
What was not easy was putting a fresh diaper back on. He had paid careful attention to the manner of folding, but Young Sam started to fuss and he had to start over a few times. At the end of it, Young Sam was crying again and Havelock was glad when there was another knock on the door.
Willikins came in and put down a tablet with a glass of brandy on it.
“Willikins, I've changed it, but he is still crying!”
“Sir,” Willikins came to have a look. “I'd put on a fresh romper. They are in here,” he pointed at one of the drawers in the dresser. “And he enjoys if one blows on his belly.”
“He … excuse me?”
“Maybe it will be possible to skip that step. Anyway, afterwards I'd try to rock and read to him, Sir.”
Havelock breathed out slowly. That he could do. “Thank you,” he said. “I'll ring if I require anything else,” he picked up the child again.
“Sir … you are not holding him right. May I …?”
Havelock looked at Willikins a bit stunned as he reached out and took the child. “If you carry him, like this, against your body,” he demonstrated. “Or thus, on your arm, but be sure to support his head. It's also most comfortable while sitting, although you can have him on your legs, as well. Or take a pillow for further support.” He handed over Young Sam again, and this time Havelock made sure to hold him properly.
“Thank you,” he said again.
“You are welcome, Sir. Lady Sybil will be very pleased.” Another bow and Willikins retreated.
Young Sam had stopped making noise somewhere during their conversation. Havelock carefully put him down again and opened the indicated drawer to get out a fresh romper.
“Well, let's see … you don't seem to have any black,” he raised an eyebrow at the insufficient collection. “But I suppose it's not an appropriate colour for someone your age … though it would mask any messes you make quite well.”
He settled on the one lying at the top of the stack – a cheery green with red dots. Young Sam was burbling as he put the fresh romper on and then carried the child back to his armchair. He was quiet now, so maybe it would be an option to just put him down again. But it was probably better to prevent the next havoc before it happened.
“Now then,” he murmured as he somehow managed to balance Young Sam in the crook of his arm and take his book up again. “Let's see ...”
It was not bad at all. Young Sam was staring up at him, from time to time making little noises, as Havelock read quite a long poem. As it usually happened, he lost himself in the words and melody, when suddenly … a sharp pain on his chin pulled his attention downwards.
“Young Sam!” He exclaimed. Young Sam had reached up and grabbed his beard, pulling hard. “That hurts,” he carefully put his hand over the child's and loosened the grip. Young Sam was making a noise again and only after a moment Havelock realised he was laughing.
“I do say,” he murmured. He shifted the child and put him onto his legs, so there was more distance between beard and grabby hands. That also meant he had a hand free to reach for his brandy and take a much needed sip.
“Well. I should have a word with your mother about this behaviour. I imagine your father would only laugh,” he grumbled at the still smiling child. “Anyway. You should fall asleep soon. Sybil said to get you to sleep around eight, which is in fifteen minutes.”
Young Sam did not close his eyes at the suggestion. In fact, he looked very much awake.
“Fine,” Havelock sighed. He took the child into his arms again and got up, trying a sort of rocking motion as he walked the length of the room. Young Sam made that peculiar noise again and Havelock caught himself smiling. “Now then … what else did Mister Willikins say? A lullaby? Only trouble is I don't know one,” he looked down at the child. “I also don't have a singing voice. Personally, I believe music should be read and imagined, playing it out loud and singing it only takes away from the experience. But I do suppose … If you promise not to tell anyone …,” he cleared his throat, and then, very quietly, sang the first few lines:
"When dragons belch and hippos flee
My thoughts, Ankh-Morpork, are of thee
Let others boast of martial dash
For we have boldly fought with cash
We own all your helmets, we own all your shoes
We own all your generals - touch us and you'll lose.”
“You probably don't want to join in?” He shifted the child in his arms.
“Morporkia! Morporkia!
Morporkia owns the day!
We can rule you wholesale
Touch us and you'll pay.
We bankrupt all invaders, we sell them souvenirs
We something something … and then it goes …. something with mortgaged … and then the refrain again ...
Morporkia! Morporkia!
Something equally unpleasant comes here, I'm sure ...
We can rule you wholesale
Credit where it's due."
He ended on a high note and quite proudly looked down at Young Sam again – whose eyes had closed.
“Oh,” Havelock said softly. He went back to his chair and carefully settled himself down again. Young Sam was heavy and warm in his arms and looked very peaceful and content with the world.
“Well, you are fed and warm and comfortable, why should you not be?” Havelock asked quietly. “I have to admit … you are quite a … cute little fellow. And you seem to make your parents very happy, which is what's most important.”
He stretched his legs and laid back his head against the chair. “Though I have to admit, it is really quite exhausting to care for you …,” he closed his eyes.
“Quiet,” Sybil whispered as she opened the door to the nursery. Sam was right behind her.
“Oh,” he said at the sight. Havelock was asleep in the armchair, Young Sam snuggled into his arms. Sybil giggled and then managed to silently cross the room and carefully take Young Sam into her arms, settling him down in his cot.
“There, my darling,” she bent down to kiss his head.
Sam had bent over Havelock. “Hey,” he said softly.
A grumble was the reply and then Havelock opened his eyes.
“You are back. Where is …?”
“In his cot. You seem to have done well.”
“It … wasn't quite the hardship I imagined.”
“That's good,” Sam grinned as Sybil came over to them.
“I should be taking my leave,” Havelock got up. “I do hope your evening was entertaining.”
“Very,” Sybil said. “But you don't have to leave. You can sleep over.”
“I … I would appreciate that,” Havelock admitted, as Sam and Sybil each took one of his hands.