‘Yes, I know.’ And I wasn’t looking forward to yet more fragmented sleep.
‘Don’t you think you should consider contacting the authorities?’
‘No.’ I stared across at him, my face warm. ‘Not yet.’
‘When?’
‘Ray, I said before, I’m not setting a deadline.’
‘I think you should,’ His face was tight; I could feel his disapproval, palpable in every cell of his body.
‘You’ve made that clear.’
‘So what, the situation just rolls on and on?’
‘It’s only been a couple of days,’ my voice rose. The baby stiffened. I spoke more quietly, tried to relax my body, fighting against the tension. ‘She’s happy, she’s safe.’
‘She’s not yours.’
‘I know that!’ I glared at him. He was talking to me like I was some deranged woman living in a fantasy. ‘And I’ll be more than happy to see her mother show up. Meanwhile, I’ll carry on looking after her as best as I can.’ I lost the struggle to keep calm; my voice shook, my heart was thundering in my chest. I wanted to throw something at him. Jamie had stopped sucking.
He watched me for a moment, then looked away exasperated, his jaw muscle tautening. He turned back, about to speak, I thought, but then he got to his feet and walked out. I called after him but he didn’t return.
There was no pattern to the nights. Jamie was still awake at ten so I fed her then. She slept through until half three. Five hours. I could have had five hours unbroken kip if I’d gone to sleep myself but I probably wasted two hours tossing and turning, feeling anxious about Ray, about the baby.
The tension remained with me the following day, aggravated by tiredness. My shoulder was stiff and my neck ached. There was a knot of worry in my stomach.
Maddie got into a panic at breakfast – she couldn’t find her PE kit. Jamie was bawling and I was hurriedly mixing a feed.
Tom put his hands over his ears. ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up,’ he chanted.
‘It’s not in my drawers,’ Maddie insisted, ‘you look.’
‘Try the cellar,’ I said. ‘It might be in the dryer.’
Her face fell.
‘For heaven’s sake, Maddie,’ I snapped. ‘It’s broad daylight, there’s a window down there and you can put the light on too if you need.’ The dark is one of Maddie’s fears.
The baby cried louder. ‘I can’t go,’ I explained. ‘I need to feed Jamie.’
‘Ray can feed her,’ Maddie whined.
Ray slid a look my way, mutinous, critical but nevertheless moved closer and held his hands out for Jamie. She was in full throttle, face tomato red, back arching with frustration, twisting her head this way and that. Her cries were agonizing to hear. You are more at risk of being killed in the first twelve months of life than at any other time. It was a fact I could understand, horrible though that sounds. We arrive in the world completely vulnerable, utterly dependent on others and furnished with vocal chords that shred a listener’s nerves to bits.
When I opened the cellar door, Digger emerged, gave a foolish little woof and wove about my legs, wagging his tail.
‘Digger’s here,’ I called out to Ray who looked after him. ‘Been shut down the cellar again. I’ll let him out.’
I’d actually brought the dog home when his owner, a young homeless man who’d been helping me trace someone, had died. I was ambivalent about keeping the animal but Ray and Digger hit it off.
I ushered the dog out of the back door and into the garden at the back. The sun was bright again and mist steamed off the grass, along the top of the garden fences and the roof of the shed. The dew had been heavy and swags of spider’s web trailed silver beads among the foliage. I closed my eyes and drew in the air, cool and moist, felt a ripple of fatigue run through me. I took another breath and opened my eyes. Watched the coal tits on the bird feeder for a moment then dragged myself back inside.
In the cellar, I found Maddie’s shorts and T-shirt. I put another load of dirty clothes in the machine, emptied the reusable nappies out of the bucket they were soaking in, holding my breath at the stink, and added those to the wash, sealing the velcro tabs carefully so they wouldn’t claw at everything else.
Down there, beneath the kitchen, Jamie’s crying was muffled and stopped suddenly; quiet followed. All I could hear was the water running into the machine and Digger’s bark, asking to come in from the garden.
I went up to let him in and caught sight of the squirrel running along the fence. He’d already dug up most of the winter flowering bulbs I’d planted in a trough by the patio. I’d have loved to escape, stay out there and potter about: rake up the leaves and bag them for compost, clip back the bare lavender stalks and the straggly water mint that fringed the small pond. If only.
NINE
D iane lives in Fallowfield, a neighbourhood about a mile north of Withington, on the way into town. It’s home to many of the city’s students, who live in the purpose built halls of residence on Wilmslow Road and, behind the main drag, in the warren of small redbrick terraces. There’s also a large council estate where generations of families have lived. Diane doesn’t belong to either camp, though she’s known and liked by her long-term neighbours who joke about her being their local Tracey Emin (though not half as successful).
Jamie’s buggy doubled as a car seat, if you unhitched the top from the chassis. At Diane’s house I got it out of the car, carried her in and put her down by the sofa.
Diane took a cursory glance at the baby, then folded her arms and looked at me. ‘And you’ve no idea whose she is?’
‘None. Look, here’s the note. What d’you think that says?’ I pointed to the signature.
She took the paper, peered at it. ‘Lear? Lisa?’
‘Isn’t that an “H” at the beginning?’
‘Or an “L”? Dunno. Waifs and strays, again, eh?’ Diane thought I was too quick to jump in and rescue people.
‘Hey, I didn’t go out looking for her. And I could hardly send her packing.’
She nodded at the note. ‘So have you told anyone?’
‘No. Ray thinks I should.’
‘How is the delectable Ray?’
The image of Ray scowling about Jamie was replaced in my mind by our impromptu afternoon sex. Something must have showed on my face because Diane hooted with laughter. ‘Hah! Still steamy, huh? You’re like a pair of teenagers.’
I smiled, fighting embarrassment. ‘Like I say, he’s not best pleased with our visitor – or how I’m handling it.’ I checked my watch: time to go.
‘How long will you be?’ she asked warily. Diane is the most practical person I know: she hews wood, can build a kiln and fire pottery, erect scaffolding, bake cakes, weld metal. She can turn her hand to any sort of material but when faced with a small child she’s a dead loss.
‘A couple of hours max. She’ll probably sleep for a while. If she starts to cry you add some boiling water to this.’ I pulled out the bottle, which already had a feed in. ‘Add about an inch, shake it, test it on your hand. Should be lukewarm.’ Grabbing a cushion, I demonstrated. ‘Hold her like this, bottle this way up.’ I showed her the odd-shaped teat. ‘She’ll latch on. Let her have as much as she likes.’
‘Burping and stuff?’
‘Very good,’ I teased. ‘You’ve been swotting.’
Diane glared.
‘Just hold her upright, pat her if you like, it’s not essential. If she fills her nappy…’
Diane shot me a look.
‘… I’ll change her when I get back.’ I’d promised Diane no nappies. I decided not to even mention vomit.
‘Anything else?’
‘If she wakes up you can talk to her.’
‘What about?’ She frowned.
I kept a straight face. ‘Or just put her where she can see you while you get on with what you’re doing.’ I glanced around; usually Diane’s latest project is evident from the state of the place but there were no sketches or paintings, boxes of fabric or reference books scattered about. ‘What are you working on?’