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Authors: Cath Staincliffe

Tags: #Mystery

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BOOK: Crying Out Loud
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‘A baby,' she breathed. She thrust her lunch box at me, never shifting her eyes from the infant. She crouched beside the buggy, scrutinizing the sleeping child intently.

‘See its nose.' She turned and looked up at me. ‘It is
so
tiny.'

‘What's that?' Tom asked as he joined us. At such a crass question, Maddie would normally have fired off a put-down with all the sarcasm an eight-year-old could muster, but she was entranced.

‘A baby,' I told him. ‘I'm looking after him for his mum.'

As I'd neared the school gates I'd worked on my cover story. I didn't know what sex the child was; the white clothes were neutral, ditto the yellow blanket. The buggy was a dove-grey and white design. But the change bag was blue and white stripes so I used that slim clue to christen him as a boy. I'd never bothered colour-coding Maddie when she was little. I liked the notion that people would treat her like a male child – and therefore not constrict her sense of adventure and physical boldness. According to the studies of the time, this was what happened. My attempt at social engineering hadn't been much of a success. Maddie developed into a timid girl, easily unnerved and prone to all sorts of fears. Not quite the little Amazon I‘d envisaged.

‘What's his name?' Tom gave the little creature a few friendly pats on the head. I winced, expecting the baby to wake, but it just gave a shudder and fluted its mouth.

‘Jamie,' I ad-libbed.

‘Can I push him?' Maddie straightened up.

‘I want a go, too,' Tom jumped in.

‘You can take turns.'

They pushed the buggy back according to a strictly-timed rota, Maddie taking elaborate care over kerbs and uneven sections in the pavement, even though the rugged design meant the vehicle could cope with rough terrain. Tom went as fast as he dared and executed a few emergency stops, a wheelie and the buggy equivalent of a fishtail spin. The infant slept on.

Ray was home when we arrived. He opened the front door, spotted the new addition and raised his eyebrows.

‘He's called Jamie.' Tom was all excitement, his eyes bright as he raced to tell his dad the news before anyone else. ‘Sal's looking after him. He doesn't cry or anything.'

‘What, never?' Ray said wryly. He looked at me, puzzled. ‘You didn't say anything.'

‘I'll explain later,' I said quickly, echoing the words on the note in my pocket.

Digger, our ageing dog, strode into the hall, gave an uncertain bark and retreated back into the kitchen. Craven.

Jamie opened his eyes; they were hazel coloured. He began to twist his head this way and that, making little creaky cries.

‘He must be hungry.' I grabbed the bottle and baby milk from under the buggy and held it out to Ray. ‘Can you do a bottle?'

He was speechless for a moment. I gave a grin; I don't think it was a convincing one – sickly, probably. Anyway, Ray took the bottle and the tin of formula, grunted and went into the kitchen.

Jamie's cries were increasing in volume and Tom pulled a face in dismay. Maddie put her hands over her ears. ‘Will he stop when he's had his bottle?'

‘Yes.' I hoped so. I undid the straps and lifted him up. He smelt of milk and some sort of fragrance, perhaps shampoo or washing powder, and faintly of smoke. He complained loudly as I unzipped the all-in-one and Maddie and Tom sloped off into the lounge. Jamie was wearing a lemon Babygro covered in grey teddy bears. He had a cap of fine dark hair, a longer spray of it at the front. I put him up against my left shoulder and jiggled him around, patting his back as I walked to the kitchen. There was a moment's hiatus and I thought the motion had worked, but then he started again, louder than ever. Digger got to his feet with a whine and left the room.

Ray handed me the bottle and I sat down on the rocking chair by the kitchen window. The old house has large windows which make it feel light and airy. The rocking chair, with its view out into the back garden, is one of my favourite places to sit.

‘Other way,' Ray shouted and gestured as I offered the teat to the baby, whose bawling had reached desperate proportions. I'd breastfed Maddie so didn't really know my way around a feeding bottle, whereas Ray had raised Tom on his own and had done it all before. The teat looked enormous and was asymmetrical. I twisted the bottle about and slipped it into the baby's mouth. The crying stopped mid-squeal and relief flooded through me; my shoulders dropped and I took a deep breath, savouring the peace.

The baby tugged away, his eyes greeny-brown, the colour of river water, fixed on my face. Maddie and Tom gravitated back into his orbit. Now they wanted a go at feeding him but I wouldn't interrupt the baby. ‘Maybe later,' I told them, ‘when he's used to us.'

‘How long's he here?' Maddie's voice rose with the thrill of it all.

‘Not sure, probably a day or two.' I avoided Ray's gaze. He knew something weird was going on.

‘Is he sleeping in our room?' Tom looked anxious – ears still hurting, no doubt.

‘No, in mine,' I assured him. Ray and I still had separate bedrooms and it seemed to suit us. We were each used to having our own space and our new status as lovers hadn't led either of us to want to relinquish that.

Jamie had nearly emptied the bottle when he paused, his face creased and flushed dark red. A loud farting, bubbling sound came from his bottom.

‘That is so gross!' Tom yelled.

‘I can smell it – yuk,' Maddie chipped in.

‘Wait till we take his nappy off.'

He drained the bottle and then I burped him, rubbing my hand along the frail bumps of his spine. More hilarity for the kids, who began a burping contest. Tom won hands down.

Ray rolled out the changing mat and brought the wipes. I extricated Jamie's legs and peeled back the tapes on the nappy. There was another chorus of groans from the kids, who were fascinated and repelled. They both moved away but not before they'd had a good look.

‘Where's his willy?' Tom asked.

‘You said it was a boy,' Maddie accused me.

‘Did I?' I pretended confusion. ‘I must be going mad. Jamie's a girl,
course
she is. I wasn't thinking straight.'

‘Jamie's a boy's name,' Tom said doubtfully.

‘Not always. Not this one.' I kept my head down, concentrating on the wipes. Thank God I'd picked a fairly unisex name and not Matthew or Felix or Oliver.

‘Can she watch telly with us?' Maddie watched me fasten a fresh nappy on.

‘Sure.'

I redid the poppers on her Babygro and took her into the lounge. There was a waffle throw there and I lay Jamie on the couch while I spread it out on the floor. Digger struggled to his feet and stalked out. The poor dog was quite bewildered by the whole palaver. I put Jamie in the middle of the waffle on her back and she made gurgling sounds. The children crowded close to her as I explained that one of them must come and get me straight away if anything happened.

‘Like what?' asked Maddie.

‘Like her being sick or starting to cry or you both wanting to go upstairs. Anything like that.'

‘Is she going to be sick?' Maddie curled her lip with dismay.

‘Hope not, but it happens a lot; they bring back some of their milk. You did it all the time.'

‘Did I?' Maddie loved to hear about her life as a baby and often wanted more details than I could remember.

‘Big time. Drove me mad.'

Ray was waiting for me, sitting at the kitchen table. I drew up a chair opposite him. He leant back, his arms folded, his eyes hard with suspicion. ‘So, are you going to tell me what's going on?'

He listened as I recounted finding the baby on the doorstep, showed him the note and explained that I'd no idea who the infant was and therefore who had left her with me. The only person I could think of who'd been expecting a baby was Abi Dobson.

‘She's still pregnant,' he said, ‘I saw her at the baker's.' He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the table. ‘We should tell the police.'

‘Ray!' I protested. ‘Someone has trusted me with this child. They expressly ask me not to tell anyone. Who knows what would happen if I reported it? She'd be taken into care for starters – then how hard would it be for the mother to get her back?'

‘Or father.'

‘Or father!' I snapped. ‘Whatever. I won't do that.'

‘You haven't thought this through.' He spoke as if I was one of the children.

‘Don't tell me what I've thought or not thought. What are you now, a mind reader? Someone needs me to look after this baby.'

‘What if it's been taken? Abducted?'

‘Then why give it to me? And what kidnapper writes
I'll explain later
? If we could just work out what the signature is, it'd probably all make sense.'

He wasn't having it. ‘What if she gets ill? Then what will you do?'

‘That's it – look on the bright side,' I snapped.

‘If anything went wrong, Sal, you'd be the one up for child neglect.'

I stood up and paced away from the table. ‘Stop it. Listen, whoever it is must be in desperate straits.' Outside a black bird on the fence looked warily from side to side then flew down to the grass, stabbing its beak into the ground.

‘It might be trouble of their own making,' he said. ‘You've no idea what you're getting yourself into.'

‘Why must you always look for the worst in people?' I complained. ‘What sort of an attitude is that?' I glared at him.

‘I don't,' he retorted, stung. His nostrils flared, the edges whitening. ‘But when you set your mind on something you won't listen to reason.'

‘You don't have the monopoly on reason. It makes perfect sense to me to look after the baby. Someone trusts me to do that. I'm not going to hand her over to the authorities.' I could hear my voice rising, my words sharpening.

‘And if you've heard nothing in a week, ten days? Then what?' he demanded.

I paused and thought about my answer. The atmosphere between us crackled with antagonism. ‘Then I think again,' I said as calmly as I could.

‘And what do we tell people?' He still had that hard edge to his expression, his jaw muscle taut, but the question itself made me think he was coming round.

‘Something simple. That I'm looking after her while her mum, an old friend, is in hospital. London: too far for visits. Surgery: a hysterectomy.'

Ray gave a derisive snort.

‘What? Not a hysterectomy?' I asked. ‘A car crash? No – they'd want all the details. A hysterectomy's better.'

‘I never knew you were such a fluent liar.'

I was unsettled, sensing an undertone to his remark. ‘I'm not, I'm rubbish. I can make them up but I can't tell them without giving myself away.'

‘But you must do that at work,' he persisted.

‘Not really. Not unless I'm undercover and I hate those jobs. Most of the time I just have to play things close to my chest.'

He slowly closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I don't like it,' he said quietly. When he opened his eyes again I met his gaze, taking in the way his dark brown eyes had softened a little.

‘I know.' I moved to stand behind him and put my palm on his chest, feeling his heart beating, the warmth of him. He raised his hand and pulled mine to his lips. Kissed my knuckles. Again I experienced the tug of attraction that had put our lives in a spin over the last few months.

‘How old do you think she is?' I asked him. ‘She's not rolling over yet.'

‘Search me.'

‘Maybe three months?'

‘She reminds me of Tom,' he said. ‘The hair.'

The baby punk look. I hadn't met Ray and Tom until Tom was eighteen months. By then he was already sporting the glossy black curls of the Italian side of the family, taking after Ray's mum. Ray had answered my ad for a housemate. I was on my own with Maddie and looking for co-tenants who would be happy to share a spacious Victorian semi with a cranky two-year-old.

We'd rubbed along as housemates for almost six years, sharing the chores and childcare and growing to love each other's child, before passion had reared its head. I had been disturbed by a shocking tragedy at work and had turned to Ray for comfort. A hug led to a kiss, which pitched me into a state of uncertainty, confusion and desire, and then, after Ray had unceremoniously dropped his girlfriend Laura and set out to court me, to us being lovers. We were still adjusting to the change though Maddie and Tom took it in their stride. Nothing had really altered for them.

I wondered now whether the sudden appearance of an infant in our lives stirred up painful memories for Ray. His wife had died giving birth to Tom. Ray must have been crazed with grief in those early days – bereavement on top of the huge upheaval and the demands that a new baby brings. His mum helped out; she adored her grandson, but even so.

‘It must have been hard,' I ventured, ‘for you and Tom.'

‘Yeah.' He rose and whistled for Digger. He'd always been crap at talking about emotions.

Ray took the dog out and I cooked tea. When I went to call the children they were balancing the remote control on Jamie's tummy and counting how long until her kicks and wriggles bounced it off. Jamie was laughing; all gums and sparkling eyes as Tom pulled faces.

There was one more hurdle to sort out before the end of the day. I waited until we had finished our pasties and apple and raisin fool. Then I took a deep breath and broached it with Ray. ‘Could you work from home, tomorrow? Well, tomorrow morning.'

‘You want me to look after the baby?' Quick as a flash.

‘If she's still here. Just tomorrow. It's work. A meeting. I can't change things at such short notice. I would if I could. And I can't take her with me.'

‘I didn't bring stuff home,' he objected. ‘If you'd said on the phone  . . .'

BOOK: Crying Out Loud
2.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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