Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

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.’