The Baby (4 page)

Olivia's dad stands at the front door, looking from his watch to the end of the road. Olivia can't help noticing how the soles of his shoes stick to the smears of birthday cake on the floor.

Minutes twist by. Minutes of confusing information weave around them. There are movements behind the bathroom door.

Olivia feels Jonty shift by her side. He seems just as shocked as them all. He swallows and she watches his Adam's apple wobble up and down his throat.

Ben is crouched down, his hands over his face. There's no question that he's sober now.

Alice whimpers under Olivia's arm.

Olivia finds herself stroking the soft strands of Alice's hair. This is unusual. Her sister wouldn't normally let this happen.

And then the strangest sound. A noise which hasn't been heard in this house for the last ten years: the small yowls of a baby.

Olivia feels a sigh rock from her lungs. It makes her wonder how long she's been holding her breath. ‘Oh my God.'

Her mum calls sharply from the bathroom. ‘Get me a fresh towel, Olivia.'

Olivia rushes to the airing cupboard, her hands shaking
amongst the warmth of the towels. The bathroom door is opened by the smallest crack and her mum's hand pokes through. Her fingers scream urgency.

Olivia shoves the towel into the hand and wilts back against Jonty, who folds his arms around her. He smells like he always does, of shower gel and body spray. It's nice.

The scream of a siren comes from the open front door. Blue flashing lights flicker against the walls. Olivia's dad straightens his back. Preparing to direct the paramedics.

The four figures on the landing move towards the walls. Space will be needed.

Words in the hallway. Quick, brisk information is passed from one male to another. There are nods of acknowledgement and terse mouths.

A blanket. A bag of equipment. Heavy breathing on the stairs. Walkie-talkie crackle attached to a chest.

Alice watches with wide eyes. Sandy strains to be let out from the bedroom. Everyone ignores her. So she scratches at the wood.

Ten more minutes of activity in the bathroom. Figures move in and out and up and down the stairs. No one notices the three teenagers and the eleven-year-old girl. Olivia's dad comes to join them. She's never seen him look so old.

And then, when Olivia has almost given up, when she's sure she can't stand up for another minute more, the bathroom door is suddenly opened so wide that they can all see into the bright light.

Jonty steps away, against the wall.

First Olivia's mum, with a grim smile. She nods at Olivia's dad. ‘They're OK.'

Olivia closes her eyes for a couple of seconds.

Then Nicola herself. Slack-jawed, glazed pink cheeks. The softness in her face seems suddenly beautiful to Olivia. She's on a kind of stretcher with a thick blanket around her. A paramedic is helping her. And in her arms is the baby. Something Olivia can barely fathom. A curled up, scrunched up wisp of a thing which Nicola cradles as if she's clinging to life itself.

She smiles. She actually smiles. Sheepishly at Olivia. And Olivia smiles back.

And it's while she's smiling that she catches the quick, awkward glance flicked between Nicola and Jonty.

When they're gone, when they've left through the front door and the ambulance doors are crunched closed, Olivia blinks and feels a wave of fatigue.

‘I think you'd better go.' Olivia's dad nods to the two boys whose arms are hanging by their sides in identical awkwardness.

Ben collects himself first. ‘Um … do you want some help clearing up?'

Olivia's dad pulls his fingers through his hair. The lines at the side of his mouth are deep. He shakes his head. ‘No. We'll leave it till the morning. I think we could all do with some sleep.'

Ben nods, and Jonty shrugs. ‘If you're sure.'

Olivia's dad seems to want both boys out of the house. He
starts to usher Alice towards her bedroom. They're both nearly knocked over by the bounding dog as the door opens. Alice exclaims with pleasure. ‘Sandy, you've been such a good girl.'

At the front door both boys linger. Ben shakes his head, ‘I can't bloody believe it.'

Olivia allows herself a grin. ‘Some birthday surprise.'

Jonty remains silent, his face still strained.

‘What I don't understand is …' Olivia watches as Ben twists the latch to open the door, his face open, waiting, ‘who the hell is the father?' Olivia's voice is tense. She can't get it out of her head. Nicola has not had a boyfriend for over a year. She'd assumed her friend was still a virgin. She remembers precisely the day when she'd told Nicola about her first time with Jonty. They'd been on the swings sucking ice pops, and Nicola's eyes had sparkled with interest when Olivia had told her everything. Isn't that what best friends did? It doesn't feel right that Nicola hadn't told her.

And then she can't help noticing how quickly Jonty rushes through the door. She watches the back of his head, remembering the odd look which passed between them as Nicola held the baby in her arms.

And suddenly she doesn't feel good. Blood rushes to her cheeks which makes her feel faint. She doesn't like the thought of the look. She doesn't like it one little bit.

Suddenly it feels, with this new and unexpected arrival, that nothing will ever be the same.

There's a sharp rap on Nicola's bedroom door. She winces and thinks of the sleeping baby. Her mum doesn't seem to have remembered. It's like she forgets on purpose sometimes. Her mum's head pokes through the gap between door and frame. The corners of her lips are turned down and her eyebrows are raised in disapproval. ‘It's Alice. She's downstairs.'

Nicola, with effort, raises her head off the pillow. ‘Can you send her up?'

Her mum looks around, frowning. ‘Let's clear this up first.'

Nicola's head flops back against the pillow, her mind dazzled by the stuff around her. She is confused.

How did this all happen?

She watches her mum moving around the room, opening curtains and sniffing the air. Pointedly opening the window. Her bedroom, the same one in which she played with a doll's house when she was five, with Barbies a year or so later, with an art set and easel when she was twelve years old and with her laptop and DVDs last month, is now given up totally to the huge collection of stuff that a baby seems to need.

There is a stack of nappies in the corner, spilling out of their plastic shrink-wrap. A cot, still in pieces, wedged against the wall, waiting for someone – God knows who – to put it together. A mobile with blue, stuffed whales tangled together is in its polythene bag, hanging off one of the cot posts. Triple packs of babygrows and vests are piled untidily on her chest of drawers. There's a plastic baby bath, a baby rocker, a sling for carrying the baby, which Nicola has no intention of wearing because it looks disgusting, and pots upon pots of
creams and potions and liquids. All in pastel colours. They're seriously beginning to do her head in.

Only five weeks ago she was getting all her clothes ready for Olivia's party and this room was like any of her school friends' rooms. Posters peeling off the walls, photos and pictures everywhere. Clumps of clothes (from her fat or thin wardrobe depending upon how her diet was going) crumpled on the floor. Make-up spilling out of handbags. A phone. An iPod. Headphones. Speakers. Perfume. Deodorant. Screwed up make-up wipes with mascara smears and foundation smudges. Crumpled tissues.

But now hardly any of these are left, just a few posters and photos. She can't remember the last time she used make-up. And what's the bloody point bothering about what clothes to wear when A: you won't be seeing anyone of interest, and B: the clothes don't suit you any more? Even from the fat wardrobe.

So everything's been scooped away. Cleared back into drawers and hung on to hangers, to keep the carpet clear for the trek from bed to Moses basket in the middle of the night, which happens every other hour. Five weeks ago, Nicola didn't know what a dawn chorus was. Now she hears the birds come to life outside her bedroom window every morning with a sense of doom that the night is almost over and she's had exactly two hours sleep.

She crumples her fists on her quilt. There are milk marks on her hoody and small splatters of an unidentifiable liquid, possibly baby sick, maybe more milk, on the thighs of her leggings. The same leggings that she's been wearing now for
the best part of a month.

She closes her eyes. Who bloody cares what's she's wearing? She's so tired she doesn't give a toss. The way she's feeling right now, she'd happily wander round in nothing but a sleeping bag, so long as it meant she could sleep when she wanted.

Her mum straightens her quilt cover, scowling.

A small whimper and a starfish flash of fingers coming from the Moses basket catches Nicola's eye. It makes her jump. She feels a cocktail of emotions tug at her insides, a mixture of fear and pride mingled with a horrible tiredness; it's as much as she can do to turn her head.

The baby. Eliza. The name chosen after a session on the internet with Ben because it means joyful. The most gorgeous curled up, pink creature you could ever imagine. Feather-soft. Papery, drawn-up thighs. Tiny shell fingernails. Delicate fingers which flash open and curl closed and move around even when she's asleep. She might play the piano when she's older.

But also the greediest guzzler of time and energy that can possibly exist. Nicola feels like a shell. An empty, sucked-out shell with nothing better to do than shift around listlessly, waiting for the noisy demands of this beautiful creature.

She's had so many people ask her how she feels, so many questions … Are you pleased you had her? Do you want to give her up for adoption? Can you cope? Are you getting enough sleep? Are you safe to look after her on your own? Have you got help at home? What about school? What about
after school? What about your ambitions to work for Versace? Have you got enough money for nappies? Will you be applying for benefits? Where will she sleep? Are you sure you can cope? Are you sure you don't want to give her up for adoption? Where's the father?

Social workers, midwives, health visitors, teachers from her school. But she doesn't really know how to answer. How can she possibly describe the raw emotions drifting around?

That's why she spent so long in hospital. Nobody dared let her out. Nobody was prepared at home for a start. Her mum – and there's only her mum, her dad left when she was a baby – works as a dinner lady at the local primary school, and then helps out at the after-school club every day. She can't take time off work. She needs the money – more than ever now, as she's told Nicola five hundred and eighty times since Eliza's birth.

The message is loud and clear: there is no time or money for this baby.

Her mum, now satisfied with the quick tidy-up of her room, purses her lips and her eyebrows knot together. She nods to the stairs where Alice must be waiting. ‘She's a bit strange, isn't she? And why does she keep coming? Why not Olivia?'

‘Shh, Mum, she'll hear.' Nicola pulls lank hair off her face.
It's gross. I really need a shower
. ‘She's sweet. She's just a bit interested at the moment. You know what she's like. Gets a bit obsessed with things … Anyway, she helps. She changed a nappy and helped with Eliza's bath yesterday. It's nice to have someone to talk to.' It sounds sad. She knows that. It's horrid and hurtful how almost everyone's abandoned her.

Her mum frowns at the doorway. ‘But I don't understand why it's not Olivia …'

Nicola puts a nail between her teeth. Won't look at her mum. ‘I'm sure she'll be here soon. She's … dead busy at the moment.'

There's a disbelieving, disapproving sniff from her mum before she goes downstairs to get Alice.

Alice stumbles into the room, red cheeks, scruffy hair and trousers which are too short. This girl has no idea about fashion but doesn't seem to care. She's an awkward, lanky, younger version of Olivia. She can't compare to her stylish sister who is always surrounded by friends. Besides, right now, in baggy, stained leggings, with not a friend in sight, Nicola's no style icon either. ‘Hiya.'

‘Hello.'

She goes straight to the Moses basket, head as close as she can get. Bum in the air. ‘Hello, little baby.'

Nicola watches from her bed. She's such a funny kid. She's come most days since Nicola got home. Stayed for about an hour; got her fix of baby information like she was writing a childcare manual; played with Eliza like she would a puppy; introduced the baby to her imaginary animals, which Nicola doesn't really get; then taken herself off back home. No explanation, no talk of Olivia, no questions asked about where she's come from or who the father is. In a way, it's a breath of fresh air from the interrogations off all the teachers, doctors and social workers.

Surprising. She'd never really noticed Alice before all this.
Just seen her as Olivia's weird little sister.

She picks up the lukewarm bottle which has been sitting in her pillows for some time, lifts it towards Alice. ‘Want to feed her? It's almost breakfast time.'

Alice swings round, a flush to her cheeks. ‘Can I? Is that all right? I'll be gentle. Like you taught me.'

Nicola smiles again. Nods.

Sweet kid.

The second visitor of the day is Ben. Her mum does another roll of the eyes when she comes home from the shops.

‘He's always bloody here. Is there something you're not telling me?'

Nicola sighs. She has deliberately not told anyone who the father is. She knows it's why Olivia hasn't returned any of her texts or why she hasn't been to see her or Eliza.

‘Mum, he's gay!' She hisses through gritted teeth.

Nicola's mum just tuts and shrugs her shoulders. ‘Wouldn't be the first gay dad. Besides it might just be a phase. Boys like that often sort themselves out.'

Nicola exhales. Her mum is
so
old-fashioned,
so
embarrassing and
so
wrong. But she doesn't have the energy to confront her. And in a way she might be right. There was a time, not so long ago, when even Nicola had her doubts about Ben. There's a memory to wince at. Nicola shakes her head at the thought. Doesn't want to go there. It's almost funny. Besides, surprisingly enough, her mum's eyes have moved to the Moses basket and Nicola detects a slight softening in her
cheeks. ‘Madam kept you up most of the night then?'

Nicola nods. ‘She's quiet now though.'

This is the first time that her mum had shown interest. She can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times her mum has even looked at the baby.

Nicola swallows and allows a faint wisp of hope to slide up her throat. ‘I think she might be starting to get used to the place.'

Her mum purses her lips. ‘So you want this Ben up here?' She looks doubtfully around the room.

‘Please.' Nicola nods.

Her mum sighs and stomps down the stairs.

A few seconds pass by before she hears Ben leaping up the stairs. Then he is striding into her room. He has his usual grin and something in a carrier bag. Nicola cannot begin to think how she could have coped without his visits. He is the one person in all this chaos who has made her feel vaguely normal. The one person who appears to have stuck by her. Everyone else, apart from Alice, has dumped her. Like she makes everyone feel awkward.

‘How is she?' Ben whispers, peering over the Moses basket.

‘The health visitor says that we should talk normally around her so that she gets used to sleeping with noise.' Nicola screws up her nose. ‘But right now I'm just grateful that she'll sleep. I'm willing to live in a soundproof vacuum if it means I get four clear hours.'

Ben grins and turns back to her. ‘Dig the leggings, by the way, Nic. You aiming for a tie-dye design?'

Nicola pulls a face and covers the stains with the quilt. ‘What's in the bag?'

He sits at the foot of the bed on the floor and upturns the carrier. ‘New mum treasure.'

Indeed, tumbling from the bag are two packets of strawberry laces, gummy bears, a three-pack of Creme Eggs, a chocolate frog and a large tub of luxury-looking bath gel with an exotic label.

Nicola smiles for the first time today. It feels stiff on her cheeks. ‘Oh my God, Ben. This is brilliant.'

He smiles sheepishly. ‘I thought you could have a long soak in the bath, eat Creme Eggs and strawberry laces while I sit in here and watch my favourite newborn. I might get some revision done if she'll let me.' He pats his backpack where she can just about see the corner of a textbook.

The thought of relaxing under warm bubbles is suddenly too much for her. And to both of their embarrassment, tears glow in her eyes. She brushes them away.

‘That's so nice. What did I do to deserve you?'

He shrugs and lies back on the floor, his hands crossed behind his head. ‘It's what you're going to do afterwards that I'm more interested in.'

Immediately she says. ‘I'm not giving her up for adoption.' She hears her voice swell out of her control.

Ben sits up quickly, his face pale and shocked. ‘I wouldn't suggest that, you idiot. Never. She's yours now.' He nods over to the Moses basket. ‘And she belongs to you. You obviously love her. Anyway, I wouldn't let you. She's fast becoming my
favourite person under a metre long.'

Tension slides out of the room as quickly as it filled it.

‘What then?' Nicola sighs, still wary, her hand squeezing the bath gel.

Ben screws up his eyes. ‘Just my little plan to get you out of here.'

Nicola's knees tremble slightly. She's not been out of the house since she got home from the hospital and the thought makes her feel physically sick.

An hour and a half later, Nicola stands at the front door. It has been a military-style operation getting Eliza ready for her first outing. Nicola doesn't know what the baby will need. Between them, she and Ben have bundled the drowsy baby into a padded babygrow made for outdoors. It had, along with most of her clothes, been donated by well-meaning services or friends of the family. Her mother had scowled at the packages as they'd arrived through the door. Nicola remembered feeling bewildered by how much stuff there was. She couldn't understand how a baby needed so many things. Only as they packed a bag with nappies and bottles, a changing mat and wet wipes, did she start to understand. With a baby you have to plan for every eventuality. Even Ben seemed taken aback.