Torchwood First Born (3 page)

I tried earwigging, but caught only the odd word and then realised it was petering out, gently fading into English as people noticed me and Rhys. I heard
baban
a few times, though. That was one word I knew. I wondered... was it Anwen they were talking about?

Rhys settled us around a table sticky with spilt beer. Sat across from us were two men called Josh and Tom who were grinning nervously in that 'hello, I am going to try and make friends with you' way that people do.

Interesting.

What the hell were these two doing in the middle of Nowhere, North Wales? Tom was tiny, with red hair that went everywhere and Josh was so poised even his teeth looked ironed. He was also...

'Indian,' said Josh, catching my look, which made me feel bad. They were advertising for some diversity, and they got a gay Indian.'

'Who was born in New Zealand,' put in Tom happily.

'Right,' I said. 'But what made you come here?'

'Oh...' Josh squeezed Tom's shoulder. 'We met on a night out in Swansea. I said, 'Take me to paradise," and he brought me here...' Josh sighed. 'I would have settled for one grubby night of passion in a Travelodge. But sadly it wasn't to be.'

'I work here,' admitted Tom awkwardly.

'I raise our cat and do some really disastrous things to ladies' hair in the nearest town. Not for money. It's just a hobby.' Josh leant over and poked Rhys in the gut. 'Get us some drinks, big fella.'

'Oh, right.' Rhys started to slouch to the bar.

'And yes, we will be talking about you,' Tom called after him.

Rhys steered almost unconsciously towards a young woman wearing a leopard-print micro-skirt and a denim jacket. She was looking up at the old television, and carefully not paying any attention to Rhys. God love you, girl, I thought, you're so bloody obvious. Luckily, I'd trained Rhys well and he barely cast her a glance.

Josh played with Anwen, while Tom kept an impressive amount of distance. He looked at me apologetically. 'Sorry, Gwen, I'm just terrified I'd break her. It is a her, yeah?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Would you like to hold her?'

Tom shook his head hurriedly.

Josh glanced up from hypnotising Anwen with his fingers. 'Don't take offence, Gwen. Tom's clumsy.

He can't make toast without breaking eggs.'

Tom said, That's not true. I mowed the lawn.'

'And won't stop going on about it.' Josh held up Anwen and stared into her eyes. 'So, Rhys says your mummy was a policewoman.'

Did he, now? 'Yeah. But I have given up my life of fighting crime. For the moment. You know...'

Tom fished out a phone and started fiddling with it. He caught my glance. 'Oh, no reception for me either. Bloody rubbish, isn't it? I've got used to that, but I refuse to give up Angry Birds.' He was soon immersed in it while Josh and I played with Anwen.

We talked on. Rhys brought over the drinks. I sipped at a lime and soda. Rhys drank his pint like he was an 8-year-old chugging juice. Despite myself, I was having trouble staying awake. Yawn after yawn crept out from behind my hands, but I made a game effort to look as wide awake as possible. Tonight was kind of fun, really, but I was just so tired and the room was so dark.

People came and stopped by the table. I felt a bit like I was being paid court to. But it was mostly Anwen. There was Mrs Harries, a nice lady of a certain age who ran a small school ('But we won't be seeing you for a good few years, will we, young lady?'

she said to Anwen, which just about summed Mrs Harries up). A young couple drifted in - the kind of people that reminded me of folks from :he Valleys come to Cardiff for a nose round the shopping centre

- tall Davydd in sports gear and wet-look hair gel who stared at the ground, and a girl called Sasha who claimed to be a victim of Josh's hair stylings.

She didn't stop at the table long, and seemed a bit nervous, as though she was intruding, or scared of me.

Sasha went over to the bar, but as far away as she could from the girl in the leopard print. Interesting.

She looked like she was dressed for the Battle of St Mary Street (fought in Cardiff city centre, every weekend). Yet she was sat here on her own, laughing very loudly at whatever was said to her. She glanced in my direction once, and smiled. It was a warning smile. You know the kind I mean - Keep Your Distance, Thanks.

'Odd,' I remarked.

'Nah,' muttered Tom, snicking open a pack of crisps. 'That's just Nerys. She's getting oiled before catching the bus to the Tango.'

'What's the Tango?'

'Winner of the Worst Club In North Wales since 2007,' groaned Josh. 'Full of puking teenagers, farmers having a mid-life crisis and Nerys. She's been a fixture longer than the pole-dancing pole.'

'Do not ask.' Tom helped himself to a handful of crisps and returned to Angry Birds.

I turned to Rhys, who was on his second pint and as genial as the Buddha. 'This is where you spend your evenings?'

He shrugged. 'Beats the caravan.'

'Everything beats the caravan.'

I heard a ker-click and a flicker at the corner of my retina. 'Did someone just take a picture of us?' I asked. The table shrugged. I was worried - who and why? Had Rhys and I been recognised?

'You're celebrities,' grinned Tom, opening a fresh packet of crisps (where did he put it all?).

'Really?'

'Nothing ever happens here,' Josh sighed. 'Imagine how they reacted when I first turned up!' He pointed to the deep tan of his face. 'First time they'd ever seen wheelie luggage.'

I had to go to the bathroom to feed Anwen. It was the last thing I felt like doing in a roomful of strangers. I set up my stall - it's a long and complicated business, made worse by the clothes. If men had to breastfeed there'd be something practical and shaping with lots of useful zips. As it is, you end up spending endless daydreaming hours cooking up a fetching dungaree-blouse-cardigan number. I unbuckled and plugged Anwen in, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I looked tired. And so fat. Like a whale. Like a whale in jeans with an elasticated waist. They were the highlight of my pregnancy and I wasn't giving them up. Not until I'd miraculously shed all the extra pounds. I kept on telling myself it was just milk, but I suspected my sudden addiction to oven chips in the last few months of pregnancy was something to do with it.

'You don't mind having a fat mummy, do you?' I asked Anwen, but she just glared back at me, mildly annoyed that I was talking to her while she fed.

Anwen took after her dad - she did a great frown at the tiniest interruption when she was eating.

I kept thinking that I'd be able to go jogging, or down the gym or... I dunno. Eat something fresh.

Part of Anwen's Loving Tyranny meant that our baby was looked after in luxury and care while her servants ate out of tins. I was desperate for a spot of freedom or a fresh vegetable. Not on the horizon in the near future.

The bathroom itself was one of those chilly pub toilets that was bolted on as a breeze-block afterthought. A cistern dripped and clicked annoyingly. Anwen opened her eyes and frowned at it.

The door opened, and Sasha came in. I met her eyes. 'Hiya!' I said.

She'd frozen. Well, come on, luv, it's just a bit of boob, surely it's not a trauma.

'Oh,' she said.

'Yeah?' I sounded ruder than I meant to. I felt a bit self-conscious - this thin young woman staring boggle-eyed at my breast. Not even hiding it, just gawping. 'What's up?' I asked her. I could feel myself start to flush with embarrassment, but then thought,
No, stand your ground.

Sasha nodded absently, but continued to gawp.

Something wasn't right.

Then I realised. It wasn't me she was looking at. She was staring at Anwen, riveted. 'What's her name?' she asked haltingly.

I told her, and she repeated Anwen's name a couple of times. Then she leaned forward. 'She's so tiny,' she said.

I agreed with her. Thing you learn about being a mother - people say a lot of dumb stuff to you. My little darling has been called everything. I've heard her referred to as 'quite the little madam', or just-like-her-dad (because that's Rhys, under a foot long and hairless). So Sasha cooing over my baby seemed somehow a bit more normal.

Only she didn't then go and have a pee, or tidy her make-up or anything. She just kept staring at Anwen, talking to her, which since Anwen was still clamped to my breast was a bit... I mean, odd.

I disengaged madam gently, and fastened myself up, trying not to make a thing of it. Momentarily thwarted from her all-u-can-eat milk buffet, Anwen hiccupped out a couple of cries, her frowning face threatening worse to come. I was having none of it, and swiftly eyeballed her, but Sasha was genuinely upset.

Is she all right? She seems so sad, so sad...' And a hand reached out to try and comfort my daughter.

No,
I thought. There was just something about Sasha. Wrong. A feeling I got off her. Instinctively, I pulled Anwen back, and Sasha's hand froze.

'I just wanted to touch her,' she implored. Madly, tears formed in her eyes. 'Can I touch her? Please?'

It was an awkward moment - both of us kind of poised, the baby in between us like we were King Solomon's Wives. More than anything,
anything,
I wasn't going to let her touch my baby. I broke away, gathering up my little stall as Sasha started to babble.

'She looks so lovely.' She was wistful. 'And she smells so wonderful.'

'Yeah, milk and vomit,' I said lightly, but just wanting to get out of there.

Sasha stared at me. 'Oh no! She smells just lovely.'

I nodded to her, ignored the plaintive tone in her voice, and went back out to the lounge. Weird.

A bloke at the bar said, 'Let me get you a drink.'

That hasn't happened to me for ages — sometimes, when I was a copper, I'd get strange men offering to buy me drinks at bars all the time. Likely boys. You know how it is.

This guy was young. He looked familiar - oh, of course, Sasha's boyfriend, wasn't he? He was looking at me with puppy-dog eyes. Mid-twenties, stubbly sideburns, thin as a rake, tracksuit hanging off him like he was made of coat hangers. He was smiling at me. I noticed everyone else was still looking at me a bit warily - Strangers In Town. So I gave him a smile back. Warm and welcoming.

'Davydd, isn't it?'

'Yeah.' His breath was a bit beery and he was grinning widely. 'What would you like? Must be great to go out on the lash again,' he said.

'Just a lime and soda,' I said to him, firmly. 'Still breastfeeding, so I can't really drink. Not without a stopwatch and a calculator. No idea when that'll end. Can't wait to get pissed.'

The barmaid handed me the drink. As she did so, she said, 'Well, I hope you're not using the bottle yet, are you?' And then she stared at me. Clearly expecting a response.

I found this frankly unwelcome. Maybe I should have been used to it, but I wasn't. Oh, lordy. The thing I'd never expected about pregnancy and motherhood was that utter strangers would offer you advice. Including their own infallible solution to the Da Vinci Code that is breastfeeding.

'Er...' I began.

Then someone else butted in. 'No offence, but she looks a little overweight, if you don't mind me saying.'

The barmaid nodded. 'They do say that can happen.' She flashed me a sympathetic look. 'But I've heard it soon shifts when they move onto solids...

She's not on solids yet, is she?'

'I, ah...'

An old guy looked up from his pint. 'Mind you don't let her sleep on her side, that's all I'm saying.'

'What?' If I sounded angry, no one noticed.

'Oh no, Ifor, it's sleeping on the front you've got to be careful of. Pay no attention to him, my dear.'

And on it went. Madness. Finally sensing my discomfort, Davydd firmly picked up our drinks and gestured towards the distant table. We glided through the bar, and I flushed slightly at the attention we were getting.

'What the hell was that?' I hissed at him. 'I take it you don't get many strangers here, then?'

He shook his head, puppyish again. 'No, no, not many visitors,' he said. 'And none with babies. Not for a long time You're very special, Gwen.'

'Really?' I was surprised. The one thing you can practically guarantee about North Wales is that every bus is chocka with young mums on missions.

'Not so many babies here, no,' said Davydd. He looked at me oddly.

So that was our first evening out in Rawbone.

A few friends. A couple of odd close encounters. A slight air of mystery. Nothing dangerous. But a lot that should have told me something was wrong. If I hadn't been so damn tired.

A few days later, I nipped into the village shop all by myself. It was a bright day and I just had to grab some coffee. That was the excuse, but I felt like a bit of fresh air and proving my independence - hush now, sauntering a quarter of a mile down the road and back felt like a major achievement. The street was empty, so I left Anwen parked up outside in her pram and dashed in. The woman behind the counter beamed at me.

'Good morning, Mrs Meredith,' I said politely.

'We've got nappies now!' she bellowed excitedly.

'Right,' I said.

'Do you want to see the nappies?' she urged, like she had a missing reel of the Zapbruder footage.

'Oh, it's OK,' I replied. 'I'm just after some coffee, really.'

The woman's face fell. 'We got them in specially for you.'

I bought a jar of instant and some nappies. She also pressed a newspaper on me.

'Says here there's an increased risk of cervical cancer if you drink caffeine while you're breastfeeding.

You're not planning on doing that, are you, my love?'

I was tempted to ask her for a can of Red Bull.

When I left the shop, Sasha was standing, crouched over the pram, holding Anwen. It's that whole and-this-is-why-you-should-never-leave-your-baby moment. Startled, she flushed with guilt, but she didn't say anything. I couldn't say anything. There weren't words. We just stood, looking at each other.

Sasha held Anwen to her, then steadily uncurled her.

'She was crying,' she said simply, tears pouring down her hot cheeks as she babbled away. 'I was just passing, I just wanted to make sure she was all right...' She rested her down in the pram, tucking the blanket around her.