by Nicola Baird
“That was a very bad decision.
“Do you know how much worse the airport has become? The toilets are unspeakable, the heat insupportable, the snack food unbearable and the police invisible. Luckily the local bank branch was open though, so I managed to get some dollars out, but I can't tell you how hard it was to fill in my pass book at the same time as holding a, by now shrieking, baby and my own well-stuffed basket.” Here Ewan nods, he clearly knows something about childcare.
“By the time I'd sorted myself out the flight had landed, the passengers deplaned and all the taxis waiting outside been snatched up. I felt dizzy with heat and confusion, so walked past the war memorial and over to the shade of the big trees by the roadside, waiting for transport, any transport to get me back to Honiara. Never have I wanted to get back to my Honiara house so much. And of course no transport came: not a truck nor a car to cadge a lift from; not a bus to squeeze into; not a taxi to collapse in. Nothing. Nothing until the cicadas started up, just around dusk - about the time when I thought my ears would fall off with the screams of this bundled baby-beast - when, joys, a taxi I recognised came heading down the road. It was Fred's (you know the guy who took me up to the river one time with his family) so I thought, things are improving. But didn't stop. In fact he damn nearly ran me over.
“Anyway, I did get rescued in the end, by one of the late evening buses taking a bunch of CDC rascal types into town for a wild night of partying. They all grinned hideously at me (me, being the only woman on board) but the baby - for the first time - played a kind of useful "protective" role (obviously I "belonged" to someone, who'd "given" me a child and therefore they were forced to be on their best behaviour).
“Back in town I went straight to the hospital's outpatients and asked how to feed a baby. The nurse was very surprised to see such a little thing in my arms and asked me where he had come from. Well I knew it was a he now, but I didn't like to say what had happened, so I just said that it's mother had no milk and had asked me to take him down to Number Nine Hospital and get the right formula. This led to a quizzing session on the dangers of homebirths (!) followed up by a lengthy lecture on why breast was best (I'm sure you agree). Oh yes, and why milk powder spoils kids, sometimes even kills them. The way I felt then - completely knackered - I was actually prepared to agree to anything. But eventually the nurse (she’s a friend of your’s isn’t she?) let me go home with some kind of milk mix and an appointment for "mother" and child at the clinic tomorrow, to check up on weight etc. Forget the baby's weight, all I want is it's parents.
“You have no idea how difficult it is to sleep when this slip of a thing starts off. Imagine 1,000 mosquitoes droning, the soundtrack from Apocalypse Now on full blast, oh yes, and rats crawling over your face and you still have -nth of the volume and distraction of a baby. Maybe its just this particular baby, angry at being abandoned ...
From the bedroom comes a cry as sharp as a baby parrot. Someone else has woken up.
“What’s that I hear?” asks Ewan, “are you organising fresh meat for your goodbye barbie?”
“Oh ha ha. That’s my baby. Um, are you able to help me? I really don’t know how to feed him…”
Within seconds he had mixed up some formula, using sterilised equipment, and managed to soothe the baby by getting some milk into it's belly.
“They obviously train you for everything at VSO's London HQ,” says Suzy genuinely impressed as Ewan begins to burp the baby.
“Babies are lovely,” he says with a wide grin, “but, no offence Suzy, they need their mothers. What are you planning to do, because you don’t seem to have a clue how to look after him?”
Suzy looks at her baby with something close to love. This isn't some invisible foetus which has spirited itself into her body through a moment of idiotic carelessness. This is a warm, cuddly body she’s holding in her arms, with wise-looking eyes occasionally blinking up at her.
“He’s a lost child isn’t he, and the one positive thing he has at the moment is me. Either I keep him as a souvenir…” Ewan raises his eyebrows, no doubt horrified by Suzy’s sudden sentimentality, “or I get myself down to the police station and explain my problem to them. The boys in blue should sort me out. You can see I’m confused - just how did I get to be the one who was given a baby on a bus?
“Well, that’s what you need to find out. But one tip,” says Ewan standing up to leave. “When you get to the police station summarise, you don’t need to tell them your story in quite so much detail. Keep it real, don’t use real time…”
***
Solomons & Vanuatu Field Office, PO Box 1026, Honiara, Solomon Islands
The Prime Minister
Office of the Prime Minister
PO Box G1
Honiara
Solomon Islands
Dear Sir
Re: VISA APPLICATION EXTENSION
One of my VSO colleagues has been unlucky and had her visa withdrawn after a misunderstanding. It would be a great help if you could consider looking into this as Suzanne Trevillion has many skills to share with counterparts at King George VI College. Many apologies for having to bother you when your office is so busy hosting the Oceanic round of ACP talks.
Yours sincerely
EWAN REAVER
(stamped over it IGNORE with Solomon Islands stamp)
CHAPTER 22: LIFE AIN’T EASY ANYMORE
SUZY COULDN'T BELIEVE how long it took to get out of her house with a baby around. The first time she thought she was ready, just after Ewan had gone and the little one had a clean nappy and a full stomach she'd picked him up (perhaps a bit roughly) and he'd instantly been sick down her shirt. Off went the shirt, unceremoniously dumped behind the door ready for the lady-in-waiting (ie, Suzy) to come back and wash it.
Suzy pulled a new T-shirt over her head, picked up the wriggly baby and purposely moved towards the door wondering why there's now a terrible smell.
The stink is overpowering. Suzy puts the baby down and - surprise, surprise - the smell goes. Using her nose like a dog she sniffs the air. It's not in the air. She moves towards the baby and the smell grows worse - warm, warmer, hot. No! Yup, that's right, the baby has just spoilt its new nappy. The nurse at the hospital had given her five terry towels and they're now all dirty. Carrying the child, who is gurgling contentedly despite her ineptness, Suzy rummages through her cupboard - or the shelf that masquerades as a cupboard - looking critically at her clothes for possible nappy conversion. There is a silk scarf that sentiment cannot let her part with. There is a shirt she could use as a nappy, but then again she'd rather not. She looks again - what about that old yellow T-shirt? Yes that's what she'll use, and she does. It is only after the strangely shaped nappy is firmly pinned into place that Suzy remembers Dan had given it to her. Well it's too late now to worry - looking at her watch she sees that trying to leave the house has taken her nearly half an hour from the time she first picked up the baby intent on finding him his real mother.
The third attempt at an exit is successful. But the walk towards the nearest police station is a nightmare. The equatorial sun suddenly seems relentless and she is frightened that such a young baby will overheat. Reorganisation involves holding the baby away from her body (to let some air circulate?) as well as opening up the umbrella, sensibly brought in case it rained, then holding it above the child's head at an uncomfortable 45 degree angle. Everything seems to be happening on the right-hand side of her body and poor Suzy feels as if she's going to overbalance any minute. Nothing had prepared her for the heaviness of a 3.25 kilo newborn, or the way - when he wakes up - this tiny thing can wave both arms around which, to Suzy's embarrassment, look like a serious cry for rescue from his imposter foster mother. By the time the pair reach the police station Suzy is feeling a bit more upbeat - this is her chance to get rid of the child she never wanted in the first place. Thank god there's no blood ties, again she runs through the logical reasons for dumping him: it's not hers, she doesn't want a baby, it doesn't like h
er enough.
The policeman takes a different view.
"So you're reporting a lost baby then," says the officer with undisguised contempt - he hasn't even bothered to look up from his Solomon Star, beyond noticing that there is a woman wearing a big shade hat and cradling a small baby in the station. Obviously yet another girl trying to dump her kid after her boyfriend's dumped her. Women - they're all the same, no sense. He writes in the corner of the form: "Domestic dispute, reported 11.10am. No follow up needed."
Suzy is not put off by the man’s tone. But she is annoyed to know that this officer hasn't bothered to look up from the football results he's blatantly also reading whilst talking at her.
"Have you heard me? This baby is motherless. What are you going to do?" Suzy speaks in the hard tone of an angry white woman stamping her feet at officialdom. Such insolence from a woman surprises the policeman so much he looks up, and to his horror sees a white Mrs on the other side of the counter.
With any other woman, on any other day he'd probably apologise, talk about her excellent Pijin skills, or complement her on something or other, then fill in the (inevitable) road traffic accident form. But today things are different. For a start she's got a red-skinned pikinini in her arms and she's obviously lying about it being a local kid. Secondly he doesn't like her attitude at all.
"If the baby really doesn't have a mother, it's a good thing it's got you."
"Why is it good? I don't know anything at all about babies. I’m an only child!"
"You're a woman."
"So what?"
"Women know about baby stuff."
"That's rubbish, motherhood is not an instinct, it's a skill. Do you have children?"
“Yes, four."
"Well then you know how to look after kids. YOU have the baby."
"Madam, it is against the law to leave unaccompanied minors in this government building. Now I'm going to ask you a few questions. What's your age?"
"Twenty-three."
"Any dependants?"
"None."
"Well then, problem solved." The police officer is obviously triumphant with his trick of wheedling out information. "You're an old woman without a baby. All women need children else they go crazy in the head. You've got yourself a baby, now just keep it, and if you're good I won't tell anyone else about this little matter. You're a nice looking woman, with that pale skin of yours, so you just go back to your man and tell him you're sorry." He folds up the newspaper, signs the report he's already written, tips his hat and goes to leave the counter.
Suzy is outraged.
"Excuse me officer! That's no way to talk. I'm trying to report a lost baby. I'm not old. I’m not the mother and it," she glares venomously at the infant, "was given to me yesterday on the bus down at Tenaru. It's mother may be ill and it's your duty to find her."
The policeman's back is towards her now. But he swings round, angrily.
"Look we don't want anything to do with your domestic dispute. You just go home and sort out this problem with your husband," he thumps his fist on the counter, jowls quivering with rage: "And if I hear anything more about it, I'll be checking up on the validity of your work permit. Now good morning."
Suzy gives up, her eyes smarting. Her head steaming with rage. She walks out of the police station and into the hot sun. What on earth is she going to do now? In a bid to make up her mind she instinctively walks towards the Mendana Hotel. It's close by and a good place to sit with the baby out of the sun. Unthinkingly she walks past the security guards and into the lobby. An apologetic employee stops her.
"Mrs, are you a guest here?"
"Well, no," replies Suzy not quick-thinking enough to say she's waiting for Sappho (her very useful 'mythical' girlfriend).
"Well, I'm sorry, but the management of the Mendana Hotel plc is unable to allow non-residential guests to use the facilities if they are accompanied by a baby."
Suzy stares blankly at him
"You'll have to leave. The exit's this way Mrs."
She nods, it's extraordinary - have a child and doors on your girlhood, doors on your freedom, doors on a life just slam shut. Suzy's so numb now it's impossible to cry. And anyway she's got to be more adult, what with this little baby in her arms, still fortunately lulled asleep by the walkabout. She walks back down the street and towards the Yacht Club. If the management do the same thing to her she can at least tell a journalist friend, and maybe they could do some kind of story about it, or whatever it is journalists are supposed to do. But before she can get to the club's shady compound a dark-coloured dog rushes across the road and up to her feet. He lies down in the dust, backbone on the road, belly uppermost hoping for a tummy tickle from the sympathetic woman which he recognises as living near his house in Mbokonavera, the regular feeder of titbits.
"Rasta! What are you doing here?" Suzy is surprised, and a bit irritated too, the big dog may be friendly but he's also a right nuisance. Now she's obviously also going to have to take him back to his owner to make sure he's not run over dodging the main road traffic. But she's also dying for a long, cool drink of lemonade, oh yes and the chance to buy some more nappies. Giving him a quick pat, she tells the dog to disappear - but does so in such soothing tones, the soft voice of a British dog lover that Rasta gets the real message. He is thrilled, leaps to his feet, shakes the dust from his coat and as Suzy heads for the Yacht Club follows politely at her heels.
Never has a day gone so crazily wrong. That’s why Suzy is not at all surprised when the Yacht Club doorman refuses to let her come into the club.
"Sorry Madam the club has a policy that prohibits dogs."
"He's not my dog."
"Well, Madam the club also has a policy that prohibits the under-ones." He clucks at the baby nestled under her right arm.
"It's not my baby," answers Suzy, remembering the rule that was set up by Australian men to prevent their Solomon girlfriends from embarrassing them with love "by-products" in front of their amused drinking mates. She grinds her teeth in frustration. The doorman, a young guy from Western province, thinks she's joking until he notices the look of tense exhaustion on her face.
"It's all right Madam. Look our club's by-laws are very complicated so I can't let you in, else I'll get fired. But perhaps I can call you a taxi?"
She nods her head dull-wittedly. "But I've got no money."
"That's no problem, you can pay me another time," says the doorman generously. And does just what he offered - hisses up a taxi, opens the door (so stiff from rust that it's not exactly the fluid gesture of the movies) and then helps Suzy and the baby into the back. Rasta, not wishing to be forgotten, jumps through the open window of the front passenger seat – making the horrified driver leap out of his car. He slams the door clearly petrified by dogs. Despite the events of the last hour or so even Suzy can see the funny side of this.
"It's all right. The dog's less crazy than any of us," she says reassuringly. "He doesn't know how to bite. He lives up near my house, so if it's OK with you perhaps we better take him up there too?"
It takes a lot more coaxing, and plenty of sample pats for Rasta - to show off his sweet canine nature - before the driver can be persuaded to return to his own driver's seat. At last Suzy, and her entourage, are being driven back up to her house - never more exhausted or distressed than after the first 24 hours of being a reluctant mother. Her misery is compounded when she discovers there is not even a letter for her, and it's her birthday tomorrow. At least the past few hours have given her a workshop in everything there is to know about the post-baby blues.
***
Note for Head Teacher, Primary School near Heranisi/Panatu, Malaita
Via MV Mali
Father -
I'm sorry to be sending you bad news, but my wife's new baby was born dead. (You do not need to tell mother, the child was another man's baby anyway.) Your sister Anna has been good to us. Her mobs helped me bury the small boy the custom way over at the soldiers graveyard.
/> I am worried about my wife. She was sick before the birth and is worse now. I think it's bad magic. What can I do for her? I am frightened she is going to die as well.
I hope this note finds you and the family all well. Special regards to uncle. May God bless us all.
Henderson
PS I gave our wantok two sacks of rice to take home He is a lazy man so I think you will have to look for them at the beach near where MV Mali anchors. Have finished the store order you wanted (will send on the next boat).
CHAPTER 23: HEART-TO-HEART
THE BIRTHDAY-TO-REMEMBER to be held at the same times as her unwanted goodbye Barbie (or at any rate the party that Suzy had imagined) went badly wrong. Perhaps because it didn’t happen at all. Not that it mattered much: she couldn’t imagine cooking a meal while trying to keep the little guzzleguts topped up with milk. And she couldn’t work out how to carry so much shopping from Consumers Supermarket, and the baby, back to the house via the big market and the fish stall behind Kukum’s Labour Line, even if she took a taxi. Besides, if she stayed at the house she still had faith that the baby’s mother would turn up, confessing to some temporary brainstorm, and reclaim him.
Having a baby to care for was doing something strange to her head. Already Suzy wondered how she'd manage to live alone for so many years - after just three days of bringing up baby she'd kind of got used to the little critter. Yes she hated the way he woke her again and again in the night with his piercing screams of hunger (and perhaps just as likely, abandonment). She could still remember the pleasures of sleeping a full night but those memories were fading, she could cope with jet lag! And weighed against the gifts the child gave: those occasional happy, full, contented, peaceful moments of him drinking or falling asleep drunkenly full with smiles chasing across his sleeping face, were like nothing else. Maybe that was her birthday present - a special dose of maternal instinct from her personal guardian angel?