‘Do you want a bottle?’ He looked down into her face and she smiled up at him. ‘A little walk around then a nice bottle and back to bed. Is that right?’ The smile became a tiny crow of pleasure. For a few minutes he carried her round the room then set her on the settee and went into the kitchen to make the bottle.
Before she had finished it her eyes were closing. Peter rocked the bottle and when for a whole minute she failed to suck he eased the teat from her lips. Instantly her eyes opened and prepared to fill with tears. Quickly he popped the bottle back. Having got what she wanted, Daisy gave a couple of half-hearted sucks and closed her eyes contentedly.
Peter’s eyes were closing too. He was drifting on the edge of sleep when Daisy gave a little fart. His eyes snapped open. A faint but unmistakable smell drifted to his nostrils.
‘Oh, no, Daisy,’ he said. ‘Not already.’
He had a look; the smell drifted away. Only wind. But how, he wondered, could a baby who looked so sweet have such a messy digestive system? He kissed her wispy hair. She smelled of milk, and baby shampoo, and just baby. He shifted her to a comfortable position in the crook of his arm and settled against the cushions to wait until she was fast asleep. Then he would carry her back upstairs and crawl into bed himself. He felt he could sleep for a week.
The room was still. Through slit eyes Ben regarded the pair on the settee. They did not stir. He gave a sigh and went back to sleep. The clock struck four. Then the quarters. And five. Peter did not hear it.
A wet patch on the leg of his pyjamas roused him at twenty to six. Daisy lay sleeping against his side. The hand holding the bottle had fallen into his lap. Drip by drip the milk, warm and then cold, had soaked into his trousers.
The room was warm. Surprised he had fallen asleep at all, let alone for two hours with Daisy on his arm, he eased her aside and stood up. His trousers felt horrible. He peeled them off, holding the wet patch away from his skin, and threw them into the wash, then wiped his leg with the dish cloth and found a clean pair in the drying cupboard.
Daisy was sound asleep. He made himself a cup of tea, took a couple of biscuits from the packet and ate them beside the electric fire. Where, he wondered, were Valerie and Matt at that moment? Why had they left in the middle of the night without waking him?
The clock struck six. His eyes were closing again. Daisy did not wake as he carried her upstairs and laid her in her carrycot. Then Peter crawled into bed and pulled the duvet to his chin. The room was dark. The only sound was the soft rush of wind in the eaves. Gratefully he closed his eyes. Within a minute he was asleep.
But not for long. An hour later he was awakened by a familiar sound. Daisy was demanding attention.
The day passed slowly. There was a lot to do, though when he thought back he seemed to have done nothing at all.
First, second and third there was Daisy. She had to be fed, and changed, and walked, and amused, and comforted, and bathed, and picked up, and set down, and picked up again, and checked when she was sleeping. Her bottles had to be sterilised. Her clothes and towels and blankets had to be washed and hung out to dry, then brought in again when it started to rain and hung over the clothes horse.
He had to wash some of his own clothes too – though Valerie’s washing and Matt’s dirty socks and underwear, left strewn about the bedroom, he kicked into a corner. He had to clean out the fire and bring in peats and keep the house warm. He had to feed the dogs and let Buster loose to run about the living room, but make sure he went nowhere near the baby. He had to prepare his own meals, and get rid of the kitchen waste, and clean the house, which since Matt’s arrival had got into a mess. He had to feed the sheep.
This created a problem. He could not take Daisy on the tractor or in the bumpy trailer, he needed the van. And the van, he supposed, was at the quarry where Matt and Valerie had left it. A baby, he knew, should never be left unattended but there seemed no alternative. So in the early afternoon, when she was sleeping soundly, he treble-checked that everything was safe – the fire low and the guard in place, the carrycot on the settee with no cushions above it, Daisy on her back with the blanket not too near her face, the cooker and electric fire switched off, the bathroom heater also switched off, and all the lights and taps – then he shut the door and drove quickly on the tractor to the end of the track.
As luck would have it, he reached the quarry just as Bunny was turning from the road in her new green Land Rover, instantly recognisable by the multicoloured dragon she had painted along one side and the flight of parrots on the other. She waved for him to stop.
It was the very last thing he wanted. Reluctantly he halted at the stony entrance.
‘Hello there, Peter.’ She drew up alongside. ‘Fetching the van back?’
‘Yeah.’ He called down from his iron seat. ‘Valerie’s boyfriend went off in his lorry and we need it back at the house.’
‘Didn’t she go too? The lorry woke me up at some unearthly hour and I thought I saw her at the gate.’ Bunny crossed to speak to him, thrusting her hands deeply into the pockets of a corduroy parka. ‘What about the baby? Did Valerie take her along or is your dad looking after her? What’s her name again?’
‘Daisy.’ He hesitated. ‘Er – dad’s looking after her.’
Her lively Jack Russell, with a patch over one eye, followed her to the tractor and lifted his leg against the big rear wheel.
‘Get out of it, Jasper.’ She waved a threatening arm and the dog, who knew he was perfectly safe, trotted away. ‘Your dad’s looking after her then. I’m sure she couldn’t be in better hands.’
Peter searched for something to say. ‘Yeah, he’s good with her, feeds her and changes her and everything.’
‘I’m sure he does. Well, he had to bring up you and your sister, didn’t he. Long time ago now, of course.’
It wasn’t something Peter had thought about. ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘How’s he keeping anyway?’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen him for ever so long. Not since Christmas, I should think. Not since the heavy snow.’
‘He’s fine thanks. Just busy with the sheep. Some of last year’s lambs still out on the hill.’
‘So everything’s all right? He’s always been a private man, I realise that, not one to drop in, but I used to see him maybe a couple of times a week. You know, off and on. Just driving past or in the shop or somewhere. These days I never seem to see him at all.’
‘You must have just missed him, he’s around the same as always.’ Peter had never been pressed like this, never told quite as many lies. His cheeks burned. ‘We’re all OK, really.’
She searched his face. ‘I’m not one to poke my nose in, you know that, it’s just that I’ve been a little worried about the three of you out there – the four of you, I suppose I should say. You driving up and down. Your sister having her baby in all that snow, and now going off with her boyfriend in his enormous lorry. Your dad never around. I mean,’ she searched for the words, ‘I do understand he has a little trouble from time to time with – well, you know. It’s not his fault, I’m not criticising. Something like that’s happened to so many of our young soldiers who were sent out there into the desert. All those pills and injections they had. I was just hoping things hadn’t got any worse. Wondering if maybe there wasn’t something I could do to help.’
He shook his head. ‘No, honestly, Dad’s fine. I’ll tell him you were asking.’
Bunny wasn’t happy about it, but when Peter and Valerie were so fiercely independent there was little she could do. ‘Well, if I can help in any way, any way at all, you’ve just got to let me know.’
She stood back.
‘Thanks very much.’ The engine had been ticking over. Peter engaged first gear and eased the throttle forward. ‘Bye.’
‘You’re my closest neighbours,’ she called above the roar of the engine. ‘That’s what neighbours are for.’
He didn’t reply and drove off into the quarry, avoiding fallen rocks and splashing throug
h the puddles. The van stood beneath a crag, close to where Matt had parked his lorry, hidden from the road. Peter stopped in his usual spot and jumped down. The tractor was old and so well-known that no one would steal it, so he left the key in the ignition for Valerie and Matt when they returned.
Jasper was hunting the quarry for rabbits. Bunny called and he scampered back. The door of the Land Rover banged shut. Peter heard it turn and descend the track to Three Pines.
The van was unlocked. Daisy’s pretty car seat, decorated with flowers and lambs, had been thrown into the back. He rescued it from the debris and dirt and dried-out spillage. Valerie had hidden the key under the mat although he’d brought the spare key just in case. He settled himself and pulled the door shut. It bounced back open. He slammed it hard. The door stayed shut.
The van rocked along the track which after the severe weather was in a worse state than ever. In ten minutes he was home. The dogs met him with swirling tails and they went into the house together.
Daisy lay as he had left her, only now she was awake. Contentedly she gazed up at the tasselled lampshade and a brightly-coloured picture of animals in the jungle which Peter had painted in school and Jim had pinned to the wall.
He washed his hands and bent to pick her up. As his face appeared before her, Daisy’s eyes brightened and she gave a delighted gummy smile. Peter smiled back, it was impossible not to, and hoisted her to his shoulder.
35
Sick Baby
THEN IT WAS Thursday. Late afternoon, Valerie had said. What did that mean – four o’clock? Five? Eight? Maybe they wouldn’t get back that night. At least, Peter thought, if that was going to happen she would phone this time.
The morning passed, a repeat of Wednesday. He made lunch. The afternoon drew on. The wind was rising and had got beneath a corner of the byre roof, making it rattle. He climbed a ladder and hammered a couple of nails through the rusted metal, knocking the ends over to grip. It wasn’t a permanent job but with luck it should hold for the time being. At three he strapped Daisy into her car seat and went to feed the hungry sheep. When he returned he picked up the receiver and dialled 1571. There was still no message.
Should he make dinner for himself, he wondered, or wait a couple of hours so they could all eat together? Perhaps they would eat on the way up. There was no way of knowing. He took a family-size pizza from the deep freeze, grated extra cheese on top, decorated it with sardines cut lengthways and set it on a baking tray ready to put in the oven.
The hours passed. At six he gave Daisy her bath, holding her as Valerie had shown him and was described in Baby’s First Six Months, the book he had bought in Clashbay. It was written for men as well as women. Peter had no hang-ups about looking after his little niece but it was reassuring to see the illustrations of dads with dark stubble and hairy forearms feeding and bathing their babies. His own hands were tanned and sported a couple of scabs from his work with the sheep. He fastened the clean nappy and dressed her for the night in her vest and Babygro. Then he gave Daisy her evening feed and set her down to sleep.
When Valerie and Matt had not arrived by seven he was hungry and made some tea and toast. When they were not there by eight, he cut a large wedge from the pizza and put it in the oven.
At nine Daisy began to cry. He went to see what was wrong. Her nose was runny. She needed changing again.
‘Sshhh!’ he said comfortingly. ‘That’s all right. Who’s a good little girl? Come on, let’s go downstairs.’
It was soon done but Daisy continued crying and had started a little cough. He walked the carpet, talking to her softly, patted her on the back, sat at the table, sang ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ and ‘Morningtown Ride’ which Jim used to sing to him, and slowly she was comforted. He returned to the bedroom. Her eyes were closed, she seemed to be asleep. Gently he lowered her into the carrycot. Abruptly her eyes opened and she began crying again.
‘Oh, dear!’ He was getting impatient. ‘What’s wrong with you tonight? You’re not normally like this.’
He carried her back downstairs and made a bottle but she didn’t want it. Where, he wondered, swearing aloud, was her bloody mother? She should be here caring for her baby, not him. Running out of ideas, he turned on the TV with the sound switched off, and sank into a corner of the settee. For another ten minutes, as he nursed her and murmured softly, the crying continued. Slowly it grew less. With flushed cheeks and tearful eyes she looked into his face and twisted aside. What was she feeling, he wondered, what terrible distress? ‘Who’s my best girl?’ he murmured, much as he would talk to the dogs. ‘Yes.’ He wiped away drools with a tea towel. She gave a burp and milk spilled down her chin. He mopped it up and set the towel aside. Was this what had been troubling her all along? Just wind? Whatever it was, Daisy relaxed and within two or three minutes was asleep.
For a while, still holding her, Peter dared not move then crept forward to collect the TV control. He switched on the sound. Deafening gunfire blasted through the room. Frantically he lowered the volume and looked down into the baby’s face. She had not stirred.
At eleven he made her comfortable in the carrycot and went to bed.
At three she woke him with her crying. He made her a bottle.
At six she needed changing.
At eight he was woken by Ben who came upstairs and nudged him because he needed to go outside.
‘Oh, no, Ben. Go away.’ He pulled the duvet over his head.
Ben raked at him with a big paw.
‘Ohhh!’ Peter pushed back the bedclothes. Ben’s whiskery face was right beside him. Bright sunlight illuminated the curtains. ‘All right, give me a second. I’m coming.’
Ben jumped up, both paws on the mattress, and nuzzled him with a wet nose. A slobbery tongue licked him on the jaw.
Peter pushed him off.
Abruptly he remembered – had they returned? In a moment he was across the cold floor. A glance told him they had not. The bedroom door stood as he had left it. He pushed it wide. The tumbled bed was unoccupied.
It struck him like a blow. For a third day he was being left to look after Daisy on his own. All Wednesday, all Thursday and now Friday. He could manage, somehow he would have to, but where were they? He didn’t have Matt’s mobile number. Didn’t know the name of his employer. Didn’t, when he came to think of it, even know his surname. There was no way, no way at all, to get in touch with them. All he could do was wait until they turned up, or at least made a phone call. Perhaps they had rung during the night. He ran downstairs but there was no message.
Disconsolately he let the dogs out and trailed back to the bedroom. Before the day had properly started he felt wretched. The carrycot stood on his bedroom chair out of the draughts. Daisy stirred and made little baby sounds. She was about to start crying again and when he picked her up she did. He sat on the edge of the bed. The house was cold, he’d have to set the fire. He had tried to keep her warm but she was coughing and her nose was streaming. Her nappy needed changing yet again. Then she would want her morning feed. It was never-ending. He pulled his pyjama jacket to his throat. Where were they?
At that moment the charred remains of Valerie and Matt, what was left of them, lay three hundred and fifty miles away in the mortuary of the Royal Infirmary in Dumfries. Since that was the region in which the accident had occurred, that was where they had been taken. The car was completely burned out. The police had traced the owner through the number on the chassis. They knew the car had been stolen. No one had any idea who the occupants were.
Peter guessed that Daisy had caught Matt’s cold. It developed quickly. The runny nose of Thursday had become a river of snot. He wiped it away but twenty minutes later there it was again, hanging from her nostrils. When she sniffed it disappeared back up, and when she coughed it shot down over her mouth. It made him feel sick.
The stiff breeze of Thursday had become a gale that rattled the windows and whirled stalks of hay around the yard. The forecast was for worse to come.
He was outside preparing the sheep feed when faintly above the noise of the wind he caught the sound of the telephone. He raced back to the house and snatched up the receiver. ‘Yes?’
But it wasn’t Valerie, it was Gerry, a good friend from school. ‘Hi, Winnie. How’s things?’
‘Fine.’ Peter masked his disappointment.
‘Listen, Charlie just rang to say there’s a game this afternoon. A bit windy but it’ll be good fun. Are you coming?’
‘Dunno if I can.’
‘Ah, come on. It’s that lot from Brathy. The team needs you.’
‘I’ve got to give a hand with the sheep.’
‘Can’t you do it this morning? Without you we’ll be a man short. We’ll have to ask Fat Ally to stand in.’
‘Sorry. I’ll come if I can but I really can’t promise.’
‘Ah, mate.’ Gerry was disappointed. ‘Hey, what’s that I can hear in the background? That your sister’s baby?’
Daisy was crying at the top of her lungs in the living room.
‘Yeah. I thought it was her on the phone – Valerie, I mean.’
‘You looking after the kid on your own?’
‘Course not, dad’s here. That’s why I’ve got to help.’
‘Poor you, sounds a right pain. Our Morag – you know, my wee sister – she never stopped. Wah, wah, wah! Drove me nuts.’
The morning dragged and the afternoon was no better. When he tried to give Daisy her midday feed, she was fretful and cried. It was hard to suck because she couldn’t breathe through her nose. After a while he gave up the struggle and nursed her until at last she fell asleep again. He snatched a quick lunch of baked beans then loaded the van and battled through the wind to feed the sheep. By the time he had done a couple of jobs about the yard, daylight was fading.
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