by Meg Carter
Sweat runs down one side of Alma’s face. Wiping it away, she takes off her coat then shrugs herself free of her jumper. She must leave, she half-decides, impulsively rising to her feet. But where else can she go?
A child’s cry just outside the front door makes her brace.
‘Are you here yet?’ a woman calls, unlocking the front door then stepping into the flat. At the sound of the child’s whimpering, someone moving around the sitting room, windows being roughly closed, Alma freezes. ‘Come on – show yourself. I know you’re here because I’m in the hallway looking at your bag. I need you to keep an eye on this one while I get some stuff to take back to the hospital. Pete told me to tell you he won’t be long.’
Chrissie’s voice is getting closer, louder, so with nowhere else to go Alma steps into the hallway.
‘There you are, though what you were up to in there God only knows. No matter, now you can make yourself useful.’
The two women stand and stare at each other – long enough for Alma to register Pete’s cousin’s smudged make-up and messy hair and the toddler in her arms. Damp hair plasters his crown, while his mouth is a tight pinch, sucking furiously on a plastic dummy.
‘How’s Patsy?’ Alma offers.
‘Who cares?’ Chrissie snaps.
‘Only I thought you said you needed to take something to the hospital,’ Alma stammers, taking a step back.
‘Not for her, for Phil,’ the woman repeats. ‘He’s having some tests. I’m taking him some bits and bobs as Cyn is out of action. I work for him now, see? It’s all official. I’m Phil’s personal assistant, or didn’t you hear? Pete knows. He even sent me a congratulations card. I am surprised he didn’t share that with you.’
Alma digs the nail of her right forefinger into the palm of her left hand. Don’t rise to it, she tells herself.
‘I mean, what do you do when your ex-husband gets cancer?’ Chrissie presses on. ‘Bleeding obvious, isn’t it? Overdose on antidepressants, of course.’ Without warning, Pete’s cousin thrusts baby Tony into Alma’s arms then barges past into the bathroom to take a pee. ‘Because if you’re Patsy, everything always has to be about you,’ she calls out through the open door. ‘Poor old Phil, it’s the fucking story of his life.’
Alma stares in shock at the baby she is holding. He seems remarkably placid, if not limp, as if he’s diverted all his energy into maintaining his scowl. What is he doing here, she wonders. Where is his mum?
‘Where’s Cyn?’
‘In bed with flu,’ Chrissie chuckles. As she reappears by Alma’s side she gives her wet hands a final rub on her trousers. ‘That’s how come I ended up holding the baby. But Phil needs me and I won’t let him down. So now it’s over to you. Talk about perfect timing.’
Alma is lost for words. How could Pete do this to her? Though of course this can’t be his idea. He would be livid, surely, if only he knew. But for now he isn’t here. Which leaves her feeling unexpectedly powerless. She is unsure how to object. She recalls how readily Chrissie ended her relationship with Brian, the bastard son, following the birth of Tony – Phil’s only legitimate heir. She suspects the woman’s opportunism is as boundless as it is brazen.
‘Tony, sweetheart, be good for Auntie Alma,’ Chrissie chirps. ‘Everything you’ll need is in that bag over there,’ she adds, gesturing towards an occasional table beside the front door, beneath which another holdall brim-full of baby things is stowed. Then she opens the front door.
‘Hang on a minute—’ But by the time Alma has carefully placed Tony on the floor then stumbled out onto the communal landing, Chrissie is stepping into the lift. ‘Wait, please! What should I do if Pete gets back first?’
The lift doors close.
Alma stares at the row of doors for the other flats, praying for someone to pop their head out to see how they can help. But though she knocks on each, no one answers – not even the owner of the flat from which, when she puts her ear against the wood, she can just make out the second concerto from Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’.
Reluctantly, she steps back inside Pete’s flat and shuts the door.
‘Don’t you worry,’ Alma ventures, staring at the child still seated on the floor. ‘Mummy’s coming later.’
Inside Tony’s bag of things she finds an assortment of clothes, a bottle of milk, a selection of baby food in jars, and a cuddly elephant. She reaches for the bottle. She moves to lift him. But the child suddenly arches his back, making his entire body go rigid, just as Alma is about to take his weight.
‘Now come on, don’t be like that,’ she soothes, sitting back. They stare at each other for a moment in silence then, lifting him up once more, she sits him on her hip. ‘Can’t we be friends?’ The child lets slip a half-smile. She doesn’t see the door key he’s picked up and clutches in his closed fist which the next moment he pokes into her left eye.
Reeling backwards, Alma cups the side of her face with her free hand, as instinct makes her hold Tony close against her with the other. Tears run down her face and her left eye feels ripe enough to burst but she won’t, can’t, let him fall.
As the shock starts to subside, Alma sinks to her knees then gently sits the child by her side. Tentatively, she feels her face. The skin is all sticky and wet but when she checks her fingers thank God there is no sign of blood. The pain starts to ease. She walks unsteadily towards the bathroom where she douses her face in cold water then pats it dry.
How on earth will she occupy the child until Pete comes home in a couple of hours?
Back in the hall, Alma takes care this time to make sure Tony’s hands are empty before picking him up. Holding him close, she walks him into the bedroom and places him in the travel cot. Gripping the headboard, he quickly pulls himself to his feet. He spits out his dummy then lets out a fierce scream as it tumbles to the floor.
Alma stares helplessly as his face puckers into a purple knot. Perhaps he is hungry or, worse, needs changing. But the thought of battling to remove his clothes makes her head spin. She tries to think. He felt dry when she held him against her just now, which surely means it is more likely he needs food and sleep. So she fetches a teaspoon from the kitchen. And then, as the child watches her pull a jar of food from the bag, his wails subside to a whimper.
Alma begins to feel pity for the child left alone with a stranger. Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she twists open the jar’s lid then smarts at the cloying smell of sweetened apple.
‘How about lunch?’ she offers, brightly. ‘Something to eat, then a little nap?’
Alma holds out a spoonful then laughs in relief as he opens his mouth. Unsure how much of the food to give him, she feeds him until he begins to lose interest, then takes the bottle of milk from the bag. When he extends his hand towards it, she holds it up for him to drink.
‘Slowly, slowly,’ she urges, pulling away the bottle. But it is too late. Tony is crying again – more urgently this time.
Alma holds him tight against her as he pulls away with all his might. She raises him slightly so his head lolls on her shoulder then rubs his back, but his bellows only get louder.
With tears now running down her own cheeks, she paces the room.
Round and around she walks, jiggling the child gently, one arm around his waist; desperately working his back with her free hand – until, after minutes that feel like days, he emits a loud belch. As she marvels for a moment at her nascent maternal instinct, something warm trickles down her neck.
Swapping hands, she feels her palm is damp.
‘There, there,’ Alma tells him – firmly this time, making no effort now to round the edge from her voice as she walks him to the bathroom and lowers him back onto the floor. ‘Better out than in.’
Holding him down with one hand, Alma unbuttons Tony’s suit with the other then gently bounces him over the bath until the dirty nappy flops onto the porcelain. She stares for a moment at a string of tiny purple bruises arcing from the child’s waist to halfway down his left hip. Like fingerpri
nts, she thinks. But softly touching the largest makes him lash out and kick her squarely in the belly.
Caught off guard, Alma cries out in pain then fear as Tony slithers from her grip. It isn’t a high fall, just a few inches. Still, it’s awful to watch as he falls back onto the porcelain. Lies there for a moment, silent. Widen his eyes. Puckers his mouth into an affronted ‘o’. Then his body starts to shake with silent sobs.
‘Sssh, Tony, it’s OK,’ she soothes, reaching forward to pick him up then cradling him towards her. ‘I’m so sorry, darling, silly, silly me, but you’re all right, really, you’re all right. Everything’s going to be OK.’
Thank Christ, thinks Alma, stroking the silken skin of his neck just below his hairline. Not a high fall, just a few inches. A foot at most, certainly no more. Carrying him back to the cot, she lays him down on his back and draws the curtains. Reassured by the gentle sound of a thumb being sucked, she creeps towards the door.
Back in the sitting room, she changes her shirt and slips off her boots then lies down on the sofa. But as she tries to get comfortable, a sudden realisation makes her tremble.
The abortion is a grim reality she’s all but forgotten during the past hour with Tony. But now, at the thought of the tiny, stubborn human sleeping in the room next door, she can’t help but wonder if there might be some other way. Perhaps she could lay low for the last few months and have the baby adopted. Or maybe she could keep it and drop out of college, get a job in a bookshop, teach music or something. It is, she knows, a ridiculous plan, which she and Pete have already discussed and dismissed. Yet despite this, in recent weeks it has become a familiar motif.
Alma thinks of her parents. How disappointed they’d be if they knew. How she let them down and is now poised to do something far worse, because in their eyes going ahead and having the baby would be the Christian thing to do. She imagines them standing by her as it was the right thing to do. The three of them shouldering the inevitable scandal. The burden being the lighter through the sharing. Guilt would make her grateful. And though she’d be obliged to stay, a prisoner, that would be a fitting penance.
Tony is silent now, yet her head still jangles from the intensity of his earlier cries. Her neck feels stiff and her nerves frayed, but now something else is bothering her. A vague, butterfly twitch deep inside below her ribs. Her eyes snap open. Staring at the dome of her belly in disbelief, Alma waits for some further indication. But there is none. It can’t have been – not this soon. More likely a muscle spasm triggered by getting upset. Or indigestion… though, as usual, she’s skipped breakfast. A hunger pang, then. Straightening her top, she creeps into the kitchen but finds nothing to eat.
From somewhere nearby comes the wail of a police siren.
Back in the sitting room, Alma walks towards the window. She can see traffic is at a standstill, gridlocked in every direction. The thought of how this will impede their escape makes her spirits drop further. Resuming her position on the sofa, Alma closes her eyes. He won’t be long, she tells herself. Everything will be OK.
* * *
The room is dark when Alma wakes some time later. She peers at her watch but it seems to have stopped. She turns on the radio. The sudden blare of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ makes her flinch. Unnerved by the clash of rock guitars and grand piano, she hastily retunes the stereo and finds instead a concerto: something by Brahms. Settling back against the cushions, Alma gives into the music as the notes wash over her.
Come Monday afternoon it will all be over, she tells herself.
And life will carry on.
She thinks of how rubbish she’s been with Tony. Of his solid warmth when she picked him up. She’s never held a baby before – has never had the chance, let alone wanted to – but the experience has moved her; awed her, too. How dependent and vulnerable he is. How, in the steadfast anger etched in his face, she glimpsed the man he would become. Will she see that in her own baby’s face, too – if it lives? Rolling onto her side, Alma hugs her knees.
Don’t give in to this, she urges herself. It is too soon for what’s inside her to be either girl or boy. A foetus is just a foetus until it’s born.
She switches off the radio and turns on the TV. Wrestling on one channel; Elvis Presley in a Hawaiian shirt on another. Leaving the set on mute, she heads for the bathroom. But as she approaches the room where she left Tony, something makes her pause. How soundly he sleeps, she marvels from the bedroom doorway.
The room is peaceful. The cot is silent.
Almost as if he isn’t there.
Alma steps into the room and creeps towards the cot. Looking down on the baby, she stares hard at the stillness of his face. Struggles at first to decode his waxen cheeks. His limp hands with fingers uncurled. Unmoving. So peaceful he barely looks…
Her glare drops to the baby’s chest, waiting for it to rise and fall, then back to the empty face; willing a lip to quiver.
But something seems wrong.
‘Hey,’ she whispers, leaning over the side of the cot and reaching out to lift him. ‘Tony?’
His skin is cold and as she lifts him up the weight feels awkward against her hands. Without warning, his head lolls to one side. She keeps quiet for fear of making him cry. A voice inside her starts to jeer. What have you done? But he is sleeping, that’s all, she decides, wiping her mouth clean of blood. How can a child be fine one minute and not the next?
Grabbing the cellular blanket from the far end of the cot, Alma fumbles as she wraps it around the child then realises too late that she has obscured his face. She desperately tries to loosen the fabric and let him breathe.
Alma? the voice says. Put him down.
What should I do? she panics, desperately. Ring for an ambulance?
Do it, comes the reply. Tell someone – someone in authority who’ll know what to do. Even though it’s too late.
Alma places the bundle on the bed and walks into the sitting room in search of a phone. But as she tries to lift the handset halfway to her ear, her hand refuses to move. A child I’ve been looking after is dead, she rehearses inside her head. But that makes no sense because there’s been no accident. I didn’t hurt him, or anything. Which is when she remembers how, while changing his nappy, he slipped from her grasp. Not a high fall, just a few inches.
Alma, what have you done?
A foot perhaps, certainly no more.
Call them and you’ll be the one they blame.
She stares at the phone.
Leave him and go, now, before it’s too late.
If I put him back in his cot – just the way I found him, then leave, will anyone know? Apart from Chrissie. Unless I hide him.
Alma stares at the bag of baby things the woman left her. She could use it to take him outside. Leave him somewhere. But the thought of this is just too awful. Through the window she can see it is raining and though not yet five, it’s getting dark. He’ll be frightened; cold, too. To leave him outside in the darkness would be too cruel.
A noise from the communal hallway makes Alma sprint towards the front door. Finally, he’s come. But as she reaches for the catch, a woman’s voice makes her hand freeze.
‘Alma! Open up – I can’t find my key.’
Alma casts a glance back down the corridor towards the bedroom.
No, they mustn’t find us like this.
Back in the bedroom Alma lunges towards the cot, snatches the sheet and wads it into a tight ball. Spotting an empty laundry bag beneath the window, she quickly gathers up the rest of Tony’s things then stuffs everything inside. The room looks clear, she decides. Which leaves just one thing. Staring at the shrouded body, Alma weighs up the space still left in the bag.
Yes, there is room, she reasons, calmly, picking him up just as Cyn hurries in.
‘Here, you don’t want to be doing that, he won’t be able to—’ Cyn reaches for her son before Alma can react. Grabbing the bundle, her hands fumble to free the blanket covering his face. ‘What’s wrong with him? Why’s he not
moving?’
Time stops as the mother leans over the baby. Unwraps his body. Picks him up then hastily puts him back down. Looks at Alma in mute shock. Spots the bag almost packed. Guesses what she was about to do. Accused stares at accuser. Sees the shadow that now clouds the mother’s eyes. Acknowledges not just her shock and horror, but hatred. Rage.
Someone sobs as Alma slips to the floor; it could be her. Then finally the other woman speaks.
‘What. Have. You. Done?’
* * *
Some time later somewhere close by, strangers talk in low tones.
No, pleads the voice in Alma’s head. You’ve got this wrong. I did nothing. It was an accident. Not deliberate or intentional. Why would it be anything else? I don’t even know you. Please, I meant no harm, you’ve got to believe me. She shakes her head at the sound of sirens. Are they from outside or on the TV?
Hands grip her, pushing roughly.
Please, it wasn’t me.
Someone guides her along a hallway. She is dazzled by strip lights. They walk past where a sofa should be. She hears sirens. Walkie talkies. The blare of breaking news from a TV. She is made to sit on a hard, wooden chair. Eventually, a man speaks.
‘What’s your name?’
Though she answers, he does not hear.
‘Alma,’ another woman says.
‘After that singer?’ asks the questioner, gently. He is a policeman. His voice is kind. He’ll understand. Won’t he?
Somewhere close by there is weeping. A voice on TV talks about a man being shot. Ross McWhirter was there, too. Stood on the doorstep of his family home. More sirens. Whatever it was happened in Enfield. Too loud. So confusing.
‘Turn that ruddy thing down.’
‘So wicked,’ says the neighbour.
‘I said—’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘Sorry, Sarge.’
‘Shot in the head at close range.’
‘How could you kill my baby?’
‘Make her a cup of tea, would you? Lots of sugar.’
The room slips in and out of focus.