Nobody's Baby

by Penny Kline

  ‘Where is the baby?’

  ‘Foster home in Dawlish.’ DS Fairbrother was gazing round the room as if she thought it could have some bearing on the case. ‘Nice people, she’ll be well cared for.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘You want to see the baby?’ Fairbrother thought about this for a moment. ‘I don’t see why not. I expect it could be arranged. Couple with two older kids, both fostered. Plenty of experience.’

  ‘What will happen if you can’t trace the mother?’

  ‘We will. You get the occasional abandoned child that remains unidentified but …’ Her voice trailed away as she stood up, crossed the room, and stared out at the small back yard. ‘Have you lived here long? On your own, are you?’

  ‘Until a few weeks ago I was sharing with a friend.’ Earlier on, Izzy had lit a candle and the scent of mixed spices – it was supposed to be soothing – filled the room.

  Fairbrother had her back turned. ‘Pleasant part of the city.’ She picked up the portfolio case that Izzy used when she needed to bring a design home with her. ‘You’re an artist, am I right?’

  ‘I work for a small graphic design company.’

  She nodded. ‘You’ve no idea who could have left it here?’

  ‘The baby? Of course not.’ Izzy had prepared herself for the question but it still threw her. ‘Whoever it was probably thought the bit of overhanging roof would keep the rain off.’

  ‘Possibly. It was a cold night. I imagine whoever left it assumed it would be found fairly quickly. No one knocked on the door or rang the bell?’

  ‘No, I explained when I phoned. Because the street’s been pedestrianized it’s relatively safe.’

  ‘So you haven’t a clue who the mother might be, or the father come to that?’

  ‘If I had I’d have told the policemen who came round last night – I mean this morning.’

  Fairbrother ignored this. ‘If it did belong to someone you know, or someone who knows about you, knows where you live, it would be a compliment of a sort.’

  ‘How do you mean? Oh, you think … No one I know has given birth to a baby during the last few …’ Izzy broke off, frowning, checking in her mind that what she was saying was correct. A friend of Josh’s? With a dull thud in the pit of her stomach, it even occurred to her that Josh might be the father. ‘How old is she? Presumably she’s been given a thorough check-up.’

  ‘Four or five weeks. The carrycot’s second-hand but there’s no harm in that. People spend ridiculous amounts on their kids these days. Right, I think that’s all – for now. If you want to see the baby I’ll have to square it with social services and the foster parents.’

  ‘It’s just … It was such a shock, finding her like that.’

  ‘Sure, I understand.’ Fairbrother gave her a cold smile. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  As she started towards the front door, Izzy switched on the passage light and they stood for a moment facing each other.

  ‘So.’ Fairbrother’s face gave nothing away. ‘If you think of anything that could be of help, give us a call. By the way, this friend of yours who moved out, what’s his or her name?’

  ‘Josh Lester.’

  ‘And where is he living now?’

  Izzy gave her Dave’s address and watched as she wrote it in her notebook. ‘It’s only temporary, for all I know he may have moved on.’

  ‘And his job?’

  ‘Technical manager for an IT company. Look, he doesn’t even know a baby was left outside my house. If he’d heard he’d have been in touch.’

  Fairbrother opened the front door. ‘Chances are you’re right about the porch. Some poor kid got herself pregnant. Bloke did a runner. After she had the baby she struggled on for a week or two, trying to make a go of things, then found it too much.’

  Izzy watched her walk away towards Palmerstone Road then turn her head, probably to check if Izzy had gone back into the house.

  ‘Something else you remembered?’ she called.

  Izzy shook her head. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be more help. Let me know when I can visit the baby. I just want to make sure she’s all right.’

  It was well after midnight but Izzy’s thoughts were racing and she knew from bitter experience if she went to bed she would lie awake for hours. Why did she have a feeling there was something important she had forgotten to do? Something at work?

  After Fairbrother left she had phoned Kath but only heard the familiar message. Where was she? She had said nothing about going out for the evening but then why would she? Once they had spent almost as much time together away from work as they did at the office. Then Josh had come along.

  For a time Kath had been keen on a bloke called Justin, but it hadn’t worked out and Izzy had felt she was letting her down, spending so much time with Josh. Not that Kath had complained. She was not the resentful type.

  Disappointed that Kath was out, she even considered calling Josh’s number. Because it was hard to stop thinking of him as the most important person in her life? Because if the baby had been left on her doorstep a few weeks ago, Josh would have been there too and it might have changed things between them? But why would it? If she contacted him he would take it she was having second thoughts, missed him, wanted him back. He would be round at the house in minutes and the pleading would begin all over again. Or would it?

  At his twenty-fourth birthday party he had told her, in an alcohol-induced state, that he was tired of playing the field, wanted something real, needed to commit. And she had believed him. Because she wanted to, because she was in love with him. Remember the day we met, he had murmured, pulling her hard against him. Remember when I came into your office to install the new system? I remember, she had told him, waiting for him to describe all over again how he had known immediately that she was the one.

  The sofa still had a slight indentation where she had placed the carrycot. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall the tiny features, the pale hair and soft, slightly blotchy skin, but it was not the memory of the baby’s face that caused a sudden intake of breath.

  Cressy. In an instant she was back in Chester, sitting on the floor in her friend Dawn’s bedroom, playing their game, with Dawn’s mother Rosalie calling to them, asking what was so secret they had to keep the door closed.

  Rosalie Dear. It was a strange name. The name of Dawn’s father who had died when she was still a baby. The game. What was it you had to do? Touch the other person’s fingers one by one and chant a special rhyme. “If you had a baby and it was a girl what would you call it?” Then you bent back the finger you had reached and refused to let go until the other person had thought of a name.

  She could picture it so clearly. Dawn sitting cross-legged with her grey school skirt pulled over her knees and her long Sasha doll hair covering most of her face. She was self-conscious about her breasts that had started to develop when she was nine although they never grew very large. And Izzy, who would have given anything for Dawn’s blonde hair instead of her own indeterminate brown, had never been very sympathetic.

  In her mind’s eye, Dawn was laughing, jabbing at her fingers. ‘If you had a baby and it was a boy what would you call it?’

  ‘Elliot. Ow! Don’t, I said Elliot, I’d call him Elliot. Come on, Dawn, it’s my turn now.’

  They must have been ten, the year they had to choose a secondary school although it went without saying they would both go to the comprehensive that was already attended by Izzy’s brothers. Later they would both gain good grades in their exams, although Dawn’s were always that little bit better and Izzy had had to work that little bit harder. After they left school, Izzy had gone to the local art college to do a one-year foundation course and Dawn had left Chester to go to King’s College, London, where she was to study Maths and Philosophy.

  ‘If you had a baby …’ Izzy could hear herself reciting the words in the mechanical drone they had perfected. ‘If you had a baby and it was a girl what would you call it?’

  And Dawn, pul
ling her hand free and flinging out her arms. ‘Cressida! I’d call her Cressida. I would, Izzy, I really, really would.’

  There was only one thing for it: she had to find Dawn. And the only hope of finding Dawn was to talk to her mother.

  Chapter Two

  Was the time difference between England and New Zealand exactly twelve hours or did it depend which island you were phoning? Izzy decided it was safe to call and, as usual, was surprised when her sister-in-law picked up the phone, sounding as if she was speaking from just down the road instead of several thousand miles away.

  ‘Laura? It’s Izzy.’ She listened to the warm, friendly greeting then asked if it was possible to speak to her mother.’

  ‘Of course. She’s out the back with the kids.’ Izzy listened as Laura called her mother’s name then disappeared into what was probably a large garden, or did they call it a yard?

  After her father died, back in February, her mother had sold the house in Chester and moved to West Somerset. Neither Izzy nor her brothers had thought it a good idea, but if it didn’t work out she could always move back north. However, during the six months she had spent in the village between Minehead and Porlock she seemed to have settled in well. Then Izzy’s brother Dan had written, suggesting she spend a couple of months in Christchurch. Izzy had expected her mother to turn down the invitation, or at least put it off until the following year, but she had jumped at a chance to see her grandchildren.

  A loud familiar voice came on the line asking, a little anxiously, if everything was all right.

  ‘Yes, fine, I just thought I’d give you a ring, see how you were enjoying yourself.’ She was talking too fast. Her mother would guess something was up but she would not press her. She was always so tactful, so diplomatic, and as a child Izzy had longed for her to lose control, shout, swear – especially at their father.

  ‘Nina and Kirsty have grown so much,’ her mother was saying, ‘you’d never believe it, and Nina’s got beautiful golden hair like Dan’s. You must come out when you have your next holiday. Dan and Laura would love to see you.’

  ‘I might do that.’ Izzy cleared her throat, as though to alert her that she was going to reveal the real purpose of the call. ‘On of the reasons I phoned, the night before last … something rather strange … a baby was left on my doorstep.’

  ‘What kind of a baby?’

  ‘A little girl about five weeks old. She’s been taken into care, the police have no idea who left her there. .’

  ‘Was she all right?’ Her mother’s tone was wary, the way she always sounded if she thought the conversation might be moving towards something upsetting. Like the day before Izzy’s birthday when her cat had been found behind some bushes, dead. Izzy had sobbed, refusing to accept that Pushkin had gone to heaven, but her mother had insisted he was having a lovely time, playing with all the other cats that had died, and in a week or two they would look for a new kitten. Just what Pushkin would have wanted!

  ‘Are you still there, Izzy?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. Yes, the baby seemed to be fine. Actually there was one other thing. Rosalie Dear, have you heard from her …’ She was going to say ‘since Dad died’ but was unable to say the words. ‘Do you know if she’s still at the same address?’

  ‘Rosalie?’ Her mother gave a tense little laugh. ‘It’s odd you should ask. I had a letter from her after your father died but I’ve heard nothing since, even though she used to be rather a good correspondent. And for some reason she’s not on the phone. And of course she’d never have a mobile one.’

  ‘But the last time you heard she was still living in the house she moved to when she left Chester?’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused and Izzy wished she could see her face which was always such a giveaway. ‘Tell me about your job. And Josh, how is he?’

  ‘Josh’s fine. I may be going up north soon, just for a few days, on business. Only I thought if I had the time I might call in on Rosalie.’

  ‘Good idea. She’d like that.’ One of the grandchildren was urging Granny Sylvia to come back. ‘Just a moment, darling. Sorry Izzy, Kirsty’s tugging my skirt. Hang on, you wanted Rosalie’s address.’

  ‘No it’s all right, if it’s the same as before it’s in my address book. Oh, just one more thing, when you heard from her did she mention Dawn?’

  ‘Dawn?’ Her mother broke off to whisper something to the child standing next to her. ‘No, not a word. As a matter of fact, I was thinking you ought to check with Dawn before you go and see Rosalie, just to make sure she’s not away on holiday or something. Anyway, it’s lovely to hear from you. I feel rather bad, being here for Christmas. Still, you and Josh are probably quite relieved I won’t be expecting you to visit.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. The thing is, I’m a bit worried about her.’

  ‘About Rosalie?’

  ‘No, Dawn. I haven’t heard from her for ages. She wrote, saying she and Miles were coming back to England, but since then nothing.’

  There was a short pause at the other end of the line. ‘How strange. The two of you were always such good friends. We were all relieved when she left that religious place and joined you in Devon, but what a waste to throw in her Ph.D. – for a Portuguese man too, and didn’t you say he was married?’

  ‘Married, yes. Portuguese, no.’

  Her mother gave a short laugh. ‘Anyway, when you see Rosalie, tell her I’ll be in touch quite soon. I’ll ring off now or you’ll have the most fearful phone bill. Bye then, Izzy, I’ll write and tell you all the other news. Oh, and love to Josh.’

  The journey should take about five hours, longer if she stopped off in Chester. Her initial intention had been to travel there and back in a day, but the weather was bad – intermittent rain with brief spells of wintry sunshine – and the travel news had warned of a hold up near Birmingham.

  Did she really want to visit her father’s grave? The memory of his sudden death was still raw. And there was something else, something that was making her uneasy, depressed. Threats to her self-esteem were usually the root of the trouble, a stray remark taken personally when it was not what had been intended. Something Rosalie had written on a card, sent to her mother a year ago. Such a shame about Izzy and Dawn – they used to such good friends. Used to be?

  Driving up the motorway in her insulated bubble was soothing for a time. Then it became monotonous. She decided to pull into services and as soon as she did she had her first real sensation of travelling north. Ordering coffee, she looked up at the menu of hot food. Perhaps she should eat a proper lunch so she could dispense with an evening meal.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a large round-faced woman behind the counter, who was busy extracting slices of bacon from their bath of grease.

  ‘Something to eat, pet?’ The woman’s hair was pushed into a green and white cap and beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. Along with the rest of staff, she had probably been up since dawn, waiting to be picked up in a coach and transported to the restaurant – from Wolverhampton or Bilston. Did she enjoy the work or was she just glad to have a job?

  ‘Looks good,’ Izzy told her, turning away from the smell of frying and trying unsuccessfully to lift a cheese bap with the plastic tongs provided. ‘But I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘Here you are, pet.’ The woman slid the bap onto a plate with her hand then turned away to talk to her colleague behind the counter.

  Moving towards the checkout, Izzy had to wait while a smartly dressed woman searched in her handbag then gave up, frowning impatiently at the bald-headed man who was helping himself to soup of the day. Motorway services were strange places. Neutral ground. No man’s land. The woman with the handbag reminded Izzy of her mother, and memories of Chester that she had been suppressing since her father’s death came flooding back. Playing in the garden. Her mother hiding, jumping out on them with hysterical shrieks. Laughing. Always laughing.

  During the rest of her time on the motorway, she listened to the CD of Barchester Towers that Ka
th had given her the previous Christmas, losing herself in the intrigues of the clergy and only returning to the present when she passed junction fourteen and realised the next exit led to Nantwich, then the A51 to Chester where she had now decided to stay on the ring road and avoid the city centre.

  When she reached Nantwich, the sun came out. So much for the weather becoming worse as you travelled north. For an hour or more she drove past farms and garden centres, through villages that followed the route of the Shropshire Union canal, until she reached the outskirts of Chester. Traffic was heavier than she had expected and in no time she was lost, circling the city centre, catching glimpses of the cathedral and the river, before finally spotting the road to Hoylake.

  By the time she arrived at her destination, the sky was overcast again and, as she approached the estuary, the wind battered the side of the car. According to Dawn, the water had once lapped against the stone wall at high tide, then the river had been artificially forced to slow down along the opposite shore. Now it remained far out beyond the grass-covered mudflats. Grass-covered, but you could still smell the mud and it was extraordinary how a smell could bring back such vivid memories.

  Once, years ago, she had gone there with Dawn and been shown the house where Dawn had lived until she was eight. Her father Graham had worked in Liverpool, travelling each day to Birkenhead then through the Mersey Tunnel. When he died – Dawn had still been a baby at the time – she and her mother had stayed on, then Rosalie had decided their life was too restricted, that it would be better for Dawn to live in a city.

  Part of Izzy wished she had invited Kath to accompany her – Kath would have enjoyed a weekend in Cheshire – but another part of her needed to travel alone. If she had explained about the name Cressy, Kath would have insisted she tell the police – and she would have been right. As it was, Izzy was giving herself a few days, a week at the outside, to find Dawn, then if that proved impossible she would confess her suspicions to DS Fairbrother.