by Jackie Clune
“Ak ak ak ak ak!”
Nine thirty-nine. Amy pulled the mask from her eyes and sat bolt upright in bed. Her heart beat fast, and her mouth still gaped open as she took in the familiar surroundings.
“Ak ak ak ak ak!”
The magpies had interrupted her dream, perhaps sickened by the clichéd representation of domestic bliss. Funny how the outside world could act as an arbiter of good taste, censoring the unconscious. The blurry events of the previous evening came into focus now—had they too been a dream? The pub, the baby in a bag, the hospital, the police, the stunned ride home in a taxi, the large scotch? The empty tumbler next to her bed bore testimony to the realness of at least the scotch. Amy lay back in the bed and went over the extraordinary incident. It seemed as though the last week—ever since her birthday, and perhaps the baby’s birthday, too—had been a series of trials. The awful dinner party, the death of Germaine, the sense of her own superfluousness at work capped by finding the child at her closed door felt like a bizarre and awful obstacle course sent from the heavens to test her. But test her for what purpose? If Amy believed in seraphim and cherubim, she would have felt the soft beating of angelic wings all week, urging her on to some personal discovery or other. As it was, she lay now and tried to work out what it all meant. Three for a girl—how dim she’d been, not clocking the old rhyme. Perhaps the magpies had known all along. Perhaps they had heralded the birth of Precious that Friday morning, and were telling her something now, prompting her to another strange supernatural occurrence. She wondered now what had made her go back to the shop, leaving a full pint and the promise of cheerful oblivion at The Wheelbarrow. Had some divine presence sent her to rescue the abandoned child? Was she the chosen one sent to deliver the foundling to a safe haven? If she was so blessed, why had the preceding events been so bloody awful? How could a chosen one be allowed to run over her own dog, to suffer the frightening hollowness that had chased her all week? Still, she had slept soundly for the first time in ages, and had woken reassuringly late.
Amy lay thinking for a few minutes. Was that it, then? She’d handed Precious over to the right people, and now what? Precious. The shop name had been a twee private joke. She had never dreamed it would one day, however temporarily, provide a child’s name. She wondered what was happening at the hospital. There would be a change of shifts, and new nurses would be caring for Precious now, filled in on her sad story secondhand. Did tiny babies recognize people? Would Precious be alarmed by the ever-changing sea of faces looming into her blurry vision? Although she could not understand language, could Precious grasp the fact that she had been left, unwanted, on a strange doorstep wrapped in an old towel, buried at the bottom of a carrier bag? Amy shuddered as she remembered her foot raised ready to kick the bundle, assuming it to be full of nesting vermin. Did Precious sense that? She had cried out at precisely the right moment. For someone who worked in children’s furnishings, it struck her now just how little she knew about children. Despite the hundreds, thousands of babies who slept surrounded and cocooned by her creative efforts every night, who had been pushed unwillingly in and out of her shops over the past fifteen years, she knew virtually nothing about them. The endless competitive chatter of the posh mums who frequented her work life had rendered her voluntarily deaf to any talk of babies and their capabilities. Besides, wasn’t it all just vain speculation? How could anyone really know whether a baby thinks, or whether it feels anything other than physical need? These women spent hours pontificating on the subtle shifts of mood in their offspring, comparing notes on which baby sensed anxiety the most, or which responded most warmly to positive affirmation. She had once overheard the mother of a three-week-old infant describe how he “couldn’t be around cynicism.” Wasn’t this all just a ridiculous attempt to commandeer the great unknown process by which we all become sentient beings, superior to our ape ancestors?
With an abrupt urgency, Amy’s mobile sprung to life. She had a text message. It was from Soph.
“Hi U—where U bin? Call me ASAP x.”
Would Soph know about babies? At least she’d be someone to tell the story to. Amy needed perspective.
“Hi, Soph. How are you?” said Amy, biding her time for the moment when she could unleash her amazing event.
“Amy! I’ve just been sick! I’m fantastic!” shrieked Soph on the other end of the line.
Was this what Amy thought it was?
“Oh my God—what’s happened?”
“I’ve only gone and got pregnant!”
“No! It worked! How do you know—I mean, are you sure? Oh my God.”
“Yes, I’m sure. We don’t go to the hospital for another week, but last night I just had this weird feeling, so I used up the last of my pregnancy-testing things—you know, the early-detection ones—and the first window showed a blue line, which is just to say it’s worked, and almost straight away the second one went blue, too—that’s the magic window! The one that means you’re pregnant! I can’t believe it! And now I’ve just been sick!”
“But hold on, Soph, I thought it took ten days after implantation—surely you should wait ’til you see the consultant again before you get too excited?” said Amy, aware that she had just pissed on a very large fire from a great height.
There was a short silence at the end of the line. When Soph spoke, her voice was softer, calmer, winded.
“Yes, I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but I really know it’s different this time, Amy, I really feel it. I really think this is it. Please let me be excited, please?” pleaded Soph.
Amy felt horrible. She didn’t want to be the evil older sister who waited ’til Christmas Eve to tell her sibling that Santa did not exist.
“OK. Sorry, Soph. Just worried about you, that’s all. It’s fantastic news. I can’t wait. Love to Greg.”
Her phone beeped intermittently. Call waiting. Jules. Early for her on a Saturday morning.
“Now go and put your feet up, Mummy. I’ve got to go. Call me later.”
Her story could wait. She didn’t want to steal any baby limelight. Jules could be the first to hear it instead, even though she’d have to play down her own emotional involvement in the night’s events.
“Hi, Jules—you’re up bright and early.”
“Hiya. Yeah, it’s been a bit of a night!” said Jules, sounding croaky. No doubt she’d been out clubbing, trying to find a twenty-year-old to take her home and make her forget her most recent relationship traumas. She’d probably just got in from some grotty boy’s flat in Hoxton or somewhere. Amy felt a pang of jealousy, but the reaction was knee-jerk. In reality, she was glad she’d been where she’d been the night before, and she’d had her own frisson, even if it was just with a flirty married man.
“Big night out?” asked Amy, preparing for a blow-by-blow account.
“No, no, nothing like that. Erm, Justin came back last night,” said Jules, sounding oddly nervous. Did she expect Amy to disapprove? To lecture her again on the patheticness of accepting him back time and time again? Amy was long past that.
“Well . . . that’s great, isn’t it? So he left the dental nurse?”
“Oh, that was just a stupid mistake.”
“Of course. So what prompted his return this time?” asked Amy, trying to keep the judgment out of her voice.
“Well . . . he . . . I . . .” Jules tried to start the no doubt convoluted explanation but stopped, choking back what sounded like tears.
“Jules? What’s wrong?”
“He . . . I told him I’m pregnant!”
Amy considered the many possibilities here. Had Jules sunk so low in the self-esteem stakes that she’d resorted to The Big Lie? The untruth so beloved of daytime TV victims? Or had she simply gone mad? The obvious answer, that her closest work and play buddy, fellow cynic and good-time girl, had indeed managed to conceive a child, seemed too ridiculous to entertain.
“But . . . I thought you didn’t want to . . . I mean, when?” spluttered Amy.
&nb
sp; “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t think I could, I mean, I really thought I was too old and clapped out, but, you know, my periods have been funny, so I thought nothing of it at first, but I’m almost six weeks pregnant. . . .”
“Is it Justin’s?” Amy knew she of all people could ask that question.
“Yes, yes, I worked out the dates yesterday after I’d been to the doctors. . . . I haven’t been with anyone else for three months.”
“So . . . what are you going to do? I mean, if you want me to come with you again, I’ll be happy to—I mean, not happy but . . . you know.” Jules had already gone through two terminations in the past four years. It was turning into a bad habit.
“No, no. Thanks. We’ve been up most of the night talking, and I think we’re going to have it. I mean, I know we’re going to have it. That’s if it sticks. It’s early days yet.”
“My God. And how do you feel?” asked Amy, reeling from the about-turn.
There was a deep inhalation at the end of the line.
“I feel wonderful. I’m so happy!” blurted Jules, breaking into floods of tears. Amy could hear Justin soothing her in the background.
“Anyway, I know you’ll hate me and I’ll probably lose you as a friend ’cause you hate sponge-brained mothers, but I just wanted you to know how happy we are.”
“I won’t hate you! That’s a terrible thing to say!”
“I know, but you know how you are . . . so I just wanted to tell you first.”
“Well, I’m honored, and if you’re both happy, then I’m happy.”
Amy’s phone began to beep again. Call waiting.
“Listen, I’ll call you later, hon—and well done!”
Amy steadied herself on the bed. The phone had become a harbinger of baby doom—the stalk’s hotline.
“Hello, slapper,” said Brendan.
“Don’t tell me, you’re pregnant,” said Amy flatly.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’ll explain later. Meet me at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital at twelve.”
Amy screeched out of the underground garage with a surprising sense of urgency. Just in time, she spotted the young mum from the previous week’s encounter about to push her pram off the curb and directly into Amy’s path. She slammed on the brakes. The girl hesitated, unsure if this was some sort of cruel cat-and-mouse game. Amy smiled uneasily and gestured for the girl to cross. Teenage Mum pushed her pram gingerly in front of the car’s bumper, maintaining eye contact throughout. Safely on the other side, she mouthed a baffled “Thanks.” Amy nodded and sped off. She was going soft in her old age.
Why she felt such a keen need to see baby Precious again was not immediately apparent, even to her. She felt as though she needed to confirm that it had happened, that she hadn’t dreamt it all. The morning’s revelations had been so incredible that she had felt a strange sense of shifting ground. Taking Brendan would be a way of sharing the oddness of it all, and besides, she had a vested interest in the child’s well-being, since she had delivered it to safety. It wasn’t so weird, was it? On the way past the shop, she might even swing by and pick up a few bits and pieces for the baby—a cot toy, a sleepsuit or two. The hospital would have only depressing institutional emergency clothing, and baby Precious deserved a bit better than that after all she’d been through.
The Saturday girls at the shop were surprised to see her so soon after her extended vacation had begun. They hurriedly switched off the commercial radio station they had blaring out and concentrated on looking busy. They were even more surprised when she stuffed a bag full of newborn goodies, muttering something about needing samples. Amy couldn’t get out of the shop quick enough, away from prying questions and the no doubt tearful scenes that would accompany her story, should she have decided to spill it there. They’d hear about it all in time. She paused briefly on the doorstep to examine the spot where Precious had been left. Nothing remarkable about it—just a concrete step. No glow, no guiding star in the sky, no manger of hay. It was just a terrestrial baby very much of, if not wanted in, this world.
Brendan stood smoking outside the hospital entrance with a look of amused indifference on his face as Amy approached.
“Who are we visiting? Or are you finally giving in and letting them lobotomize you?”
“Come on, let’s go inside and I’ll explain.”
In the lift up to the maternity ward, she summarized the events of the last twenty-four hours. Brendan caught the newly sensitized tone in his friend’s voice and for once desisted from crass jokes. Miracles would never cease, or so it seemed to Amy.
She felt a curious fluttering in her stomach—was it nerves? Why was she nervous? What did she think was going to happen? She’d see that Precious was being well cared for, leave her gifts, and then go out for a nice lunch with Brendan. Nothing to be anxious about.
The nurses’ station was humming with activity. An Asian woman was trying to explain that she needed a bottle sterilizer, and a large blonde sister was bullying her into breast-feeding again. Amy and Brendan stood awkwardly, awaiting their turn for the harsh treatment.
“Yes?”
“We’ve come to see baby Preci—”
“I’m sorry, visiting hours don’t start until three,” barked the sister, returning to her paperwork.
“Well, it’s a bit different, I—”
“Are you family?” the sister asked impatiently.
“Well, not exactly . . .” started Amy. “I found her abandoned last night, and I just wanted to drop a few things off for her. . . .” She tailed off now, feeling foolish under the harsh lights and the blank stare.
The sister softened her face.
“Oh, I see. Well, well done, you. If you just wait a moment, I’ll get someone to see to you.”
She gestured toward the plastic chairs in the corner. From a distance, Amy saw the sister speaking quietly into the phone. She smiled at Amy and Brendan in a professional approximation of warmth.
“I’ve never been in a baby ward,” said Brendan. He smiled excitedly, glad to be part of such a great story. Amy was glad he was there, too—she hadn’t realized just how much of an impact the event had had on her, and what with this morning’s baby news, she felt in need of a little grounding humor. Say what you like about him, Brendan was good in a crisis, his natural sense of drama coming to the fore and his “screw them all” mentality truly liberating.
“I didn’t think men were allowed in unless they were the father. All those engorged nipples lolling about. Urgh!” He shuddered, more for comic effect than any real sense of discomfort.
“Where is she?” asked a familiar voice from behind them. Amy turned to see the good doctor leaning over the nurses’ station. He caught her eye and broke into a spontaneous smile.
“Hello again—can’t keep you away, can we?”
“Hi,” said Amy, willing her cheeks to stop flushing. He was even better looking in daylight.
“You’re on again?” she asked, making it clear she was not expecting to see him, that he was not the reason for her visit.
“Haven’t been home since I saw you last. We don’t do nine to five like you shopgirls.”
Brendan shot her a quizzical, “Who is this handsome stranger?” look.
“Brendan, this is Dr. Nencini. This is Brendan.” She wanted to add “my friend” but cringed at the pointedness of the word. Married men of Joe’s age needed little encouragement, and Amy reminded herself again that she was not interested in sloppy seconds. Her “bit on the side” days were well and truly over.
“This is for Precious,” said Amy, awkwardly thrusting the bag at Joe. “I just thought it might be nice to bring her a few things.”
“Oh, good idea, yes, I’ll make sure she gets them,” said Joe, picking up her awkwardness along with the bag.
“Is she OK?” asked Amy, hoping for a quick look. She wanted Brendan to see, too, to witness or something, she wasn’t quite sure.
“Can we see her?” asked Brendan, pus
hy as ever. Despite her sense of decorum, Amy was glad of his abruptness now—she didn’t know if she could have asked.
“Well, that might be difficult. . . .” said Joe. It was his turn to feel awkward.
“Oh, just for a minute. Amy just wants to see that she’s all right. She’s had me up half the night worrying about her, the silly old muddlehead, haven’t you, darling?” Amy winced at the couple role-play Brendan was so fond of lapsing into. Still, if it had the desired effect and she got to see Precious before she was whisked off into care, so much the better.
“I’m afraid she’s gone. They came for her this morning. Apparently, they’ve found a great emergency foster mum nearby who was able to take her in.”
“But I thought you said she’d need to stay here for a few days!” said Amy, shocked at her indignation. She felt oddly cheated.
“Well, I thought we might keep her in, but she was fit as a fiddle, and it would be so much better for her to be in a home environment, don’t you think?” Amy felt the pacifying tone in his voice and flushed with shame at her emotional outburst. Damn him. He had a way of hacking right into her Achilles heel. She hated to look vulnerable or needy in front of men. Especially gorgeous men.
“Of course. I’m glad she’s OK. I just wanted to make sure; you know, I can’t help but feel a sense of civic duty,” she said, sounding far too pompous now.
“Of course,” echoed Joe. She knew he was being kind, but still she felt stung by his echoing of her.
“Look, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Leave your number at the desk, and I’ll make sure you know if anything happens, if the mother comes forward or whatever,” Joe said now, his beeper calling him to some other scene in the hospital.
