by Sarah Webb
“There’s something else, Clover. About Bailey.” And I fetch the article from the back of Mum’s notebook and rejoin Clover in the living room.
“You have to read this,” I say and, while she does so, I check on Evie, who’s still transfixed by the talking pigs on TV. I crouch down on the floor and play with Alex, whizzing one of his trains up and down his wooden track and making “choo-choo” noises. For some reason, it makes me feel a little better. I lean over and kiss the top of his head, which smells a bit sweaty — he hates having his hair washed. Then I glance up at Clover. She’s sitting dead still, staring at me.
“Beanie,” she says gently. “How much did you read? And what’s this got to do with anything?”
“Only a few lines — but I also listened to some of Mum’s interviews with Finn on her Dictaphone. I think Bailey is Baby X.”
“Bailey? Are you sure?”
“Pretty much. I wish he wasn’t, Clover, believe me, but it all fits. I would have to read the whole newspaper article to be absolutely certain, though. Will you stay here while I do?”
She shakes her head, her eyes sad. “Beanie, trust me. You don’t need to know all the details. I’m begging you. Leave it be.”
“Bailey’s my friend. I have to know what happened to him. And you’re here now.”
“Yes, I am. I’ll stay for as long as you like and entertain the tiddlers while you read. I think I need a sticky hug from Alex and Evie. Here.” She hands me the article, and I perch on the side of the armchair and pick up where I’d left off:
The boy, referred to as Baby X because he cannot be named for legal reasons, was severely dehydrated when discovered by neighbors Mary and Alf Cosgrove on Monday morning.
His mother had pushed a note under their door, but it wasn’t discovered until Monday since they had been unexpectedly called away for the weekend to visit a sick relative. In the note the mother had said that she regretted leaving the child but would not be back. She instructed the couple to contact the baby’s grandfather in Portstewart, County Antrim.
The boy was taken to Temple Street Children’s Hospital and is thought to be making a swift recovery.
His grandfather has been contacted.
When I’ve finished, Clover lifts her head from the train track where she’s playing with Alex. “You OK, Beanie?”
“Yeah. Just want to see if there’s any more info on the Internet.”
Switching on the computer, I Google “Baby X.” There are dozens of results: “THE BISCUIT BOY” (Irish Daily Express), “THE MIRACLE OF BABY X” (Irish Sun), “DUBLIN’S HOME ALONE CHILD” (Irish Independent), “LITANY OF QUESTIONS OVER ABANDONED CHILD” (Irish Times).
I read through each article carefully, but they all say pretty much the same thing. Now I’m convinced — it’s Bailey, all right. When I’ve finally finished reading, I look up from the screen, wipe away my tears, and take a few deep breaths. “It’s definitely Bailey, Clover. It all fits.”
“I’m so sorry, Beanie,” Clover says from the sofa — she’s hugging Evie on her knee. “Some people don’t deserve to have children. I don’t know what to say. It’s honestly one of the saddest things I’ve ever read. And I can’t believe the baby — Baby X — is your friend Bailey. It’s so surreal. How can a mother do something like that? To her own son?”
A huge lump forms in my throat. “I know.”
“Come here, Beanie” — Clover throws her arms open —“group girlie hug with Evie.”
I sit down on the sofa, and she puts her arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. I shut my eyes, willing my tears to stop, and for a while time seems to stand still.
Then I hear Alex say, “Me hug,” before feeling his little body piling on top of us. I open my eyes just in time to see him crawl onto Clover’s lap and throw himself toward me in a dangerous toddler lunge.
“Alex, you’ve just elbowed me in the stomach, you troll,” I say. And despite everything, Clover and I start laughing.
We’re still sitting on the sofa — Evie asleep on Clover’s knee, me and Alex curled around Clover like newborn puppies — watching Peppa Pig, when Mum walks in, swinging a shopping bag. She smiles. “You lot look cozy.”
“Ma-ma,” Alex says, jumping up and holding out his arms. “Ma-ma.”
She drops the bag and swings him around, then rests him on her hip.
“What did you buy, sis?” Clover asks, eyeing the bag. “Give us a peek.”
Mum bends down — Alex’s weight and kicking legs making it rather awkward — and pulls out what looks like Batman’s cape.
Clover bites her lip — Mum’s shopping mistakes are legendary. Mum puts Alex down on the floor and throws the material over her head. For a second she’s lost in the swathes of black cloth, but then her head pops through the hole. “It’s a poncho,” she says with a grin. “They’re all the rage apparently, and I needed a new coat. What do you think?”
“Doesn’t do much for your curves,” Clover says diplomatically.
“Amy?” Mum asks hopefully. “Do you like it?”
I make a face. “Sorry, Mum. It might be useful if you want to dress up for Halloween, though. Add a pointy hat and, voilà, one witch costume.”
Mum pulls it back over her head, making her hair go all sticky-up from the static, and stuffs it quickly back into the bag. “I’ll take it back.”
“Probably best,” Clover says kindly. “If you’re looking for a coat, Sylvie, try Zara. They have fab army-style ones that nip in at the waist and would really suit you.”
“Thanks, Clover,” Mum says. “And I might take you or Amy with me next time. You girls have such good fashion eyes.” She flops down on the sofa beside us. “So what have you two been up to, then?”
I stare down at my hands. I’ve put everything back carefully on the kitchen table, but I still feel guilty.
“We were discussing our plans for your bachelorette party,” Clover jumps in, saving my bacon. “Weren’t we, Amy?”
“Abso-doodle-lutely,” I say firmly. “And it’s all top secret, so don’t even ask.”
Mum looks a little worried. “As long as it doesn’t involve tiaras, Temple Bar, and chocolate you-know-whats, I’ll be happy.” (Dublin’s Temple Bar is notorious for wild bachelorette parties.)
“Temple Bar’s not on the agenda,” Clover says, “but chocolate willies — now there’s a thought . . .”
“Clover!” Mum glares at her.
Clover laughs. “Only winding you up, sis, settle your tights.”
Evie stirs a little and then opens her eyes. Within seconds she’s wailing like a banshee.
“Bottle time for this little madam,” Mum says, taking her off Clover. “Then I’ll put her down. You guys OK with the junior kamikaze here?” She nods down at Alex, who is crashing his wooden Thomas engine into Percy at full speed.
“No problemo, Mum,” I say.
As soon as she’s out the door, Clover turns to me and asks in a low voice, “Has Sylvie copped that you know Finn’s son?”
“Of course not,” I whisper back. “I only found out myself this afternoon, remember? Should I tell her?”
Clover shrugs. “I have two minds about it. You see, Sylvie told me she’s signed a confidentiality agreement with Finn’s agent. She can’t talk about any of the stuff Finn tells her ever — not even after the book’s published. I think you reading her notes is a breach of contract.”
I wince. “So she might lose her job, you mean?”
“It depends how seriously they take the agreement. I guess it all hinges on what you want to do with the information.”
I look at her in surprise. “Do? Meaning what?”
“I know your weird little brain inside out, Bean Machine. You want to help Bailey and Finn work things out, don’t you? Orchestrate some sort of father-and-son reunion.”
I can’t hide anything from Clover. That’s exactly what’s been going through my head since the moment I discovered the Bailey-Finn connection. “But how, Clover
?” I ask. “Bailey won’t talk to him. Finn’s tried loads of times.”
“But they haven’t ever seen each other face-to-face, right?”
“Correct. By the sound of it, Finn’s rung the house, but they’ve never met.”
She thinks for a second and then says, “What does Bailey look like?”
“What’s that got to do with anything? Besides, you’ve seen him — at the gig in the Olympia.”
“In the distance. Bear with me for a second: does he look anything like Finn?”
I consider this. Bailey has jet-black hair; Finn’s is sandy brown, but they both have piercing green eyes, stellar cheekbones, and strong, full lips you can’t help but stare at.
“Come to think of it,” I say, “apart from the hair, then yes, they look very alike.”
“So if they were to meet in person, it would be pretty overwhelming, right? Because they look so much alike, I mean. And Finn seems like a cool guy, sincere, very likable, loads of charisma, and he seems to genuinely want to make it up to Bailey from what you’ve said. What if we managed to trick the two of them into the same room — would their shared chemistry kick in? Would Bailey be able to overlook the past, swallow his pride, and actually talk to Finn?”
“Engineer a meeting without telling either of them? Is that what you mean?”
“Precisely.” Her eyes are twinkling. “What do you think? Would it work?”
“I have no idea, but it’s got to be worth a shot.”
“Good. Is there anything that links them apart from genetics? We need to hang their meeting on something.”
I begin to smile. “I think I’ve got it. Clover, you’re a genius!”
“I don’t know about you, Beanie,” Clover says as we crunch along Killiney Beach, “but I’m really nervous. What if Bailey refuses to speak to Finn? It’s going to get us both in a whole heap of trouble.”
“As long as we can keep Mum’s name out of it, I don’t really care, to be honest. Anyway, it can hardly make things worse, can it?”
“I suppose not.” Clover sounds doubtful, though. I don’t blame her. She’s put herself on the line for this. She rang Finn’s agent, Britta, and set up a Goss interview with Finn. She also promised a big photo shoot on the beach to tie in with his whole Irish Surfing Chef persona. Since it’s Saturday, we’re hoping Bailey will show up soon to give his usual surfing lessons.
When we reach the sand dunes to the right of the Martello Tower, Finn’s already there, looking like a rock star in his battered brown leather jacket and wraparound shades. “Hi, girls.” He grins. “Nice to see you again.” He rubs his hands together. “So where’s this photographer, then? I want to catch the rugby game later, yeah? It would be great to wrap things up quickly.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll be here in a jiffy,” Clover says, her eyes flitting away from Finn’s to study the water.
“Surf’s up,” Finn says, following her gaze. “Wish I had my board with me. East coast’s not usually the best for surfing, but the wind’s coming from the perfect direction today for some board action.”
And right on cue, a couple of boys of about ten or eleven run onto the beach, surfboards under their arms. Ramming their boards into the sand near the shore, they quickly strip down, and within seconds they’re racing toward the waves in sleek black wet suits.
Finn laughs. “They’re keen.”
Soon the water is filled with black bodies, flicking water at one another, laughing, trying to catch waves, and toppling off boards. And then the atmosphere suddenly changes: the boys stop horsing around, and one of them gestures toward a tall boy who has just appeared on the shore. He’s wearing a beanie and sunglasses, but there’s no mistaking who it is: Bailey.
I grab Clover’s arm, just as one of the surfers yells,“Hi, Bailey, we’ve been waiting for you.”
Bailey thrusts his board into the sand, walks toward the water’s edge, black rucksack bobbing on his back, and starts chatting with them.
Finn is frozen to the spot, the color draining from his cheeks. Pulling off his sunglasses, he stares at Bailey, his eyes dark and intense. Then he looks at us. “What’s going on? Who’s that older lad with the board?”
“Do you recognize him?” Clover asks.
Finn’s quiet for a few agonizing seconds, then eventually he says slowly, “I think so.”
“His name is Bailey Otis,” I say. “Would you like to meet him?” I can’t keep the hopeful, excited tone out of my voice, and Finn recognizes it.
He stares at me, looking utterly confused. “Bailey? I don’t understand. What’s he doing here?” He looks around frantically. “Is this some kind of weird setup? Are there cameras?”
“No!” Clover says. “Of course not. We just thought you might like to talk to him, face-to-face.”
“Bailey’s in my class in school,” I explain, feeling sorry for Finn. I can’t begin to imagine how overwhelmed he must be feeling right now. “We’re friends.”
“Did he tell you about me?” Finn asks, his eyes boring into mine.
Yikes! “Not exactly.”
“I think you’d better spill the beans right now,” Finn says, his tone serious. “The truth, please, Amy.”
I gulp. He seems really angry. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this. I’d thought he’d be grateful, having clearly been dying to meet his son in person.
“It was me,” Clover says quickly, taking the bullet. “I was digging around, doing some research before this interview. I talked to a couple of people and found out about your son. Amy’s best friend was going out with a Bailey Otis, and as it’s a very unusual name, I put two and two together—”
“And came up with five.” Finn runs his hands through his hair. He seems very out of sorts. “And it’s none of anyone’s business — especially not yours.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” I pipe up. “Bailey is your son.”
I must have spoken too loudly, because at that moment Bailey swings round and stares at us. His gaze moves from me, glances over Clover, and rests directly on Finn. And he does not look happy. Their eyes lock. Bailey’s left cheek is distorted; he must be chewing it savagely. For a second, his eyes are soft, almost misty — and then it’s like someone has flicked a switch, and they go hard and steely.
“How dare you?” he spits out at Finn as he marches up the sand toward us. “Did you have me followed or something? And what’s she doing here?” He glares at me.
“Bailey,” Finn says, his voice quivering a little. “Bailey, please, can’t we just talk?”
“NO! Not now, not ever. Stop trying to contact me. I don’t want anything to do with you, understand. If I see you here again I’ll . . . I’ll call the cops. Have you up for harassment and sell the story to the papers. The mighty Finn Hunter stalking a teenage boy! That would look just great in the headlines.”
Finn’s face crumples. “It wasn’t my idea. I thought I was doing a photo shoot for a magazine. These girls—”
“Are idiots,” Bailey snaps. He looks at me, his eyes full of pain. “Amy Green, you’re some piece of work. Who told you I come here? Polly? Seth? Are you trying to get back at me for hurting Mills, is that it?”
“What?” I say. “No! I was trying to help. I thought if you saw your dad in the flesh—”
“Dad?” Bailey says angrily. “The man doesn’t deserve that name. Now leave me alone, all of you. Especially you, Amy.” He turns to Finn again. “And what are you still doing here?”
“Bailey, please listen—”
But before he gets a chance to finish his sentence, Bailey swings his arm and punches Finn hard, his fist impacting just above Finn’s jaw.
Finn stumbles backward onto the sand, clutching his face, while Bailey runs toward the sea and shouts, “Surfing’s off today, lads, sorry.” Then he grabs his board and storms across the sand dunes, away from us, away from Finn — without a backward look.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell Finn, who looks as shell-shocked as I
feel. His lip is bleeding, and he’s pressing his fingers against it to try to stem the flow. I can hear Bailey’s voice in my head: “Are idiots.”
Idiots . . . idiots . . . idiots.
I’m so stupid and ashamed. What was I thinking? Did I really think Bailey would yell, “Daddy, I forgive you,” and run into Finn’s arms like in a Disney movie? Life isn’t like that.
Clover puts her arm around my shoulder. “It’s OK, Beanie. It’s not your fault. You were trying to help.”
“But it is my fault. I should never have interfered. Bailey’s right: I am an idiot. And he hit Finn.”
“I’m all right,” Finn says. “It looks worse than it is.” He’s staring out at the boys, still playing in the waves: happily oblivious of what has just happened. “I’m the fool,” he continues. “I’ve made a right mess of everything. I should never have run off on Lane like that. Man, it was unforgivable. I don’t deserve a son.” He looks at me and Clover, his eyes glistening with tears. “I know you were only trying to fix things, but there’s nothing any of us can do now. We all have to respect the dude’s wishes and leave him alone.”
Alone? I feel a wave of sadness. Finn’s right, though; it’s beyond our control. And to top it all, now I’m going to have to tell Mum what I’ve done before Finn does. She’s going to kill me!
I was wrong: Mum doesn’t kill me.
After the Killiney Beach incident, Clover took me for hot chocolate in Mugs café in Dalkey to try to cheer me up before dropping me off at home.
“I’ll tell Sylvie what happened with Finn and Bailey,” she said as we drove toward the house. “It was my fault too, Beanie. You shouldn’t have to take the rap alone.”
So now we’re sitting around the kitchen table, me, Mum, and Clover, all staring at one another. Clover has just finished telling Mum the whole story.
“Poor Bailey,” Mum is saying. “He’s had such a sad life. It’s such a shame he won’t talk to Finn. Personally, I think they both need each other.”
“You’re not annoyed with me for reading your notes?” I ask, surprised. I bite my lip and then, guessing it’s probably best to come completely clean, add: “I listened to the tape too and read Bailey’s letters to Finn.”
