I take it to the shed and cuddle it for a bit. If Mummy looks out, she won't see me, ‘cos I'm too far away at the bottom of the garden and Trina won't tell them I ran away, ‘cos if she does I'll tell them she was going to snap my fingers off and she'll be in Big Trouble.
There's three reasons why a baby cries: if it's hungry, if it's sick, or if its nappy needs changing. —Oh, and if it's tired, but mostly they just go to sleep if they're tired.
My baby needed its nappy changed. I have to find a clean nappy, which is easy, ‘cos my mummy put all the baby things in the shed after she lost her baby. I don't mind changing its nappy, ‘cos I can hold my breath for ages and anyway, Mummy showed me how to change Joseph's nappy, before he got lost. My baby's a boy as well—I would have liked a girl better, but a boy is almost as good.
The nappy's cold and the baby cries a bit until I put a vest on him, and a fluffy suit that has feet in it like little bootees, and a hood so he's warm and toasty.
"Hush little baby, don't say a word, Papa's gonna buy you a mock-in bird."
My daddy used to sing that to me when he lived with us. He doesn't live in my house anymore—he lives in an apartment, because Mummy and Daddy need some time apart. When Daddy comes, they don't look at each other, like they're not friends anymore. Mummy always cries when he's gone, though, so I know she wants to be friends again.
And now the baby's crying again—not miaowing anymore—he goes “Wah!” quite loud. I think he must be hungry. Babies drink special milk, only out of a tin, instead of a bottle. You've got to mix it up with hot water and put it in a bottle with a teat on it. I tried it once, before Joseph got lost, and it's disgusting, but babies like it. There's some in the baby box, only I'm frightened of going inside the house for the hot water, ‘cos Mummy's having a Bad Day, and I'm not supposed to be home yet.
"Shush, Baby. You'll just have to wait.” But he won't wait. He goes “WAH!” even louder.
If my baby was like the Baby Jesus, he wouldn't cry. For a minute, I think what if it is the Baby Jesus, ‘cos it's Christmas, and the Wise Men are supposed to come today, and I found him all on his own, like a miracle.
But Mummy says all babies are miracles, and anyway, there wasn't any Star of Bethlehem, with it being in the daytime, and there wasn't any shepherds as well. Also, the Baby Jesus was born in a manger, which is like a stable, only with cows and sheep, and my baby was under a bush, like a normal baby.
"Wa-aah!” And Baby Jesus was a good baby.
"Now, you're just being naughty!"
It makes no difference, he goes, “Wah! Wa-aah!” until I'm fed up of it and take the milk stuff and close the shed door, so no one will hear. The kids next-door have got a swing, but there's nobody on it, so it mustn't be lunchtime yet. They always come home for lunch and they always get to play on the swing. It isn't fair. But today it's covered in frost, so they mustn't be home yet, and I look up into the sky and cross my fingers and make a prayer there's enough in the clouds to make it snow.
The back door is open, so Mummy must be in. I leave the door wide, so I can sneak out if I hear her coming downstairs. The tin is open from last time Joseph had some. I put the bottle on the table and take off the lid. You have to put the powder in with a special spoon called a scoop. Then you add boiled water. Mummy won't let me use the kettle, so I use hot water from the tap, instead. Then I put the lid on and shake and shake and SHAKE!
Mummy must be asleep, ‘cos she doesn't hear me. Sometimes, she sleeps all day when she's Bad. Being Bad isn't the same as being naughty. Being Bad is when you're sick and it makes you cry all the time and you don't want to make a costume for the school play about Baby Jesus. And This isn't all about you, you know! This whole bloody world doesn't revolve around you! Miss Irvine said it didn't matter and gave me an old one from the box under the stage but it smelt of cobwebs and Trina said she didn't know angels were stinky. Trina's horrible.
I'm starving because I didn't have time for breakfast, and anyway there wasn't any milk. There's peanut butter in the cupboard so I push the dirty dishes out of the way and make two sandwiches, with peanut butter on both of them. Then I stick my finger in the jar and have a bit extra, ‘cos nobody's looking.
There's nothing on TV, so I put a DVD on instead and watch Shrek for a bit. I have to cover my mouth so I don't laugh too loud and wake Mummy up. Daddy says Mummy's like an ogre when she's got her angry head on. Only she isn't funny, like Shrek, and she isn't green. I don't like Mummy's angry head.
I hear a flump. It's coming from upstairs, and I think it might be Mummy. I switch off the TV and run to the door. If you open it a tiny tiny bit, you can see out with one eye. The toilet flushes, but Mummy doesn't come downstairs.
I know where the floor creaks, so I can get down the hall quieter than a mouse with slippers on. The baby's bottle isn't hot anymore, but maybe it won't mind. Because it's my baby, I'm the only one that can give it a name, but the only name that keeps coming into my head is Joseph. I frown and frown like Mummy, to stop it coming back. Maybe that's why Mummy frowns—to keep her baby's name out of her head?
I have to run to the shed and hope Mummy isn't watching. She isn't, because I count to fifty and she still doesn't come. The baby is very, very quiet.
"Good boy! Look what Mummy's brought you.” I cuddle it while I give it the bottle. It sucks and sucks and sucks until all the milk is gone, then suddenly, bleurgh! It's sick everywhere.
"Naughty boy!” I have to get a wet wipe and clean his face and his fluffy suit, but it still smells of sick and he starts to cry.
"Wah! Wah!” Looking after babies is HARD.
Mummy should be glad she doesn't have to look after Joseph. It's his own fault if he got lost, ‘cos you should always hold your mummy's hand if you don't know how to get back.
"I'm going to count to five. If you don't stop crying I'll give you a SMACK!” Mummy says smacking is a—something—of failure. I forget what. But she hasn't got Joseph going “Wah! Wa-aah! Wah!” And he won't stop.
"Laura?"
My heart stops. Then it starts again, really fast, like it's trying to catch up. I cover the baby's mouth but it's all wet and snotty and anyway it doesn't stop.
"Laura!"
I come out of the shed and close the door. The baby goes “Wa-aah!” So I run halfway across the lawn. Maybe she won't hear.
"Are you home already?” she says.
"You forgot my dinner money.” This is true, but Mummy looks at me like I'm trying to hide something behind my back. “I had to come home,” I say, which is also true, but not in the same way.
She blinks, like she's just woken up. “Come in, you'll catch your death of cold."
"Can't I play out?” I can hear the baby "Wah! Wa-aah!" but it sounds far away.
"You haven't even got your gloves on! Can't you do the simplest thing?"
I don't say anything, ‘cos it just makes her more cross.
"Did Trina walk you home?"
I nod, because I always give myself away if I tell a fib.
She doesn't say anything for a while, and I'm afraid she's listening for the baby. But then she turns away from me. “Inside,” she says.
I want a cup of cocoa with marshmallows, but Mummy goes straight back upstairs. Maybe I can make some using hot water out of the tap. But I can't find a clean cup and the cocoa is in one of the wall cupboards, but I push a stool over and climb up.
BANG!
At first I think Mummy's fallen over, but then I hear her running down the stairs. Really running. Thud, thud, thud, thud! She pushes the kitchen door so hard it crashes against the wall and the door wobbles and the wall gets a dent in it. I'm so frightened, I just stand on the stool and I can't move.
"You bloody little liar!"
"Mummy..."
"It's eleven o'clock in the morning. What the hell are you doing home?” My mouth is dry and my legs are so shaky I can't even jump down off the stool. “Your clock must've stopped,” I say. “It really is—"
/> Suddenly, my face is burning. I lose my balance, but she grabs me by the arm and pulls me down. “Ow! Ow, it hurts! Mummy, please, it hurts!"
"How dare you lie to me—I just heard it on the radio, you wicked, wicked girl!” Whack! Whack! She smacks me as hard as she can on my bum and my legs and my back.
"Mummy, please!"
Then she pulls me upstairs and it hurts so much ‘cos she's twisting my arm, but when I try to tell her she whacks me again.
"Bloody liar!"
She throws me onto my bed. There's toys on it, because I was playing with them before school. I land on them and they dig into my back. “Ow! Mummy!"
"Look at this pigsty! How can you find anything in this pile of filth? You dirty, dirty girl. No wonder you've no friends—you make me ashamed!"
"Mummy! I'm sorry!” I can hardly talk because I'm crying so hard. “I—Trina hurt my hand. I had to run away ‘cos she was going to break my fingers off!"
"Stop lying! I've had ENOUGH!” She's screaming so loud I cover my ears, but I can still hear her. “Enough of you. Enough of your lies and your whining, your complaints and demands. You're never satisfied, are you? ARE you?"
"Yes, Mummy."
She slaps my legs. “Don't be insolent! What am I going to say to Miss Irvine? That you lied? That you ran away?"
"Please, Mummy, don't. Don't tell Miss Irvine!” I'm sobbing, and Mummy hates that, but I can't stop. It's like somebody poured all the sadness in the world into my heart, and my heart is so full it's spilled into my tummy, and I have to cry or I'll burst.
Mummy comes up close. Her eyes aren't like my mummy's eyes. They're hard and glittery and I'm afraid to look. “SHUT UP!” she screams and slaps me across the face again.
I close my eyes and hold my breath. I hold it and hold it to stop myself from crying, and after a long time, she goes away.
Mission. Mummy says smacking is a mission of failure.
* * * *
When she's gone I cry for a long time, but very, very quietly—'cos crying's not aloud. I crawl under the duvet and curl up and pretend I'm a dormouse and I'm going asleep till the winter's over. I'm awfully tired...
"Sweetie?"
I lie still under the duvet. Maybe she won't notice me. Then I feel her hand on my shoulder, and I make a little sound, which I didn't mean to make, but I couldn't help it. “Laura—sweetie—it's all right. Mummy isn't cross anymore.” I don't say anything, in case it's a trick.
"Mummy's very sorry.” I still don't say anything. “Look, I've brought you a surprise.” She lifts the duvet a tiny bit to let the smell in. Scrambled eggs on toast. My favourite.
I slide out from under the covers, but I don't sit close to her. I go and sit on my pillows, instead, so I can look at her. She hasn't got her angry head on anymore. She looks sad and her eyes are red, like she's been crying.
"Oh, sweetie!” she leans over and at first I'm afraid, and I duck.
"Shhh...” she says. She was only going to stroke my head this time. I'm all sweaty, ‘cos I've still got my coat on, but Mummy doesn't shout or be mad at me. “Mummy doesn't mean to be cross,” she says. And now she's definitely crying, which makes me want to start all over again.
"Won't you have something to eat?” she says. It does smell lovely. She's brought it up on a tray, like when I'm sick. I feel like telling her no, but I'm so hungry. It's already nighttime, so I must have fallen asleep.
I nod, to show I'll try. It hurts my face, but you don't have to chew scrambled eggs, and the toast is soggy—the way I like it—so it's not too bad. She helps me to take my coat off, and looks at my arms and cries again. Then she sits next to me, and I can see that she really isn't cross anymore and she really is sorry.
"You can have hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and two chocolate biscuits after,” she says, and kisses me very soft on the forehead, and I love her more than the whole wide world. “I'm sorry, Mummy,” I say, and I can't help crying. My lips wobble and I feel like I've got something stuck in my throat, but I haven't. “I didn't mean to upset you."
"It's not your fault,” she says. “I shouldn't have—oh, darling, I didn't mean it, you know that, don't you? It's just, since Joseph...” She never says the next bit. Since Joseph got lost. Since I lost Joseph. Maybe she blames herself for losing him. ‘Cos Uncle Pete says you've got to watch kids like a hawk.
* * * *
Mummy's fast asleep. It's still nighttime, but my watch says it's only eight o'clock, which isn't even my bedtime. I tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen. I have to go out to the shed, so I'll need a torch—there's one under the kitchen sink. I've got an idea—see, the baby is mine, ‘cos I found him fair and square. He is big, though. And heavy. And smelly. And he cries all the time. I can hear him ("Wah! Wah!") very faintly, as I walk across the grass. And Mummy really likes changing nappies and bath time and all that stuff. I could share him a bit—Mummy says nice little girls share their things—and I wouldn't mind, so long as I get to cuddle him and dress him sometimes. And maybe take him for walks. I haven't even given him a proper name yet—just “Baby,” so I could call him whatever I like. It's a good idea, and I giggle when I think what a surprise Mummy will get.
I open the door and: “WAH! WAH!” Baby will have to stop crying, or he'll spoil everything.
"Baby, you HAVE to stop!” I say. But of course he doesn't. I find a dummy in the baby box, but he spits it out. He smells of sick and dirty nappies. “Baby, please." But that does no good. I take his dirty clothes off and give him a new nappy and everything, but he STILL won't stop.
"Now just you stop it! You wicked, selfish boy! You're never satisfied—you always want more more more! Stop it. Stop it RIGHT NOW!"
But he screams even louder.
"I've had ENOUGH!"
* * * *
Mummy's still asleep when I go back to my room.
"Look, Mummy, I brought you a surprise.” She stretches and sighs but she doesn't open her eyes. Joseph looks lovely in his clean rompers and bootees. He seems heavier than before. Maybe I'll just put him next to Mummy so she can see him when she wakes up properly. He's nice and quiet now. And with all that crying, he could do with the rest.
(c)2006 by Margaret Murphy
GARBO WRITES by Loren D. Estleman
Loren Estleman's new story was inspired, he tells us, “by a real-life event: the possible theft of several Garbo letters from the Swedish Military Archives. They were reported missing in late 2005, just as the international community was observing the 100th anniversary of Garbo's birth.” Don't miss Mr. Estleman's new Amos Walker novel “American Detective” (Forge).
Art by Laurie Harden
* * * *
"I want to be alone,” Harriet said.
"Vant,” Valentino corrected, emphasizing the V. “It's ‘I vant to be alone.’ Your accent needs work."
"No, I mean I really want to be alone. My bra came unhooked."
He'd misinterpreted her fidgeting under the off-the-shoulder velvet gown as a seductive dance, in keeping with the dress and the bejeweled contraption on her head, a reproduction of an outfit Greta Garbo had worn in Mata Hari.
"I think the ladies’ room is behind that column.” He pointed.
She excused herself and went that way, leaving him alone among two or three dozen women dressed as Garbo in her various movie roles: disguised as a not-very-convincing young man in boots and jerkin from Queen Christina; hauntingly amnesiac in platinum-blond hair and elegant evening dress from As You Desire Me; gung-ho Stalinist in severe suit and cloche hat from Ninotchka. He counted no fewer than five Anna Christies and as many Mata Haris, although none as bewitching as Harriet Johansen wearing that outfit. She bore an amazing resemblance to her inspiration, a fact Valentino hadn't noted until she'd revealed herself in costume.
There were fat Garbos, old Garbos, black Garbos, an Asian Garbo, and one or two Garbos wearing powder over what looked like five-o'clock shadows. Among the escorts was one very good Erich von Stroheim, sev
eral John Gilberts, and three Charles Boyers attempting to look Napo-leonic in Conquest. Valentino himself wore an imperial Russian uniform and a thin Ramon Novarro moustache, cemented with spirit gum to his upper lip. He'd have preferred to go as John Barrymore, but that would have been the wrong movie.
The fancy-dress couples drifted to and fro across the ballroom of the great Beverly Hills mansion, sipping from glass flutes and spilling champagne on the glittering parquet floor. The walls and columns were ornamented in a relentless Art Deco motif, with original and reproduced posters from Garbo's most famous films and glossy black-and-white stills of that iconic face blown up ten times life size among the clamshells and stylized swans. The party had been convened to celebrate the l00th anniversary of the star's birth.
"Let me guess,” said a familiar voice. “Lieutenant Alexis Rosanoff."
Valentino turned to shake hands with the host. Matthew Rankin was a trim, erect eighty in a beautifully cut tuxedo with flared 1930s lapels, white shirt, tie, and hair all of a piece and interrupted only by his aristocratic face with its carefully topped-off tan. He might have been an older version of the Melvyn Douglas who had played opposite Garbo three times.
"Right on the nose,” Valentino said. “I doubt three people in this room can match the filmography you carry around in your head."
"I've Andrea to thank for that. She was a fan of Greta's for years before they were friends. They died the same day, you know."
His guest nodded sympathetically. Fifteen years had planed away only a little pain from Rankin's tone. “Did you know Garbo well?"
"I never met her. She and Andrea went back to before we were married. They'd visit whenever Andrea made a buying trip to New York, but after Andrea retired, they kept in contact through the mail. She burned the letters at Greta's request, not long before Greta died. Some of her other so-called friends had begun to sell her letters at auction."
"Mrs. Rankin was a real friend. The people in charge of the Swedish Military Archives are offering a large reward for the return of several stolen Garbo letters."
EQMM, February 2007 Page 5
