by James Runcie
He inspected the roseate figure in detail, putting his finger gently in the child’s palm, and was immediately touched and moved when the small fist trustingly clenched around it. He smiled and turned to the new mother. ‘You must be very relieved, Abigail. Are you very tired?’
‘Yes I am, Canon Chambers, and they’re keeping me in for another week.’
‘I suppose they need to make sure everything is in order.’
‘It hurt to buggery.’
Her mother was aghast. ‘Abigail . . .’
‘He’s not shocked, Mum. He was in the army. You can say anything to Canon Chambers.’
‘Not quite anything,’ Sidney answered carefully. ‘But I am glad that all is well.’
‘It wasn’t what I was expecting, to be honest, but I suppose if doctors told us the truth most of us wouldn’t bother going through with it all. At least it’s over now.’
‘Although with a child I don’t think anything is really over. You are at the beginning of something wonderful.’
‘It doesn’t feel like it.’
‘But it’s why we live,’ Sidney continued. ‘This child is the meaning of why we are here; the creation of new life that will continue when we are no more.’
‘It didn’t feel like that at the time, I can tell you. I thought I was going to die.’
‘I was wondering if I could say a little prayer?’ Sidney suggested.
‘Can’t do any harm,’ Abigail replied.
‘Shall we wait for Colin?’ Agatha Redmond asked.
Abigail looked to Sidney. ‘He’ll be off to the pub on the corner for a good couple of hours. You do what you have to do, Canon Chambers. You’re going to be a dad yourself soon enough. I bet you’ll be there properly right the way through it.’
‘I think it’s customary for men to wait outside.’
‘But a clergyman like you can go anywhere in a hospital, can’t he? They’ll let you watch if you like.’
‘I’m not sure that I want to do that.’
‘Coward.’
Sidney smiled. ‘I probably am, Abigail, I probably am.’
‘We’re the ones that have to go through with it,’ the new mother continued. ‘That’s what men keep forgetting about. Watching is nothing. Perhaps if more blokes were to see what it was like then they wouldn’t be so keen on the old how’s your father in the first place.’
‘You may well be right; but until modern medicine makes male pregnancy available, I’m afraid we’ll have to be content with the status quo.’ Sidney opened his Book of Common Prayer. ‘Have you decided on a name?’
‘I thought of calling him after my dad, but I don’t like the name Harding. I think I prefer John; like John Lennon in the Beatles.’
‘I hear they are quite the thing.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve been to see them? I did. Screamed my bleedin’ heart out.’
‘I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing them on stage. But John is a very good name,’ Sidney continued. ‘The last, but by no means the least, of the evangelists.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘You will, Abigail. One day, I am sure. Once we get your boy into Sunday School.’
‘You like to catch them early, I suppose.’
‘I believe it is my duty to look after them throughout their lives; from the cradle to the grave.’
‘That’ll keep you busy then.’
‘Let us pray,’ Sidney began. ‘“They brought young children to Christ, that he should touch them: and his disciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it, he was much displeased, and said unto them, suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for such is the kingdom of God. Verily I say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein. And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them.”’
He leant forward and kissed the baby on the forehead. ‘God bless you and keep you, John. May He keep you safe from all evil. May you walk in His glory.’
Sidney stepped back and prepared to leave the hospital. Even though there was a newborn baby before his very eyes, he still could not possibly anticipate or imagine what it might be like if that child was his.
Hildegard’s mother Sibilla had already decided that her daughter needed help and that she would come both for Christmas and the birth of her third grandchild. Sidney was not at all sure that this would help (her mother’s judgemental presence always made Hildegard anxious) but once the suggestion had been aired there was no stopping it. Frau Leber was a proud woman who frequently liked to remind people that she was the widow of an East German communist hero. She was in her late sixties and, despite a minor stroke two years earlier and a lifetime addiction to cigarettes, she was far sturdier than she let on. Furthermore, because she was over the pension age she had no trouble travelling to the West as her country’s government was eager to divest itself of the responsibility of looking after an ageing population.
Frau Leber was to be spending a few days in London on her arrival and Hildegard had arranged a trip to the National Gallery where Amanda was to make sure that she proved to her mother that the greatest European art was not Italian but German.
She telephoned the vicarage to say that she would be happy to see Frau Leber on to her train up to Cambridge and that she had even organised a replacement for Dickens. The Labrador would be ready for collection just before Christmas.
The last thing on earth Sidney needed was a puppy; and he had already done his duty by the Redmond family and their new arrival. He didn’t really want to have to go out to their farm.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sidney. The puppy is simply adorable. I’ve already given him a name.’
‘Oh no, Amanda, really.’
‘It’s very literary. You have to guess.’
‘Crab,’ said Sidney. ‘After the dog in The Two Gentlemen of Verona.’
‘That’s too clever of you by half. It’s another writer.’
‘Please don’t tell me you have called my new puppy Dostoevsky?’
‘Of course not. He’s “Byron”. Don’t you think that’s a wonderful name?’
‘You’ve called him after a great – but scandalous – poet who died at the age of thirty-six?’
‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know. He’s a bit like us.’
‘Amanda . . .’
‘And I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that Byron also wrote the lines about how a dog is “in life the firmest friend, the first to welcome, foremost to defend”? Isn’t that appropriate? He’s just the ticket.’
‘Life is a little bit difficult at the moment,’ Sidney muttered. ‘To have a baby and a puppy at the same time is crackers.’
A few days later, and a week after the funeral of C.S. Lewis in Oxford, Sidney met Geordie Keating for their regular session of drinks and backgammon in the RAF bar of the Eagle. He had promised his wife that he would not stay long but it was clear that the Inspector needed cheering up. He was tired and unusually bolshy, partly because he had had to escort a drunk home the previous evening only to discover that the man was too inebriated to remember where he lived.
‘You only had to look into his eyes to see that he couldn’t have many years left in him,’ Geordie complained. ‘Still, it’s Christmas. You have to forgive and begin again. That’s the message of the season, is it not, Sidney? Peace and goodwill to all men. The baby that saves us all. Soon you’ll be having a little chap of your own.’
‘We can’t be sure it’s a boy.’
‘That’s true. Cathy had three girls and we thought each of them in turn was going to be a boy. Now we’ve just about given up, certainly as far as I, and my bank manager, are concerned. Besides, any more children are bound to be girls.’
‘You mean you could still add to the family?’
‘I don’t know, Sidney. It’s all a mystery. They seem to keep popping up unexpectedly. At least with Hildegard you’ve probably only got one sho
t at it. Is she keeping well?’
‘Remarkably. I think pregnancy suits her.’
‘You’ll be interested to observe it all happening as the baby gets older.’
‘I think I will be doing more than observing . . .’
‘No, you will be a father. But the women do most of the work. You’ll still be able to be out and about. You will only be told to mind the child when the wife is under pressure. Otherwise she won’t really trust you . . .’
‘Oh, I think with Hildegard . . .’
‘No, Sidney, she won’t. If ever a woman knew what she wanted, it is your wife. You can rely on her for anything. I’d trust her with my life, I don’t mind telling you. She’s an admirable woman.’
‘She is indeed.’
‘You’ll probably have to change a nappy or two.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I am afraid the modern man is expected to do that.’
‘I don’t think my father ever changed a nappy in his life.’
‘These are the 1960s, Sidney. Times have changed.’
‘So nappies are no longer a woman’s responsibility alone . . .’
‘Exactly. Then you will have to pick the child up and walk the baby in the middle of the night. It’s tiring. But when they begin to sit up it gets interesting. You start to see yourself in them. They look at everything around them, pick up things and ask, “What is this? How does it work? Can I eat it?” When they’re tiny you’ll be worried when they are asleep that they aren’t breathing and when they’re awake you’ll worry that something awful might happen to them.’
‘I never thought you’d want to spend our time together in the pub talking about babies like this.’
Inspector Keating gave his friend one of his knowing looks. ‘Well, there is a reason for this, Sidney.’
‘Aside from my wife’s situation?’
‘I am afraid so. You know Abigail Redmond?’
‘Of course I do. She is a pretty memorable young woman.’
‘Someone has stolen her child.’
‘What?’ Sidney was aghast.
‘From the hospital,’ the Inspector continued. ‘He’s only a week old.’
‘And he was premature. That’s utterly terrible. What happened?’
‘A straight snatch, we think, in the middle of the evening. No one saw anything. We’re going house to house tonight, but it’s a very delicate business and it’s upsetting when you find yourself questioning and suspecting married couples who don’t have children. It’s a difficult subject, obviously, and we aren’t getting anywhere. I shouldn’t really be here with you. I should be out on the case.’
‘And why aren’t you?’
‘Because I’m talking to you.’
‘Why waste your time doing that?’
‘I’m not wasting my time and I think you can guess why.’
‘Don’t tell me . . .’
‘You know the Redmond family.’
‘Not that well.’
‘Well enough. I want you to talk to them. Find out who they know.’
‘But it’s most likely to be a complete stranger, isn’t it? Do you have any suspects?’
‘Anyone could have done it.’
‘But you must have some ideas.’
‘One of the nurses, Sister Bland I think she’s called, said she saw a woman with a scarf and a dark coat holding a bundle that might have been Abigail’s child. In all odds it’s a woman. I don’t think men go in for stealing babies.’
‘I don’t think we can rule anyone out at this stage, surely? Do you think it was someone who knew Abigail, or an opportunist impulse by someone who might, for example, have just lost their own child?’
‘That’s often the case. I’ve asked the ward sister to have a think. One woman died in labour recently, and the baby didn’t survive.’
‘I suppose it could be her husband.’
‘Not a chance. We’ve already been to see him. That was no picnic, I can tell you.’
‘Any others?’
‘Two other losses. Then there’s the possibility of abortions. People feeling guilty; having second thoughts. It’s a grim business, Sidney. We need your tact.’
‘I’ll talk to Abigail. Stealing a baby seems so much more despicable than taking a painting or staging a bank robbery, doesn’t it?’
‘It is desperate. But we hope it is a woman who knows how to look after him and wants to care for him. Then we have more of a chance of finding the baby alive.’
‘I do hope so. Isn’t that what usually happens?’
Keating pushed his pint to one side. ‘I’m afraid not. Sometimes they are just abandoned.’
‘I must talk to Hildegard. I don’t want her to hear this from someone else.’
‘I wouldn’t do that, Sidney.’ Keating was unusually firm. ‘She’ll be worried the same thing might happen to her.’
‘She’s tough enough, Geordie, and I can’t keep things from her any more. I have to tell her everything.’
‘She’s got you trained then?’
‘I hope and pray she will be a match for anyone who tries to steal our baby.’
‘I am sure she is. You must do what you think best. I just don’t want her getting anxious about it. Of course you need to look after her, but I also need you to help me to solve this case. We have to secure the return of Abigail Redmond’s child.’
It did not help Sidney’s mood that Helena Randall was already out and about. She stopped him outside Corpus to ask how much he knew about the baby snatch, as it was a story she was going to run that evening. ‘Has Geordie got any leads?’
‘Helena, I know very little about the case and I’ve got a lot on. If you’ll excuse me . . .’
‘Evasive, as ever . . .’
‘I don’t mean to be.’
‘Yes you do. I don’t mind. I’m busy too, you know. In fact, I’m on the way to the matinée at the Arts.’
‘The pantomime? Are you reviewing it?’
‘I’m in it.’
Sidney felt sick. ‘Oh God, oh Montreal.’
‘It’s not that bad . . .’
‘No. It’s something else.’ Sidney had completely forgotten that he was due to attend a performance that very night. It had been Hildegard’s idea of a Christmas treat.
‘Although it is a bit embarrassing, I must confess,’ Helena continued. ‘I’m playing the Fairy.’
‘I don’t suppose anyone would think that was type-casting.’
‘You’re too kind, Canon Chambers. At least it’s only three scenes.’
‘Perhaps it will bring out your feminine side?’
‘For the first and last time, I can tell you. It’s only because the director happens to be my boyfriend. He thinks it’s going to soften me up, playing the Fairy, but believe me; it’s going to do the exact opposite. I’m going to come out of this even tougher.’
‘Has the man any idea of what lies in store for him?’
Helena smiled. ‘He hasn’t a clue.’
‘Then he has my pity.’
‘I tell you one thing: he deserves everything that’s coming.’
‘You always did have a strong sense of justice.’
‘It’s about the only thing you and I have in common, Canon Chambers. I do hope you will feel you can inform me as to how your enquiries progress.’
‘How do you know I am investigating anything at all?’
‘Because I know you, Sidney Chambers,’ Helena added almost flirtatiously. ‘I can read you like a book.’
‘Then I hope it’s a good one.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘It’s a classic.’
Sidney wondered if he had deliberately forgotten about the planned visit to Dick Whittington and his Cat because he hated pantomimes. He remembered that he had promised his wife the trip to take her mind off what she had started to call ‘God’s little joke’: the uncomfortable, sleepless ninth month of pregnancy. Hildegard had said that if she laughed enough at all the antics then perhaps it mig
ht bring on the baby.
‘I don’t think it’ll be that funny,’ Sidney warned. ‘But I’m sure we’ll be taking the little one soon enough.’
‘You will have to explain what happens in the story,’ his wife said. ‘You know how I can’t concentrate on anything at the moment. My brain is like strudel.’
‘It’s quite simple, although these Christmas shows never make much sense anyway. It’s more about the interruptions than the plot,’ Sidney began. ‘They’re essentially fairy stories: morality tales for the people . . .’
‘Like Hansel and Gretel.’
‘Exactly. They’re often about money too, in which the poor are ultimately recompensed for their virtue.’
‘Unlike real life.’
‘Reward for virtue, Hildegard, is at the heart of the Christian message. We cannot scorn popular entertainment. People love these shows. They are feasts of foolery.’
Sidney knew that he should just get on with it and tell his wife about Abigail’s baby before she read about it in the local paper, or anyone else mentioned it to her, rather than wittering on about a bloody pantomime that he didn’t even want to go to but Hildegard was in a relatively good mood and he didn’t want to spoil it.
‘What is the story of this play?’ she asked again.
Sidney was relieved to continue; although he knew that he was not off the hook by any means and merely prolonging the ultimate disclosure. ‘In this case, Dick Whittington, who is played by an actress . . .’
‘Dick is a man’s name. Why does a girl play a boy?’
‘Because the Dame is always a man.’
‘So women are men, and men are women?’
‘That is, allegedly, what makes it so very amusing. The roles are reversed. It’s like Shakespeare.’
‘The confused English relationship to sex . . .’
‘You have to know all the time that it is a man being a woman otherwise it isn’t funny . . .’
‘Already this is complicated.’
‘They say it’s all in the eyes and the knees.’ Sidney stood up from the kitchen table in a desperate attempt at humour. He opened his eyes wide and put his legs apart, demonstrating the role of the clown. ‘The eyes look everywhere and the knees knock together. Like this.’
