Blood Ties

by Sam Hayes

  I am breathing each breath carefully, tiptoeing through each minute with my precious new baby, living it as if it’s my last. I expect my father’s strong hand on my shoulder at any time, my mother sobbing by his side, whimpering accusations at me. The police will suddenly blanket me, take my baby and hand her to some other woman, my parents nodding approvingly. I will be sent to prison and the only person allowed to visit will be Uncle Gustaw . . .

  The train lumbers up to the platform and I climb aboard with the baby pressed against my body, her eyes peeking over the top of her blanket. What she makes of the world through those new, watery eyes, I don’t know. I read that newborn babies can’t focus on anything further away than their mother’s faces.

  Ruby is suddenly alert, writhing in her cocoon and watching the scene around us as if she can make sense of everything she sees. I smile and kiss the top of her head. She is precocious and I am a proud mother. Ruby is already an intelligent baby. I walk sideways down the narrow aisle.

  The train is crowded but I find a vacant seat next to a young man wearing headphones and reading a magazine. He doesn’t look up as I sit down but puts his elbow on the chair rest so I can’t have it. I unfurl Ruby, who is becoming restless. I notice that she has lost one of her little knitted bootees and her foot is cold. I rub her toes. My arms are aching from carrying her through the town and I don’t feel very strong today, a bit like I’m getting ’flu.

  I fidget and get myself comfortable and the young man peeks at me sideways, then glances at Ruby. She is leaning against my body, trying to pull her arms from beneath her blanket wrapping. She lets out a frustrated yelp. Surprisingly, the young man smiles and then looks away again. I can hear the tss-tss of his music. Someone’s mobile phone rings and another baby squawks further down the carriage.

  If I wasn’t on the run, if I didn’t want to keep it a secret that I’d got this baby and was fleeing to London, then I’d go and sit near the other baby so Ruby could make eyes at it. I could talk about babies with its mother, about which nappies she prefers and if she breast or bottle feeds. I’m a mother now, although I don’t feel I have any right to be at fifteen. I don’t feel proper. I bet that other mother would look down her nose at me and shift her baby out of reach. The train begins to move and I realise I’m travelling backwards.

  Twenty minutes into the journey and Ruby is screaming. The young man next to me turns up his music and the lady across the aisle is staring. I am sweating in my parka. The sliding door at the end of the carriage opens and the ticket inspector leans against the first set of seats while the passengers open their bags or search their pockets for their tickets. Another six rows of seats and he’ll want to clip my ticket. I don’t have one. I stand up, gripping my screaming baby, and walk towards the conductor as if I’m drunk, one hand on the back of each seat as I go.

  ‘Excuse me.’ I turn sideways and slide past him as he is questioning someone about their ticket. I go through the sliding door and duck into the toilet. It stinks and the floor is wet. I kick the toilet lid down with my foot and slump onto it. There’s a tiny window. I could jump out. I did that when I ran away from home. I sat on the window sill and dropped into the bush below. I probably won’t see my family ever again.

  ‘What?’ I say to Ruby. She’s squirming and crying and twisting. Her arms have popped out of her shawl and her legs are beating. I hold her up, so her face is level with mine. For a second we lock eyes, an unfathomable connection, then her face reddens and crumples and she howls like she’s in terrible pain. I thought I would be a good mother.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ I fumble with my coat zip and layers of sweaters and T-shirts and finally dig out my aching breast. Ruby stops howling and begins to grumble. She makes a throaty snuffling sound, as if she can smell the milk that’s leaked all over my clothes. Within a second, her mouth is around my bursting nipple but she’s chewing and fussing and not latching on properly. She wants to drink but doesn’t seem able, as if something is wrong. Her little fists are clenched and beat about as she tries to feed from me. Milk has dribbled all over her face so I dab it with her blanket but that angers her even more. It’s as if she doesn’t like my milk.

  ‘Don’t have any, then,’ I say and pull down my clothes. We sit in the loo for about twenty minutes, waiting for the ticket inspector to move on, and the steady rhythm of the train gradually forces Ruby into reluctant sleep. Careful not to disturb her, I leave the toilet and stand in the space between the carriages. I think I’ll just stay here until we arrive in London.

  I ran away because Mother and Father tricked me. All those months locked in my bedroom and they were plotting to steal my baby.

  ‘Hand over your baby, Ruth,’ Mother said tersely as if it was something to be disposed of before the dustmen came.

  ‘Come on now, Ruthie, be reasonable. What about your school work, the rest of your life?’ Father loomed over me, arms folded, looking so much like his brother.

  Locked in my room pregnant, I went along with it, pretending that it was for the best, but all the while I was thinking of a plan. Too long I’ve played their game. I’m a woman now, I’ve got a child of my own. I’ll need a job, a place to stay. I’m going to get a new life. If they thought I was going to go back to school – I blow out in disgust and, just at that moment, I see the ticket inspector enter the carriage ahead through the far door.

  The train seems to be wheezing and slowing so I push down the window and stick out my head, gripping Ruby so she doesn’t get sucked out. Half a mile up the track, I can see a station. I look back down the long carriage. He’s midway through now, not checking tickets any more because he thinks he’s done everyone. Signs for Milton Keynes flash past and the scrub grass gradually turns into concrete as we enter the station. I have my hand ready on the door lever and just as the train reaches a standstill, just as the carriage door slides open and the inspector walks into the void, I hit the button to open the door and leap off the train. Ruby’s head lurches forward and then back onto my breastbone. She wakes with a high-pitched scream and we’re running again, running away from the train and into the warmth of the dismal waiting room.

  We sit and wait, me shaking, the baby whimpering.

  Finally, Ruby is sucking on me. It’s taken nearly half an hour to coax her into drinking my milk and now she is guzzling on me. While she’s feeding, I remember my Dairy Milk and unwrap it with one hand. Ruby’s little head is nestled on my left arm and her knees are drawn up to her chest. She’s a ball of baby and blanket. I drop chocolate flakes onto her so I pick them off and pop them in my mouth, thinking that one day she’ll be able to eat chocolate too. I realise that I don’t know when that will be. I haven’t a clue when she should eat normal food or walk or talk or go to school or learn an instrument or do exams or leave home or get pregnant.

  Ruby’s sucks are becoming less vigorous and less urgent, which is a good thing because my nipple is on fire. I was alone in the waiting room but a man comes in and, out of all the vacant chairs, he chooses the one right opposite me. I don’t want a stranger to see my tit.

  ‘How old?’ The man, probably in his forties, puts loads of shopping bags down and leans forward to get a better look. He’s out of breath and smells of the cold, earthy air. I’m not sure if he’s asking my age, disapprovingly, or Ruby’s so I ignore him. ‘My daughter’s fourteen now.’ He leans back again and sighs.

  I lower my arm, so that Ruby’s head drops an inch or two in the hope she might let go of my nipple so that we can leave. But she’s stuck on hard and I want to scream out because it hurts. I pull the blanket up over Ruby’s head and my chest.

  ‘Make sure you cherish these early days,’ the man continues. ‘You never get them back.’ He cracks open a can of Coke. ‘So convenient too, that you’ve got, you know,’ he jerks his head at my chest and takes a swig of Coke, ‘milk on tap.’ He thinks he’s funny and laughs. He’s making me scared. There’s no one else in sight and even though it’s only half past two, the light is
already turning purple-grey, like we’re in for some snow. I’m freezing and my nose is running.

  ‘Going anywhere nice?’ He’s staring at me.

  ‘I’m waiting for my husband, actually. He’s coming in on the next train. Then we’re going home.’ I say it like it’s real and for a second that’s almost as delicious as my chocolate bar, I believe it myself and imagine a handsome young man with slightly tousled but styled hair and wearing an expensive suit stepping off the train from his highly paid job in the City. He marches up to me, embraces his wife and daughter and then announces that he’s taking us both out for dinner before we go home to our warm, comfortable house . . .

  ‘That’ll be the train I’m catching then. It should only be a couple of minutes now.’ He stands up to leave. ‘Well, good luck with baby.’ He walks away and I’m about to call after him because he’s left one of his shopping bags under the chair, but I don’t. I let him get on the train when it arrives and, after he’s gone and Ruby’s fallen asleep again, I hook the bag across the floor with my foot. It is stuffed full of groceries and it makes me think: did he know?

  Carrying the shopping and Ruby is hard work. It’s forcing more of my insides out. I don’t know if I should still be bleeding like this but I’m not going to the hospital. They’ll just send me home again or, worse, call the police.

  I get a bus into the centre of Milton Keynes. I came Christmas shopping here once with my mother and Aunt Anna but they didn’t like it and complained about how expensive everything was. I thought it was magical.

  Today it’s not magical. Every shop window has ‘sale’ posters and I feel like I’m walking through melted toffee because there are so many people. I go into John Lewis and find the baby section. It’s warm and filled with the joys of owning a new baby – matching lampshades and quilts and towels and packs of soft sleep suits. Sagging festive decorations hang from the ceiling and there’s a Christmas tree leaning at an angle as if it’s had enough and wants to be packed away.

  ‘If you need any help, love, just let me know.’ Even though she sounds nice, I bet she thinks I’m going to steal something. I hoist Ruby onto my shoulder, so everyone can see I have a baby and it’s OK for me to be browsing.

  ‘Just looking.’

  ‘There’s a mother’s room over there, if you need to change baby.’ She smiles and crinkles her nose. She’s right. Ruby stinks. I don’t have any nappies.

  ‘Oh, Ruby, you do need changing but, silly me, I left your nappy bag at home.’ I don’t normally sound like that.

  ‘Everything you’ll need is in the mother’s room. With our compliments.’

  The room is empty and smells of talc and tepid milk. I lay Ruby on the changing mat and shake out my aching arms. When I pull away her blanket, I see that her baby suit is damp right through. No wonder she’s been restless. I peel away the layers of clothing, right down to the vest that has poppers between her legs. I pause and study the garments, getting a whiff of fresh washing powder through the stench of soiled nappy.

  ‘Mummy’ll get you cleaned up in no time, chickie.’ I tickle her tummy but she gives me that look again, our souls connecting angrily before a single tear drips out of her left eye. I change her nappy, badly, but have to dress her in dirty clothes again as I didn’t have time to pack a bag. It was a now or never escape. I was lying on my bed then I was lying in the bush beneath my window. No chance of picking out a winter wardrobe.

  I sit and feed Ruby and it suddenly hits me that we have nowhere to spend the night. My friend Rachel ran away once. Only for three days. She went to a hostel for battered women. She wasn’t battered and she was only thirteen at the time but they took her in. Then the hostel reported her to the police because they suspected that she was a runaway. She was returned to her family.

  Rachel was protesting because she wasn’t allowed a puppy. I’m protesting because I wasn’t allowed my baby.

  Another mother comes into the room and says a brief, ‘Hi,’ glancing at me then Ruby. I think she was going to start chatting but changed her mind. She undresses her baby. She has a really nice pushchair. It’s huge and comfortable and has a nappy bag to match. She talks to her baby as if he can understand everything she’s saying. I’d like a pushchair like that for Ruby. It would save my arms breaking.

  After Ruby’s change and feed, I wrap her up in her shawl again, get her fixed firmly in the crook of my left arm and stuff half a dozen nappies and a packet of wipes into my grocery bag when the other mother isn’t looking.

  ‘Bye,’ I say and spend the next hour wandering around the store looking at all the lovely things. I didn’t mean to, but I steal a lipstick. I’ve never had one before. No one stops me when I leave the store and I end up in McDonald’s for a cup of tea, laughing.

  It’s dark outside. Ruby and I have a giggle together because she’s happy now that she’s dry and fed and I put on some bright red lipstick, which makes her gurgle even more. I think she really likes me.

  I never thought that I’d run away. I never thought it would be so easy. Maybe that’s where I’ve always gone wrong – I never think. I didn’t think I’d get pregnant or that anyone would ever like mousy me enough to make me pregnant but I don’t want to remember that so I screw up my eyes until it goes away.

  I’m sitting next to a large window. With the night a black background outside, I can see my reflection. Big holes for eyes, grey skin stretched across bones that are too, well, bony. My hair hasn’t ever been styled and my fringe is ragged. Mother doesn’t believe in vanity. Since I could listen, she drummed into me the terrible hardship the Polish people suffered during the war, the Nazi invasions, the Warsaw Ghetto, the uprisings. She said that alone cancelled out all the vanity in this family. My forebears suffered for me to live but I would never possess an ounce of the courage that my grandparents had when they fled Poland.

  I never understood what she meant. I learned about the war in history and it didn’t sound very nice but it was hardly my fault. I make a promise to myself to get vain, because Mother isn’t around, because the war’s over now.

  I’m doing all right. Ruby and I are in the Holiday Inn. Finding a place for the night was important, with a baby to look after, and I didn’t want to crouch in a shop doorway in this freezing weather. I walked away from the shopping centre and, like a welcoming beacon, I soon saw the neon sign of the hotel. I’ve always wanted to stay in a proper hotel but Mother and Father insisted on bed and breakfasts with fusty sheets and orange swirly carpet whenever we went away. This is much nicer.

  I’m looking a bit conspicuous in my old parka and trainers but I think the lipstick helps, makes me going on twenty. There’s a nice bar with settees and lamps, and music flutters around like summer butterflies even though it’s mid-winter. Ruby certainly likes it here. She was howling but as soon as she heard the tune, she stopped crying.

  Uncle Gustaw once told me that the trick to getting what you want is confidence. He should know. So I hold my head up high and smile at the receptionist as I walk past, shifting Ruby up onto my shoulder for everyone to see. Babies make you credible, I’ve discovered.

  The sign above me says: ‘This way to the pool’. A swim would be nice. I find the ladies’ changing room and two middle-aged women are forcing their bodies into swimsuits. I can smell warm lady-flesh and chlorine. I sit on a bench and fiddle about with Ruby until they pack their belongings into a locker and curse because the lock won’t take their pound coin. It makes me think. They’re talking about their grandchildren as they go through to the pool.

  Ruby and I take a shower instead of a swim. Ruby’s naked body is pressed against mine as we get squeaky clean. There’s even a soap dispenser. The towels are soft. I hope the two women won’t mind too much me helping myself but it’s hardly my fault that the locker was jammed. They should have used another one.

  Inside their sports bags I find an assortment of huge underwear, a towelling tracksuit, a couple of T-shirts, a size 18 skirt from BHS and a toiletries bag
stuffed with really nice things. I put my own clothes back on for now but wrap Ruby up in the tracksuit because her stuff stinks. I rinse out her dirty clothes in the basin, pack the groceries that the man at the station left behind into my new sports bag and head off into the warren of corridors.

  Carrying a load of luggage through a hotel looks credible. There are doors every few feet, mostly bedrooms but some of them have names on them like Balmoral Suite and Windsor Room. I rattle the knobs but they’re locked. We go up in the lift to the next floor and twist a few more knobs. Two cleaners are chatting halfway down the corridor. They’re leaning on a trolley loaded with sheets and sachets of coffee and little packets of biscuits outside what looks like a storeroom. By the sound of it, they’re packing up for the day.

  ‘I’ll sort it in the morning, Sandra,’ one of them says. I’m walking slowly past, to find out what’s going on. I’m being confident, like Uncle Gustaw said, and they don’t notice that I stare right into that cosy little storeroom, nor do they notice that I hang around about ten feet away pretending to look for something in my bag. And they certainly don’t notice when, after they’ve parked their trolley in the storeroom and walked off, letting the door swing shut by itself, I scamper up and jam my trainer just in time to stop it locking.

  ‘What d’you think, Ruby?’ My voice is dulled by the piles of linen and towels.

  How proud I am for securing us a room for the night! I don’t reckon they’ll be back until morning, which gives us ages to indulge in the stack of pillows and duvets and sheets and little bottles of whisky and sugar sachets to dip my finger in like a sherbet dab.

  I dump Ruby on a pillow and spin around with my arms wide. There’s only just enough room to do that, what with the trolley and the shelves taking up most of the space. I kick off my trainers and pull a pile of folded duvets onto the floor. I make a nest, padding up the walls with pillows, just like a mother bird. Then I unzip the sports bag and dig out the food that the station man gave us. I open a packet of Nice biscuits and eat three at once. There’s a tin of peas, which are useless since I don’t have an opener, an Iceburg lettuce, a bag of carrots, a can of Spam, which I love, and a packet of cream crackers.