of him posing in front of his new boat. I remember now – we came on holiday so that he could buy the boat second-hand. He was going to sail us back to England. What went wrong?
‘Is that your daughter?’
I look at the picture. A family at a restaurant table. On the left is Abigail, smiling brightly, hair tied back in a ponytail. On the right stands him, wearing the look of someone who thinks a stranger is about to drop his expensive camera. In the middle, with the baby on her lap, is a crumpled old woman.
Oh.
That’s me.
‘Here, you play with it.’ I hand the camera to Rene, who folds her legs and bends herself close to the screen. I go over to the baby and stroke his head. He doesn’t stir.
‘Hello, baby.’
I prod him in the ribs. He still doesn’t wake, even as I shake him a little. This isn’t how a baby should look. I lift him into my arms and he’s limp, like a wet rag. I carry him to the sofa and stroke his head, trying to think. There’s a dip, running from one side of his head to the other. This means something, but what? God, I wish I weren’t so old.
Rene comes over, peering at the baby. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know … he’s all floppy.’
‘He looks peely-wally. Perhaps he’s tired? Mam says I go floppy like that when I fall asleep next to the radio, and Pa has to carry me through to the next room.’
‘But he was sleeping already.’
‘Perhaps he’s hungry?’ Rene frowns.
‘Yes, maybe. Oh, where’s Abigail?’
‘His mam?’
I nod. ‘She’s the only one who can feed him. But she’s been gone for a while now.’
‘If she’s not around, he must be thirsty.’
‘You look after him for a minute.’
‘Aye, all right.’
I go to the little kitchen at one end of the living room. There’s only enough room for me to stand here, surrounded by the surfaces. I look in the food cupboard first, in case there is baby formula. When Abigail was small, they encouraged you to use formula. Better than breastmilk, they said, fortified with vitamins. Abigail won’t touch the stuff.
I can’t see any here. Tins of beans, a packet of rice – nothing for a little baby to eat. Next, I look in the fridge. The light doesn’t come on and there’s no gust of cool air. There are the leftovers from a meal we had, an unopened pack of that salty Greek cheese Abigail likes, jars of pickles and olives.
Why is there no milk? We’ve had cups of tea and coffee. There are dirty cups in the living room. Abigail was always bringing me cups of tea, even though it meant I always needed the loo. I look in the cupboard under the sink. Here there are bottles of bleach, a dustpan and brush, a clear, green liquid in a squirty bottle, and a pallet of white plastic pots.
Yes – this is it. A quarter of the UHT milk pots have been used. One by one I rip the foil lids off the pots. I make a mess of screwing the parts of the bottle together. I take it all apart again and put the teat in the right way around. Finally, it’s ready. I rush back through to the living room. The baby is unmoving.
Rene is stroking his head, unconcerned. She leans over him with the interest of one child in another. ‘This is where I was’ if they are older, ‘this is where I will be’ if they are younger, looking for clues to the mystery of their existence. My breath is fast; I can’t calm myself. I sit down and pick up the unmoving baby, push the teat past his lips. He does not suck. The bottle just sits in his mouth. His eyes flutter for a second but nothing more. He looks dead.
‘Come on, baby. Have a drink. You’ll feel better.’
I take the bottle out of his mouth, put it back again. I pinch his cheek, bob him up and down. Nothing. I used to know how to get babies to drink. I put the bottle back in and, as I sit in that position, a memory surfaces. The baby is a different baby. Baby Abigail. I remember. I tilt the bottle down, toward his chest, so the teat is pressed against the roof of his mouth. I rub it from side to side. Without opening his eyes, his lips seal around the bottle and he starts to suck.
‘Oh good,’ Rene says matter-of-factly. She gets up on her knees so she can stare out of the window at the sea. I don’t dare move as he takes the bottle. At first it’s slow, just one suck every five seconds or so. But it becomes faster, more urgent. A minute passes.
‘I wish I’d had a baby.’
Rene watches the waves. She looks calm, but her jaw is clenched. I feel sick, but I should be brave in return.
‘I’m sorry you’re dead.’
Rene shrugs once and flops down on the sofa, fiddling with the buttons on her blouse.
‘S’all right. It’s not so bad. I just wish I’d had time to do more stuff.’
‘We can do stuff now.’
She nods sulkily. ‘What happened, after I died?’
I’m about to say I don’t remember, then realize this would be rude. I try to remember. ‘Everyone was upset. The whole school. All our year came to sing at the church.’
‘And Mam? And Pa?’
‘Of course.’
‘And Robert?’
It takes me a moment to remember Robert as he was to Rene. Nine years to our seven, skinny and quiet.
‘He was there.’
‘Was he all right, without me?’
‘I think he was angry.’
‘At who?’
‘At everyone. At me.’
‘Why you?’ Rene looks at me, puzzled.
‘Because … because I kept you out in the cold. In Paddy’s Park all those hours while you coughed.’
‘Nah.’ Rene shrugs. ‘It would still have happened. My lungs were bad. Springburn has all those smoky factories.’
‘Well, I felt bad.’
‘Y’shouldn’t have. Did Robert forgive you?’
‘I think so …’ I change the subject. ‘Are you hungry?’
Rene shakes her head.
‘Not any more.’
There’s a sucking sound – the bottle is empty. Rene comes to the kitchen with me and puzzles over the empty cartons, sniffing one suspiciously. By the time I get back to the sofa the baby has his eyes open. When I put the bottle to his mouth, he thrashes his head and tries to swipe it out of my hand. He succeeds on the third try and it
