I’d known a fair few of them too. But that had been in my last job – not when it came to the ones we fostered. And that was precisely because mobile phone use was controlled. I still thought he was being just a little over-cautious, and we also mustn’t forget that Emma was a young mum – she had adult responsibilities now so we should at least grant her a few adult benefits. But I’d call Maggie anyway, just to put his mind at rest. Even if I knew he was worrying about nothing.
But it turned out that Mike was perhaps a little more perceptive than I was. It was in the small hours, around two, when I woke up that night. Woke up with a start, moreover, confused by what I was hearing. Was that a baby crying? Disorientated by the sound, I thought I was imagining it for a moment, and then my brain caught up – of course it was. We had a baby in the house now, didn’t we?
I didn’t stir, however, because my brain registered another thing as well – that the cry had come from downstairs, which meant that Emma had taken him down there, presumably to warm up one of the bottles she’d made up for him before going to bed.
But something was wrong. The crying wasn’t stopping. I lay in bed listening for what seemed like several minutes, at first smiling wryly at the memory of those interminable night feeds – both mine and Riley’s – but gradually becoming more and more agitated. How long did it take to warm a bottle? Not this long, surely. I glanced at the display on the alarm to find that it was approaching two-thirty. What on earth was she doing down there?
When the baby’s cries were so plaintive I could almost feel his distress personally, I flipped the duvet from over my legs and dragged on my dressing gown, before shuffling out of the bedroom and trudging downstairs. Perhaps she was having a problem with the microwave or something.
The crying was coming from the front room, however – not the kitchen – so that’s where I headed, and as I took in the scene I felt a wave of pure maternal anger. The baby was in his pram, screaming, kicking his little legs in frustration, while Emma, the sound conveniently muffled by a pair of earphones, was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, tapping away on – no, my eyes hadn’t deceived me – my laptop! And at her side, I belatedly noticed, was a large measuring jug, half full of water, in which a bottle of milk was bobbing, presumably cooling after having been heated up too much.
Presumably now cooled, in fact. I snatched it up, wiped it on my dressing gown and placed the teat in Roman’s open mouth, and while he sucked lustily – I held it in place for him as he fed – I turned my attention to Emma, who seemed almost completely oblivious. She’d seen me come in, of course – she’d even glanced at me – but she was doing that oh-so-teenagerish thing of finishing whatever she’d been doing – the furious typing of what was presumably some vital message – before deigning to pull out her earplugs and give me her full attention.
I stopped myself from picking up the baby. And it was hard. Though his hungry cries had by now been reduced to gulping sobs, this was no way for him to feed – he’d be gulping in as much air as nourishment – and it was only the insistent voice in my head, reminding me just how young and clueless (not to mention motherless) his mother was, that stopped me rounding on Emma in anger.
‘Emma,’ I said instead, keeping my voice low but firm, ‘what’s going on here? Surely you could hear Roman screaming? Even through those.’ I gestured pointedly to the earphones.
She looked up at me, completely without guile. And then at her baby, as if nothing much was up with him. ‘Oh, was it cool enough? I didn’t realise. It takes for ever to cool down, milk does. And I know he fusses, but, look, he’s fine now.’ She paused then, as if unsure quite what to do with me, since it didn’t look as if I planned on going anywhere any time soon. And then she seemed to decide I needed mollifying. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, seeing me still standing by the pram, feeding him. ‘If you just roll his blanket up into a ball and prop the bottle up, he’ll be fine. He can practically feed himself, that way.’
I was flabbergasted. He wasn’t even five weeks old! Practically feed himself? ‘Emma,’ I said sternly, ‘this bottle is almost stone cold. And a baby of Roman’s age needs to be held while he’s feeding and, equally to the point, what are you doing on my laptop at this hour of the night? What are you doing on my laptop at all?’
I could see from where I was that, as I’d thought, she was on Facebook, and was also aware that even now I didn’t have her full attention. Her eyes kept flicking back to whoever she was messaging on screen.
‘Emma!’ I hissed again.
She sighed, betraying a distinctly adolescent irritation at the interruption. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, can’t you chill, woman?’ she fired back at me, causing me to be even more flabbergasted. ‘I came down and warmed his bottle for him, didn’t I? And would have fed him, too, if you hadn’t come in and beat me to it. He’s not going to die, you know, having to wait a few minutes. He’s –’ and then she stopped, abruptly, and burst out laughing.
Heaven knew, the last thing I wanted to sound like was the prissy Miss Jean Brodie character Kieron used to accuse me of sounding like whenever I used to tick him off, but that’s exactly what I heard in my voice when I asked Emma quite what it was she seemed to find so funny.
But she evidently didn’t. ‘Oh, it’s my mate,’ she said, with one eye still on the screen. ‘She’s off her head on vodka, and she’s having this major row with these two geeks on here. It’s funny as.’
Words really did almost fail me now. But not quite. ‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t find anything about any of this remotely funny, Emma. This isn’t a very good start, is it? Now kindly log off my computer, and come and sort your baby out, please. In the meantime I am going to switch the internet off, and you and I are going to discuss this in the morning.’
It nearly killed me to leave the room without picking up the baby, but I held firm and, as Emma watched me with the sullen eyes I absolutely expected, I left the room, climbed the stairs and crept as quietly as I could back into bed.
I couldn’t sleep then. I tossed and turned all night, unable to settle, and though it might not have been conscious, with half an ear out for further baby-centred disturbances. And then, the following morning, without even thinking what I was doing, I did something completely out of character – I told a lie.
‘I’m off now, love,’ Mike said at seven as he placed my morning mug of coffee at the bedside. ‘Well,’ he went on cheerfully, ‘that went well, eh? There was me worrying we’d be back to sleepless nights again – but nothing. Can’t believe I never heard a peep!’ He chuckled then. ‘He’s a lovely little fella, that one. They’re both down there, by the way – Emma’s busy changing him, and he’s gurgling away, bless him. You know, I swear he’s even watching the cartoons with her. I told her you’d been down once you’d had your coffee. Anyway, how about you?’ he finished. ‘Did you manage to sleep through?’
And I lied. ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding, ‘I did. Right through.’
And I felt awful. I wasn’t even sure why I’d lied to Mike, not really. Was it the idea that Hannah might just come and snatch Roman away without a by your leave? Was it because I felt so sorry for this poor motherless girl? Whatever the reason, I vowed then and there that it would not be – it mustn’t be – the shape of things to come.
What with the phone business and the computer business – not to mention the general night-feeding business – I had got out of bed that morning feeling somewhat heavy of heart. Emma hadn’t even been
