reached all corners. Then, just as your house felt like it was full to bursting, there was this change – things started disappearing again, toys put away, stocks of plastic crockery dwindling. Childish presences became less and less, bedrooms became havens. And then, next, they’d be gone, the nest flown.
I folded the blanket Emma had discarded when she’d gone up to her bedroom. Was that what she really thought? And, more to the point, why was she so sure of it? Who’d planted that seed of mistrust in her mind and made her so sure of this conspiracy? Someone must have, for sure.
I went up quietly, suspecting that both mother and baby might be sleeping, but when I reached the top of the stairs I could hear a low sound. I hovered on the landing then, to catch what the noise was, and it was Emma. She was speaking and crying – I could tell because her voice had that unmistakable gulping quality. And what she was saying broke my heart.
‘I wish,’ she was whispering, ‘I was a proper mummy, baby. I wish I was a proper mummy and that your daddy wasn’t in jail. I wish I had a proper job like proper mummies do, friends who had babies so you had little friends to play with as well. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want us to be alone.’ I could hear her soothing him, going ‘shhh, baby, shhh go to sleep now’. Then she spoke again, and this time it was almost inaudible. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m useless, and I don’t know what to do.’
So I would have to. I tiptoed back downstairs again.
Kieron, my son, had recently qualified as a teaching assistant at our local primary school. He and his girlfriend, Lauren, had moved out of her parents’ house and were now living in a small, rented flat, not far from our house. Whilst Lauren still had two jobs – splitting her time between working at a beauty salon and teaching dance to children – Kieron was now enjoying working full time in his new job in the learning support department.
I remembered him telling me only a few days ago about a mother and toddler group that one of his co-workers had set up in a local church. After hearing the sadness in Emma’s voice as she had spoken to her baby, I decided I’d make some enquiries on her behalf. Mixing with other new mums might be just what she needed.
I was well aware that Emma was dreadfully lonely, and I knew that she regularly wrote to her boyfriend, Tarim. Almost every day she went out to post letters using stamps and stationery bought with money out of her allowance that was actually meant for Roman. This was another thing I had neglected to inform Hannah about. Emma received benefits to help her pay for baby formula, nappies and baby clothes, etc., but inevitably each Monday – she referred to this as ‘pay day’ – she would return from shopping with a new CD or magazine or a top for herself. I also had a suspicion that she was sending money in her letters to Tarim. I was determined, however, that she realise the importance of showing social services that she had her priorities right and I decided that I’d start accompanying her on her shopping days.
‘Here,’ I had said to her, just a few days earlier. I’d passed her a baby blue, padded jacket. ‘Why don’t you buy this for Roman? He’ll look gorgeous in it and Hannah will be pleased to see it, I’m sure.’
I pushed it in front of Emma as she casually browsed through a rail of T-shirts in her size, and she gave it a quick glance.
‘Nah,’ she replied. ‘Auntie Casey can buy it, though, if she wants.’
‘Um, Auntie Casey has bought him quite enough, Emma,’ I said in a huff. ‘Perhaps if you spent less on flipping postage stamps, and more on Roman, you wouldn’t moan so much about how he looked when you dressed him.’ I glanced down at the pram, which I was pushing, and suddenly found myself getting annoyed as Emma just grinned back at me.
‘Actually,’ I said as I angled the pram handles in her direction, ‘here, you take him for a while; I have some errands to run. I’ll meet you back here at 12.30 and we’ll go for some lunch.’
‘Oh, Casey! You know how stressed I get lugging this bloody pram around. Can’t you take him so I get a bit of “me” time?’
I was actually lost for words. I simply snorted and zipped up my coat. ‘I’m off, love. I have things to do. I’ll see you in an hour or so.’ And with that I stomped out of the shop. ‘Me’ time indeed! I’d almost forgotten in such a short time what that felt like!
Now, though, after hearing her sobbing, I felt guilty. I phoned the mother and toddler group and asked for more information. They met twice a week and apparently the Thursday session had lots of very young mothers and babies. It sounded ideal for Emma. I listened as the woman who organised it all, Gemma, told me more. ‘If you come along with her to the first session, you can sit and have a coffee with me while she settles in.’
‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a chat with Emma then, and see if she’s up for it. So you say Thursdays would be better?’
‘Yes,’ Gemma replied and then hesitated before explaining. ‘It seems that by Thursday the girls tend to have no money left, so it’s not completely altruistic of them. They get free milk, juice and snacks for the babies, and also as much tea, coffee and toast, etc., as they’d like for themselves. We also have a toy-borrowing system on a Thursday. The girls can pick up two or three toys to take home, and then return and swap them the following week.’
‘Sounds great. I’ll speak with her then, and hopefully we’ll see you on Thursday.’
Feeling a lot better now that I was armed with good news, I went upstairs to tell Emma all about it. I smiled as I walked into her room. She had Roman laid on a blanket on the floor, and she was kneeling at his side blowing raspberries onto his stomach. Roman was shrieking with laughter each time he saw his mummy lean forward to get him again. Emma was laughing too, so I was pleased she had cheered up. ‘Hey, you two. You look like you’re having fun.’
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