I rock the baby and straighten her little jacket, Mia fidgeting and squirming. Her dummy falls out onto the floor of the taxi and when I pick it up there’s dirt and dust on it. I’ve seen Tara’s normal response to this – put it in your own mouth to give it a quick suck to ‘clean’ it, then give it back to baby – but I don’t particularly fancy that considering the likely state of the taxi floor. I drop it in a side pocket of my handbag instead and jig the baby in what I hope is a soothing way.
‘Shh, it’s OK,’ I say gently. ‘You’ll be back with your mum soon. Shh.’
I’ll tell the police everything that’s happened, sign the forms and hand Mia over. That’s what I’ll do.
I gaze down into her little face, the steady sway of the taxi rocking her gently this way and that. Will I ever see her again after today? Ever hold her like this again, like a mother? Probably not. My throat tightens at the thought of it.
The baby is grizzling and fretting now, her smile replaced by red cheeks and a little frown. I open the rucksack next to her and dig around one-handed until I find the packet of dummies, extract one from the packet and pop it into Mia’s open mouth. Almost immediately the dummy comes out and I catch it in my hand this time. Mia’s cries start to grow in volume, the pitch rising.
I rock her gently in my arms, shifting her up to my shoulder and rubbing her back.
‘What’s the matter, Mia?’
The baby’s cry is sharp and high-pitched, an angry yowl that fills the back of the taxi. I catch the driver looking at me in the rearview mirror, and wonder briefly whether he thinks I’m a bad mother who can’t cope. I lift Mia up, turn her wriggling body slightly, sniff her sleepsuit. Clean cotton and the faintest hint of nappy cream. Doesn’t smell like she needs changing.
‘What do you want, Mia? We’re going to be there soon, not long now.’
I present the dummy again and for a moment she calms, sucking furiously, before she opens her mouth to cry again, the dummy falling out once more. I shake my head, shushing her with a gentle voice, frustrated with myself. I always thought I’d bebetterthan this. Better at figuring things out. But this feels like an exam I haven’t revised for, an interview where I don’t even know what the job involves. But I’mnotan absolute beginner. I’ve spent enough time with Tara’s kids to figure out the answer. I stroke Mia’s downy cheek with a fingertip and the baby’s mouth moves towards it, seeking it out, her lips forming a desperate little ‘o’.
Ah.I remember the other handwritten note I’d found in the backpack. I check my watch – almost 3 p.m. – and scan the street, check behind again, but can’t see anyone. No other taxi has followed us from the station.
I can do this. Mia needs to be safe but she also needs to be fed. Cared for properly.
Her cries intensify as she works herself up into a frenzy, a high-pitched wailing that makes every muscle in my body tense. I spot a Caffè Nero coming up on the right-hand side and lean forward towards the driver.
‘Actually,’ I say through the hole in the clear plastic barrier between me and the front seats, ‘could we pull over here, please?’
I know, in my head, that we shouldn’t stop. I’ve already strung this out longer than I should. Screaming baby or not, I should go straight on to the police station and hand her over to the authorities, someone in uniform, social services, some faceless arm of the local council. But the baby in my arms is hungry. I’ll feed her, just once, before giving her up. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask. I will be a mother to her for just a little bit longer.
It will only be a few extra minutes. That’s all.
6
The taxi driver indicates and pulls to the side of the road.
‘You sure you want to stop here?’ he says. ‘Cop shop is a bit further.’
‘This is fine, thanks.’
He half-turns in his seat to look at me.
‘Do you want a hand with your bags, love?’
‘No,’ I say, opening the door awkwardly and pushing it wide with my left foot. ‘I’m fine, thank you though.’
I pay him and get out, stepping down onto the pavement, careful not to overbalance with baby and backpack.
Thankfully the café is not too busy and I find a table against the back wall next to a willowy blonde woman with a curly-haired boy of around three years old. The boy’s playing on her phone while she nurses a large coffee with cream on top. Mia is still fretting and squirming, her little arms and legs pulsing in frustration. I go to the table and unsling the rucksack, pulling out my phone and sending Tara a quick message.
Random question: if at a café, how long do you heat a 200ml bottle of formula milk in the microwave for? X
I picture my friend, at home with her two youngest sons, probably getting ready for the short drive to pick up her eldest from school. She always keeps her phone to hand –stops me from going fully baby-mental, she says – and true to form her replies are almost immediate, three messages dropping in one after the other.
???
Erm . . .
You OK? X
