No. I’m not going to do that, however much I might want to.
I need to work out what to say to the police, how to frame it. Just tell the truth, that’s all I have to do. It’s all I can do. No need to add or change anything. I’ll go into West End Central police station, go to the front desk and find someone in charge, tell them exactly what happened.
I got on at Aylesbury. I was on my way back from the fertility unit at Stoke Mandeville. Kathryn came and sat down at some point after that. I don’t know for sure whether that’s where she got on. But she got off at Seer Green and left the baby with me. I only realised she’d got off as the train was about to pull away. Then I found this note in the baby’s bag. Why didn’t I call someone immediately? I didn’t think it was an emergency. I was going to talk to armed officers at Marylebone but they were called away, so I thought it would be better to take her to the nearest police station.
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 be better than 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’m not an 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
I frown at the screen and type a quick response.
All fine. Just indulge me?
Mia’s hungry cries are coming more frequently now, her little face screwing up in exasperation. I stare at the phone, willing my friend to reply quickly, walking small circles as I jig Mia on my shoulder. Finally a new message arrives with a ping.
Café won’t microwave in case baby gets scalded and you sue. Ask for a jug of hot water to stand the bottle in til warm x
Another message, seconds later.
What’s going on? X
I type one-handed, shushing the baby.
Thanks. Asking for a friend
I put the phone down on the table and it pings again almost immediately, then again. I ignore it, pulling the curved bottle of formula milk from the side pocket of the rucksack and giving it a shake.
Five minutes later I’m sitting back down at the table with the bottle in a jug of steaming water, the barista following me with a cup of tea. I keep jigging Mia gently up and down to keep her cries from reaching an ear-splitting level. I grab a muslin cloth from the rucksack and shake the bottle of formula again, squirting a few drops onto my wrist to test the temperature – warm but not too warm. The relief is immediate when Mia latches on to the bottle. I can hear Tara’s voice in my head: keep the bottle tipped up so there is no air in the teat, just milk. I’ve fed my godsons from time to time, but it’s different when the mother isn’t in the next room, when there’s no one to hand the baby back to.