‘I can’t keep him.’ Doreen Whittaker stood on the doorstep, shabby in an old grey raincoat. She was shivering, her face pinched and white and the hair escaping from her headscarf was lank and greasy. ‘We’re leaving. Dennis won’t let me keep him.’
If only Patrick could see her now, Jean thought, adjusting the paisley scarf on her head. ‘What do you want me to do?’ She glared at Doreen. Rage closed her throat, made it difficult to breathe. Trust him to be out. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’
One of the cotton-padded wire pipe cleaners which she used to curl up her hair overnight was sticking in her neck. She surreptitiously pushed it back under the scarf.
‘If you don’t take him, he’ll go into care or something.’ Doreen’s shoulders slumped. ‘I can’t…’ She took a huge gulp, still refusing to meet Jean’s eyes. ‘I can’t keep him, I have to be with my husband.’ She held out the baby. ‘Please.’
‘Shame you didn’t think of that before you threw yourself at mine.’ Jean ignored the desperation in the woman’s dark-ringed eyes; hardened her heart to the tiny bundle inches away from her. She looked to see if any of the neighbours were witnessing this debacle. There was no one around but who knew how many were hiding behind their curtains. She hunched her shoulders against the bitter cold. ‘I want you to leave.’ She nodded towards the gate. There was still a sparkling of frost on the path that the sun wasn’t strong enough to shift.
She repeated her earlier words and tried to ignore the baby’s whimpering. ‘Look, this is nothing to do with me, nothing at all.’ She stepped back into the hallway. ‘I’m shutting the door now. You’d better get that child home.’ Why say that? It wasn’t as if she cared what happened to the brat. Even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t the baby’s fault he’d been born into all this. He was innocent, an unwanted child. Without looking at the woman she began to close the door.
‘Please?’ Doreen stopped it from shutting with the flat of her hand. The baby cried louder.
Angry, Jean swung the door open. The woman fell forwards and was only stopped by Jean catching hold of her. In an instant the baby was thrust into her arms and Doreen had half turned away.
‘Whoa there, madam.’ Holding the child to her, Jean clutched at the woman’s coat. ‘Just one minute. Where the hell do you think you’re going?’
‘I have to do this. Dennis says if I’ve still got him when I get home he’ll leave on his own.’ Doreen yanked herself away and hurried to the gate.
‘I’ve told you, this is not my problem.’ Jean raised her voice above the baby’s cries. She was beginning to panic. It really looked as if the woman would leave. Still in her slippers she ran after her, slithering and sliding on the icy path. As Doreen quickened her steps Jean faltered to a stop. ‘I’m putting him down,’ she yelled, oblivious to the next door neighbour who, stooping to pick up the milk bottle from her doorstop, had stopped in surprise and now, still half bent, was staring at Jean. ‘Do you hear me? I’m putting your baby on the ground.’
‘Do what you want.’ Doreen didn’t look back.
Jean watched until she’d disappeared around the corner.
‘Mum, come in.’ Jacqueline was at the front door. ‘Bring it in.’ She made a gesture, indicating the house. ‘Bring it in, we’ll look after it.’
Oh God, Jacqueline had heard everything. Jean cursed her husband.
‘We’ll have it if she doesn’t want him. She’s nasty. You should have just taken it and told her to bugger off, Mum.’
Jean heard the neighbour make a tutting sound and turned to glare at her before hurrying into the house, holding the baby at arm’s length.
Jacqueline was arranging the eiderdown off her bed on the rug in front of the fire in the living room. ‘Let’s put it here,’ she said, leaning back on her haunches and holding out her arms.
Jean knelt down next to her, relieved she didn’t have to hold the baby any longer than necessary. ‘We can’t keep him.’ He began to scream again, a thin helpless wail interspersed with quivering silence, as though he was listening for a response.
‘Isn’t he my brother like William is Linda’s?’ Intent on unfolding the blanket wrapped around the little boy, Jacqueline didn’t see Jean flinch. ‘Pooh!’ She held her nose. The stench from his dirty nappy immediately filled the room. But when she saw her mother’s look of disgust she said, ‘It can’t help it. It’s only a baby. It doesn’t know how to use the lavvy yet.’
Ignoring the protest Jean pushed herself off her knees. ‘I’ll find some rags, clean him up.’
Undressed, the little boy was pitifully thin, his lower body caked in excrement. Jean concentrated on cleaning him, pushing away the compassion which vied in equal measure with anger towards her husband, towards the child’s mother.
‘What’s he called?’ Jacqueline was sitting back watching with interest and excitement, her arms folded across her knees which she’d pulled up under her chin.
‘I don’t know.’ It struck her. She didn’t even know the kid’s name. She stood again. ‘I’ll find something to make into nappies. She looked around the room. A feeling of helplessness prevented her from moving. This was her worst nightmare. ‘Towels,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll cut a towel up, that’ll do.’ She nodded, agreeing with herself. ‘Nappies and starch.’
‘Starch?’
‘Reckitts’ starch. It’s good for nappy rash. I used it on you.’
When she came back into the room Jacqueline had wrapped the now-sleeping baby in her cardigan and was cuddling him as she rocked from side to side. When she looked up at her mother she beamed. ‘See, I’ve got him to sleep.’
Damn you, Patrick, you’ll pay for this, Jean thought. You’ll bloody pay.