Bibliofemme: Extras

Paula did waver for just a moment as she stood hunched in the doorway, watching the girls wheel her baby away. Matthew was, after all, barely trading weeks for months. Should she tell them to stick to the cul-de-sac? But it was one of those keyhole ones the locals call a curly sack. They'd be back in five minutes flat, bored. Plus, what harm could he come to? The afternoon was warm to the point of muggy, the three of them nothing if not attentive. Indeed, her final glimpse before they disappeared round the corner was the tall girl stepping in front of the buggy, forcing the curly girl into yet another halt so that she and the redhead could, once again, straighten Matthew's blue cotton blanket. She shut the front door, told herself, firmly, he'd be minded to death.

And another thing-rummaging in the kitchen drawer-after the low ebb of the past hour, a short break from that child was surely the least she deserved. She found her tablets, swallowed three, heard a leftover sob from the sofa and hobbled to the living room. Sara was deep into slumber now. Paula could stretch out beneath her on the carpet. But first she had to reach floor level. Bracing herself, she started a series of moves that began as someone getting shot in slow motion and ended an old man prostrate on his prayer mat. She stayed in supplicant position for a while then, rounding up reasons and rationales. The girls showing when they did, was that not a little like fate? She hadn't even planned on answering at first, thinking it was probably just someone else trying to sell her cobblelocking or meals in restaurants. What with her back, Sara's eyelids still fluttering, she could easily have stayed lurking behind the curtains. But when the second bell sounded, more held note than staccato, something had hauled her towards the door.

The area had no shortage of babies either (yesterday, she'd counted no less than six shed soothers between her house and the DART), yet it was her Matthew the three musketeers wanted their hands on. She'd been round at the shops, weeks back now. He was even newer to the world then and, for once, awake but not crying. They'd fallen upon the pram; what a dote he was, a dolly, a dish, held her hostage till Matthew started squawking, insisted, then, on seeing her home. She'd lost count of the number of times they'd come calling since. All around the nine-year-old mark, it appeared they spent their entire summer trooping up and down to buy ice-pops and packets of crisps. Paula's house had become a stopover on their route.

Not that she minded. They amused her, these girls, reminded her of herself at that age; the way they gawked at everything that moved, gum on the snap, ponytails whipping this way and that. Each time they came they'd ask her a stream of nosy questions, then get everything hopelessly mixed up. Though she'd told them a dozen times by now she was actually from here, they had it stuck in their heads she was American. The Q&A session would be followed by a bout of nudging that Paula recognised as a calling in on dares and promises. Eventually, one of them would step forward with an offer to take Matthew out. Waiting for them to wind their way to the point today, she was, of course, forming her usual firm but kindly no. She'd astonished even herself when she opened her mouth and out shot a yes.

She should make use of this now though; get some rest. One, two, three, she balled up, rolled over, yowling as she did and triggering several shut-eyed bleats from Sara. Every nerve in Paula's body clenched at the threat of the child's re-awakening, unfurling into the bliss of the silence that ensued. She needed her daughter asleep; though who knew what the child might dream about? Poor Sara. What had she done to her? They'd gone to do the shop. Sara, her usual sunny self, Matthew, grizzling and gurning up one aisle and down the next. When she'd tried to feed him in the car park, he was restless, agitated. She'd decided to make a dash for home. But he'd screamed so hard she'd had to pull over. He'd thrashed about, latching on for a second, breaking off screeching again. It was a main road, double yellows; people kept walking by, staring in at her like she was free street entertainment. Sara was campaigning to get home, but Paula knew she had to stick at it, rocking Matthew, flipping him from breast to breast until eventually he'd take. Which he did, finally, settling into the tug and suck and swallow of a proper feed. Some minutes passed. Sara lapsed into silence. Paula leaned into the headrest, closed her eyes. But Sara, it seemed, had had enough. She unbuckled herself from her car seat, slid to the centre, took aim between the seats and delivered a penalty free kick into the baby's head.

While Matthew clamped down, opened his toothless mouth to roar and gargle milk, Paula knee-jerked round, free hand flailing. Sara managed to scoot into the corner, but not before her mother had delivered several hard slaps. Still raging at Sara, she turned to check on Matthew. He was bawling to beat the band but luckily his sister had on her jellies, had struck nowhere near that terrifying gape in his skull. Indeed, as she'd driven home, shaking, it was he who'd quietened first. This drop in the decibel level freed her up enough to notice the twinge in that telltale spot between her shoulder blades, a twinge that quickly flared into a sickening throb.

With the pain came remorse at what she'd done to her daughter. She'd carried her in first, gone back out for Matthew. Though Sara was still droning, he seemed almost perky. Defiantly so, Paula couldn't help thinking. That was the thing about Matthew: from day one, he'd come across as a particularly bright child, had this way of eyeing you that, in the heat of the moment, suggested degrees of motive clearly beyond his scant time on earth. She'd dumped him onto his mat, met his eye only to hiss, 'Pleased with yourself now?' winched herself to the couch, to Sara, back to him. It was crazy, some part of her knew, yet, somehow, by the time she'd pulled into her drive, Matthew had switched from victim to perpetrator, Paula convinced he'd set about to deliberately knock the halo from Sara's head, prod and needle his mother into lashing out at his sister.

Now she was steeped in shame for this nonsense she'd concocted. She wondered, not for the first time, how bad you had to be to feel such resentment towards your own child? Or was it more a wonder it had taken so long? Growing up the eldest of six, the house had seemed permanently filled with wailing babies, forlorn, whinging toddlers. Before motherhood, Paula had assumed any child of hers would be disagreeable by nature. Then Sara came; slept, ate, smiled when the book insisted it was not yet possible. Sara had lulled her into the warm-and-fuzzy sense of her mothering Matthew had rudely cut short. For starters he'd been a slip-end of plan to get settled back in Dublin first. The pregnancy, a haze of nausea and exhaustion, ended in an emergency section. And the prize for all of this? A catnapping colic, whole days and nights when power-walking the streets was the only thing that shut him up.

But until now at least she'd had the consolation of Sara. Sara had been a trooper. Matthew, the move home, through it all, Sara had held steady, you could say had done better than her mother. Hard to believe a less than a year ago Paula had been juggling a child and a job. She thought of all that now as her American self, almost as if it had never been quite real. But the first time Sara steps out of line what did she get only a good, old-fashioned walloping? The room swam before her. Paula was in danger of starting up again. She dabbed her eyes with a corner of Matthew's play mat, deep breathed into an outbreak of yawns. The tablets were kicking in. He'd be back any moment. She should catch the wave, doze while she had the chance.

A fly touched down on her cheek, jerking her awake and filled with an unnameable dread. She reached for the couch, located a warm toddler thigh. But Matthew? She heaved into the kitchen. Five past four. What time had the girls called? She hadn't bothered noting. But they'd be back any minute. Please let them be back. She realised then she knew nothing about them. The tall girl was Lauren, or maybe Laura? The curly girl, Ciara? But the redhead? What had she been thinking? She limped up the drive, wild with the hope of glimpsing them. Not only was there no sign, the street that had rung with sounds of play since morning was deserted. All doors shut tight. Not a child, not a mammy in sight. The sky had darkened. Rain was on the way.

She could hear the raggy sound of her breathing. Get a grip. Someone might be watching. They'll be round that corner any second. And what harm could they do him? They seem like perfectly nice girls. That's when she found herself reaching for another name. Not Matthew's, not her child's, a different boy. What was it they called him? Little something. Billy? No, Bobby, Little Bobby Wyson. She remembered and she didn't remember. It was something you'd forget for years, or hope you've forgotten, only to have it pop back into your mind at the worst possible time, making you scrunch your eyes tight.

'Don't,' she said, heading in for the cordless, then back to the top of the cul-de-sac, as far as she dared go leaving Sara. But the roads in the estate veered and twisted. Along the short stretch she could see, there was no sign.

It was she and Lorraine that day with Little Bobby. They would have been about the age of those girls today. The Wysons were actual Americans. They'd rented a house on the road for a while. Lorraine and Paula started calling, offering to mind Little Bobby. Just like those girls.

She kept plying a path between Sara and the corner. She remembered and she didn't remember. Little Bobby was an only child. His mother talked to him all nicey-nicey, his house coming down with toys. His daddy had built him this seesaw, like an aeroplane. She and Lorraine had seesawed back and forth between awe and rampant jealousy.

She ran through her possible moves. Throw Sara into the car? But yanking her from her nap was a recipe for hysteria. And the place was a warren of lanes and alleyways. What if they missed each other, the girls returned to find her gone? No, knock for a neighbour. Two doors up was usually home. She could watch Sara while Paula went. But what would she think, Paula handing over her baby like that? She'd set herself apart from the neighbours, staying behind her front door, never letting Sara out. Once the days got longer, people on the estate had come from the woodwork. But she'd grown unaccustomed to street life after eight years in Brookline. There, if you let your kids play on the road, people might call the police. She assured herself this was why she had yet to go beyond snatched weather-talk.

Paula stood at her gate, had a vision then of Mrs. Wyson. She'd gone over many times what they'd done that day, wondering if Little Bobby remembered or was affected somehow? But until today she'd never thought of his mother, Mrs. Wyson, pacing the driveway, frantic for her son who was not supposed to have left the road. For the longest time Mrs. Wyson had refused to allow them take Little Bobby. They'd been in their element when they'd finally got their hands on him. Sweet Little Bobby. Spoiled Little Bobby. She couldn't say whose idea it had been to take him up the backfield.

'No,' she pleaded, diving into the dark of the hallway. Ring Colm? But he'd flip. When he'd come in last night she'd practically missile-launched the baby at him. Her mother was away. Again. Rich! You come all the way back for your kids to know their grandparents and it's, You'll never guess what? Daddy and I just bought an apartment in Spain! Her sisters were both working. Anyway, they'd only be insulted, her letting some kids off the road mind Matthew. Neither of them had been let near him. He was just so difficult, spat scornfully when she tried to stick a rubber teat in his mouth. She'd had no desire to hear the pair of them, her little sisters no less, on the subject of how she should 'give that child a bottle'. God knows if it weren't for the colic he'd be weaned-so weaned-by now.

Sara had shifted; the end of her nap was near. Paula checked the clock again. Eleven more minutes gone. She stood at the sink, feet apart, stooped far enough to splash cold water on her face. There were so many things not to think about. There were leaders and there were followers. Not every kid will take a stand. Innocent things can take a turn. She and Lorraine had headed into the backfield that day to gather flowers for Mrs Wyson; a surprise for her, maybe some wangled treats for them.

'Let's get him to pick nettles.' Paula was sure it was Lorraine who'd first spoken those words. But, even if it was, she could feel the way her own eyes must have widened, the breath sucked from her by the power of such a perfect plot. Little Bobby had no idea what nettles were, he could hardly say two words. They could tell Mrs. Wyson he was helping pick. It wasn't like hitting or throwing stones at him, it could easily happen, a simple accident, no one to blame.

They'd started coaxing, 'Look, Bobby. Look at those lovely green leaves. Mammy would love some of those.' She jumped when Sara called. 'Hi, sweetheart,' she smiled, beaker of juice in hand. 'Did you have a nice nap? Want Mr Rogers?' She kept on in her best Mammy voice as she slid the tape into the mouth of the machine, switched on the TV, waited for the jingle. 'It's a lovely day in the neighbourhood. A beautiful day...'

'Just going to check on Matthew.'

Fat, lazy splotches were falling now. She was awake nearly twenty minutes and still no sign. This was bad. She'd give them five minutes more. She felt a tight, gathering tingle, looked down at the two damp patches on her t-shirt. Feeding time. If her body knew it, Matthew would too. She folded her arms across her chest, went in for a cardigan. Was this how Mrs. Wyson had felt? She remembered and she didn't remember. She could still see that child looking up at them for encouragement as he'd stepped towards the nettle patch. 'That's right, those ones,' they'd nodded as he'd seized a fistful of stingers.

For a long moment, then, it had seemed to Paula there wasn't a sound, as if even the tall field grasses stood and watched. She'd held her breath, hoping against hope he might have grabbed hard enough to bypass the sting, saw Little Bobby's smile buckle, his forehead carve a question mark. He cut from Paula to Lorraine, from Lorraine to Paula again, dropped the nettles, held up his hand, let out an astonished roar.

'That's it,' she reached for her keys. 'Sara, lovey, we need to get Matthew.' She tried to sound firm, parental. Sara continued to stare at the screen, sippy cup dangling from her mouth. 'Sara,' she injected controlled amounts of urgency into her voice, hoping to spark curiosity, enlist her daughter, 'Matthew's gone out with those big girls, but it's raining! You and me have to find him!' She gritted her teeth, her daughter's eyes boggling as she scooped her up off the couch. 'We'll watch the rest the minute we get back. Or, we can rewind, have the whole thing again.'

Such was her daughter's surprise, the pace of Paula's fast talk, that it took until the car for her protest to start. 'I don't want to get Matthew,' she arched and twisted, 'I want Mr Rogers.'

'I know you want Mr Rogers but we'll be no time, I promise. I'll buy you Smarties. You can eat them and watch the video.'

Paula was trying to Heimlick Sara into the car seat when a snatch of chatter in the air made her turn. She plonked the child, bewildered, onto the floor and ran. 'Girls! Is my baby okay?'

They froze, stood facing her, all eyes and mouths. The redhead, who'd been pushing, raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. They'd dug out his rain cover. Inside, Matthew was sleeping. 'Oh, baby, you're all right,' she gushed, palming the see-through plastic tent. 'I was out of my mind,' she half-turned towards the girls, 'I didn't know where you were.' She found it hard to meet their eyes.

'We were only at the shops,' the tall one croaked.

'But the shops take ten minutes!'

'My mam sent us to the Centra. She doesn't like the butcher at Supervalu, ' the redhead pleaded. 'We went straight there.'

'…And back. We only stopped to put on his cover,' the tall girl bit her lip. 'We had it back to front or inside out or something. We couldn't get it. A lady had to help.' Paula sighed.

'Sorry girls. I shouldn't have shouted. I just never left him with anyone…' Unsure whether they were they dismissed, all three watched her take the buggy handles.

'It's okay, you know,' the curly one piped up. 'We know loads about babies. We'd never do anything to him.'

'Of course you'd never do anything to him,' Paula said.

She remembered and she didn't remember.

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