That must be Nigels baby
This whole escapade happened only recently in Manchester, in a rather nice flat on the fourth floor of a post-war block. Living there was a sprightly working pensioner, a single woman by the name of Margaret.
Absolutely nothing in Margarets life forecasted any wild adventures or dramatic incidents. Everything was comfortingly predictable: pension payments, part-time job, the occasional natter with girlfriends, jaunts to see the grandchildren, and her daily duty of tending to her rather ancient mother living two blocks away.
So, business as usual.
That day wasnt shaping up to be any different. Margaret rang her mother first thing to see how she was holding upa daily ritual that had grown stale enough to make Margaret sigh and occasionally perform an inward eye-roll.
She did shift work as a receptionist in a local GP surgery. Today: she was off. Which meant (of course) shed cook, toddle over to her mothers top-floor flatfifth floor, no lift, a workout she didnt particularly craveand listen with exhausted patience to lengthy reports about aches, pains, and the latest advice from Dr. Hilary on the tele. Her mothers ailments (as endlessly reworked by the neighbours own medical theories) werent anything even forty years as a surgical nurse could crack.
Oh, what do you know, love? Its not all about scalpels and stitches!
Never mind. Life goes on.
Margaret, ever the practical, motored on. She plonked the rubbish by the door, dabbed on a bit of lippy, looked in the mirror. For a woman north of sixty, she was doing alrighta few crows feet, but otherwise a cheerful face, short silver-blonde hair and oversized earrings, the kind you could spot from Piccadilly Gardens. Cheeks a bit soft these days, but whos checking?
Best pick up some wholemeal for Mum, she was muttering, lining her lips, when the doorbell announced a visitor.
Their block had a secure entry, so visitors were either saints or familiar sinners. Maybe Mrs. Parker from next door, popping in for PG Tips.
Margaret, lipstick still in hand, opened the door.
There, on her welcome mat, stood a young woman with mousey hair in a ponytail, a stripy top, long cardigan, jeans, and a rucksack slung over her shoulder. But what Margaret properly noticed was the baby in her arms, swaddled up in a brown blanket. The girl looked tenseeyes narrowed, jaw tighta quick in-breath and suddenly she was pressing the little bundle towards Margaret:
Its for you!
And before Margaret could object, her arms were saddled with a very warm, very real baby (lipstick still clutched in her hand). By the time she looked up, the girl was halfway down the stairs.
Its Nigels baby, I need to get back to college!
And thenjust like thatthe main door banged shut. The only evidence was a nappy bag quietly left in Margarets hallway.
Margaret lingered in the stairwell, perhaps out of shock, perhaps hoping the mystery mother would change her mind, come legging it back for her child. No such luck. So Margaret shuffled back into her flat, eyeing both her rubbish and this new addition. (Note to self: dont forget the rubbish when you finally get out.)
She set the baby down, and only then did the reality kick inshed been landed with an actual baby, by a stranger claiming some bloke called Nigel was the father.
Margaret had a son, but his name wasnt Nigel. He was Simon. Simon (married, two children, living all the way down in Bristol) and his father Victor had been gone five years. So, Nigel? Who on earth was Nigel?
She unwrapped the baby, revealing a beige knitted babygro and a frog-shaped dummy. No more than a month old, she reckoned.
Well then, little one, she crooned, smoothing the childs hair. The baby made those squishy, contented noises only newborns can pull off, and drifted straight back to sleep.
If there was an answer, surely it lay in the baby bag. Margaret rifled through: two bottles, a tin of formula, a pack of nappies, spare clothes. No identifying documents, sadly, and no letter of apology from the stork.
For quite some time, Margaret half expected the girl to reappear, clutching her own head in regret and demanding her child back with a harried apology. No such knock came. Instead, Margaret stood, brows knitted, contemplating if she had the moral right to feed or change the child, considering she had no claim to her whatsoever. But as the baby began to fuss, instinct (and plenty of muscle memory from long ago) kicked in. She changed her nappy, read the tin for mixing advice, and made a bottle.
Thats when her phone buzzed. Mum.
Margaret! Youre taking your time. Have you been to the shops? Get me those ruddy pears this time, not those tasteless stony things from Sainsburys last week.
Her mother rambled on, describing in surgical detail the type of pear she preferred (as if Margaret moonlighted in the produce department at Waitrose), while Margaret cradled the baby with one arm, feeling herself teeter between farce and panic.
Eventually, Margaret hung up and texted Simon, but his phone was offsomething about laying pipes in a place with so little reception it might have been the Arctic. At least her grandson Stan let her know Simon was fine, working away.
Margaret then rang her daughter-in-law, Rachel, who assured her Simon would ring when he next surfaced. Is everything alright, Mum? Rachel asked, voice a peculiar mix of suspicion and fatigue.
Oh, yes, darling, just anxious to hear from him is all, you know how it is.
Left to her own thoughts, Margaret concocted a convincing lie about her sprained ankle to keep her mother at bay. (Dont come round, Mum, still sore from last time. Youll have to make do with yesterdays stew.)
All day, between makeshift feeds, Margaret pondered the possibilities. Could this child be her Simons, and hed created some elaborate alias? Hed had his wild youth, after all, though lately things were all mortgages paid and school runs with the wife.
Eventually she did what anyone would dophoned her gossip-monger friend, Vicky.
Vicky arrived straight from her shift, fired up like Sherlock in sensible shoes, methodically inspected the babys clothes for clues, then set off to interrogate the neighbours. Her theory? The flaky mum had simply muddled the flats.
Success! On the floor above lived a Nigel, confirmed bachelor and resident of flat twenty-one.
Come on, Margaret! Vicky trilled. Lets confront this Nigel and see if the kid matches the curtains. (Vicky had firm views about facial resemblance.)
Up they went, only to be greeted by Nigels granny, who hollered him to the door. Out shuffled Nigelslightly crumpled, blinking, gingerly.
Are you here about the Xbox? he asked hopefully.
No love, do you have a child youve mislaid round here?
Nigels expression contorted in a way that said absolutely not in twelve dialects. No child, no partner, and no secret affairs. Margaret explained, feeling utterly daft, and apologised for the intrusion.
Happy to help if I can, he shrugged, I do run a lost-and-found Twitter page for cats, but toddlers are new for me.
Margaret muttered something about lifes unpredictability and retreated, Vicky grumbling about the general uselessness of men.
No word from Simon, Rachel busy with kids and football boots and life, and stillno sign of the mystery mum. Margaret busied herself online, reminding herself of newborn feeding schedules, and before long shed found herself singing lullabies and even giving the lass a lotion rubdown.
Evening fell, and more lies were dispatched to Mum. The baby was, irritatingly, thriving.
Still, the guilt of not calling the authorities grew. What if this really was Simons baby? Orworsewhat if it wasnt, and she was now, officially, a baby-thief? Eventually, worn with worry, she dozed off on the sofa with the child asleep on her chest.
The next morning brought a rude awakening. The doorbell rang insistently.
On her doorstep was the same young womanhair wild, barely dressed for the Manchester chillshivering, desperate, eyes darting all about.
Where is she? Wheres my baby? Do you know where she is?
Of course I do, said Margaret, summoning every ounce of calm, Shes right here, asleepon my bed.
In an instant, the woman collapsed with relief, sobbed until she was out of tears, and eventually, revived by tea and sympathy (and a bit of Lidl chocolate), she managed to give her side of things.
Her name was Sophie, the baby was called Lily. Banally tragic: Sophie was from somewhere out in rural Lancashire, studying nursing in Manchester, young, naive, swept up one summer by the dashing Nigela local lad at uni. Hed promised her the world. When pregnancy came, he first didnt object, then simply vanishedtransferred to some course in Leeds, his details evaporated with him.
Sophies dad, infuriated at the scandal, cut her off; her stepmother less than helpful. Friends kindness wore thin, money ran out, and the council hostel made it clearno visitors under six months. With nowhere else, and out of her mind, she remembered Nigels claim, Mumll help, really she will, and, barely able to think, wound up at the wrong block, the wrong floor and Margarets door.
She spent the night pacing and revisiting her regrets, discovering by morning online that Nigel had never apparently mentioned a baby to his mum. Terrified, convinced social services would come, she sprinted back, finding Margaret instead.
Margaret, after a moments thought, insisted Sophie stay. Why not? The worlds gone mad enough without turfing young mums onto the street.
Sophie didnt have the heart to try Nigels flat againafter her near nervous breakdownso Margaret set her up with her own sofa, helping with feeds, baby grows, even employment (Well, if any GP needs a trainee healthcare assistant, I know people.)
After that? Fewer aching stories from Mumnow obsessed with little Lilys every curl and burbleand the block came to accept Margarets new houseguests, even Nigels gran (who wound up with Sophie giving her the odd flu jab).
And so, in a fourth floor flat in Manchester, a wayward young mother, her baby, and Margaretgrandmotherly-by-defaultpitched together and started, not a crisis, but a peculiar little beginning.
***
No, the milk didnt dry up. Sophie aced her exams (well, mostly) and scored a job at A&E. Margarets mum became positively evangelical about Sophies fresh, up-to-date medical advice. Margaret? She never did get her stairs fitted with a lift, but as it turned out, company made the climb easier.
And Nigel? He started a podcastLost and Found: Manchester Miscellany. Guests: his grandma, and a very sheepish Margaret.
Some days are just not like the others, and thank goodness for that.
