Baby Blues
She pushed the baby in his stupidly expensive, but utterly essential, dear! UppaBaby pram down the mews and out onto the pre-dawn boulevard. Past terraced houses with sculpted shrubbery, past the row of semi-detached with cobbled courtyards and sensible Volvo wagons and “Beware of Dog!” signs, past Edwardians, long ago converted into flats; she counted off the blue doors to her fussy infant alternately worrying she’d bundled him up too tightly and not tightly enough. She passed the Costa where a drowsy barista unstacked chairs from atop tables and she raised her hand to wave, forgetting for a moment that this was not California with its cult of friendliness or even New York where it was implied that although a burden, the coffee you ordered came with a veneer of politeness. Past the primary school which would soon echo with the screams of children with names like Lottie or Percy, whose families sent them off in matching pinnies to learn to spell honour with a ‘u’. Past the care home with its sad pebble-dashed exterior and smoking nurses speaking Sengalese to one another. They waved and so she waved back. One came down the walk to admire the baby, who had fallen asleep at last. The nurse had the most beautiful skin she had ever seen and smelled like menthol and food. She wanted to hug her, to bury her face in the woman’s neck and sob. She was so tired, she would say, and the nurse would smooth her hair and tut and give her tea and tuck her up on a sofa somewhere while someone, some other nurse with children all grown, would mind the baby.
