Читать книгу Come Fly With Me...: English Girl in New York / Moonlight in Paris - Фиона Бранд - Страница 11
ОглавлениеDAN STARED AT the wall. What had just happened?
One minute she seemed fine, next minute a bundle of nerves, ready to jump out of her skin at the slightest noise.
She’d caught him unawares. She’d caught him while he was in no position to run after her. Probably planned it all along.
Still, it wasn’t as if she could go anywhere. The city was at a standstill and if this little guy started screaming she was right upstairs. Whether she liked it or not.
He shifted on the sofa. The little guy was feeding fast and furious. Was this normal?
He heard some rumbling, the noises of the milk hitting the baby’s stomach. How much was an ounce anyway? And how on earth could he tell if the baby had drunk that much when the bottle was tipped up sideways? At this rate he was going to need Shana on speed dial. He glanced at the clock and let out a sigh.
This was going to be a long, long night.
* * *
Carrie slammed the apartment door behind her and slid down behind it. Her mind was on a spin cycle. She couldn’t think a single rational thought right now.
What Dan must think of her.
She tried to take some slow, deep breaths. Anything to stop her heart clamouring in her chest. Anything to stop the cold prickle across her shoulder blades.
She sagged her head into her hands. Calm down. Calm down.
This was ridiculous. Avoiding babies for the past year was one thing. Body-swerving pregnant friends and brand-new mothers was almost understandable.
But this wasn’t. She had to stop with the self-pity. She had to get some perspective here.
What would she have done if Dan hadn’t been in the building?
There was no way she would have left that baby on the doorstep. No matter how hard the task of looking after him.
And if she’d phoned the police department and they couldn’t send anyone out? What would she have done then?
She lifted her head from her hands. She would have had a five-minute panic. A five-minute feeling of this can’t be happening to me.
Then what?
There was a creeping realisation in her brain. She pushed herself back up the door. Her breathing easing, her heartbeat steadying.
Then she would have sucked it up. She would have sucked it up and got on with it.
Because that was what any responsible adult would do.
She strode over to the bedroom, shedding her dressing gown and bed socks and pulling her pyjama top over her head. She found the bra she’d discarded earlier and fastened it back in place, pulling on some skinny jeans and a pink T-shirt.
Her pink baseball boots were in the bottom of her cupboard and she pushed her feet into them.
There. She was ready.
But her stomach started to flutter again.
The light in the bathroom flickered. Was the light bulb going to blow again? Which it seemed to do with an annoying regularity. She walked inside and ran the tap, splashing some cold water over her face.
She stared into the mirror, watching the drops of water drip off her face. Dan would have labelled her a nutjob by now. He probably wouldn’t want her help any more.
But the expression on his face was imprinted on her brain. He’d looked stunned. As if he couldn’t understand—but he wanted to.
She picked up the white towel next to the sink and dried off her face. Her make-up was right next to her. Should she put some on? Like some camouflage? Would it help her face him again?
Her fingers hesitated over the make-up bag. It was late at night. She’d been barefaced and in her pyjamas. He wouldn’t expect anything else.
But it might give her the courage she needed. It might make her feel as if she had some armour to face the world.
She pulled out some mascara and a little cream blusher, rubbing some on to her cheeks and then a touch on her lips. There. She was ready.
She crossed the room in long strides before any doubts could creep into place. There was no point in locking her apartment door. She would only be down two flights of stairs.
She placed her hand on the balustrade, ready to go down, and then halted. The television was booming from the apartment across the hall. Mrs Van Dyke.
The neighbour she’d only glimpsed in passing and never spoken to. The neighbour who might have some baby supplies they could use.
She hesitated and then knocked loudly on the door. ‘Mrs Van Dyke? It’s Carrie from across the hall. Daniel Cooper sent me up.’
She waited a few minutes, imagining it might take the little old lady some time to get out of her chair and over to the door—praying she’d actually heard her above the theme tune from Murder, She Wrote.
She could hear the creaking of the floorboards and then the door opened and the old wizened face stared out at her. Oh, boy. She really could be six hundred years old.
‘And what do you want, young lady?’
Carrie jerked back a little. She had such a strong, authoritative voice, it almost reminded her of her old headmistress back in London.
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Van Dyke, but we found a baby on the doorstep and Dan said you might be able to help.’
As the words tumbled out of her mouth she knew she could have phrased it better. If this old dear keeled over in shock it would be all her fault.
But Mrs Van Dyke was obviously made of sterner stuff.
‘Oh, dear. What a terrible thing to happen. What does Dan need?’
Just like that. No beating about the bush. No preamble. Just straight to the point. Wonderful.
‘We got some things from Mr Meltzer’s store. He opened it specially to help out. We’ve got nappies—I mean, diapers—and pacifiers and bottles and milk.’
There was a gleam of amusement in the old lady’s eyes. ‘Just as well. I doubt I would have had any of those.’
Carrie shook her head. ‘Of course. I mean—what we don’t have is any baby clothes. Or any clean blankets. Do you have anything like that? Dan wondered if you might have some things packed away.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded slowly and opened the door a little wider. ‘I might have a few things that you can use, but most of them will be at the back of my cupboards. Come in, and I’ll see what I can do.’
Carrie stepped into the apartment and stifled her surprise. ‘Wow. What a nice place you have here.’
Clutter. Everywhere.
The floor was clear, but that was pretty much it.
There was no getting away from it—Mrs Van Dyke was clearly a hoarder.
She gave a smile and stepped further, keeping her elbows tight in against her sides for fear of tipping something off one of the tables or shelves next to her.
On second thoughts, Mrs Van Dyke wasn’t your typical hoarder. Not the kind you saw on TV with twelve skips outside their house so it could be emptied by environmental health.
There were no piles of papers, magazines or mail. In fact, the only newspaper she could see was clearly deposited in the trash. And all the surfaces in the apartment sparkled. There was no dust anywhere. Just...clutter. Things. Ornaments. Pictures. Photo frames. Wooden carvings. Tiny dolls. Ceramics. The place was full of them.
No wonder Dan had thought she might have something they could use.
‘They’re mementos. They’re not junk. Everything holds a memory that’s special to me, or my family.’
Carrie jumped. Mrs Van Dyke seemed to move up silently behind her. Had she been so obvious with her staring?
‘Of course not,’ she said quickly.
Mrs Van Dyke picked up the nearest ornament. ‘My husband used to carve things. This one he gave me on our first anniversary. A perfect rose.’
Carrie bent down and looked closely. It really was a thing of beauty. She couldn’t even see the marks where the wood had been whittled away—it was perfectly smooth.
‘It’s beautiful.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’ She walked slowly through the apartment, pointing as she went. ‘This was the globe he bought me at Coney Island. This was a china plate of my grandmother’s—all the way from Holland. This—’ she held up another carving, this time of a pair of hands interlinked, one an adult’s and one a child’s ‘—is what he carved for me after our son Peter died when he was seven.’
Carrie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
Mrs Van Dyke ran her finger gently over the carving as she sat it back down. ‘It shows that we’d always be linked together, forever.’
She reached a door and gestured to Carrie. ‘This is my box room. This is where I keep most of my things.’
Carrie was still taken aback by her comment about her son, so she pushed the door open without really thinking. She let out a gasp of laughter. ‘You’re not joking—it is a box room.’ And it was. Filled with boxes from floor to ceiling. But there was no randomness about the room. Every box was clearly labelled and facing the door, and there was a thin path between the boxes. Room enough for someone of slim build to slip through.
‘The boxes you’re looking for are near the back.’ She touched Carrie’s shoulder. ‘Your baby—is it a boy or a girl?’
Just the way she said it—your baby—temporarily threw her for a second. It took her a moment to collect her thoughts. ‘It’s a boy. It’s definitely a boy.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘Straight to the back, on the left-hand side somewhere, near the bottom, you’ll find a box with David’s name on it. And behind it, you might find something else that’s useful.’
Carrie breathed in and squeezed through the gap. The labelling was meticulous, every item neatly catalogued. Did this really make Mrs Van Dyke a hoarder? Weren’t those people usually quite disorganised and chaotic? Because Mrs Van Dyke was none of those things.
The box with David’s baby things was almost at the bottom of a pile. Carrie knelt down and started to gingerly edge it out, keeping her eyes on the teetering boxes near the top. The whole room had the potential to collapse like dominoes—probably at the expense of Mrs Van Dyke, who was standing in the doorway.
She pushed her shoulder against the pile, trying to support some of the weight wobbling above her as she gave a final tug to get the box out.
In that tiny millisecond between the boxes above landing safely in place, still in their tower, she saw what was behind the stack and it made her catch her breath.
A beautifully carved wooden cradle.
She should have guessed. With all the other carefully carved items of wood in the apartment, it made sense that Mr Van Dyke would have made a cradle for his children. She weaved her way back through the piles, careful not to knock any with her box, before sitting it at the door next to Mrs Van Dyke. ‘Do you want to have a look through this to see what you think might be appropriate?’
She chose her words carefully. Mrs Van Dyke had already revealed she’d lost one child; there might be items in this box that would hold special memories for her. Items she might not want to give away. ‘I’ll go and try and get the cradle.’
It took ten minutes of carefully inching past boxes, tilting the cradle one way then another, before she finally managed to get out of the room.
She sat the cradle on the floor. Mrs Van Dyke was sitting in a chair with the open box on her lap, setting things in neat piles next to her.
Now that she had the cradle in the light of the room she was able to appreciate how fine the carving was. The cradle actually rocked. Something Carrie hadn’t seen in years. The wooden spindles were beautifully turned, with a variety of ducks and bunnies carved at either end on the outside of the crib. Something like this would cost a small fortune these days.
She ran her fingers over the dark woodwork. ‘This is absolutely beautiful. It looks like the kind of thing you would see in a stately home. Did your husband really make this himself?’
Mrs Van Dyke’s eyes lit up at the mention of her husband. She smiled proudly. ‘Yes, he did. It took him nearly four months.’ She leaned forward and touched the cradle, letting it rock gently. ‘This held all five of my children. Just for the first few months—they quickly outgrew it.’
‘Are you sure we can borrow it? It looks like a precious family heirloom.’
Mrs Van Dyke nodded. ‘A cradle is only really a cradle when it holds a baby. That’s its job. You’ll bring it back, mind?’
Carrie nodded. ‘Social services have been called—’ she held out her hands ‘—but with the snowstorm it might be a few days before they can collect the baby.’
Mrs Van Dyke handed her a small pile of clothes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t keep too much. There’s some vests, socks and some hand-knitted cardigans. Oh, and a blanket.’
‘These will be great. Thank you so much. I’ll launder them and bring them back to you in a few days.’ She fingered the edge of the intricately crocheted blanket. ‘This is beautiful and it looks brand new. Are you sure we can use this?’
Mrs Van Dyke smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s not new. I made a new blanket for every child. This was the final one. You’re welcome to use it.’
Carrie smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you, it’s gorgeous and I’m sure it will be perfect.’ She sat the clothes inside the cradle and picked it up. ‘I’m sure Dan will be really grateful to you, too. If there’s anything you need in the next few days be sure to let us know. We can ask Mr Meltzer to open his store again.’
Mrs Van Dyke shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine. My pantry is well stocked.’
Carrie walked over to the door. ‘Thanks, Mrs Van Dyke.’ She opened the door and gave a little smile. ‘You have a beautiful home here.’
Mrs Van Dyke smiled. ‘And you’re welcome in it any time.’
Carrie juggled the cradle in her hands and closed the door behind her quietly.
Wow. Not what she’d expected at all.
Mrs Van Dyke was lovely, a real pleasure to be around. And she could imagine that Mrs Van Dyke could regale Carrie with hundreds of stories about her life and her family.
She thought of the little carving of a mother’s and child’s hands interlinked. It was heartbreaking—and it was beautiful. It hadn’t felt right to ask any questions about her son Peter. She’d only just met Mrs Van Dyke and that would be intrusive.
But she’d felt the connection. The connection that only another mother who had lost a child could feel.
Obviously she hadn’t said anything to Mrs Van Dyke. The woman hardly knew her. But that little feeling in the pit of her stomach had told her that this woman would be able to understand exactly how she felt.
Their circumstances were obviously different. Mrs Van Dyke had spent seven years loving and cherishing her son, getting to know his thoughts and quirks, growing together as mother, child and part of a family. Carrie had missed out on all that.
She’d spent seven months with her hands on her growing stomach, with a whole host of hopes and expectations for her child. In her head she’d been making plans for the future. Plans that involved a child.
None of those plans had been for a future without her daughter.
Her hands were starting to shake a little. Was it from the weight in her hands—or was it from the thoughts in her head?
A cradle is only really a cradle when it holds a baby.
How true.
She’d loved the white cot she’d bought for her daughter. But it hadn’t been nearly as beautiful as this one. It had been dismantled and packed off to the nearest charity shop, along with the pram, because she couldn’t bear to look at them.
Hopefully some other baby had benefitted from them.
Carrie walked down the stairs carefully, making sure she didn’t bang the cradle on the way. Who knew what Dan would say to her? She wouldn’t be surprised if he let rip with some choice words.
Her ears pricked up. Crying—no, wailing. The baby was screaming at the top of his lungs. Her steps quickened and she pushed open Dan’s door with her shoulder.
‘Dan, what on earth is going on?’
* * *
Dan’s ears were throbbing. Weren’t there environmental laws about noise? No one seemed to have told this little guy.
He changed him over to the other shoulder. This had been going on for the past fifteen minutes. What on earth had gone wrong?
He screwed up his face. Why was he even thinking that? He knew exactly what had gone wrong. The little guy had nearly finished the entire bottle without burping once. And according to what he’d read on the internet—that wasn’t good.
He tried to switch off from the screaming. Tried to focus his mind elsewhere. Who would leave a baby outside in the cold?
The thought had been preying on his mind since the second Carrie had found the baby. Sure, he’d done the cop thing and made a half-hearted attempt to look for the mother—to see if someone was in trouble out there.
But truth be told—he wasn’t that sure he wanted to find her.
Some people just weren’t fit to be parents. Fact.
He was living proof and had the scars to back up his theory.
Even twenty-five years ago social services had tried to support his mother to keep him, when the truth of the matter was they should have got him the hell out of there.
Thank goodness his grandmother had realised what the scars on his back were. The guys in the station thought they were chicken-pox scars, and he wasn’t about to tell them any different. But cigarettes left a nasty permanent burn.
The expression on Carrie’s face had said it all. She’d felt compassion; she’d felt pity for the person who’d left this baby behind. He felt differently. Maybe this little guy was going to get the start in life he deserved.
There was a light tap at the door, then it was shouldered open. Carrie—with a wooden crib in her hands.
She wrinkled her nose at the noise. ‘What did you do?’ She crossed the room and sat the crib at his feet. Had she been with Mrs Van Dyke all this time? It was the only place she could have got the crib.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fed him.’
She shook her head. ‘He shouldn’t be squealing like that. Give him here.’ She held out her arms and he hesitated. What was going on? This woman had hightailed it out of here as if there were a fire licking at her heels. Now she was back as if nothing had happened?
He placed his hand protectively on the little guy’s back. ‘What happened, Carrie?’ He didn’t care how blunt it sounded. He didn’t care how much help he really wanted right now. He needed her to be straight with him.
She looked him straight in the eye. But he could see it—the waver. The hesitation in her blue eyes. ‘I needed a little space for five minutes. And now—I’ve had it. I spent a little time with Mrs Van Dyke. She’s great. I wish I’d had the opportunity to speak to her before today.’ She walked over to the sink and lifted one of the pacifiers out of the sterilising solution. ‘Has this been in there thirty minutes?’
He glanced at the clock and nodded, watching as she put the pacifier in the baby’s mouth and lifted him from his shoulder. ‘Let’s try something else, then.’ She sat down on the sofa and laid the baby across her lap, face down, gently rubbing his back.
Dan looked at the crib and shook his head. ‘I hadn’t even thought about where he was going to sleep.’
Carrie smiled. The kind of smile that changed the whole expression on her face. There it was. That little glimpse again of who she could be if she let herself.
‘Neither did I. I asked Mrs Van Dyke if she had any clothes and it was she who suggested the crib.’ She peered over at him as she continued to rub the baby’s back. ‘We don’t have a mattress, though. Do you have something we could put inside?’
Dan tried to rack his brain. ‘What about those new towels? We used one earlier, but I have plenty left. I could fold some of them to make a mattress for the crib.’
‘That sounds perfect. I don’t have a lot of clothes. A few cardigans, some embroidered vests and some socks. She also gave me a beautiful crocheted blanket. It looks brand new.’
The baby had stopped crying. Dan turned his head just in time to see a little pull up of the legs and to hear the loudest burp known to man.
‘There we go. Is that better, little guy?’ Carrie had turned him over and lifted him up again, staring him in the face. She put him back on her shoulder and kept gently rubbing his back. Her tongue ran along her lips. ‘I remember somebody mentioning that trapped wind makes a baby cranky.’
Dan let out a snort. ‘Cranky? You call that cranky? You only had to listen to five minutes of it.’
She bit her lip. ‘Yes, I know. Sorry.’ He could see her take a deep breath. ‘I find this difficult, Dan. And I’m not sure I’ll be much help.’ She stood up and walked over to the window with the baby on her shoulder. ‘I can’t help feeling really sorry for whoever is out there. Why didn’t they think they could take care of their baby? I wish I could help them.’
There it was again. The sympathy vote. The thing he just couldn’t understand.
‘Maybe they don’t want our help. Maybe they just weren’t designed to be a parent. There’s a good chance they didn’t have any prenatal care for the baby. Why on earth would they leave a baby on a doorstep? They didn’t even ring the doorbell! This little guy could have frozen out there—he wasn’t properly dressed or even fed. No diaper. He could have died during delivery. This isn’t a person who wants a baby, Carrie. This is a person who has no sense of duty or responsibility.’
She spun around. ‘You don’t know that, Dan. You don’t know anything. This could be an underage girl’s baby. She might have been terrified to tell anyone she was pregnant—afraid of the repercussions. What if she was abused? What if she lives with her abuser? Have you thought of that?’
He was trying not to get mad. He was trying not to shout. He took a long, slow breath, his eyes lifting to meet hers. ‘It could also be the baby of someone who wasn’t interested in prenatal care. Someone who wasn’t interested in making sure their baby was delivered safely. Someone who doesn’t really care what happens to their baby.’
There was a tremble in her voice. ‘You don’t know that, Dan.’ She looked down at the baby. ‘You don’t know anything. I just can’t imagine what would make someone dump their baby on a doorstep. But I’ve got to believe they were desperate and wanted their baby to get help.’ Her hand stroked the baby’s head. ‘A baby is a precious gift. I don’t know any mother who would give their baby up willingly.’
‘Then I guess our experiences of life are different.’ The words were out before he knew it. No hesitation. No regrets.
Her eyes met his. It was as if she was trying to take stock of what he’d just said. As if she was trying to see inside his head.
He gave himself a shake and walked over next to her. ‘I agree with you, Carrie. I think babies are precious and they should be treated with respect. So I think we should do something.’ He lifted his finger and touched the baby’s cheek.
‘What?’
‘I think we should give our baby a name.’
