First Person and Other Stories Read Free Page B

Aren’t you? Aren’t you, darling? Aren’t you, sweetheart?
    She waved the curly red wire attached to her keyring at the child, who watched it swing inches away from his face, nonplussed. I couldn’t imagine what she meant. The child looked nothing like me at all.
    No, I said. I went round the corner to get something and when I got back to my trolley he was there, in it.
    Oh, she said. She looked very surprised. We’ve had no reports of a missing child, she said.
    She pressed some buttons on an intercom thing.
    Hello? she said. It’s Marilyn on Customers. Good, thanks, how are you? Anything up there on a missing child? No? Nothing on a child? Missing, or lost? Lady here claims she found one.
    She put the intercom down. No, Madam, I’m afraid nobody’s reported any child that’s lost or missing, she said.
    A small crowd had gathered behind us. He’s adorable, one woman said. Is he your first?
    He’s not mine, I said.
    How old is he? another said.
    I don’t know, I said.
    You don’t? she said. She looked shocked.
    Aw, he’s lovely, an old man, who seemed rather too poor a person to be shopping in Waitrose, said. He got a fifty pence piece out of his pocket, held it up to me and said: Here you are. A piece of silver for good luck.
    He tucked it into the child’s shoe.
    I wouldn’t do that, Marilyn Monroe said. He’ll get it out of there and swallow it and choke on it.
    He’ll never get it out of there, the old man said. Will you? You’re a lovely boy. He’s a lovely boy, heis. What’s your name? What’s his name? I bet you’re like your dad. Is he like his dad, is he?
    I’ve no idea, I said.
    No idea! the old man said. Such a lovely boy! What a thing for his mum to say!
    No, I said. Really. He’s nothing to do with me, he’s not mine. I just found him in my trolley when I came back with the –
    At this point the child sitting in the trolley looked at me, raised his little fat arms in the air and said, straight at me: Mammuum.
    Everybody around me in the little circle of baby admirers looked at me. Some of them looked knowing and sly. One or two nodded at each other.
    The child did it again. It reached its arms up, almost as if to pull itself up out of the trolley seat and lunge straight at me through the air.
    Mummaam, it said.
    The woman called Marilyn Monroe picked up her intercom again and spoke into it. Meanwhile the child had started to cry. It screamed and bawled. It shouted its word for mother at me over and over again and shook the trolley with its shouting.
    Give him your car keys, a lady said. They love to play with car keys.
    Bewildered, I gave the child my keys. It threwthem to the ground and screamed all the more.
    Lift him out, a woman in a Chanel suit said. He just wants a little cuddle.
    It’s not my child, I explained again. I’ve never seen it before in my life.
    Here, she said.
    She pulled the child out of the wire basket of the trolley seat, holding it at arm’s length so her little suit wouldn’t get smeared. It screamed even more as its legs came out of the wire seat; its face got redder and redder and the whole shop resounded with the screaming. (I was embarrassed. I felt peculiarly responsible. I’m so sorry, I said to the people round me.) The Chanel woman shoved the child hard into my arms. Immediately it put its arms around me and quietened to fretful cooing.
    Jesus Christ, I said because I had never felt so powerful in all my life.
    The crowd round us made knowing noises. See? a woman said. I nodded. There, the old man said. That’ll always do it. You don’t need to be scared, love. Such a pretty child, a passing woman said. The first three years are a nightmare, another said, wheeling her trolley past me towards the fine wines. Yes, Marilyn Monroe was saying into the intercom. Claiming it wasn’t. Hers. But I think it’s all right now. Isn’t it Madam? All right now? Madam?
    Yes, I said through a mouthful of the child’s blond hair.
    Go on home, love, the old man