‘Edward! I need help!’ The door bounced against her fist as Mrs Foley opened it and entered. She held up a baby’s bottle full of milk.
‘There you go. And don’t forget to get her wind up after.’
Patricia kept her hands by her sides, refusing to take the milk.
Mrs Foley stared at her for a moment and then placed the bottle on the bedside table. ‘It’s there when you’re ready. Oh, and Edward is off working so you can forget your wailing.’ The old woman turned as if to leave but instead retrieved a padded bag covered in small pink roses from the landing. ‘There’s more nappies in there and lotion and talc.’ She placed it on the floor under the chair. Patricia glanced down and as she looked up the door closed, followed by the familiar click of the key.
She sat on the bed, unsure what to do next. Part of her wanted to feed the little bundle in the basket but she knew that she shouldn’t. This was not her baby. Somebody else had been caring for this child, loving her. She wasn’t a newborn. Patricia guessed the baby was at least three or four months old, maybe more. She hoped that Edward would come back for his lunch. Maybe he could talk sense into his mother. This was serious. The police might get involved. The thought of a Garda car pulling up outside the house suddenly filled her with hope. If they came to rescue the baby, they could save her too. Her thoughts were interrupted by the baby crying. A few tentative yelps followed by a full-throated bawling. Patricia sat still. If she let the infant cry for long enough eventually Mrs Foley would have to come and investigate.
Minutes passed. This waiting game was going to be harder than she had imagined. It was torture listening to the distress of the little mite. She put her hands over her ears but it was no use. Maybe the baby would just give up and stop crying, though, if she was being honest, that didn’t sound like it was going to happen any time soon. The whole room seemed to be filled with the desperate cries of this tiny creature. The little hands were flailing above the edge of the basket. Where was Mrs Foley? How could she listen to this? Patricia realised that this was a test to see which of them cracked first. She resolved that it would not be her. She sat on her hands just in case they decided to act independently and grab the bottle of milk.
More minutes slipped away and still the baby cried. Patricia leaned forward and caught a glimpse of the small face. It broke her heart. A tiny mouth, the howling centre of a beetroot-red set of features. She couldn’t bear it. Cursing Mrs Foley, Patricia grabbed the baby’s bottle and leaned down beside the basket. She tried to put the rubber teat into the mouth but the child seemed beyond consoling at this point. Crying seemed to take priority over eating. Patricia tried shaking the bottle to get a few drops of milk into the mouth to remind the infant what all this crying was actually about. The baby twisted her head left and right. She seemed to have no interest in the bottle whatsoever. Patricia began to worry that perhaps the real mother had been breastfeeding. What was she supposed to do then? Would Mrs Foley let the infant starve to death before she called a doctor out? A sense of panic began to simmer. She reached into the basket and lifted up the baby, resting her in the crook of her arm. The crying didn’t stop but the level of distress seemed to reduce. Patricia tried the bottle once more. After a couple of false starts the tiny mouth decided that the time was right. She gripped onto the teat and began to suck hungrily. Patricia’s sense of relief was palpable. She stared down at the little human in her arms. The colour of its face was almost back to normal and the sense of contentment that her noisy sucking exuded was infectious.
‘Is that nice, Elizabeth? Is it? Are you enjoying that? You are, aren’t you?’
Patricia was sitting on the bed now, holding the warm bundle. Two beings trapped in this room against their will. Hopefully more people were worried about little Elizabeth. A mother would never stop looking and surely that meant one day both of them might be rescued. She looked at the tiny face unaware of anything other than the bottle she was clamped to. Could this baby be the answer to her prayers?
The infant had nearly drunk all the milk before she took her mouth from the teat and lay back in Patricia’s arms. She had heard mothers talking about getting wind up after a feed, so draped the baby over her shoulder and began to rub her knuckles gently on its back, the way that she had seen others doing it. Soon a few small burps bubbled to the surface. Was that enough? She wasn’t sure but decided it was best to keep patting the baby. She felt the curve of its stomach shift against her shoulder, followed by a milky belch that splashed onto the floor. Patricia lifted the baby up and looked at her face. She seemed very pleased with herself. Patricia couldn’t help but laugh and kissed the baby on the forehead. She remembered all the tea soaking into the carpet in her old room and stepped over the milky stain at her feet.