The First Person: And Other Stories - By Ali Smith Page 0,5

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, he is. 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 threw them 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 said. Give him his supper and he’ll be right as rain.

Teething, a woman ten years younger than me said. She shook her head; she was a veteran. It can drive you crazy, she said, but it’s not forever. Don’t worry. Go home now and have a nice cup of herb tea and it’ll all settle down, he’ll be asleep as soon as you know it.

Yes, I said. Thanks very much. What a day.

A couple of women gave me encouraging smiles; one patted me on the arm. The old man patted me on the back, squeezed the child’s foot inside its shoe. Fifty pence, he said. That used to be ten shillings. Long before your time, little soldier. Used to buy a week’s worth of food, ten shillings did. In the old days, eh? Ah well, some things change and some others never do. Eh? Eh, Mum?

Yes. Ha ha. Don’t I know it, I said, shaking my head.

I carried the child out into the car park. It weighed a