I come to Lilac Park every day to look at babies. They are everywhere, as numerous as the squirrels. Two women are standing by the entrance gate, idly pushing their prams back and forth as they chat. A few metres away, a toddler is running circles around a tree. A young mother is walking towards me, pushing a bright red buggy and smiling into the late-afternoon sunshine. My stomach flutters in anticipation. I feel dizzy, as if somebody is spinning me around. Turning away, I pretend to watch the ducks in the pond, but my heart races as she trundles past, the buggy wheels squeaking cheerfully.
There’s plenty to see and do here: tennis courts; a children’s play area; a rose garden and ornamental pond; a bowling green; two football pitches where matches are played on Sunday mornings. And there’s the park café, of course. On weekdays mums flock there like pigeons, clogging up the space with their expensive buggies, fighting over the few available high chairs. They cluster around the tables in large groups, breastfeeding and chatting and sipping their organic chai lattes. Sometimes I sit at the counter and listen to them discussing sleeping problems and sore nipples, debating the convenience of disposable nappies against the need to save the planet. I hear their little ones crying for attention. I want to pick them up and give them a cuddle, but of course I don’t. Daren’t.
Nobody ever notices me. Why would they? I am a single person. Unattached, unburdened by baby equipment. They might have acknowledged me in the past, but now I’m of no interest. How could I possibly understand what it’s like to be a parent? How could I have any idea of what they’ve been through or what their life is like now? They assume I have no horrific birth stories or funny anecdotes to share, no tiny prodigy to boast about. I’ve been to the café countless times, but they never see me. I am invisible.
It’s not just the mums who ignore me, it’s the dads too, although not many use the park during the week. Dads tend to prefer papooses to pushchairs. I suppose they think it looks more manly and also more caring to carry their babies rather than push them about. They like to have them pressed close, sniffling and dribbling onto their jackets. They wear the stains of fatherhood with pride.
At the weekend the park is heaving with young families – mums, dads, babies, toddlers, school-age children – often with grandparents in tow. They gather around the edge of the play area, talking in gender-segregated groups, with one eye vaguely on their charges. Sometimes I sit on the wall by the sandpit and watch the children digging holes or making castles. There are arguments over plastic spades and attempted thefts of unattended scooters. I want to mediate, to explain about sharing. I want to help the toddlers climb the slide and catch them at the bottom, or lift them onto the see-saw and sit on the other end, but interacting with other people’s children is only allowed if you have one of your own.
Hanging around the park is torture, but I have to come here to check on Mabel. She lives with her mummy and daddy in the house opposite the main gates. Number 74. It’s a purpose-built Edwardian maisonette with its own front door and lots of original features – the sort of place that’s very popular with hipster types retreating from Hackney. The primary schools have better ratings here and there’s less pollution. Being further from the city centre, house prices are lower.
Amber and George’s flat is on the first and second floors. They have a loft conversion. I only know this because there are windows in the roof. On the ground floor, there’s a narrow entrance hall where there’s just enough room to keep the buggy. I’ve seen Amber struggling to get past with her shopping, running up and down the stairs with the bags, trying to get it all into the kitchen before Mabel wakes up. She has no idea that I’m in the park opposite, hiding in plain sight amongst the joggers and dog-walkers, the pram-pushers and duck-feeders. Watching.
Amber is clearly not enjoying motherhood. There’s no smug glow about her like the mums in the park café. Her expression is vacant but tinged with sadness, as if she’s grieving for someone, or something. A previous lifestyle, I’m guessing, although she must have known