little bit longer.
It will only be a few extra minutes. That’s all.
6
The taxi driver indicates and pulls to the side of the road.
‘You sure you want to stop here?’ he says. ‘Cop shop is a bit further.’
‘This is fine, thanks.’
He half-turns in his seat to look at me.
‘Do you want a hand with your bags, love?’
‘No,’ I say, opening the door awkwardly and pushing it wide with my left foot. ‘I’m fine, thank you though.’
I pay him and get out, stepping down onto the pavement, careful not to overbalance with baby and backpack.
Thankfully the café is not too busy and I find a table against the back wall next to a willowy blonde woman with a curly-haired boy of around three years old. The boy’s playing on her phone while she nurses a large coffee with cream on top. Mia is still fretting and squirming, her little arms and legs pulsing in frustration. I go to the table and unsling the rucksack, pulling out my phone and sending Tara a quick message.
Random question: if at a café, how long do you heat a 200ml bottle of formula milk in the microwave for? X
I picture my friend, at home with her two youngest sons, probably getting ready for the short drive to pick up her eldest from school. She always keeps her phone to hand – stops me from going fully baby-mental, she says – and true to form her replies are almost immediate, three messages dropping in one after the other.
???
Erm . . .
You OK? X
I frown at the screen and type a quick response.
All fine. Just indulge me?
Mia’s hungry cries are coming more frequently now, her little face screwing up in exasperation. I stare at the phone, willing my friend to reply quickly, walking small circles as I jig Mia on my shoulder. Finally a new message arrives with a ping.
Café won’t microwave in case baby gets scalded and you sue. Ask for a jug of hot water to stand the bottle in til warm x
Another message, seconds later.
What’s going on? X
I type one-handed, shushing the baby.
Thanks. Asking for a friend
I put the phone down on the table and it pings again almost immediately, then again. I ignore it, pulling the curved bottle of formula milk from the side pocket of the rucksack and giving it a shake.
Five minutes later I’m sitting back down at the table with the bottle in a jug of steaming water, the barista following me with a cup of tea. I keep jigging Mia gently up and down to keep her cries from reaching an ear-splitting level. I grab a muslin cloth from the rucksack and shake the bottle of formula again, squirting a few drops onto my wrist to test the temperature – warm but not too warm. The relief is immediate when Mia latches on to the bottle. I can hear Tara’s voice in my head: keep the bottle tipped up so there is no air in the teat, just milk. I’ve fed my godsons from time to time, but it’s different when the mother isn’t in the next room, when there’s no one to hand the baby back to.
Mia begins sucking the milk down in greedy gulps, her whole body relaxing and calming in an ecstasy of feeding, piercing blue eyes focusing on my face as if I’m the only person in the whole world.
While Mia drinks, I glance at the other mid-afternoon coffee-drinkers in the café. There are only a handful of customers. A fortyish guy on crutches, his left leg in plaster up to the knee. A woman in bright yellow Lycra at the counter, studying the cakes and pastries behind the glass. A couple of site workers having a breather over a cup of tea in the corner. A guy in his sixties surrounded by newspapers, pen poised over a crossword.
Calm. Safe. No police, no hooligans, no weirdos from the train. My left arm aches from holding Mia, but it’s a good ache.
My phone rings, vibrating against the table, the ringtone loud in the quiet café. Tara’s face shows on the screen, but with the baby in the crook of my elbow and my right hand holding the bottle, I can’t pick it up. I let it ring until the tune abruptly cuts off.
I smile down at Mia as she sucks busily on the bottle of formula milk, already half finished. I know I need to wind her, to get some burps up, but am I supposed to