Marian stood at the window surveying the damage. With the sun shining almost white in a clear sky, you’d never have guessed there’d been torrential rain and gale-force winds the night before. Even the patio area was dry, but the storm had thrown the furniture around and scattered some of the potted plants here and there. She considered going out to tidy it up a bit but there were so many other things that needed to be done.
She was about to turn away from the window when she spotted it. It looked like a pile of clothes in the corner of the garden.
“Who put washing out in that weather?”
Marian ran upstairs to get dressed but when she looked out the bedroom window, the pile of clothes had moved. Not much, but enough for her to notice. She quickly put on her jeans, a jumper and her trainers. She tripped over the suitcase on the landing and swore at it all the way down the stairs. Back at the kitchen window, the pile of clothes had definitely moved again. Marian froze as she saw the shape form and a hand emerge.
She backed away from the window and tried not to panic.
“Not the journalists again; why would they come back now? Please God don’t let it be a photographer. Why won’t they leave me alone!?”
Within about 5 seconds she considered screaming, ringing the police, running out of the house and having a vodka. None of those things would help and before she knew it she was making her way down the garden. The pile of clothes was still again and the hand had disappeared. Marian wondered if she’d gone mad. The nearer she got to it, the more it looked like nothing.
“This is private property and you are invading my privacy. I have nothing to say to you. Get out of my garden; get off my property!”
Silence.
“There are people with me,” she lied. “And if you don’t move on they’ll come and sort you out. You can’t stay here. I’m going back into the house and if you’re still here in 15 minutes I’m going to ring the police.”
Marian made a few more hollow threats but there was no movement.
“I’m such an idiot.” She turned to walk away.
“Please help.”
The pile of clothes spoke to her so quietly she almost missed it.
“Did you say something? Is there someone there?”
“Please please, help!” The quiet cry came again. Marian was stunned at the young female voice.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The pile of clothes moved and a teenage girl appeared. She had long hair that was soaking wet. Her face would have been filthy if it had been dry. The clothes she was wearing and the coats covering her were all saturated. She was clutching a plastic bag stuffed with newspapers.
“Help! Please, I think she’s dead.” The young girl offered the plastic bag, and Marian saw the tiny face.
She grabbed the bag and ran to the house. The young girl cried after her but Marian’s instincts were automatic. She ran warm water in the kitchen sink and taking the newspapers off the baby, gently laid her into it. The journey up the garden had woken the infant. She opened her eyes, made a little noise then closed her eyes again as the warm water surrounded her.
“You’re perfect – you little precious; you’re perfect.”
Her heart was racing as she rubbed the baby’s skin with warm water.
The mother was lying across the threshold of the back door. “Is she alive?” She was barely able to speak. Her attempt to make it up the garden stole the energy that the sight of her baby being taken had given her.
Marian concentrated on the baby. As she warmed up she began to cry, with the same weakness her mother had spoken. Marian grabbed a couple of tea towels and wrapped the baby up. She looked up at the mother for the first time. She was now in the kitchen huddled up in a ball on the floor, almost asleep.
Marian closed the door and wrapped the baby properly in a blanket she had draped over the back of her sofa. She boiled some milk and tried to get it into the baby with a teaspoon. The baby was more than happy to oblige.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes. I’ll run a bath for you. You need to go to the hospital. So does this little one.”
“NO! No hospitals. I just need to sleep.”
“You need to get out of those clothes or you’ll die of pneumonia. I’m going to run a bath for you.”
Marian took the baby upstairs, careful to manoeuvre around the suitcase this time. The other suitcase was open on the bed. She took some of the clothes out of it and put the baby into it. While the bath was running she went into the spare room and ripped open the black plastic bag with the ‘Charity Shop’ label on it. She found some clothes, turned the bath taps off, checked the baby was ok then went downstairs.
The mother was in the exact same position as when she’d left her.
“Come on, have a bath, put some dry clothes on and we’ll see what to do next. What’s your name?”