‘Hey.’
Polly. A tiny, scrunched-up baby strapped to her chest.
‘Where did you come from?’ Uzma asked.
‘Marilyn’s house.’
Marilyn coughed. ‘Ahem!’
‘Sorry. Our house. I wasn’t sure if she’d finish her feed in time, so Marilyn left me the money for a taxi.’
We crowded round to see the baby, still unnamed at a month old. If Polly waited any longer, she’d have to register her as ‘Baby’, like the girl fromDirty Dancing. We petted and aahed, asking all the usual questions. Yes, Baby was putting on weight, no she wasn’t sleeping well, yes Polly was eating properly and resting enough, no she wasn’t going to miss the national finals.
There were some questions we didn’t ask but wanted to. Was she still pressing charges? Had she seen Tony? Did her bashed-up hand and cracked ribs still hurt? Was she getting a divorce?
She offloaded a twitching Baby to Melody and waited for us to stop fussing. ‘I heard you’re looking for a song. How about this?’
Then she started to sing ‘Listen’, the Beyonce song. About not being at home in her own home, and being more than what he made of her. Starting again, moving on, writing your own song.
Whew. We had not heard Polly sing like that before. Could breastfeeding affect your vocal cords? Could unwrapping the fear and anxiety and shame that wound so tightly around your whole body do it?
We cried. Some (me) more than others. Cried, even as we joined in, stood with Polly, held her hand, rocked her baby, believed her and believed in her.
A tentative answer to the biggest unasked question: Polly would make it. One day, she would be okay.
I grabbed a coffee at break time. Barely able to force down sips, I skulked in the corner, wanting Marilyn and Polly to hurry up and finish chatting so I could get home and stop having to fake being fine, wanting the evening to last all night so I didn’t have to go home to a house empty save for dark crannies, mysterious creaks and ominous shadows.
Eventually, Dylan extracted himself from the flock of broody women cooing over Baby and made his way over.
‘Not into babies?’
I managed a crooked smile. ‘I love babies. Especially Baby. But I had a big cuddle when I minded Nancy and Pete yesterday.’
‘Marilyn’s still training with Anton?’
‘Twice a week.’
‘It looks like it suits her.’ He gestured at her grinning with Leona by the serving hatch.
‘She’s lost nearly four stone.’
‘It’s more than that. She looks… happier. More comfortable in her own skin. When she first came along, Marilyn was mostly bluster. Now she seems like Marilyn.’
‘She did get a bit lost for a while amongst all those sleepless nights and nappies.’ I nodded at him. ‘You’re a pretty perceptive man, Pastor Dylan.’
‘I’ve had a lot of practice.’ He looked at me and smiled, blue eyes softening. ‘So you won’t dodge the question when I ask what has you so rattled?’
I studied my feet for a minute, unable to handle his gaze. ‘If I talk about it, I’m going to start blubbing. Or screaming. Either way, it’ll make a scene. And you know how I feel about scenes.’
‘Do you want to come into the office? They could be passing Baby round for a while yet.’
‘No.’ I flapped a hand in the direction of everyone else. ‘If they caught me in the office with the minister, I’d never hear the end of it.’
‘You mean Marilyn would want to know what was up.’
‘That too.’
‘What can I do to help?’
