‘It’s me,’ he called, holding up the bags, as if the intruder being last night’s taxi driver would make it any less terrifying.
Mary stood there, frozen, so he chose the least awful of the limited options flashing through his mind and hurried back to the front of the house, trying the front door, which was unlocked, and stepping inside.
‘I’m sorry,’ he called, still breathless as Mary came to the open living-room doorway. ‘I brought some food, and other baby stuff. That was stupid, banging on the window like a scene from a slasher movie. I’ll drop these in the kitchen and go. Or, here. I can just put them here. There’s more in the car, but I’ll leave them on the porch.’
He put the bags down and turned to go, but, to his shock, Mary reached out and took his arm.
‘Please, don’t.’
‘Don’t leave the bags?’ Beckett really wanted her to have the supplies, but right now he’d do whatever she asked.
Mary shook her head, swinging her torso from side to side as Bob still cried. ‘Don’t go. He’s not stopped crying in so long, I don’t even know what day it is any more. I’m desperate for a wee and a hot drink, but I don’t know if it’s okay to put him in the drawer while he’s screaming.’ Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, prompting Beckett to lean closer. ‘I have no idea how to do this.’
‘Okay. Right. Um. Here.’ He gently took the baby, startled at how something so light could bristle with strength. ‘Do what you need to do. I’ll put the kettle on.’
In what felt like a previous life, Beckett had spent enough time with babies to know that they liked hearing your heartbeat and being held securely, so they felt safe. Bob was so tiny that Beckett could cradle him against his chest with one arm while making the tea.
By the time Mary came back, a couple of minutes later, the cries had eased to a pitiful snuffle.
‘I knew it,’ she said, face creasing in despair. ‘It’s me. He knows I’m clueless and is distraught at the thought of me being his mother.’
‘Milk?’
She shook her head.
‘You’ve provided everything he’s needed for the last nine months. He knows you’re not clueless. But babies can pick up on emotions like anxiety or upset.’
‘Or a total freaking breakdown?’ Mary sank into a chair, head dropping onto her hands.
‘What time did he start crying?’
‘Which time?’ she groaned. ‘He woke up just after five this morning, so I tried to feed him and put on a clean nappy, which made him scream. I managed to calm him back down to sleep, when he pooed – who poos in their sleep? – so I had to change him again, cue more screaming. It’s been on and off like that ever since. He slept for about an hour at one point, but when I tried to put him in the drawer he started crying again. I mean, who can blame him – what self-respecting person wants to sleep in a drawer? The book said he’d be worn out for the first two or three days. I think it was a typo. It should have said the mother would be so exhausted it feels as though her bloodstream has turned to tar.’
‘Have you eaten?’
Her lip began to wobble, causing her to grip her jaw with one hand. It made Beckett’s heart constrict, seeing her trying to hold it together. ‘I had some crackers.’
‘Right. I don’t know much about babies either, but people have been doing this without books or Bluetooth baby monitors for a long time. Every single one of our ancestors managed it, so it’s in our genes. We can figure it out, one step at a time.’
‘I’m guessing my ancestors didn’t live alone in the middle of a wood.’ Mary sounded sceptical, but she sat up and took a sip of tea, so Beckett thought he might be doing okay.
‘Maybe not, but you’re not alone right now.’
‘Are you moving in?’
‘I have to get back home in a couple of hours, but I can come back another day. Unless, of course, you’d rather not have a strange, unnervingly overfamiliar man insert himself into your life. I could be anyone.’
‘Or you’re Dr Beckett Bywater, graduate of Lancaster University, one-time champion of the medics rowing team, devotee of JustGiving appeals and life and soul of the party.’
Beckett leant back against the worktop, stunned.
‘Including your own engagement bash, to fellow medical student Rebecca Atkins.’
‘Are you some sort of spy? Is this a safe house? Are you fine about me being here because you could kill me with your little toe?’
Mary smiled, and Beckett’s life mission instantly became to make her do that again. ‘Or, your full name is on your taxi ID card, and I took the sensible precaution of looking you up and finding your Facebook account.’
Beckett grimaced. ‘Is that still there? I haven’t been on it in years.’
