“It’s the baby. She’s the link. And it’s all just fate. Do you believe in fate?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sometimes things are meant to happen. You were meant to find the baby. The baby was meant to lead you to me and to Oliver. What happens next is meant to happen.”
She laughs.
“Or maybe it’s all just nonsense. And nothing’s meant at all. And things happen just because they happen. Can I write to you?”
“Write to me?”
“Just e-mails. Just to keep in touch.”
She scribbles an e-mail address on a piece of card and gives it to me.
“We’re one family,” says the vicar when the service starts. “We’re drawn together by a child who was abandoned, who was lost. But she’s also any baby, every baby. She’s every single one of us.” He glances shyly at Dad. “I will, if I may, quote the poet William Blake.” Dad groans quietly. The vicar recites:
“Into the dangerous world I leapt,
Helpless, naked, piping loud.”
He pauses.
“Isn’t that all of us,” he says. “Into the dangerous world we leap. All of us are waifs and foundlings. And all of us need love. Love, and family, and trust in God.”
Dad groans. The vicar lowers his voice.
“Do I dare,” he whispers, “make the connection between this child and Jesus in his manger?”
“Please, no,” breathes Dad.
The vicar opens the service book.
“Perhaps not,” he says. “But I leave the thought to linger. Now, let us welcome this precious child into our world.”
We take the baby to the font. The vicar pours water on her. He drives all evil out. Mum’s friend Sue is godmother. Dad’s agent, Nick Stone, is godfather. We all promise to protect her, to bring her up in faith, to resist the devil and all his works.
Our hymns echo off the walls and out into the surrounding spaces.
Jesus bids us shine
In a pure clear light
Like a little candle
Burning in the night.
In this world of darkness
We must shine,
You in your small corner,
And I in mine.
5
Afterwards there’s a party in the house and the garden.
Dad sits on a garden bench with Nick Stone drinking whisky. I stand and listen. Dad’s telling Nick about imprinting, about ravens. He says imprinting must happen with humans, too. The very first seconds of life must be crucial to all of us. So where does that leave foster parents? Is it too late for imprinting, even when the child is still a baby? And what about older kids, like the lad from Liberia?
“So are you writing about this?” says Nick.
“Kind of,” says Dad. He laughs. “I’m writing about a barmy farmer and a country lass and their secret child. Oh, and their raven.” He winks at me. “Liam understands, don’t you, son?”
“Do I?” I say.
“But what about the book you were writing?” says Nick.
“I’ll go back to it,” says Dad.
“But what about your schedule?”
Dad shrugs.
“I’ll get back to it,” he says.
Nick sighs.
“And another thing,” says Dad. “What happens if your first parents are taken away and replaced by a monster? Will you love the monster and follow the monster? And can you get back to the first imprinting?” He ponders. “But that’s probably a different story.”
“So you’re writing two books?”
“Or maybe three.”
“You got a title?” says Nick.
“Nope.”
Nick sighs, smiles at me, swigs his whisky. I move on.
Mum passes the baby from one guest to the other. They bill and coo and say how beautiful she is and what a treasure she is. Mum takes visitors to see her paintings and photographs. I see her whispering in a corridor with Jack Scott. He’s in jeans, a red shirt, his hair’s short and sharp. She laughs with him, low and soft. I turn away just as they’re about to kiss.
Phil and Phil have both lost weight. Philip drinks white wine and nibbles carrots and celery sticks.
“I’m a changed man,” he announces. “Just had me whatdeyecallit and I’m fit as a lop!”
“Your ECG,” says
“I don’t know.”
“Sometimes things are meant to happen. You were meant to find the baby. The baby was meant to lead you to me and to Oliver. What happens next is meant to happen.”
She laughs.
“Or maybe it’s all just nonsense. And nothing’s meant at all. And things happen just because they happen. Can I write to you?”
“Write to me?”
“Just e-mails. Just to keep in touch.”
She scribbles an e-mail address on a piece of card and gives it to me.
“We’re one family,” says the vicar when the service starts. “We’re drawn together by a child who was abandoned, who was lost. But she’s also any baby, every baby. She’s every single one of us.” He glances shyly at Dad. “I will, if I may, quote the poet William Blake.” Dad groans quietly. The vicar recites:
“Into the dangerous world I leapt,
Helpless, naked, piping loud.”
He pauses.
“Isn’t that all of us,” he says. “Into the dangerous world we leap. All of us are waifs and foundlings. And all of us need love. Love, and family, and trust in God.”
Dad groans. The vicar lowers his voice.
“Do I dare,” he whispers, “make the connection between this child and Jesus in his manger?”
“Please, no,” breathes Dad.
The vicar opens the service book.
“Perhaps not,” he says. “But I leave the thought to linger. Now, let us welcome this precious child into our world.”
We take the baby to the font. The vicar pours water on her. He drives all evil out. Mum’s friend Sue is godmother. Dad’s agent, Nick Stone, is godfather. We all promise to protect her, to bring her up in faith, to resist the devil and all his works.
Our hymns echo off the walls and out into the surrounding spaces.
Jesus bids us shine
In a pure clear light
Like a little candle
Burning in the night.
In this world of darkness
We must shine,
You in your small corner,
And I in mine.
5
Afterwards there’s a party in the house and the garden.
Dad sits on a garden bench with Nick Stone drinking whisky. I stand and listen. Dad’s telling Nick about imprinting, about ravens. He says imprinting must happen with humans, too. The very first seconds of life must be crucial to all of us. So where does that leave foster parents? Is it too late for imprinting, even when the child is still a baby? And what about older kids, like the lad from Liberia?
“So are you writing about this?” says Nick.
“Kind of,” says Dad. He laughs. “I’m writing about a barmy farmer and a country lass and their secret child. Oh, and their raven.” He winks at me. “Liam understands, don’t you, son?”
“Do I?” I say.
“But what about the book you were writing?” says Nick.
“I’ll go back to it,” says Dad.
“But what about your schedule?”
Dad shrugs.
“I’ll get back to it,” he says.
Nick sighs.
“And another thing,” says Dad. “What happens if your first parents are taken away and replaced by a monster? Will you love the monster and follow the monster? And can you get back to the first imprinting?” He ponders. “But that’s probably a different story.”
“So you’re writing two books?”
“Or maybe three.”
“You got a title?” says Nick.
“Nope.”
Nick sighs, smiles at me, swigs his whisky. I move on.
Mum passes the baby from one guest to the other. They bill and coo and say how beautiful she is and what a treasure she is. Mum takes visitors to see her paintings and photographs. I see her whispering in a corridor with Jack Scott. He’s in jeans, a red shirt, his hair’s short and sharp. She laughs with him, low and soft. I turn away just as they’re about to kiss.
Phil and Phil have both lost weight. Philip drinks white wine and nibbles carrots and celery sticks.
“I’m a changed man,” he announces. “Just had me whatdeyecallit and I’m fit as a lop!”
“Your ECG,” says
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