Steffi
‘Shh, shh, it’s OK, it’s OK.’ Woody buries into my armpit and lets out another wail. ‘Mummy’s coming, Mummy’s coming.’ I’m not sure if she is. I’m quite stunned she isn’t here yet when he’s clearly been upset for so long. His hysteria is almost unbearable. I bounce him, shh him, walk around the dark, whispering babyish sweet nothings into his hot, tear-soaked ears.
‘Don’t be sad, Woody. Hey, Woody, you’re so cute, but you can’t be cute when you’re sad, can you?’
I can’t help it. Judgement is seeping out of me at Lauren. His sadness is so acute, his desperation for his mother so strong, and he’s so tiny and helpless. Something must ’ ve gone wrong with the monitor, I tell myself. There’s no way Lauren would leave him to cry like this. She never leaves anyone to cry. I remember, one night at uni, shortly after all the Matt stuff had happened, I’d got paralytically drunk and had such a dreadful one-night stand, I’d left straight afterwards and walked home barefoot because my shoes were on his side of the bed and I didn’t want to wake him. Lauren heard me weeping in the bathroom at 4am, and sat outside, comforting me through the door, until I eventually let her in. There’s no way that woman would leave Woody on purpose. He screams right into my ear and I scrunch my face as a thousand hearing hairs shrivel and drop out of my ear. He clearly isn’t going to be consoled by me, so I give up and scramble around for the door handle, blinking as I step out into the fuggy brightness of the landing.
Lauren comes running up the stairs towards me, her eyes almost red.
‘Lauren, I. . .’
‘What’s going on?’
Woody’s already out of my arms and curling himself around her like a baby snake. His crying amplifies at having found his mother, and he shrieks as she pushes his hair back, turning to me, her face still poison.
‘He was crying and . . .’
‘You just went in and picked him up? Without asking?’
‘I didn’t know what to do. I just heard him screaming and you didn’t come . . .’
‘Oh, you’re accusing me of neglect are you?’
‘ What? I . . . Did you know he was crying? Couldn’t you hear him?’
‘I . . . he was fine. It was all in hand.’
I can’t help it again. ‘So, you left him that upset . . . on purpose?’ I can’t quite believe it.
‘Fuck you. Like you know anything about being a mother, . Fuck you.’
My mouth drops open and I’m truly and utterly speechless. With her shots fired, Lauren turns her attention to soothing Woody who’s absorbing up the energy and crying even harder. ‘Baby. Baby. I’m here. I’m here. I’m sorry this strange woman came and bothered you.’
I shake my head. ‘ Strange woman? Lauren, you asked me to be his godmother.’
She ignores me. ‘Silly woman. You were just trying to sleep and she comes and pokes you and makes you cry.’
‘Lauren, are you being serious? He was crying long before I went in there.’
Her head snaps back. ‘What are you saying?’
I throw my arms up. ‘I’m saying, I just went to the toilet and I could hear him crying and nobody came and it was too much, so I went in and—’
‘Are you saying I’m a shit mother?’
‘What? No. I assumed your baby monitor’s playing up. I was trying to be nice! Helpful! Next time shall I leave your baby screaming alone in the dark for two hours?’
‘How dare you? You don’t know anything.’ Woody’s quietening now. He leans his cheek on Lauren’s shoulder and sucks him thumb, also looking at me accusingly, with a tear-streaked face.
Don ’ t judge mothers. The rule I live by. Especially mothers that are your friends. I gain nothing but napalm in response. I cannot, literally, say anything about anyone raising any child, in any way, without everyone wanting to rip my head off and swallow it. I don ’ t understand. Couldn ’ t possibly. How dare I weigh in on this conversation. Why don ’ t I wait outside until the selfless martyrs who understand just how much love humans are capable of feeling have finished moaning about their perfect babies they also complain about constantly. Lauren, more than anyone, is someone I’d never judge. She’s one of my oldest and dearest friends – we have each other’s backs. Or that’s what I’ve always assumed. Except, today, earlier, out on the decking, Lauren didn’t have my back at all. She happily bitched about me and now she’s hurling abuse when I was only trying to help. Our Geneva Convention has been dissolved, and, already too pissed off at today, I take off my gloves.
‘I may not be a mother,’ I snap. ‘But I know what it feels like to hear a desperate baby scream alone in the dark. I’m sorry, Lauren, but I couldn’t let that continue. It’s cruel.’
‘He’s supposed to be left to cry.’
‘What?’
‘The woman said—’
‘What woman? Hitler’s wife?’
‘No, the sleep expert.’
‘That’s not a sleep expert, that’s an abuse expert, asking you to do that. Look at the state of him.’
The word is a cluster bomb that detonates the second it’s out of my mouth. I actually smack my hand over it, like I can catch it before she hears it, but it’s too late. Lauren jerks back so sharply that Woody starts crying again.
‘Are you saying I’m . . . abusing my child?’
‘No. That’s not what I said.’
‘ You? Who knows literally nothing about being a mother, apart from that you don’t want to be one . . . Can’t stop banging on about that can you?’
I put my hand out but stop myself retaliating. Woody’s still screaming and, over it, I can just about hear another commotion downstairs. A man’s voice, the sound of dozens of people getting up.
‘I wasn’t saying that about you, but this woman who said you should leave a baby to cry . . . I mean, Lauren, he was screaming. ’
‘Shut up.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Shut up. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Don’t you dare touch my baby again, do you hear me?’
‘Lauren?’
‘You’re so selfish . Blah blah blah, I don ’ t want kids. Who fucking cares? If you’re not interested, fine. But don’t you dare come and touch my child and judge me.’
‘I didn’t touch your kid, I picked up a screaming baby!’
There’s a thumping on the stairs. Woody’s burrowing into Lauren’s dress, yanking it down, trying to feed even though she’s standing up.
‘Well you shouldn’t have.’
I stand back. ‘Oh? I’m so evil and selfish, aren’t I? And yet I’m not the one who left a baby to cry.’
A voice jolts us from our fight.
‘Who’s left their baby to cry?’ Charlotte asks, appearing at the end of the landing, her face wild, with all of its makeup cried off.