Claire Seeber - Lullaby

Later, I couldnt think whose idea it had been to visit the Tate that day. I did remember wed been talking about going for ages, months even, and how pleased I was when Mickey finally took a rare days holiday to spend with us. I remembered that we thought we should do something more interesting than trotting round the local park behind Louiss pushchair for the millionth time that month; that I was happy it would just be us three for once as we caught the train into town.

So whose fault did that make it when my whole world fell apart?

It was the kind of summer day so hot you feared anothers clammy toucha sticky August afternoon that made me long for cool, cool, sliding rain, and I was quietly cursing Maxine as I tried to rid the bag of all the sand, the eternal grains that tumbled softly from folds of muslins and stained-forever bibs. Shed brought home half the beach from her trip to the seaside last week, and everything had gone all gritty, trickling into Louiss lovingly prepared food that hed just refused to eat. I was starting to feel flustered as I tried to escape the soft, pale powder, but it was in my mouth and eyes now and I pulled a face and spat it out, and felt my good mood begin to fade.

I took a deep breath and then one more. It was stupid to get upset, I told myself, I was just tired, and Louis didnt even know, he didnt care; hed nodded off above his mango mush now anyway, so resolutely I shut the bag. An exhausted-looking woman in horrid green tie-dye removed her screaming daughter from the postcard racks opposite our table, pulled the toddler past us, Picasso prints falling like confetti in their wake. The child slumped hard to spite her mother, an awkward deadweight dragging her small heels, livid squawking face clashing with her yellow Miffy vest. Middle-aged art lovers looked on unamused and unafraid to show it (they didnt want domestic dramas disturbing their special day out, no thanks. Not when theyd caught the early train up to town, a copy of The Times tucked neatly under their arm; not when theyd splashed out on Chardonnay and smoked-salmon sandwiches for lunch). I tried to catch the mothers harassed eye to smile my sympathy, smile this brand-new maternal solidarity thatapparentlynow included me. That still astonished me, every time it happened. But shed already gone. I sneaked a quick look at the for-once-actually-sleeping Louisand for a moment, just for a tiny precious moment, couldnt help but bask in the rare glow of my child being quiet and well-behaved.

In front of a great poster depicting Religious Revelry a young couple ran into each others arms, hugging happily before a naked Adam and Eve. Friends or lovers, I wondered idlyuntil the boy, quite beautiful beneath his frizzy hair, slid his hand inside the plump girls silk waistband. She sighed with visible pleasure and wrapped herself around him, twisting her body like the serpent round the apple tree.

And I thought about last night, about the early hours of today, and I smiled again, smiled to myself this time, and felt quite strangely shy, remembering Mickeys steady hand on me this morning for the first time in months. I looked about for my husband. Perhaps this was it; perhaps things would be the way they were before. I took a slow deep breath and tucked my hair behind my ears. Perhaps now, I thought, and this was what I truly prayed for, perhaps soon Id stop feeling like some kind of pretender. I glanced back at the baby; I felt my heart contract. My confidence with him was slowly growing every day.

I contemplated the rather bad drawing Id just done of Louis blinking up at all the lights and then glanced quickly at Mickeys plate. And then, since he still wasnt back from wherever hed wandered off to nowthe toilet, I thought hed said this timeI shoved my sketchbook away in favour of his leftover cake. With a sort of frenzied guilty pleasure I was trying to scoff the chocolate bit, the bit with all the icing on, when I felt an unexpected hand upon my tired shoulder.

God, she made me jump! Her skin was so cold it felt weird, like it almost burnt me through my thin cotton top. I jumped at this strangers familiar touchlike, really jumped I mean, jogging my cup, sending the coffee splashing, scalding, down my white skirt. But she was unperturbed; she didnt seem to see the impact she had on me at all.

Your baby, she gestured to the pushchair, to my sleeping son. I smiled politely, but actually I was thinking about my skirt, the fact I had to wear it for the rest of the day, the fact that it was now ruined.

Hes beautiful. It is a boy, no? Shed removed her hand now, bending towards Louis. Normally I would have been flattered, ready to proudly stand and coo together, but for some reason this time I couldnt. She was too near me, near us, and something about her ice-blue stare unnerved me. I tried to move my chair away imperceptibly, but now shed got between me and the baby. I didnt want to cause offence but she was starting to give me the creeps. I mean, she was perfectly respectable-looking. Rake-thin, I noticed straight off-like you do when you have pounds of baby weight to shift. Youngish, expensive summer dress; a racehorse stance. Attractive enough, I supposed, in a blonde, shiny sort of way. And yet, and yetI couldnt explain it. There was just something about her I didnt like.

My reflexes were slow; nappy brain was taking its fuzzy-headed toll.

Yes. Yes he isa boy. Louis.

Hi, Louis. Youre so bonny. She had a faint accent I couldnt place, and this last word seemed wrong somehow. It clattered clumsily to the ground, incongruous from someone so obviously not British. She stroked my babys little moon cheek and his eyelashes fluttered. I felt myself go tense, my hands clenching instinctively. He made little sucking motions in his sleep, his mouth all soft and sweet. Oh look, I nearly crowed, his Touch Turtle face. My heart did a funny flip.

Sorry, I said, and I tried not to sound rude, do I know you?

I dont think so, she replied, though its quite strange, now you say it. Your face does lookkind of familiar. She smiled, moved down to Louis again.

Please, I said, too fast, dont wake him. Inside I was shouting, Dont touch my son! But out loud I just said, It takes ages to get him off to sleep. Later I hated myself; thought I was stupid to have been embarrassed because I felt protective, the reserve of the British. But right now I did nothing except gape at her.

Though people, they always say that, dont they? It is one quite annoying thing, I find.

What is?

You knowYou look just like someone elsemy sister, my old friend. With a dazzling smile, head on one side, she mimicked people.

Oh, I see. I dont know really. I stood up, flustered. We must get going actually. I was dropping nappies, muslin, wipes, scooping them up, pushing away from this confident stranger who made my skin prickle. Willing Mickey to hurry up.

She moved away, then turned back again.

Excuse me. With a little smirk, she pointed to my top. I looked down; it was rucked up above my bra from where Id fed Louis earlier.

Oh, I said foolishly. A burning flush crept up my chest, across my face. Hastily I pulled my T-shirt down, tucked myself in. She swung a large bag over her spiky shoulder.

Enjoy the exhibition, she called as she went.

Thanks, I said to her departing back, but I wasnt thankful. I was simply humiliated. Silly cow, I muttered. Right on cue the baby woke with a high-pitched squeal of indignation.