Read by Carrie Cohen
I found my granddaughter in John Lewis. I'm not a snob, and I wouldn't have minded if she came from the pound store or LIDL, but she didn't. She was in the Oxford Street John Lewis women's clothes section, in a pram in between Jigsaw and Hobbs and there was no one with her at all. I made faces at her for a while to keep her happy, played peep-bo in between the cashmere jumpers and pretended to sneeze but we were both getting bored and still she hadn't been claimed.
So I'm afraid that when I saw Alberta I was unable to resist helping myself. After all, if her mother or father or grandmother or nanny had wanted to keep her, they would hardly have left her alone in such a public place, would they? And she liked me, I could tell that she did. She held her chubby arms out towards me and she offered me a turn of the small penguin she was holding.
There was no clue to her name in the old fashioned silver cross pram so we chose a new one together. I was prepared to follow the alphabet through to Xanthe, Yolande and Zuleika if necessary but she waved and cooed at Alberta so that was just fine with me. I found out later from the newspaper report that her name had actually been Daisy but Alberta suited her much better so I stuck with it. I'd lived in Canada for a while when I was younger, and it's nice for children to have links with their heritage.
What about her poor mother, I expect you are thinking, wasn't she terribly upset and bereft and all that sort of thing? I guess she was, at first. I have to admit that she was, at least for a while. She gave interviews on TV wearing designer sunglasses and dabbing at her nose but she had another baby the next year and wrote a best selling book about the whole experience that made her a lot of money. She knew by then, you see. She knew that Alberta was safe, and being looked after. I sent word via a third party, and a substantial amount of cash, and promised to hand her over if either of them got too upset.
'Thank you very much,' she said in the note that she sent back to me, 'I was actually finding life quite difficult and the baby seemed to have insomnia. Also she hated my personal trainer and misbehaved on long haul flights, so I'm happy for her to stay with you, as long as no one, ever finds out.'
'That's sorted then, Bertie,' I said, 'looks like it's just you and me.' She giggled and crawled off to examine the paints I had laid out in the corner, to encourage her creativity. I'd installed a wipe clean area over the floor and halfway up the walls, so whatever mess she made didn't matter. I photographed it each day and planned to put together a mural of the photographs showing her development.
My friends were green with envy. They came round more often, drawn by Bertie's youth and gorgeousness as if it might rub off on them. They held her reverently, as if she was a religious relic or the last surviving baby in the world.
'The future of the human race depends on this little poppet and her friends,' said Maria. I thought that she said, 'prophet', for a moment. I had known Maria vaguely before Bertie, but never as a close friend. She visited often now and this time she had brought an expensive bear and tales of how she hoped her son would settle down soon.
'He's gay,' she said, 'but quite settled with his partner, and they have a dog. That's a good sign, isn't it, having a dog?'
I loved that they thought I might be some kind of oracle, someone who might know about such things.
'Did your daughter have a dog, before she had this sweet little thing?'
I smiled in a sad way to show that no, my daughter had not dabbled in canine ownership before launching into motherhood.
Yes, I'd told everyone that Alberta was my daughter's child. It was a long time since my daughter had visited, and I thought that by the next time she came I would have thought of a plan. If that sounds stupid, let me put it another way. I was in love, that's the beginning and the end of it. I'd fallen for this child just as surely as if she had been propelled from my elderly vagina after a miracle sexagenarian pregnancy featured exclusively in the Daily Mail. I just wanted to be with her, and I couldn't think logically, couldn't imagine further than the next five seconds. Think of the most powerful crush you've ever had and double it. No, quadruple it. That's how I felt about Bertie.
We worked out a rota. It wasn't exactly a babysitting rota, because I rarely left the house apart from when I took Bertie for her afternoon walk. More of a company rota. One of my friends would keep me company at all times, passing the nappy cream and making tea until I felt quite royal. Sometimes there were two of them at a time, especially in the afternoon when we took a turn around the park, one on either side of the pram.
'Is she warm enough?' someone would say, or, 'let me get her an extra cardigan, it's a bit nippy today.'
I was in heaven. I remembered how lonely I had been, not only when my own daughter was little but recently too, and I marvelled at how things had changed.
It was at least three months before the questions started, but once they started, they escalated like a spring storm.
'When's your daughter coming back, did you say?' and, 'I'm sure she won't be wanting to leave her lovely baby much longer,' that kind of thing. I invented several business deals that needed to be made by my daughter in person, two relationship traumas and a dodgy appendix. I began to think that I would have to use a more long term illness to explain her continued absence, a psychiatric one this time. I was glad of the helpers as I researched all weekend on the internet, barely seeing my beloved Bertie apart from at bedtime. I am a quick learner though, and by Monday morning I had committed all the symptoms of manic depression to memory. I was going to drop them into my conversations a little at a time until my listeners formed their own conclusions, it was best that way. Unnecessary tears, that's where I was going to start but I didn't get the chance. I was ready, and feeling quite sad about the tragic story, when the doorbell rang. The rota said that Frances was coming. She was one of my older friends and I always enjoyed spending time with her, so I decided to start laying down clues.
I didn't get a chance. I opened the door and they were all there, all seventeen of my grandma friends, clustered round the door like carol singers.
'I'm the spokeswoman,' said Maria, 'we need to talk.'
They bustled past me and filled my living room, some standing, some sitting. I held on tight to Bertie even though she was trying to leap into the arms of several of her favourites.
'She isn't your granddaughter, is she?' said Maria.
Some of them gasped, as if this was further than they would have ventured. I kept my mouth closed. If I didn't say anything, I couldn't say the wrong thing. I clutched hold of Alberta until she squealed in alarm. I couldn't bear it if they took her away, I know I couldn't. I would have to go back to Pilates and wine and unsuitable men. I started to cry.
'Maria let me say it,' said Frances, 'you're frightening her.'
She handed me a tissue and I blew my nose, which always made Bertie laugh.
'The thing is,' said Frances, 'we want one too. Well, not one between us, one each really. We need grandchildren, and we need them now, before we get senile or unfit or both. You have to help us.'
I stopped crying.
'For real?' I said.
'Look,' one of the others said. I think it was Carol, and she held up a beautifully knitted lace shawl. 'Look, I've got this made and ready, but none of my kids can afford a baby.'
Other women began to produce pieces of knitting and sewing in a rainbow of colours, thrusting them towards me as if by touching them I could make them less empty, more full of life.
'I don't know,' I said but I did know, of course I did. I was already planning the first one, which I hoped would be for Frances.
Bringing up babies is difficult work, and young people have a lot on their plates. What could be more natural than leaving it to us oldies to raise the next generation? There's quite a few of us now. We hang out in posh shops, coffee bars and upmarket festivals, and we choose carefully. Alberta has a little brother called Darius and a couple of the grandmas even have twins. We've got so famous that the mums leave a sign in the prams - a small bear wearing a hat. If we see a hatted bear we know that the parent (usually the mum) could do with a break, and we take the baby away. We've installed a ticket system like they have at the deli counter. If your number comes up and you don't want the baby on offer, you have no other chances, and everyone knows that. It has worked well so far.
Someone pointed out recently that we needed a name to make us feel more of a unit. We meet up a lot, in each other's houses and in the parks, but it's good to have a name for the headed paper. I wanted Pussy Riot as a sort of tribute but several of the older members worried that it could be offensive, so we went for Destiny's Children.
I think it says it all.
(c) Rosalind Stopps, 2015
Rosalind Stopps has written stories for Liars' League in London, New York, Hong Kong and Leeds, and some of them have been published. She has yet to publish a best-selling novel, but the omens are good that this is getting closer.
Carrie Cohen’s recent work includes playing Mrs Tarleton in Misalliance (Tabard Theatre), Hetty, in Gelt (Etcetera Theatre), voicing characters for films The Wake and Bad Advice, reading stories for Arachne Press and continuing to be seen strutting herstuff in the Specsavers advert. Show and voice reels at www.CarrieCohen.co.uk
Our special Parent & Child night was held on Tuesday June 23, 2015 at the Peckham Pelican to raise awareness and cash for The CATS Foundation, a charity funding research into the devastating genetic childhood diseases Tay-Sachs & Sandhoff.
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