The Christmas Surprise (14 page)

She looked up at him and swallowed.

‘I just want …’

‘I know,’ said Stephen. ‘I know. You want everything to be fixed, you want everything to be fine. But that’s the first lesson you learn out here: you do what you can.’

He swallowed.

‘I learned the hard way too.’

They picked their way back up the path to the little cluster of huts in the sandy clearing. As they grew closer, they heard it. At first Rosie thought it wasn’t possible. Or that it was somebody else’s; the village was full of children. But as they approached the dingy little hut, it became clear from the huge crowd of people outside it that the mewling noise was coming from within.

Faustine beckoned them over. Her face, with its clear skin and fine dark brows, was an exhausted mask. Rosie
noticed the smell of blood immediately and looked up, full of foreboding.

Faustine shrugged.

‘Without you they would both have died.’

Rosie gasped. Already Célestine’s body had been removed. Sand was being swept across the floor. Sitting in the corner was a woman Rosie had not seen before; a heavy-set older woman who nonetheless was breastfeeding a tiny infant. And there too, with the same numb look of shock they had worn for the last two days, were Célestine’s parents: stoic, resigned, as if a life in which your children died before you was absolutely normal. Rosie felt her heart begin to break.

She approached the child. It was a little boy. He had been cleaned up and had finished feeding; the woman happily handed him over for Rosie to have a look. She put him up on the bed to check him over. He responded well to stimulus; his pupils contracted well; there was no jaundice. But she noticed that his right arm did not shoot up when he was dropped gently backwards, as she would expect. She tried it again and again, and looked more closely at the arm. The tiny fingers, with their perfect little nails, did not grasp on to hers as the left hand did without any trouble at all. The hand – he was a very pale coffee colour – was lighter than the other, with a bluish tinge all the way up to the elbow.

‘Faustine!’ called Rosie. Outside, the doctors were
smoking and chatting to a middle-aged man who had appeared and was gesticulating with some importance. ‘Can you send one of the doctors over?’

The local doctor came over and followed her in. She showed him what she’d noticed and he screwed up his face and gathered the others.

‘They were about to check the baby again,’ said Faustine defensively. ‘They were clearing up after the mother.’

‘I realise that,’ said Rosie patiently. ‘I just want everyone to take a look.’

Now there were the first stirrings of life in the grandparents. The man came over to examine the baby with them. His face looked concerned. A loud debate started that Rosie could not follow, but at one point the baby started crying again. The wet nurse took him back and someone brought her a plate of food, which she ate with her free hand. Stephen ushered Rosie out of the hut and over to where a canvas tent had been set up for them. Inside, four comfortable-looking camp beds had been unpacked. Suddenly all Rosie wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

Stephen sat next to her on one of the beds.

‘What’s wrong with the baby?’ he said, straight out, holding her gaze intently. Rosie thought he must be very tired too.

‘Um, it’s hard to tell,’ she said. ‘His neurological
impulses all seem fine; his pupils are responding, his grasp, all of that; he seems very smart and alert. But his right arm is a problem. It’s possible he was lying badly in the womb, that it’s got damaged in some way. It may have developed that way, or they may have been in such a rush to get him out they damaged him somehow. But his arm is limp and I don’t think … I don’t think it’s a temporary thing. I don’t think it’s ever going to work.’

Stephen swallowed. She still didn’t understand, not in the slightest, the intense look on his face.

‘I mean, he’ll probably be all right with one arm … It’s a shame it’s his right, if he’s right-handed, but people can compensate a lot.’

‘Not here,’ said Stephen shortly.

A small child came in and offered them two cups of tea, which they took with thanks, even though it tasted very odd to Rosie. But just to drink something warm and wet was very comforting. Her eyelids were starting to droop.

‘Oh,’ she said, wearily. In her head, she had an idea that the MSF people would take him, would know what to do with him, or, he would be subsumed into village life, raised collectively with the other children, playing joyfully in the sand, sitting in long rows at lessons …

‘So—’

They were interrupted by the middle-aged man Rosie had noticed before, the one with the air of self-importance.
He wore a very smart robe over a businessman’s shirt with a white collar and beckoned them to come.

Stephen glanced at Rosie and they followed the man back to the hut. Outside, Faustine was hovering, looking worried. Célestine’s parents were standing stiffly, the baby fast asleep in his grandfather’s arms.

‘Now here’s the thing,’ said Faustine, slightly nervously.

The entire village was watching them.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Rosie suspiciously. Stephen looked at her just as the man holding the baby stepped forward.

‘It’s to do with the concept of being godparents …’

‘You are KIDDING me,’ said Rosie.

Stephen had led her to one side very quickly.

‘You see, what godparents do—’

‘Is send presents at odd times of year because they can’t remember birthdays!’ said Rosie. ‘I should know, I’ve got three. You buy them a nice christening present, then put them up in their gap year! THAT’S what godparents do.’

Stephen ignored her and went on. ‘There’s another element to the whole concept …’

‘FINANCIAL,’ said Rosie quickly. ‘We agreed to support the family. With money! So they can feed the baby.’

‘It’s slightly more than that …’

‘I realise that,’ said Rosie. ‘Except, obviously, you’re not serious.’ She realised she was babbling. ‘Because of course he has his grandparents here, who can—’

Stephen was shaking his head.

‘They don’t … they can’t …’ He took a deep breath. ‘You have to realise, Rosie. This baby – he can’t work in the fields. Not with one arm. He can’t be a fighter or a hunter, he just can’t. They can’t look after him.’

‘We can help them.’

‘That’s not the kind of help—’

Rosie looked at him.

‘We can’t just
take
a baby.’

Stephen bit his lip.

‘“Will you care for them, and help them to take their place within the life and worship of Christ’s Church?”’ he quoted.

‘Yes, but that’s just something you say, like renouncing the devil and all his evil works.’

Stephen held her hands.

‘Remember how happy we were at Christmas?’

Rosie nodded, painfully. So much had happened since.

‘I always remember someone saying how ironic it is that Christmas is celebrated in the home but we’re celebrating the birth of a homeless child.’

She just looked at him. In the trees, strange birds
called, insects made noises. The crackle of the fire and the chattering of the villagers could be heard. Somewhere a woman was crying. The bush was never quiet. She held his gaze for a long, long time, until finally Stephen spoke softly.

‘They can get the local official. For a fee, he can handle the paperwork.’

‘This is RIDICULOUS. It’s off its head! Don’t be daft, we can’t have a baby.’

There was another long pause in the chattering dusk. Somewhere far away an animal howled. Rosie found tears coursing down her cheeks.

‘We can’t have a baby,’ she said, for the second time in three days. The words were stones in her mouth.

‘Nobody wanted this,’ said Stephen. ‘But …’

They looked at each other for a long time. Everything else seemed a long way away.

‘This is going to be … you know, this is a big deal,’ said Rosie softly, shaking all over.

‘Parenting,’ said Stephen. ‘But you know, we were—’

‘Yes. All parenting. And this might be more complicated than most. Adoption can be very difficult.’

‘So can having your own kids,’ said Stephen. ‘Look at those awful Mountford brats.’

With a sudden wobbly smile, Rosie thought of the Mountford family, the richest in Lipton. The father ran a car dealership in Carningford, and the children always
had the newest toys, the most up-to-date technology, and as many sweets as they could cram into their gobs. Rosie never liked to say anything about them at home, partly because they were children, and partly because they were splendid customers, but the way they ordered everyone else about, and made all the other children of the village dance to their whims in order to win an invitation to one of their infamous birthday parties, which had in the past featured circus animals, chocolate fountains and carousels (Edison had never been invited), was absolutely cringe-inducing.

‘It’s true,’ she said, her mood lightening a tiny bit. ‘We couldn’t possibly do a worse job than the Mountfords.’ Her heart started to beat incredibly fast.

‘We could,’ Stephen began slowly. ‘We could …’ He stared straight into her eyes.

‘I think,’ said Rosie, ‘I need to meet him properly.’

Rosie approached carefully, her heart beating like a drum. She thought back over the months of emptiness, the terrible gap in her heart, the dreadful sense of her potential wasted. She had never been one of those people who cooed over babies, never believed that all she needed to fulfil her in life was a little bundle wrapped in Baby Gap. But the knowledge that she wasn’t having Stephen’s baby had broken her heart,
totally and surely, and she knew that deep down she hadn’t begun to come to terms with it.

The grandfather did not say a word; simply held out the child. The entire village was watching, and Rosie sensed that they were all holding their breath as much as she was.

She took the warm bundle into her arms. His little face screwed up, snuffled a little, then, even though he was already sleeping, his mouth opened into a tiny tiger yawn. Rosie propped him up, her hand strong on the back of his neck, and laid his tiny head against her shoulder. The baby moved a little, nestled, found a perfect hollow in her shoulder Rosie had not even known was there, and curled his head straight into it.

The man was talking to her, but Rosie couldn’t hear him. She leant in closer, but she still couldn’t hear his voice or make out what he was saying.

‘Apostil,’ said Faustine, then she said it again, louder, when Rosie clearly didn’t understand. ‘His name is Apostil. Ah-pos-teel.’

‘Like Apostle?’

‘No, like Apostil.’

Even through the flood of emotion, Rosie’s first, ridiculous thought was that they were going to be having a lot of conversations like that in the days and years to come.