Thats Matthews child…
This story unfolds just the other day, in a neat, well-kept flat on the fourth floor of a nine-storey building in Liverpool. Living there is a young-at-heart, still-working pensioner, a single woman named Margaret.
Her life is perfectly unremarkable. Everything predictable: her pension, her part-time job, friends, trips to see her grandchildren, and helping her elderly mother who lives nearby.
So, this day is much like any other.
That morning, Margaret rings her mum to check how shes feeling. Standard routine. Its her day off; Margaret works every fourth day on reception at a private medical clinic, answering calls and booking appointments.
And today? The usual: cook a little, pop round to her ageing mother an everyday ritual, a duty she’s grown wearily used to, often causing an eye roll as she laces up her shoes.
Two blocks to walkno problem. Cooking isnt tricky either, especially as Mum still has some leftover stew and home-baked bread from yesterday. But Mums fifth-floor flat with no lift… oh, thats a chore!
And yet more sighs at Mums endless complaints. Listening to exhaustive recitals about every ache and twinge, the intensity and stages of each pain, was enough to drain the colour from anyones day. None of it required solutions; doctors had diagnosed everything many times over, but Mum kept reinterpreting their words, mixing in opinions from neighbours and tidbits from Dr. Sarah Jarvis off the telly.
Margarets advice, no matter how sound, always got dismissed as the suggestions of someone clueless about her mothers unique ailments. This, despite the fact Margaret spent nearly forty years as an operating theatre nurse at a reputable hospital.
What do you know? Just hand me the scalpel! Mum would scoff.
Margaret remembered she also needed to nip to the shops on her way. She placed the rubbish bin bag by the door, glanced in the mirror to apply a bit of lipstick. For a woman past sixty, she looked rather sprightlyjust a few crows feet at the corners of her eyes, otherwise smooth skin, a neat ash-blonde pixie cut, silver hoop earringsperhaps only slightly softer cheeks these days.
Mustnt forget to buy Mum some rye bread and butter, she thinks, lining her lips with a pencil, when suddenly the doorbell rings.
Their building has an intercom. Who could it be out of the blue? Maybe its Mrs. Harris from upstairssometimes Margaret invites her round for a cuppa.
With lipstick still in hand, she opens the door.
Standing before her is a light-haired girl in a stripy t-shirt, long cardigan, jeans, and a rucksack. Margaret would remember all the details later, but in that moment, she only notices the girls strained expression, and thenthe baby, swaddled in a brown blanket, curled in her arms.
The girl breathes deeply, steps close, and thrusts the bundle towards Margaret.
This is for you, she says, abruptly.
Automatically, Margaret takes the babyher lipstick still in her hand. She notices the little weight, looks down… Good heavens, it really is a baby!
When she looks back up, the girl is already hurrying away.
Margaret, slightly dazed, steps out onto the landing, not yet processing why shes just been handed an infant.
Hes Matthews child, I have to study the girl calls back shakily, her footsteps echoing down the stairs.
The main door slams below. Thats it.
Margaret waits on the landing a few moments, half-expecting the girl to come rushing back. But then she heads back inside, glancing at her own bin bag and oddly thinking, Must remember the rubbish when I go to Mums.
But now, theres a strangers bag too. Margaret cant even recall the girl leaving it.
Oh my goodness. This… this is really a baby! What did she say? Matthews child?
Did she really say Matthew?
Cradling the infant, Margaret moves to the lounge and sits. Yes, shes certain the girl said Matthew.
Matthew who, though?
Margaret has only the one sonhis name is Arthur. A family man, two children, living with his wife in Bristol, while Margaret remains here in Liverpool. Her husband, David, passed away five years ago.
None of this makes sense… The baby squirms in her arms.
Gently, she lays the child on the sofa and unwraps the blanket: a tiny thing in a beige knitted suit, pacifier shaped like a frog popped in its mouth. The baby can’t be more than a month old.
There, there, little one, she whispers, stroking the childs cheek. The baby puckers, then dozes again.
Margaret figures a clue might be in the strangers bag. But inside, she finds only two bottles, a tin of formula, nappies, and some baby clothes.
She still half-expects the girl’s returnany second now, shell ring the bell, apologise profusely, claim the baby, and the day will resume: rubbish, groceries, Mum
Margaret even finishes doing her makeup, peering out the window for any sign of the girl.
But she never appears. And this This is no small bother.
Soon, the baby starts to fuss. Margaret stands awkwardly over herits not her child, is it even right to change or feed her? Shes not the mother. She goes back and forth to the window, hoping.
In the end, she has to change the little girl. Beneath the knitted suit: a sleepsuit and vest. Now, true anxiety seeps in: she realises shes been abandoned with this baby girl.
Matthew… Her Arthur was a bit of a lad in his youth. How many times she told him off for bringing girls home or switching girlfriends, but all that was long before his marriage. He and his wife seem happytied up with business and kids, yes, but happier these days now their mortgage is paid and their children are growing.
There, there, she coos as she changes the nappy, Dont cry, lets get you sorted.
Heavens. Did this girl really abandon her own child?
Her mind couldnt quite take it in, but her hands rememberedshe changes the nappy capably, then picks up the whimpering child and heads to the kitchen to make formula.
Just then, the phone rings. Margaret, juggling bottle and baby, answers with difficulty.
Why didnt you pick up sooner? her mother snaps.
Oh, nothing, Mum. What did you want?
Were you at the shop yet? her mother continues.
Not yet, Margaret replies.
You know what I want?
Go on, Mum.
Pears. Not like last time, the ones from before, with the little stems and that lovely red blush. Find the soft ones this time, mind.
Alright! Margaret replies, trying to keep the milk from spilling.
The baby fusses and her mother continues nattering until Margaret, distracted, finally hangs up and makes up the formula, using the instructions on the tin.
She inwardly debates: is it time to call 999? But doubts hold her back.
What if this IS Arthurs child? Margaret studies the girlyes, she does look a bit like her granddaughter, Sophie.
What then? Itd mean scandal; his wife would never forgive him And the grandchildrenshe shudders at the thought.
The little girl sucks hungrily at the bottle, Margaret watching fondly. Oh, what a darling! She mustve missed having a baby in her arms.
Once the babys asleep, Margaret carefully lays her down. She calls Arthur, but his number is unavailable.
Of course
She decides not to rush thingsnot yet. Theres still hope the girl will come to her senses and return. She didnt look dodgy, just a nervous, slim student.
No, its best her mother doesnt know any of this yet. Otherwise therell be a series of worried phone calls, doomsaying and endless fretting.
Margaret calls Thomas, her eldest grandson, and learns Arthur is away laying pipes in some remote region with no signal. Hell be back the day after tomorrow, but he still calls home in the evenings; alls well.
Oh, Thomas, Margaret scolds, You lot could keep me informed!
But she knows Arthur never accounts for his work whereaboutshes always dashing about. Still, she needs to speak to him now, so shes irked.
Next, she rings her daughter-in-law Helen and asks her to have Arthur ring her as soon as he can.
Is something wrong? Helen asks.
No, Id just really like to speak to him. Please, Helen
Helen promises.
To her mother, Margaret later fibs, Twisted my ankle, Mum, cant make it today. Youve got soup and bread, youll be fine
Mum moans, threatens to come to hers instead, rings repeatedly in concern.
After hanging up, Margaret flops onto the sofa, changes into a house dress, and sits beside the baby girl, pondering quietly. Maybe her head wasnt fully engaged when she accepted this child, but people do leave babies on doorsteps
So why doesnt she call the police, get it over with? Fear for her sondespite not being Matthew. What if, somehow, this is connected to him? He could have lied, given a false name And she doesnt relish going to the police, recounting everything, describing the girl. And theres something about the girls face that stays with herthe desperate mixture of anguish and conviction.
She needs to talk to someone. Who better than her mate Victoria?
Vicky, you wont believe thisIve had a baby left on my doorstep
Vicky doesnt panic but starts deducing the situation like a proper detective, promises to come after work.
Dont worry, Mags, well sort it. Best thing is to keep calm.
Do you think its best not to ring the police yet?
Lets wait. We need to find Matthew.
Oh Lord, Vickywhich Matthew? I dont know any Matthews in my building, and theres over fifty flats, nine floors. Perhaps she got the wrong door?
Could be, but it could involve Arthur too. Try to reach him.
The whole day merges with the routine of looking after the little one. Margaret checks baby advice online, learns about feeding routines, and follows all sorts of suggestions. She massages the babys legs, manages a nappy explosion, gives her a bath, even sings a lullaby.
Hows the ankle? Will you be round tomorrow? Mum calls.
Margaret promises to come, convinced this will all be resolved by then.
Victoria arrives after work, inspects the babys belongings, and proceeds to question the neighbours. She doesnt mention a baby, spins a tale about a letter for Matthew
Ive got it! she exclaims, banging the doora bit loudly, for the babys just nodded off. But the cheerfulness continues in hurried whispers.
Turns out, a Matthew lives on the sixth floor, right across the hall. All points suggest he could easily be the father.
I bet she got the floor wrong! Victoria whispers gleefully. Lets go!
Go where? asks Margaret. What if he denies everything?
Oh, come along. You want answers, dont you?
Margaret does. After settling the baby, they quietly climb to the sixth floor, ring the bell.
An old lady answers crossly, then shuffles away, calling, Matthew! Not again!
Victoria marches in, Margaret hovering in the hall. A tousled, thickset young man appears.
Hello, are you here about the tablet?
Tablet? No, its something else. Sorry to bother you, but Margaret somehow ended up with your baby
Silence as Matthew blinks at them. A baby? he splutters. Not mine.
Well, there arent any other Matthews in this building, Victoria presses.
I havent got any kids, the young man insists, baffled.
Well need proof of that. Maybe someone mixed up the flats, brought the wrong door a child.
Margaret tries to explain: I live on the fourth floortoday a young woman left me an infant, saying it was Matthews child. She ran off before I could ask anything more. I dont know any Matthews in my life, Im afraid.
Whats it got to do with me? Matthew points to himself.
So, you refuse to acknowledge the child? Victoria huffs.
What child? he exclaims, more exasperated.
We could show you
Are you absolutely certain you didnt have a girlfriend, maybe a brief relationship last summer? Margaret asks more gently.
Relationship? Ahno, not at all. Im all about online connections. Sorry, you must be mistaken. What did the girl look like?
I dont know. She forgot to introduce herself, Margaret admits, saddened. Sorry, we must have got this completely wrong.
Margaret pulls Victoria away toward the stairs.
Wait, perhaps I can help! Im a blogger and work in IT. We could put up a brilliant postchilds missing mother, or father, even! Photo, likely age
No, thank you, Margaret waves him offstill worried for Arthur, and knowing youre supposed to call 999, not launch social media campaigns.
Shame says Matthew, trailing off, But if you need anything digital, Im always here.
Modern youth! Victoria shakes her head. No need to even go in to work! Think hes lying?
No. Hes clearly some computer whiz, introverted. Not the playboy type, Margaret decides.
Arthur never calls backstill unavailableso she rings Helen.
Oh, sorry, Mum, I was up the wall today: taking Sophie to swimming, Thomas needed football kit, then Arthur rang just as I was rushing out. Busy day!
If only she knew!
Thats it, police tomorrow! Margaret tells herself.
But as soon as she lies down to sleep, she sees the girls face again: despair, fear, the hope that her child is safe. What will happen to the baby if Margaret calls the police in the morning?
Its a rough night. Margaret wakes at every noise from the baby, pacing the flat, mixing formula. Only in the early hours do they both drift off.
Shes awoken by her mothers call.
Hows the ankle? Coming round?
She looks at the baby, out the window. Ill come, Mum.
And dont forget the pears! And
Children need their walks anyway. Margaret ties a scarf into a makeshift sling, dresses the little one in smart, almost-new clothes, and heads to the shops.
Actually, it feels good not to be shopping alone for once. Except the fifth floor awaits.
Whats that? Mum gawps as Margaret arrives.
Not ‘what,’ Mumwho. Hold these while I sort myself out, Margaret says, handing over the bags before heading to lay the baby in the living room.
Where did you get that baby?
Oh, Nadia Evans next door needed a favour while she got her hair done. Im just minding her granddaughter for an hour.
And your ankle?
Healed right up.
Both women coo over the baby. And for once, no talk from Mum about her aches and pains.
Look how she grabs your finger! Whats her name, then?
Didnt ask. Its just for an hour!
You cheeky thing, taking a child on without even knowing her name! Mum scolds, shaking her head.
On the way home, Margaret is already thinking of names for the little girl. Why, she doesnt know, but she desperately wants to guess the one chosen by the real mother.
Back home, a text comes through: Arthurs available!
Cuddling the infant, Margaret quickly rings his number.
What? says Arthur, startled after Margarets muddled tale. Mum, Im married, you know!
But they gave the baby to me, understand? I thought, maybe you used another name…
Mum, you called me Arthur! Its got to be some mistake. Call the police, please. Or shall I do it?
No, no, I will. Just the baby was hungry, and after our walk, I had to fix her bottle. Ill get on it
Mum! Call the police! Im honestly worried about you
Oh, dont be silly! Margaret regains her composure. Ill take care of itVickys here too.
But Margaret doesnt do it right away. The baby needs feeding again, nappy changingso much to do! She tells herself shell phone later, after telling Victoria.
Oh, but how can she give the little thing up? Into care? As a former nurse, Margaret knows its unlikely to be as good for her as here, but she must be realistic. Tomorrow shes on her shiftthats number one. Number two: this is a criminal matter, looking after someone elses child without reporting it.
She sighs and sets about finding another bottle, tired but content. What surprising days shes having…
Not long after, their eyes close together: Margaret, half-asleep, and the baby, snug on her arm.
Thenthe doorbell rings. Margaret checks the peephole and freezes. She opens the door.
Where is she? Did you hand her in? Why didnt you say?
On the doorstep is the same lost-looking mother, shifty-eyed, hair wild, out in a vest and shorts despite the chill. Shes clearly shaken.
Why didnt you tell me straight? Margaret asks groggily.
That youre not her? the girl says urgently.
Maybe because I am, Margaret shrugs, But you ran off so quickly
But you know where she is, dont you? Please tell me you do! the girl pleads, hope burning in her eyes.
Margaret steps back; Come in.
The girl enters, desperate for the babys whereabouts, unsure what to expect. She gazes at Margaret, trembling.
Shes here, Margaret answers.
Where? Tell me exactly.
Right thereon the bed. Sleeping.
Margaret beckons her to the bedroom. The girl goes hesitantly, then, seeing her daughter, gasps and sinks to the carpet, sobbing with relief. Margaret helps her up, settles her with some tea and biscuits.
Eat, love. Have some chocolate, else youll collapse, says Margaret, ever the nurse.
Bit by bit, between tears, the girl explains she hadnt contacted the authorities.
I thought theyd take her from me. Thank you Oh, I just got everything wrong
Her name is Emily; the baby is Rosie. The story is terribly familiar. Emily, fresh out of college, comes from a small village in Cheshire. She fell in love last summer with a local student, Matthew, who seemed serious and promised marriage. She visited his flat in the twenty-first unit just once.
Matthew seemed keen at first, swore his mother would help with the baby. But after Christmas, he disappearedphone disconnected.
Emily knew the university, managed to track down some mates who said hed transferred up to Newcastle. No details, no contact.
Back home, Emilys stepmother was tolerant, but her father called her a disgrace and cut off all financial help.
So, she found herself alone, pregnant, in a shared student flat. An aunt offered small amounts of money, but couldnt support her.
Emily gave birth in Liverpool; she couldnt go back to the student flat, spent two weeks with a friend, desperately trying to revise for her exams with a newborn in tow.
And as fate would have it, her friend needed her gone, her money ran out, and then she spotted photos onlineMatthew with a new love.
At her wits end, she remembered Matthews promise: My mum will help. She found her way to the twenty-first flat in what she thought was the right block, handed over the baby, and dashed, crying, to the nearest bus. She tried to study that evening, but couldnt sleep, haunted by worry for Rosie.
Only the next morning did she learn, through a comment thread, that Matthews mother knew nothing about any baby. Panicking, she realised shed left her daughter in a complete strangers hands.
Emily had simply mixed up identical blocks; Matthew actually lived in twenty-one next door.
I saw his mums photo before and you look exactly like her! The hair… the glasses… what have I done? Emily sobs.
Margaret soothes her; You know, they say its the highest folly to create a masterpiece and refuse to admit authorship. Anyone would be lucky to call Rosie theirs.
So what now? Margaret asks. Will you go to Matthews after this?
No, says Emily, shaking her head. Last night broke me. I barely slept, kept feeling for Rosie. Ill go back to the student flat for now, maybe ring my aunt. You must think badly of me
Margaret shrugs, Honestly, yes, you gave me quite a fright. I even feared for my own sons reputation… And we owe Matthew upstairs an apology.
She recounts the misadventure for Emily, who even manages a weak laugh.
Poor man… I should apologise and say theres no problem, I just made a mistake.
Later, perhaps. You look shattered. Tell you what, Emilystay here tonight. I live alone, and my son keeps saying I ought to let a lodger. Why not you?
I couldnt… I cant afford it, Emily protests.
Oh, dont worry about rent. Just for this month. Whens your next exam?
Day after tomorrow. But
Emily slumps in an old armchair while Margaret tidies the spare room and fusses over her. Im working tomorrow, but theres plenty of food, and Rosie will sleep most of the day. Fetch your books laterjust rest now.
No sooner has Margaret finished fussing than Emily is deeply asleep, Rosie dozing contentedly beside her.
Margaret tiptoes to call Victoria. Vickyno, not Arthurs! He phoned. Nor Matthews upstairs. Ive got her here, asleepthe mother came back. No, Im not sending her away. Im so glad I never rang the police!
Milk supplies return, exams are passed with flying colours. Emily starts visiting Margarets mum on her ownfor a young, quick-witted girl now adored as an expert.
Shes just finished her studiessuch a clever lass, Margarets mother brags.
After the exams, Emily lands some nursing assistant shifts, thanks to Margarets old contacts. She often seeks Margarets advice; medicine clearly suits her.
Matthew upstairs finally realises his nan needs proper injectionsadministered expertly by Emily.
By autumn, Emily and Rosie move up two floors, to care for Matthews nanmending broken hearts, and rewriting her own story in neat, new script.
