Thats Simons child
This story took place just recently, in a well-kept flat on the fourth floor of a nine-storey block in Manchester. Living there was a still-working retiree, a single woman named Margaret.
Her life promised nothing overly extraordinary. Everything ran like clockwork: her pension, a job, friends, trips to visit her grandchildren, and helping her elderly mother who lived on her own elsewhere.
And that day was much the same as ever.
In the morning, Margaret rang her mum to check how she was feeling. It was her day off; she worked post-retirement on a shift basisone day on, three days offas a receptionist at a private clinic, answering phones and handling appointments. Today? Well, today meant cooking something and popping over to see her motherher daily routine. Truth be told, the ritual had long grown tiresome; she often found herself eye-rolling and sighing.
It was only two streets to her mums; never a problem. Cooking wasnt a hassle, eitherher mum still had yesterdays stew and plenty of cake. No, what was exhausting was climbing the five flights of stairs at Mums placewithout a lift. That, combined with the inevitable moan about aches and pains, got to Margaret. Listening to her mother laboriously recount various stages and peaks of discomfort was tedious at bestand pointless, since doctors diagnoses had been analysed and reinterpreted so many times, mingled with neighbours stories and the advice of the ever-opinionated Dr. Hilary from the telly.
Any suggestion Margaret made, despite her nearly forty years as a theatre nurse at a respected hospital, was dismissed as uninformed and irrelevant. What would you know! What instrument did you even hand over?
Margaret also had a shopping trip to make, on her way to Mums. She put out the rubbish sack in the hall, dabbed a bit of lipstick on in the mirrorshe looked young for her age, really, just a few crows feetbut her face was kind, with an ash-blonde crop and bold earrings, only her cheeks slightly hollow. Get some wholemeal for Mum, and some butter, she reminded herself, tracing her lips.
The intercom buzzed.
Who could it be? Maybe Mrs. Potter from down the hall, whom Margaret occasionally invited round for tea.
Lipstick still in hand, Margaret opened the door.
Standing there was a fair-haired girl in a striped T-shirt, cardigan, jeans, backpack slung on her backand, in her arms, a baby wrapped in a brown blanket. Margaret would later recall every detail, but for now, she only saw the girls tense face and the sleeping infant.
The girl stepped forward, pressed the bundle into Margarets arms, and said, curtly, This is for you.
Reflexively, Margaret took the childlipstick still in hand. As soon as she felt the weight, her heart leaptgoodness, it really was a baby!
But when she looked up, the girl was already hurrying down the stairs.
Its Simons baby. I need to study she called back, darting out the door at the bottom.
Just like thatgone.
Margaret lingered on the landing, waiting, half-hoping the young woman would return, claim the child, apologise, and let the day continue as normal: rubbish, shop, Mum’s flat
She glanced at the rubbish again, then noticed an unfamiliar bag in the entrywaythe girl must’ve set it down without her realising.
Dear me, she thought. This is someone’s baby! Did she say Simon? Was she sure?
Still holding the baby, Margaret carried him into the sitting room and carefully settled onto the sofa. Yes, the girl had definitely said Simon.
But who was Simon?
Margaret had only the one son, Williama family man with two children, living down south in Brighton with his wife. Margaret herself was in Manchester. Her husband, Geoffrey, had died five years earlier.
None of this made any sense and then the baby in her arms stirred. Startled, Margaret swiftly laid the baby on the couch and unwrapped her blanket: inside, a tiny tot in a beige onesie and frog-shaped dummyno more than a month old, by the looks of it.
There, there, little one she murmured, stroking the child. The baby smacked her lips, then drifted off again.
Margaret figured the answers must be in the bag. But inside she found just two bottles, a tin of formula, a pack of nappies and some baby clothes.
A part of her was still waitingany moment now, surely, that girl would knock and retrieve her baby, apologise, and the day would reset itself.
Margaret even finished her makeup and peered out the window for some sign of her visitor.
But no one came. The longer it went, the more unsure she felt. She wasnt this childs mum; was it even right to change or feed her? Was she allowed to? She paced to the window again, waiting.
Eventually, she had no choiceshe took off the babys clothes. Underneath were a vest and little leggings.
Only now did Margarets sense of responsibilityand dreaddescend. It hit her: the baby had been given up.
Simon Simon Her William had enjoyed more than his fair share of nights out in his youth. Margaret used to scold him for bringing home so many girls, especially before hed settled down. But that was all ancient history.
Surely William was happy these daysbusy, of course, but who wasnt starting out? Especially since their mortgage was paid, the children were growing, and their finances had improved
Shush, sweetheart, lets change that nappy, Margaret said, her hands following the old habits she hadnt forgotten.
Was it possible the girl was Williams, and hed lied about his name? Had a brief affair and told the girl he was Simon, not William? Sometimes parents only saw what they wished.
The baby needed feeding. Margaret made up a bottle as directed. Her hand achedshed lost the knack for holding tiny ones, she realised.
Should she ring 999? But what if it was Williams baby? She looked closelythere was a slight resemblance to her granddaughter, perhaps.
If it was Williams, it would mean scandal. His wife, Sarah, would never forgive him. It was unthinkable.
But as the baby drank, eyes fluttering with contentment, Margaret was oddly charmeda sweet little thing, after all. Maybe she had missed having a baby around.
When the girl fell asleep, Margaret carefully laid her on the couch and went to ring William. No answer. His phone was off.
Oh, what a mess.
Margaret decided not to panic. She badly wanted not to let her son down. And above all, she still hoped the girl would come back. She didnt look the trouble type, just an ordinary, skinny student.
She dared not tell her mother; that would mean endless ohs, dire speculation and fretful warnings.
Margaret rang her eldest grandson Ben, who told her his dad was away with work in a remote area, would be home the day after next, but phoned every evening and always checked in.
Well, Ben, a little notice wouldnt go amiss! she grumbled, though really she knew he was always travelling for work and wouldnt tell her every move. Still, at that moment, she needed to talk to him.
She tried her daughter-in-law Sarah, asking her to have William call Margaret later that evening.
Is everything all right? Do I need to pass on a message? Sarah asked.
No, just tell him Id love to hear from him. Please, Sarah Margaret insisted.
Mother, Ive twisted my ankle so I cant come over today, she then fibbed to her own mother on the phone, but youve got stew and plenty of bread
Her mother fussed, threatened to come round herself (though five flights made that unlikely), and rang back five more times.
After that, Margaret slumped, swapped her trousers for a house dress, settled beside the baby, and tried to think it all through calmly.
Was she mad for taking in the infant? People leave babies on doorsteps, after all.
Why not just ring the police and hand the baby over? Firstly, there was her fearfor her son, even if he wasnt Simon. If by some chance it was his child, and hed deceived a girlwell, shed be protecting him from his own mistakes. Secondly, she just couldnt face police interviews. Thirdly, there was something about the young womans expressiona mothers desperate mix of hope, anger and resolve.
Still, Margaret needed advice. Who else but her oldest friend?
Vicky, brace yourself. Ive had a baby left at my door
Vicky took it well, immediately going into detective mode like Miss Marple, promising to be round after work.
Dont panic, Mags. Well sort this! Just dont do anything rash.
So, dont call the police?
Not yet. We need to find Simon.
For goodness sake, VickySimon who?
The father, obviously. Isnt there a Simon in your building?
How should I know? Theres fifty-odd flats, nine floors. Maybe she just got the wrong door?
Possibly. But still, check with Will. Just in case.
The day passed in a blur of baby care. Margaret looked up feeding schedules online, then fell down a rabbit hole of baby advicemassaging, bathing, nappy changing, lullabies and put it all into practice.
So, hows the ankle? Still not coming tomorrow? Mum rang.
But Margaret was convinced things would be settled by then, promised to come round tomorrow.
Vicky turned up post-work and started her own investigation. Scanning the babys belongings, she set off to quiz the neighboursshe didnt mention the baby, just spun a story about delivering a letter to Simon.
Got him! she said, bouncing in triumph.
Shh! The babys just gone off, Margaret cautioned as they tiptoed inthe baby promptly wailed.
Turns out there was a Simon living in the same corridor, up on the sixth. By all appearances, he could be the father.
Im sure she just got the floor wrong, Vicky whispered. Come on!
What, to his door? And if he denies it?
Lets at least try!
They rocked the baby back to sleep, opted for the stairs and nervously pressed the bell.
A frail old woman answered: Simon! Simon! Someones here for you
A young man, slightly scruffy, short and broad with a scraggly beard, emerged.
Hi, is this about the tablet?
No, something else entirely, Vicky said. You see, Margaret heres ended up with your baby. By mistake, we think.
He looked bewildered. My baby? No, not mine.
Well, whose then? Youre the only Simon here, Vicky pressed.
I havent got any kids, he protested, confused.
We need proof of that! Somebody left a babywrong flat, we think.
Wait a minute, Margaret said gently, Let me explain. Im from the fourth floor. This morning a young lady left a baby girl at my door, said she was Simonsthen ran off. We wondered if she had the wrong Simon? Theres none in my flat.
Well whats it got to do with me? he said, startled.
Dont want to admit, eh? Vicky goaded.
What are you on about?
Well, come and see for yourself, will you? Vicky said.
Sorry, did you by any chance have a girlfriend, or a fling, late last summer? Margaret asked, gently.
No! Not even online. Youve got the wrong man, honestly. What was the girls name, anyway?
She didnt say, Margaret sighed. Sorry to bother you. We must really have got it wrong.
They headed back downstairs.
Hang onmaybe I can help. Im a blogger and a techie. I could do a post: seeking the mum, or dada photo of the baby, guess the age
No thanks, Margaret cut in. She still suspected her William, and besideslegally, she knew she ought to call 999.
Shame, he said. But if you need help, let me knowIm always home; I work from here.
These young people! Vicky shook her head. They dont even have to leave the house for work. Dyou believe him?
Of course. Hes a tech genius, not the playboy type.
Margaret never did get that expected call from William; his phone stayed off, and she tried Sarah again.
Oh sorry, I lost track! Its been madEsthers got swimming, Ben’s got a last-minute kit crisis for football, plus William rang earlier. What a day!
Sarah had no idea what kind of day, though.
Thats it, Ill ring the police tomorrow! Margaret promised herself.
But that night she kept seeing the girls face: the fear, the hope. What would really happen to this little mite if she did call the police?
Margarets night was broken by every soundgetting up each time the baby stirred, mixing feeds, pacing the flat. At dawn, they both finally slept.
Her mums call woke her. Hows the ankle? You coming?
Margaret looked at the child and then out the window.
Ill be over.
Dont forget pearsand not the horrible ones, the nice sweet ones like last week.
At the end of the day, children need some fresh air. Margaret made a makeshift sling from a scarf, lovingly dressed the girlher clothes, Margaret noted, were new and tastefuland off they went to the shop.
She rather enjoyed shopping with someone in tow; it was strange, how quickly she got used to not being alone. But her mothers fifth-floor flat.
Whats that? her mum said, wide-eyed.
Who, not what. Here, take these groceries. Margaret set down her bags and carried the baby into the lounge, sinking onto the sofa.
Whered she come from?
Nadia from over the road asked me to mind her granddaughter while she was at the hairdressers. Just for an hour.
And what about your ankle?
Fine now.
Together, they doted on the little one. That day, there was none of the usual litany of ailmentsjust simple delight in the baby.
“Look at that grip! Oo, whats her name?”
I didnt ask. Only got her for an hour.
“Really! Taking a child with no idea of her namehonestly, Margaret!” her mum scolded.
As Margaret headed home, she found herself trying to guess what her mother had named her. It was silly, but somehow important to get it right.
Home again, her phone buzzedWilliam! Elated, she called him straight away, baby in her arms.
What? Mum, seriously? Im married, you know! he exclaimed when she strung the story together.
But she was brought to me, and she said SimonsI thought, what if Simon was you
Mum, Im William. You named me that yourself. Its a mistakeyou must ring the police, right now. Or I will.
No, noIll do it. Shes hungry now anyway and needs a nappy. So many chores! Ill finish up, ring Vicky, then
She knew shed have to hand the child over. But where would she end up? Social services, probably. Somewhere unfamiliar. No matter how she pictured a hospital ward or childrens homeshe knew the baby wouldnt be better cared for than with her.
But she had a shift tomorrowwhich meant real trouble. Legally, she couldnt just keep a child without telling anyone.
Still, as she pottered about, she thought of how full her days had becomemore so than in years.
That afternoon, just as she drifted off, the doorbell rang. She opened it to find the agitated, flustered young woman from yesterdayhair wild, face drained, dressed in shorts and a vest despite the chill, panting breathless.
Shes not gone, is she? Where is she? You havent reported? The girls eyes darted wildly.
Why didnt you tell me straightaway? Margaret asked, half-awake herself.
That it wasnt you, the girl said, almost defiantly.
Perhaps because I was. You dashed off before I could say a word.
But you know where she is? Please, you do, dont you? Her whole gaze pleaded: you must know!
Shes here, Margaret replied, tense.
But where exactly? I need address, please
Shes in my bedroom, asleep.
Margaret led her in. The girl hesitated, still expecting a wild-goose chase, but on seeing her daughter, she crumpled to the floor and weptuncontrollably, shoulders trembling, sobs echoing off the carpet. Margaret helped her sit up, gave her tea and chocolate, fussed over her as only a nurse could.
Slowly, after another round of tea and tissues, the girl managed to explain she hadnt called social services.
I thought Id lose my baby forever oh thank you, thank you… I got the wrong flat
Turns out the girls name was Alice, and her babyEmily.
The story was, as ever, all too familiar. Alice, not yet twenty, was from a village in Yorkshire. Shed fallen for a Manchester lad, Simon, last summera student at the university. Shed only been to his place once, barely recognised the block. At first, Simon seemed keen, promised theyd get through it together. Said his mum would help. Then, after New Years, he vanished: phone off, no word.
Alice knew he was at Manchester Uni, so she found his course mateswas told hed transferred to a London college. No contact, no help.
Back home, her stepmother was understanding, but her father had been furiouscalled her names and said she was on her own. Only her aunt, her late mothers sister, gave her a little money, but couldnt support her long.
Alice managed in a room at the dorm, then spent two weeks on a friends floor after the baby arrived. She desperately wanted to sit her exams to progress to final year.
But fate has a way of forcing the issue: her friend needed her out, her money ran low, she couldnt go to college with a baby in tow, and photos of Simon cuddling a new girlfriend popped up online.
In a daze, she remembered Simons promises about his mum helping, and her numb feet carried her to flat twenty-one in the similar block round the corner, hoping for a lifeline.
She left the baby, raced for the bus, sobbing uncontrollably. The entire evening she tried to study, blocking out thoughts of her child. That night she cried herself sick. In the morning, she messaged Simon to say shed collect her baby after exams. To her horror, he said hed never heard from his mum about any baby.
Alice rushed back, realising shed left Emily with a stranger.
Id only seen Simons mum in a photo. She looked so much like you. The same haircut, everything. What have I done? she despaired.
Margaret hugged her and said gently, You know, its madness to create a masterpiece and then disown it. Watching your daughter, I kept thinking: what mother could truly give this up? Its a blessing you came back. But what now? Will you take her to Simons family?
No way! Alice shook her head. I nearly went mad these past twenty-four hours. Ill go back to the dorm for now, then see whats what. Im so sorry for dragging you into this.
Honestly, I was terrified for a bit. Even thought she might be Williams Margaret laughed, thinking of the awkward scene with her neighbour Simon. I do owe him an apology!”
Even the tearful Alice giggled at that.
I might pop by to apologise, too. But maybe not looking like this… Alice sniffled uncertainly.
Why dont you stay here, just for a bit? Margaret offered. Ive got the spaceand my son keeps saying I should take in a lodger. At least for this monthafter that, well see. When are your exams?
The day after tomorrow. But
Just stay. You can get your things and books today. Theres food in the fridge. Emily sleeps loads, and you can feed her yourselfIve bought formula, but you might nurse.
Alice nodded, relief flooding her face, then promptly dozed off in the armchair, Emily sleeping soundly in the cot.
Margaret called Vicky, voice low. No, not Williams. Not the neighbours, either. Shes heresleeping. Thank goodness, Vick, I didnt go to the police.”
Alices milk came back; she passed her exams with flying colours. Soon she was regularly visiting Margarets motherwho, in a turn of fate, listened to Alices advice on her aches without complaint.
Shes clever, that girlshes got all the latest medical knowledge! Mum boasted.
After exams, Alice found work as a health care assistant thanks to Margarets connections. She often discussed medicine with Margaret, who enjoyed helping.
Neighbour Simon discovered his grandmother needed injections, so Alice helped out there as well.
That autumn, she moved with Emily two floors up to care for Simons nan, and to gently heal her heartbreak, writing herself a brand-new beginning, one page at a time.
And so, in the act of helping another, Margaret found her life all the richer for it, and Alice discovered that sometimes, when you feel most alone, kindness and humanity can still offer you a second chance. In the end, the greatest act of bravery is to ask for and accept helpreminding us all that no matter how tough the road, reaching out can turn a crisis into a new beginning.
