Thats Nigels child
This tale unfolded not so long ago, in a nicely kept flat on the fourth floor of a nine-storey block in Nottingham. Living there was a sprightly pensioner still working part-time a single lady named Florence.
Florences life had always promised nothing particularly wild or hair-raising. Everything was spiffingly routine: pension, shifts at her job, coffee with mates, the occasional jaunt to see the grandkids, plus obligatory check-ins with her elderly mother living across town.
That particular day was just another in the series. Florence rang her mum that morning for the daily health bulletin. All was well: it was a day off. She worked shifts at a private GPs office, mostly managing phone calls and keeping the appointments diary in tight order.
Todays itinerary? The usual whip up some grub and pop round to mums. Really, more tiresome ritual than exciting outing: trudging across two blocks, which was nothing, but the four flights up to mums without a lift? Oh, the drama. And then there were mums legendary complaints: running narrations about every ache, twinge and mysterious medical development, enhanced by dubious advice from Lorraine Kelly and Margaret from number 12. Florence, having been a theatre nurse for forty-odd years, was no rookie, but whenever she offered a word of advice, it was met with predictable scornWhat would you know, dear? Fetching scalpels, is it?
Anyway, a trip to the shop was in order, en route to mums. She dumped her bin bag in the hallway, slipped over to the mirror to fix her lipstick. Sixty-odd she might have been, but youth glimmered in her eyes, and her face, though touched by those fine crows feet, still had a pleasant softness. A smart, cropped ash-blonde do and bold earrings completed the lookeven if her cheeks were a tad more collapsed than theyd once been.
Wholemeal bread for mum, proper butter too, she thought, lining her lips whending dong!the doorbell went.
Their block had an entryphone. Who could it be, just turning up? Aunt Mary from across the landing, perhaps? Florence often had her in for a cuppa. Still holding the lipstick, she opened the door.
There on the mat stood a towheaded girl in a stripy tee, long cardigan and jeans, rucksack slung over one shoulder. Florence remembers it crystal clearafterwards. At the time, she just registered the earnest face and the baby, bundled in a brown blanket.
The girls jaw was tense, eyes squinting; a quick step forward andplonk!the infant was deposited in Florences baffled arms.
This is for you! she said, all business.
With one mittened hand, Florence reachedreflexively!for the baby, wrangling lipstick in the other. She looked downgreat heavens, that really was a baby!
By the time she looked up again, the girl was already legging it down the stairs.
Its Nigels baby, but Ive got to study the girl hurled over her shoulder, disappearing. The door downstairs thudded shut.
And that, as they say, was that.
Florence hung around the landing for a moment, half expecting the girl to reappear and reclaim her baby, apologise profusely, and evaporate the whole business. But, no. So, she retreated back inside, casting a glance at the bin bag and, in a flash of domestic concern, thought, Dont forget that when you go to see mum.
There was a carrier bag toowhen had the girl dropped that off? Goodness! This was well, a live baby. And what had she said? Nigel? Really, Nigels baby?
Florence, baby now firmly in her arms, settled herself on the sofa and processed: yes, the girl had 100% said Nigel. Now, who on earth was Nigel? Her one and only son was Edward, a solid family man with two kids in Bristol. Florence herself was stuck here in Nottingham. Her Ed had been happy enough since tying the knot. Sure, business and mortgage headaches, but everyones got those. And, recently, things had improved. The mortgage gone, a shiny new car, the grandkids thriving
She glanced down. The babysmaller than a month oldwas dozing in a tiny beige sleepsuit and wrapped up with a frog dummy. Oh, you darling thing! Florences hands, old habits rushing back, deftly checked the nappy and adjusted clothes while her mind churned.
The carrier bag held the essentials: bottles, formula, nappies, clothes. Still, Florence kept expecting the doorbell. She even went back to the mirror to finish her lipstick, peeking out the window in hopes of spotting the runaway mother.
Eventually, the baby squirmed and squeaked. Florence stood like a statue, dithering over whether to change or feed herwell, did a person have the right to tinker with anothers child? She peered again out the window, as if the girl might materialise.
But, needs mustthe suit had to go. Underneath: a clean vest and baby grows. Now, true dread set in. This was no clerical errora baby had genuinely been left in her care.
Nigel Nigel Edward did have his wild years, of courseFlorence had plenty of stern words for him back when he cycled through girlfriends like last years football kits. But all that was ancient history, and Ed was now every inch the upstanding family bloke.
But what if In August, Ed was supposedly away on business in Carlisle. Could he have spun a yarn, called himself Nigel? Surely not, but with menwell, you never know.
She made up a feed, recapping months and dates in her mind. As she fed the baby, Florences hand started crampingshe was out of practice with tiny ones. The thought of calling 999 hovered, but she frozewhat if this was Ed’s baby? The resemblance to her granddaughter Sophie was uncanny.
But thenjust imagine the scandal! And his wife Kirsty? The divorce lawyers would be ordering champagne.
The baby guzzled milk contentedly, her eyelids heavy with bliss, and Florence felt her heart go soft. Maybe she just missed babies.
After the baby drifted off, Florence quietly dialled Edbut, alas, unreachable.
She opted to do nothing hasty. The thought of handing Eds potential lovechild to the police proved too much, plus the girl whod left the baby didnt exactly scream social services case. She was more likely a frazzled student than a villain. Mum was not to be toldFlorence couldnt handle one more melodramatic blow-by-blow of apocalyptic warnings.
She called her grandson Ben, to sniff out Eds whereabouts. Apparently, Ed was up to his neck with some gas main project in the countryside, unreachable for another day. Ben said Kirsty heard from him nightly, all good.
Honestly, Ben, you lot never tell me anything! Florence grumbled, though in truth, Ed was often travelling on business.
Florence phoned Kirsty: Tell Ed to ring me, please, love. Tell him I *must* speak to him tonight.
Whats wrong? Anything I can pass on? Kirsty asked.
Oh, nothing, just a quick word when he can, Florence replied cryptically.
Then she rang her own motherMum, Ive tweaked my ankle, I wont make it today, but youve got leftovers, plenty of bread Her mother fussed, asked, threatened to journey down herself (four flights, mind!), rang back five times, but Florence ignored her.
With domestic worries settled for now, Florence donned a house dress and sat beside the baby, mulling the weirdness. She was, perhaps, a colossal mug for taking this child in. After all, babies have been left on doorsteps since the year dot.
She knew she *should* ring the police, hand the baby over, but what if Ed was the dad? Maybe hed had a quick one-night wander, used a fake name. Or maybe the girl had the wrong door; perhaps the Nigel she wanted genuinely lived nearby.
But she needed advice. Who better than her old friend, Victoria?
Vic, brace yourself. Someones left a flipping baby on my doorstep!
Victoria, always the practical one, promised to rush over and play Sherlock. Dont panic, Florence! Well sort it out. Dont do anything rash.
The afternoon was consumed feeding, napping, and consulting online mothering forums. Florence became a Google-certified expert on feeding timelines, baby massage, and the subtle art of post-feed burping.
Victoria arrived after work and went full sleuth, poking about for clues, quizzing neighbours about Nigelthough spinning a tale about a missing package rather than a missing baby.
Bingo! she exclaimed, slamming the door so hard the baby nearly woke. Found him! Sixth floor, same landing as youtheres a Nigel!
Perhaps she only got the wrong floor, Victoria declared, eyes alight. Lets go grilling this Nigel.
Florence trailed nervously behind Victoria to the sixth floor.
A tiny, hunched woman answered. Yes?
Is Nigel in? Vic asked.
Nigel! the woman called, shuffling off.
A scruffy, ruddy-faced young chap appeared. Hello? You after the iPad?
No, something else, said Victoria. Look, Florence found a babysupposedly yours.
Nigels jaw dropped. A baby? Not mine, mate. Never had one.
But youre the *only* Nigel here! Vic pressed.
No, honestly. Ive only got broadband, not babes. Did you get a name off the mum?
Florence shook her head. She legged it. Didnt even introduce herself.
Victoria rolled her eyes and pulled Florence back to the landing.
Nigel piped up: If you want, I can post on FacebookWanted: babys mum, picture and all.
No, thank you, Florence replied. Probably best to keep it off the socials for now.
Worth a try. Let me know if you change your mindIve always wanted to go viral, he said, retreating to his lair.
Back on her sofa, Florences phone blinked: no missed calls from Ed. She tried Kirsty again, who apologised: Sorry, mad, hectic daypiano lessons, drama club, Ed rang briefly, all sorted here. Absolutely knackered!
If only she knew
Tomorrow, Florence would bite the bullet and ring the police. Yet every time she closed her eyes, the image of that scared, desperate young woman haunted her. What would happen to the baby in care?
That night was a disaster. Florence stuck to the role of accidental foster mum, pacing the floor, making up bottles, cuddling the baby at every grumble, until, just before dawn, they both finally dropped off.
She was woken by her mother. Hows the ankle? Will you make it over here?
Florence glanced at the child and the British drizzle outside. Course, Mum.
Good. Get some pears. Not those hard ones, the nice blushing red ones from last week, remember?
Florence gathered her courage, wrapped the little one snug, and set off for the shops, quite enjoying the novelty of shopping with company for once.
Mums jaw dropped on arrival. Whats that?!
Not whatwho. Hold these groceries, Florence breezed by, depositing baby and shopping alike in the lounge.
Wheres she from?
Nadia Taylor asked if I could babysit her granddaughter for an hour. Shes at the hairdressers. The ankles fine now.
The pair of them sat admiring the bundle, for once untroubled by medical minutiae. Whats her name, anyway?
Didnt ask. Thought it was just for a bit, you see.
Mum clucked her tongue. Really, Florence! Taking a child home with no name. Whatever next?
Back home, a text: Ed was finally in range. She called hastily, babbling her strange story.
Mum! Have you lost it? Im happily married!
But the mother *said* Nigel, and I wondered ifwell, with your trip in August
Mum. I am Edward. And only ever Edward, no Nigels here. Phone the police. Want me to ring them for you?
No, Ill handle it Shes hungry, I need to feed her
Eds sigh echoed across the miles: Mum, sort it!
But Florence was too attachedor simply too exhaustedto do anything other than keep mum and carry on. A fresh nappy, a warm feed, a cuddlethen shed call Victoria, and maybe the authorities if nobody showed up.
Her sense of duty wrestled with regret: the child would vanish into the systemwasnt that worse? But with a shift the next day and all this business really not being strictly legal, the clock was ticking.
That afternoon, both Florence and infant were dozing when a sharp knock roused her.
There stood the mothernot so bold now, white with panic, hair wild, practically falling apart on her doorstep.
Where is she? Wheres my baby? Eyes wide, Florence barely had time for indignation before she recognised the sheer terror and relief radiating from this girl.
Shes here. Sleeping.
The girl collapsed in noisy sobs beside the crib; Florence fetched tea, chocolate, and soothing platitudes, her nurses instincts overriding all emotion.
Eventually, the full story tumbled out. Her name was Molly, the baby was Grace, and the plot: as British as a disappointing cup of instant coffee. Molly was a med student, grew up in a Norfolk village, blessed with a youthful naivety so pure it was almost Victorian. Shed fallen for a slick Nottingham ladNigelwho whispered the sweet nothings of everlasting love, promised marriage, only to vanish after Christmas, leaving Molly facing not just ruined romance but an unhelpful step-mum and a father keen to disown her entirely.
Mollys life since had been a carousel of couch-surfing, studies, and occasional cheques from a kind aunt. When she tracked down Nigel online, she saw gloating photos of his new squeezenot what shed hoped. Desperate, consumed with the stress of exams and lack of funds, Molly remembered Nigels pledge that my mum will help. Which led her, through a haze of exhaustion, to the wrong block, to Florences door, mistaking her for the mythical helpful mother.
Shed dumped the infant and legged it, convinced Grace was in safe hands. But the next day, when Nigels family denied all knowledgeturns out he lived one block over, same flat numberMolly returned, terrified.
Reassured, fed and watered by Florence, Molly finally exhaled. The day had been almost enough to break her.
I cant go to Nigels nownot after this, she confessed.
Stay here, Molly, Florence offered, at least for a month. Im by myself, loads of room, Ed keeps saying I should get a lodger. Get your bearings, finish your exams.
Molly dithered, but eventually agreed to stay the night. Nestled into the spare room, surrounded by the homely clutter of a proper English home, she and baby Grace at last found some rest.
Florence texted VictoriaNever mind Ed or that poor Nigel upstairs. Sorted now. Mollys staying. Thank heavens I didnt rush to the police!
In the end, the milk hadnt dried up, the exams were passed with flying colours, and soon Molly was doing shifts at the local ambulance station, nurtured by Florence and, amusingly, revered by her mother for her modern knowledge. Grace thrived, even as Molly patched her heart and scribbled new plans for life.
Nigel upstairs, meanwhile, endured his own ordeala relentless course of jabs and treatments, care of Nurse Molly, for his long-suffering gran.
And as Molly moved, baby in tow, two floors up to take up the post of carer-cum-lodger, she beganbit by bitto rewrite her story, this time in her own tidy, hopeful handwriting.
