This must be Simons baby
This little episode happened just recently, in a perfectly pleasant flat on the fourth floor of an old block in a leafy London suburb. In it lived a spry, still-working pensioner, a single woman named Judith.
Her life promised nothing outrageous or shocking. Everything ticked along: the pension, part-time job, cappuccinos with friends, visits to the grandchildren, and popping round to help her elderly mother, who stubbornly insisted on living alone.
Such was this very day. Morning check-in with Mum? Tick. Judiths Sundays followed a strict schedule, as she worked shifts at the local private GPs office a day on, three days off, answering calls and wrestling a vast appointment book.
Today yes, today shed have to trundle over to her ageing mothers flat a ritual now so ho-hum it sparked frequent eye-rolling and wistful sighs. Two blocks away, hardly a trek. Cooking? Barely any effort, since her mother still had yesterdays chicken soup and a plate of scones. But climbing that fifth floor no lift, naturally now that set off a bout of melodramatic groaning.
Also, bracing herself for Mums daily medical dissertation. Judith could recite in her sleep the chronology of backaches, knee twinges, and headaches each relayed in excruciating detail. These tales never required solutions; Mum had mulled over the doctors diagnoses, endlessly altered them, and declared her own verdicts, liberally seasoned with her neighbours experiences and advice from Doctor Sarah Jarvis on Good Morning Britain.
Any suggestion from Judith was usually dismissed for lack of medical authority despite Judiths forty years as a theatre nurse at St. Georges Hospital.
What do you know! Just pass the forceps, dear!
Right, Judith also needed to nip to the shop on her way. She parked a bag of rubbish by the door, dashed to the mirror for a swipe of lipstick. For a woman in her sixties, she passed for quite youthful only a hint of crows feet, a cheerful face, stylish bob of silvery hair, and chunky earrings. Only a trace of sag at the cheeks, but who was counting.
Get some wholemeal bread for Mum. Lurpak too, she was thinking, lining her lips, when the doorbell rang.
The block had an intercom. Who could possibly be calling now? Aunty Sandra from next door, possibly Judith often invited her in for a cuppa.
Lipstick still in hand, she opened the door.
At the threshold: a fair-haired girl in a stripy t-shirt, long navy cardigan, jeans, rucksack, and a baby swaddled in a brown blanket. Judith would remember all the details later. At the time, she only registered the taut face, drawn cheeks, a deep breath then a quick step forward as the girl thrust the bundle at her:
For you!
Judith, startled, accepted the baby on sheer reflex lipstick still in hand. She felt the small weight, dropped her gazecrikey, its an actual baby!
By the time she looked up, the girl was bolting down the stairs.
Its Simons baby, Ive got lectures the girls trainers pounded downwards.
The front door banged. Silence.
Judith stood there, bag of rubbish by her feet, now, inexplicably, a second unfamiliar bag too.
Oh Lord. An actual infant. And what did she say? Simons baby? Did she really say Simon?
Judith, cradling the baby, sat on her settee in confusion. Simon? She had only one son, Matthew family man, two kids, living with wife and children in Brighton. Judith was here in London. Her late husband was Brian, passed away five years before.
None of it made sense. The baby squirmed in her arms. Dropping all pretense, Judith unwrapped the blanket: inside, a onesie in beige jersey, a poppet not more than a month old, soother shaped like a frog.
Little darling she stroked the baby. It smacked its lips and drifted off again.
Judith peered into the unknown bag: two bottles, formula tin, nappies, and baby clothes.
She expected the bell to ring; the girl would rush back for the baby, apologise, and the day would continue: out with the rubbish, shop, Mums.
She even finished her lipstick and kept watch at the window. Nothing. Well, this was preposterous.
Eventually, the baby woke again, squirming. Judith hovered, uncertain not her child, after all. Was she even allowed to feed or change it? But needs must. Off came the little suit, down to a vest and sleepsuit. Suddenly Judith was gripped by the weight of responsibility. It was clear now: shed been left holding someones baby girl.
Simon Simon Her own son was quite the party boy in his day, never without a new girlfriendJudith had steered more than one out of the flat. But all that well before he married and moved to Brighton, business, children, new car, mortgage paid off
There, there, sweetheart. Lets get you a clean nappy.
Goodness! Had the real mother truly abandoned her? Judiths mind reeled, but her hands remembered their old skillsshe deftly changed the nappy, dressed the little one, and hugged the now-gurgling girl against her shoulder. Off to the kitchen to make up a bottle.
The phone went. Judith juggled baby and receiver.
What kept you? grumbled her mother.
Just a minute, Mum, what do you need?
Are you at the shop?
Not yet.
I want pears. Not those daft ones from last week, the ones before. The ones with the thin neck and the deep red blush. Make sure theyre ripe. Not those last onesthey
The little girl in Judiths arms started fussing.
Fine, Mum, got it.
Whats all that noise there?
TV, Mum.
TV! While I sit here Switch it off and hurry, youll miss the good bread!
Judith hung up, jiggled the baby, read the formula tin. Seriously, what now?
Matthew! It was late Maythat trip last August, work conference in Bath Did he call himself Simon? Surely not that level of stupidity. Although If it was a short-lived romance, perhaps. On the face of things, he was a respectable family man, but who knew?
Baby bottle warmed, Judiths left arm now ached from holding the little girl shed lost her touch. Was she really meant to call 999 now? But if this was Matthews child? She peered closer. There was a resemblance to her granddaughter, Emma. What a scandal if so. Matthews wife, Laura, would never forgive that. And the kids?
The baby drank deeply, eyelids fluttering. How adorable. Judith was thoroughly enchantedyes, she missed babies.
When the child nodded off, Judith carefully laid her on the sofa, rang Matthew. No answer.
Drat.
Judith decided not to panicor not yet. Surely, the mother would have second thoughts and come back. She looked an ordinary studenty type, not someone in crisis.
No need to upset her own mother, either Judith would have been subjected to a marathon of gasps and worst-case scenarios.
She called her grandson, Tom, and learnt Matthew was off laying pipes in the north somewhere, no phone service. Back in two days, but he called home every nighteverything fine.
Oh, I see! No one tells me anything Judith grumbled.
But truthfully, she knew Matthew was always darting here and there for work, never inclined to give minute-by-minute updates. But now, of all times, she needed him.
She called Laura, asked her to make sure Matthew called her tonight.
Is something wrong? Shall I pass on a message? Laura asked.
No, just have him ring me, please, Laura
Excuses for her own mother next: Sorry, Mum, twisted my ankle, cant possibly hobble round. Youve got soup and plenty of bread
Mum fretted, threatened to visit (no chance, not with her dodgy knees and those five flights), called back five times just in case.
Finally alone, Judith flopped onto the sofa. What now? Why not just call the police? Partly, fear for her own son. What if, against all logic, it really was his baby for some reason called Simon? There was also the inactivity of it, the thought of explaining to bored police officers. And finally, something about the girls expression kept coming back not wild-eyed, but raw, desperate, and oddly resolved.
She needed advice. Who, if not her oldest friend?
Vic, brace yourself. Someones left me with a baby.
Victoria, judicious as ever, went into full Sherlock Holmes mode and promised to come after work.
Dont panic, Jude, well sort it. Lets not go blundering in.
You think I shouldnt call the police?
Hang on. Lets see if we can find Simon.
For heavens sake, Vic. What Simon? There are nine floors here, over fifty flats! You think she just got the wrong blond pensioner at the wrong door?
Maybe she muddled the flat, or maybe Matthews done something silly. Try him again.
The rest of the day passed with Judith minding the baby, Googling feeding schedules, falling down parenting forums, giving tummy massages and baths, warbling lullabies.
Hows the ankle? Will you come round tomorrow? her mother called.
But Judith was sure the drama would resolve by then she promised to pop in.
Victoria arrived after work, undertook a forensic sweep of the babys belongings, and set off accosting neighbours. She spun a wild story about a letter for Simon
Eureka! Victoria slammed the door joyfully.
Not so loud, the babys just settled.
Oh, they sleep like logs at this age, she peered in; the girl woke and began to wail. But I found him! Theres a Simon two floors up.
I bet she just got the wrong flat! Lets go!
Go where? To Simons, obviously. Find out if hes the dad.
And if he denies everything? Vic, what if he just laughs at us?
Dont you want the truth?
They cooed the baby back to sleep and trudged up to Simons. An elderly woman opened the door, peered suspiciously, and shuffled off inside:
Simon! Someone at the door for you Again!
A tousled, stocky young man with a beard emerged.
Hello, you after the old iPad?
iPad? No, its, er, about your baby said Victoria.
He looked blankly between them.
Baby? Not mine, mate.
Youre the only Simon in the building Victoria pressed.
I swear, Ive got no kids.
Thats what they all say. Maybe the girl muddled flats. Lets show you
Let me explain Judith interrupted. I live fourth floor. Some girl left a baby on my doorstep this morning, said it was Simons child, then ran off. No Simons in my life, you understand?
Why are you asking me, then? he pointed to himself.
Dont want to own up, huh? Victoria scowled.
What baby? Look, show me a photo? Ive only got internet connections. Ive definitely not been up to anything Who even is this girl?
Dunno. She forgot to introduce herself Judith said forlornly. Sorry, we must have mistaken you.
Simon, warming up, offered: If you need tech help, Im a blogger, work from home. We could put out an appeal online, post a photo of the baby, see if anyone responds
Thanks, but no Judith waved him off. She still half-blamed Matthew and, in any case, the law demanded something more official than a Facebook post.
All right, just say if you change your mind. I really am here all day.
Well, thats employment these days, Victoria grumbled as they left. Never even have to put on a tie. Liar?
Nah, looks a bit of a computer whiz, not a lothario.
No luck reaching Matthew, so Judith rang Laura. Turns out Laura had been all over Brighton daughters swimming lesson, Toms football kit, countless errands. If only she knew what sort of day Judith was having!
Tomorrow, I call the police, Judith resolved.
But that night, every time she closed her eyes, the girls face returned: desperate, terrified, hopeful. What would happen to this baby if the police took her? Night was a blur of bottle feeds, shushing, and pacing. At dawn the phone rang her mother.
Hows the ankle? Are you coming round?
Judith peered outside, at the baby.
Ill come, Mum.
Get those pears. And
Children need fresh air. Judith fashioned a makeshift sling out of her scarf, wrapped up the near-new clothes, and braved the corner shop enjoying, for the first time in ages, not shopping alone. Ah, but the fifth floor
Whats that? Mum blinked at her.
Not what, who. Here, hold these groceries Judith handed over the bags and headed for the armchair and a much-needed collapse.
Where did she come from?
Oh, Nadine Simmons asked me to mind her granddaughter. Shes at the hairdresser. Just for an hour.
But your ankle?
Miracle cure!
Both women doted on the little one and no one was subjected to medical monologues for once.
Would you look at her clutch your finger! Oh! Whats her name, then?
Didnt ask. Only got her for an hour, after all.
Judith! You ought never to look after a child without knowing the name!
On her way home, Judith found herself musing names for the baby. Why? Who knew. It felt right.
Suddenly, her mobile chimed Matthews number.
She perched on the couch, baby in arms, and relayed her bewildering story.
Mum, what are you talking about? Im married! he stammered.
But the girl said Simon
Mum, you named me Matthew. Time to call the police! Or shall I ring them for you?
No, no, Ill handle it. Shes hungry, we just got back from a walkIll give a fresh bottle first
Mum! CALL! THE! POLICE! Youve lost the plot!
Honestly, I made up half of it, shes just such a sweet little thing.
You should have let Vickys son take that spare room after all. You make me worry, you know.
Nonsense! Ill sort it all today. Vickys helping.
Of course, Judith ignored him. There were bottles to wash, nappies to change, things to do! Shed call Victoria after.
Oh lord. In the end, shed have to hand the baby over. Where would she go? Social services? Some grim NHS childrens ward? Judith, who knew every hospital in town, started cataloguing the options and convinced herself that no one would give the girl better care than she already had here.
But Judith was due back at work tomorrow. And it was, technically, a crime to harbour a random baby and not tell anyone.
She sighed, tidied up, and busied herself with the baby. Yes, exhausting but strangely satisfying days these were.
Their eyes closed almost at once, during the last few sips of the bottle. Judith gently disentangled her arm, cast a glance through the spyhole and froze. She opened the door.
Where is she? What have you done with her? Why didnt you say straight away?
There, wild-eyed in the doorway, clutching the frame, stood the panicked mother the same girl whod thrust the infant at her yesterday. Clad only in a vest and shorts in the chilly air, breathless and hair astray.
Why didnt you say? Judith, not quite awake, demanded.
That youre not the person the girl babbled.
Maybe because I am? Judith arched an eyebrow. You scarpered awfully fast.
Please. Do you know where she is? Please, tell me you know!
Desperation radiated from her. Judith stepped aside.
Come in.
The girl stumbled in, eyes pleading for a clue to her babys whereabouts.
Shes here, Judith admitted.
Where? Tell me exactly.
Fast asleep, bed, just there.
Judith pointed to the sleeping child. The girl stared, blinked then collapsed in sobs on the carpet. Racked with tears, shoulders heaving, she was guided eventually to the kitchen, given tea and chocolate by a rather more practical Judith.
Eat up, love. Have the biscuit too, or youll faint.
Bit by bit, the girl calmed, and Judith learned the story. Her name was Emily, the baby was Lily.
The tale? As old as time. Emily was a medical student at Judiths old college, as chance would have it. She hailed from a rural village in Kent. Last summer she fell for a London lad, Simon, a student himself. Shed only been to his flat, number 21, once. At first he promised the world his mum would help, no problem.
But after Christmas, he vanished without a trace, profile gone, number blocked.
When she tracked him down (via persistent Facebook stalking), hed transferred to a uni in Manchester. Nobody knew where, or so they said.
At home, her dad and stepmum had no patience for a fallen woman. Her aunt sent a little money, but she was broke, living in a pokey hall of residence. She kept up her studies, determined to qualify.
After giving birth in London, she crashed at a friends for a fortnight, refused to drop out before exams. When everything caved in friend kicked her out, money vanished, exam loomed, every photo of Simon now included his new girlfriend she snapped, remembered his promise that his mother would help, and all but sleepwalked to the address shed visited just once.
She pressed the baby into the hands of the first welcoming older lady in flat 21 and bolted, sobbing all the way to the bus.
That evening she messaged Simon online, vowing to collect the baby after her exams. To her horror, Simon swore he knew nothing about a baby his mum had never even heard of one.
Terrified, she ran straight from her student accommodation, wrong block, barefoot and ended up here, in tears. The two blocks looked exactly alike, after all.
I even recognised your haircut from Simons old photos! I was so sureyou looked just like his mum, oh, what have I done! Emily covered her face, shaking.
They say the greatest folly is to create a masterpiece and disown it. All the time you were gone, I kept asking myself what mother could leave behind such a little wonder. Im glad you came back, truly. What now? Off to Simons mum?
Not a chance! Emily shook her head, One night without Lily and I nearly lost my mind. Ill go back to halls for now. Ive caused you enough trouble.
Well, honestly, yes! I thought it was my sons baby. And we do owe your Simons poor neighbour an apology oh dear, the look on his face! Judith laughed, retelling the story. Even Emily, blinking through tears, managed a giggle.
What a mess! Perhaps I should go say sorry?
Not with those puffy eyes! And anyway, Emily, why dont you stay here for now? The spare rooms free. My son keeps telling me to get a lodger. Stay a month, at least study for your exams in peace.
Here? Oh, I couldnt afford rent, honestly.
Rent? Nonsense. Youll help me polish off the scones. Whens your next exam?
The day after tomorrow. But
Emily curled up into the armchair, while Judith fetched bedding and bustled about.
Im at work tomorrow, study here as much as you can. Theres food in the fridge. Lily will sleep half the day, and theres fresh formula. Youre breastfeeding, right?
But Emily was already asleep, Lily curled beside her.
Vic Judith whispered into the phone No, not Matts. He called. Nor the neighbours. Shes here, sleeping. Yes, she came back. No, Im not sending her packing, dont shout! Thank goodness I didnt ring the police!
The milk didnt dry up. Emily passed her exams with flying colours. Now she visited Judiths mother on the fifth floor often and, miracle of miracles, Mum followed Emilys advice with not a single argument.
Shes got the newest knowledge. Clever girl!
When exams finished, Judiths contacts at the local ambulance service found Emily some shifts. She often called Judith for advice genuinely passionate about medicine.
Simons neighbour, it turned out, needed injections for his grandmother Emily administered them, of course.
By autumn, Emily had moved two floors up to help Simons granny, heal her broken heart, and rewrite her own life story in careful, hopeful lines.
And Judith? She finally had a lodger and, for a while at least, a bit of joyful mayhem to liven up her days.
