Sitting on the Dock with a Baby

Tom Rae

I've negotiated the Kingston Bridge in rush hour with two acrobatic Jack Russells snapping the faces off each other. But for scary car situations this is the daddy.

'Cheers Tommy, see you early afternoon,' my sister Christina says, hauling on a shoulder bag packed with whatever kit actors need for a day's work.

'S***. I'm late.' Christina flicks a fond, anxious look at the screaming bundle strapped into the baby-seat. Behind me, the little pink face is raging. Can her mother really be leaving her with this ageing amateur of an uncle?

'She'll need fed soon. Good luck!'

And she's gone. Looking in the rear mirror, I swear I saw a wee baldy head swivel, then bellow Conradian horror that the only breasts in the vicinity are disappearing into a doorway.

But my immediate problem is to clamber into the driver's seat. I'm vaguely conscious of irritated drivers all around me. This vortex of commuter anger inspires Summer to greater roaring as I tackle Bristol's one-way system, seeking a parking space, suddenly remembering I'm not even insured. With a three month old baby in the back!

Forty minutes later an affronted Summer wails up at me from the car seat on the pavement. I need both hands to unlock the pram my un-mechanical sister assembles with ease.

Bottle bag. Check. Nappy bag. Check. Spare baby clothes. Check. Wet wipes. Check. Sun hat? Where's the wee yellow sun hat? It's one of those early August mornings that promise a scorcher. Christ! Where's her sun hat?

I remember the parasol. That'll have to do. As I fix it to the buggy I see Summer looking at me. She's stopped screaming. Can a baby give an ironic stare? I see then she's wearing the sun hat, the French Foreign Legion desert look. Baby Beau Geste.

My next objective is to find Debenhams. The best bottle warmers, Christina said. I can do this. Bristol doesn't look that big. I turn my back on the glittering water of the docks and look for an underpass. I can do this. Who is this inner American life coach that has inhabited my consciousness?

Half an hour later I'm racing the screaming buggy through aisles of women's clothing, searching for a store directory. The air-con makes me aware of my sweat-soaked t-shirt and I feel shoppers stare. I try to smile and a sympathetic woman points me in the direction of the baby changing facilities. Then, when I explain my mission, the cafeteria.

But just as I'm un-strapping Summer from the pram I realise the woman had a point. That cloying, suffocating reek I always associate from when Summer's mother was a baby, seeps out at me. I can't feed her when she's messed her nappy. Can I?

Summer wails at me again as I wheel her into the changing room. Two women are already efficiently dabbing at spread-eagled babies with wet wipes. The women smile 'nearly finished' glances at me, offer helpful advice; but I'm okay with nappies. As a boy I remember the feel of the giant blue safety pins in my mouth when I make the triangle shape. These 'Cotton Bottoms' are much easier. Summer looks outraged as I pack the soiled nappy into the bag.

As we head back to the cafeteria I realise that what is stressing me out isn't my capability levels, but the sheer awful responsibility of what might happen. Sunburn, choking, loss of a tiny finger (I wish Christina hadn't told me about the baby on a flight whose finger a steward sliced off in a seatbelt mechanism). And, my worst fear - her neck snapping.

Summer's head wobbles precariously as I apply to her lips the bottle a kind waitress has kept warm for us. It's been nearly five hours since we left my sister's place in West Sussex. Summer must be starving. She tries the bottle. I coax her. Her eyes widen. She looks up. Thinks something. Spits out the nipple. She's having none of it. What's wrong with her? If this bottle goes to waste I can't reheat it. I only have one left.

We go out into the precinct again. I feel the warm presence of Summer on my right shoulder. I've realised she stops crying when I carry her this way, steering the buggy with my free hand. I feel her little body hold itself much firmer than a baby her age should. Very straight backed. Poised, like a gymnast, or a dancer. Or her dead grandmother.

I sit down in a shady part and try the bottle again. She begins to feed, looking up at me as if to say well what did you expect? I get huckled out of my cot at five in the morning, then raced along the M4 and left in the traffic with a big Scottish stranger! Summer's large eyes appraise me. Maybe we're bonding.

An old West Indian couple sit beside us. The woman smiles. As do two young woman strolling past. I'm not used to all this goodwill. People don't smile at me. It's been said my last passport photo looks like a Russian mafia hit man.

'She likes to be held by her daddy,' offers the old woman.

I don't contradict her.

Eventually, they wander off, still smiling at us, enjoying the sunshine. Then the comforting, looping beat of Groovejet, the Millennium hit, reaches us from a music store, and, I swear it, Summer begins to dance. Honest. A wee baby jiggle on my shoulder, up and down, with a dinky horizontal cross-motion.

When the precinct gets too busy, and the sun banishes our shade, we get up and return to the docks. Summer keeps up her dance. Passers-by smile. I smile.

When we reach the waterside, I sit carefully, keeping a good grip on her; she's still doing her wee shoulder dance. It's only a few hours until her mother gets back. And I know lots of songs.