still damp, Matty reentered the bedroom and saw that the baby had not moved. A few more moments of peace to enjoy. She carefully slid into the bed and prayed for the silence to last.
So lost was she in her thoughts, so dizzy with the heat from her bath, that it took a few seconds before she registered that the knocking on the door was for her. Afraid of the baby waking, she sat up and reached for the door in one movement to stop the intruder from knocking again.
Filling the narrow doorway, bent over as if she had been listening at the keyhole, was the rotund social worker, her ruddy face poised in an expectant question with a smile as phony as a waitress. She mock whispered, “is Baby asleep?” although her eyes had already fixed on the cot, so Matty did not reply. She’d forgotten that this meeting was today.
Seeing the young mother’s confusion, the social worker looked apologetic although her tone did not match. “I’m a bit early, but I have some news. Shall we go downstairs and leave Baby to sleep? Come on, get dressed!”
Matty removed her dressing gown, pulled on a loose skirt and a knitted jumper that would at least be warm. She didn’t think to brush her hair and there was no mirror in the room to remind her.
Downstairs, the social worker was squashed into an institutional winged armchair. Matty balanced on the edge of the opposite chair, dismayed when her visitor pulled her chair nearer, at right angles, so that she was trapped in a corner. Matty registered the pseudo smile, pitying but professional. Then the inevitable textbook question: “And how are you feeling?” Matty noticed the way she said ‘feeling’, full of sympathy, but ignored the invitation to confide. She shrugged.
“And how is the little one?” The question demanded an answer and she searched for the right response.
“We had a bad night.” In return, the empathetic angled head and infuriating smile. Fortunately the small talk soon ended, and the older woman leaned forward, choosing a soft, even tone, likely from the selection she was taught whilst in training.
“I came straight here as I thought you’d like to know that we have had a referral from the adoption team. They’ve approved a couple who sound ideal. Would you like me to tell you about them?”
Stunned from sleep exhaustion and hunger, Matty tried to grasp what was being said, her brain a hollow vacuum in which the inert words reverberated but made no impact.
“They’re in their thirties. They live in the north, no children. Medical problems, I’m afraid: she’s had five miscarriages. He’s a manager at a power plant. Very well paid! She works as a nursing assistant, but would be at home full-time after the adoption. A very nice couple, they’ve been married for six years, and they have a lovely home with a garden. Shall I say more or is that enough?”
Matty tried to interpret what she’d been told. Was she supposed to make a decision on these few bald facts? Surely there was only one question: Will they love my daughter? She raised her fingers to her tired eyes and rubbed.
“I know you’re feeling vulnerable, but that’s to be expected. I just wanted you to know that we are ready to proceed.”
Silence reigned, heavy and tangible, and Matty was too tired to think. The thick atmosphere was disturbed by one swift bang on the door and then a hostel worker bustled in, invading the space with her loud singsong voice. “Your baby’s crying. I’ll go.”
The worker was almost out of the door before Matty stopped her, hot emotion rising from nowhere at the woman’s presumption. “No. I’ll go.” Matty launched herself from the chair, pushed past the social worker, past the hostel worker, and up the stairs.
As she climbed she heard the cries of her newborn. Opening the door the cries were louder than ever, until she reached into the cot and picked the baby up. The crying stopped as if a switch had been flicked and the child snuffled its dry tears into Matty’s
So lost was she in her thoughts, so dizzy with the heat from her bath, that it took a few seconds before she registered that the knocking on the door was for her. Afraid of the baby waking, she sat up and reached for the door in one movement to stop the intruder from knocking again.
Filling the narrow doorway, bent over as if she had been listening at the keyhole, was the rotund social worker, her ruddy face poised in an expectant question with a smile as phony as a waitress. She mock whispered, “is Baby asleep?” although her eyes had already fixed on the cot, so Matty did not reply. She’d forgotten that this meeting was today.
Seeing the young mother’s confusion, the social worker looked apologetic although her tone did not match. “I’m a bit early, but I have some news. Shall we go downstairs and leave Baby to sleep? Come on, get dressed!”
Matty removed her dressing gown, pulled on a loose skirt and a knitted jumper that would at least be warm. She didn’t think to brush her hair and there was no mirror in the room to remind her.
Downstairs, the social worker was squashed into an institutional winged armchair. Matty balanced on the edge of the opposite chair, dismayed when her visitor pulled her chair nearer, at right angles, so that she was trapped in a corner. Matty registered the pseudo smile, pitying but professional. Then the inevitable textbook question: “And how are you feeling?” Matty noticed the way she said ‘feeling’, full of sympathy, but ignored the invitation to confide. She shrugged.
“And how is the little one?” The question demanded an answer and she searched for the right response.
“We had a bad night.” In return, the empathetic angled head and infuriating smile. Fortunately the small talk soon ended, and the older woman leaned forward, choosing a soft, even tone, likely from the selection she was taught whilst in training.
“I came straight here as I thought you’d like to know that we have had a referral from the adoption team. They’ve approved a couple who sound ideal. Would you like me to tell you about them?”
Stunned from sleep exhaustion and hunger, Matty tried to grasp what was being said, her brain a hollow vacuum in which the inert words reverberated but made no impact.
“They’re in their thirties. They live in the north, no children. Medical problems, I’m afraid: she’s had five miscarriages. He’s a manager at a power plant. Very well paid! She works as a nursing assistant, but would be at home full-time after the adoption. A very nice couple, they’ve been married for six years, and they have a lovely home with a garden. Shall I say more or is that enough?”
Matty tried to interpret what she’d been told. Was she supposed to make a decision on these few bald facts? Surely there was only one question: Will they love my daughter? She raised her fingers to her tired eyes and rubbed.
“I know you’re feeling vulnerable, but that’s to be expected. I just wanted you to know that we are ready to proceed.”
Silence reigned, heavy and tangible, and Matty was too tired to think. The thick atmosphere was disturbed by one swift bang on the door and then a hostel worker bustled in, invading the space with her loud singsong voice. “Your baby’s crying. I’ll go.”
The worker was almost out of the door before Matty stopped her, hot emotion rising from nowhere at the woman’s presumption. “No. I’ll go.” Matty launched herself from the chair, pushed past the social worker, past the hostel worker, and up the stairs.
As she climbed she heard the cries of her newborn. Opening the door the cries were louder than ever, until she reached into the cot and picked the baby up. The crying stopped as if a switch had been flicked and the child snuffled its dry tears into Matty’s
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