“You should have a baby, Mum. You’d be good at it”
He belonged to a friend of mine and I said I’d look after him when she finished her maternity leave and went back to work. James was exactly the right kind of plump, with good, firm fat. His skin was a creamy, olive colour and he had eyes like Cadbury’s. He was placid and in no hurry to walk, so he used to sink into my lap and look at me as if I was a complete find. His eyes would glow, as if lit by tiny little lights from behind the irises.
One of the loveliest things about him was the way he went to sleep. I’d lie next to him in my daughter’s bed and he’d grab both my cheeks. I’d sing him the same Harry Belafonte song, in exactly that position, every time. I wasn’t allowed to move an inch. As soon as he was asleep, I’d carefully disengage by slowly, gently, peeling his hands off my face and tiptoeing out.
