Before Michael could quite fathom what was being asked of him, a baby was thrust into his arms. The infant had big wide blue eyes, and its lips curled into a gummy smile. It was impossible for him not to smile back.
The mother stroked a finger over the child’s cheek. ‘She likes you, m’ Lord,’
It’s not that he didn’t like babies, it was just that he had no interest in having them. His adamance over the matter had ended a couple of relationships. The first was Tara, though he’d only found out why when a social worker phoned him out of the blue about Sam a few weeks ago. The second was a girlfriend called Isabel, who stuck with him for five years, through their late-twenties, hoping to change his mind. When she hit thirty-one, time was up. She’d made dinner and her bags were packed and ready under the bed if things didn’t go well. The bottom-line was delivered with dessert: babies, yes or no? Izzy called a cab when he said no and got her bags from under the bed, leaving Michael with a kiss on the cheek. More than he deserved. She didn’t cry. She was a woman with a plan, and if she stuck with Michael, he was going to fuck it up. They bumped into each other two years later. A neat watermelon sized bump in her tummy looked good on her. They hugged and he was genuinely happy for her. How could he not be? It was a cliché but the joy radiated from her, like a magical aura. Seeing it on her, it was easy to imagine parental love as some kind of universal force, as indefinable as grace, as powerful as an army’s wroth. This woman in the beer garden, the father too, standing back a little shyly, had that same parental aura. The mother turned her expected gaze on Michael.
‘You want me to bless her?’ Michael clarified. This felt like one of Nat’s jokes. Michael checked, but the shade of amusement on Nat’s face was not the hue of a prank, although he was clearly enjoying Michael’s discomfort. The mother’s smile broadened. Michael looked at the father, who nodded.
How the hell do you bless a child? Michael had only ever seen priests do it in the movies. Another of those memory cards got turned over then. Not a big one, as such, but connected to being here at the pub with his father. Michael was been with him when things like this had happened. Townsfolk approaching deferentially and asking for advice on buying a house or choosing a teenager’s trade, or blessings for hatches, matches, and dispatches. That’s what Jonathan called them, not in any traducing manner, but with warmth. It was his role. People would pop a toddler on his lap while Michael sipped on a can of shandy or dandelion and burdock. He’d bounce the little one up and down, baby-talking to it. Michael’s mother would listen politely, yet there was something implacable in her face Michael couldn’t read with his child’s eyes. He could see it now. It was a face hiding something, covering over cracks, holding down words that couldn’t be taken back. After a few seconds of social niceties, dad would stop bouncing the child, let a beneficent countenance possess his features, and lay a hand on the child’s forehead. ‘Be well, be happy,’ he’d say, or something similar and hand the infant back to its waiting parents, adding a quip, ‘and don’t cause your parents too much trouble.’ They’d all chuckle and go their separate ways, occasionally with a bow, a curtsy, or a doffing of the forelock.
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What had Michael fallen back into? He couldn’t say no. He didn’t want to offend all these people with their quaint, parochial ways from a Downton Abbey-esque rose-tinted past. Michael thought then how his dad would have hated Downton Abbey and period dramas in general, but he didn’t know why. It wasn’t only Sam he needed to have a proper talk with: Michael would have to take a moment to talk with himself to workout why he had all these holes in his past. Maybe that was normal? How much of childhood could anyone recall? The past wasn’t a movie reel cutting together connected scenes to create an illusion of unbroken continuity. Still, Michael’s seemed especially incoherent.
The couple were still looking at him expectantly. The child’s smile fell but its eyes stayed on Michael’s, its little fist curling around one of his thumbs. A surprisingly tight grip. Prying his thumb free, he did the only thing he could.
‘Be happy and be healthy,’ he said, resting his palm on the child’s impossibly soft dome. The baby’s eyes crossed to follow the descending hand. Then, Michael handed the infant back to its parents, adding, ‘and don’t get into too much trouble.’ They chuckled, as did those people in the growing queue. The mother curtseyed and the father put a knuckle to his forelock. Michael smiled like an idiot. As the next in line approached, his stomach rumbled and he glanced down at his uneaten ploughman’s lunch.
Nat handed Michael his pint. ‘Let Lord Lorimer wet his whistle,’ he told the queue. ‘Tobes, you better get another round in. Mikey’s got twenty years of Lording to catch up on.’
‘You’re such a twat,’ Michael said, though he was grateful of the pint. Toby rose, muttering something, and headed for the bar. Michael’s two childhood friends both clearly shared a secret, but he didn’t have the time to find out what, because there was a line of people who, as Nat joked, seemed to have been waiting for years to see the lord of the manor.
