Me and My Baby in London Fields

A breakthrough moment with my young daughter!

Published in my short story collection Fragmented (Cinnamon Press, 2011)

‘Time for a walk, baby?’

‘Is that wise?’ Nicola says.

‘Nature is good for a fourteen-week-old baby.’

   Before Nicola can stop us, I wrap up Myfanwy and bundle her in to her eight-wheel-drive buggy with independent suspension.

   It is a blustery autumn day. I place a sort of elastic polythene bag over the front of the buggy, put up my green umbrella and we are off.

   Through St John’s churchyard we splosh, the umbrella veering dangerously in the west wind.  Leaves from the London plane trees are thick on the ground, shades of yellow and red, and mix with sweet packets and McDonalds’ cartons. But Myfanwy and I forgive all litter today. 

   The puddles are deep in Mare Street. By the railway bridge a car splashes my leg.

Myfanwy’s independent suspension comes into its own over Hackney’s Third World pavements.  We cross by the traffic lights near the Town Hall. A schoolgirl peeps into the buggy. ‘Ahh’, she coos. And a stooped old lady carrying two bags of shopping gives us a smile soft with memories.

   Myfanwy is gorgeous, Myfanwy is fine. Indeed she is the most perfect baby in Hackney, in London, in Britain, the universe.

   The clumps of massed multicoloured litter dance prettily between the traffic lights. Hackney is bankrupt and litter is collected only as a treat.  The tips of my umbrella stretch upwards like stars in the wind.  Myfanwy and her buggy cruise across the road into the Town Hall square.

   A cockney wino calls out ‘Lovely baby, guv’, comes over to the buggy and gargles at Myfanwy as he raises his Special Brew in salutation.  He looks into me and his beady eyes clear of all deception: ‘I ‘ad a lovely baby once.’

   The square is filled with discarded Socialist Worker banners proclaiming ‘Support for all Hackney Workers’ and ‘Tax the Rich’.  Myfanwy burps. 

   We reach the ‘Pub on London Fields’ and I wonder if we should stop here and Daddy could sip a Guinness and twiddle baby in the baby area.

No! The gale force wind is a challenge and we carry on. The rain is like a million silver buttons on Myfanwy’s rain cover. She smiles a rainbow smile. She is my child of wind and storms. She blinks. Her eyes are silver drops of rain with a centre of blue sea.

There is a smashed-up black Mondeo by the entrance to London Fields, and the rear door flapped open like a scar. I kick it shut and we pass into London Fields where the dignity of rows of trees along straight paths brings form and order to the scene.

As we tread along the path I have a sudden vision of another world, of sea spray in Swansea, of seaweed, and seagulls twisting in air... Should we have had Myfanwy in this mad inner-city world?

Yes, yes, yes! blow the trees. The rain sings like cymbals on Myfanwy’s rain cover, her little legs and feet are fluttering leaves.

Now the storm sings and whooshes us up the path as the umbrella fills with wind. Myfanwy smiles as we leave the ground to float over London Fields.