Flour Babies - Anne Fine [29]
That was the thing about babies, Simon decided. They were different from everything else. They were special. All of a sudden it was clear to him why everyone in the whole world was forever queuing up to blow raspberries on their tummies. Even if you were a complete hiccup, leading a totally sad life, a baby thought you were a real star, the best thing since sliced bread, and worth falling out of a backpack to get one last backward look at. Small wonder everyone went round saying ‘Ooh!’ and ‘Aah!’ and cooing about how much they adored them. Before, Simon had always assumed that this was simply a bit of an act, to try and cheer up the new parents. It never occurred to him for a moment that it was sincere. But now he saw people meant it. They were saying what they thought. Babies were wonderful. And it was no more than the truth. Face facts – you’d never get something that good down the shops.
And what was so good about them was that they weren’t really people – not yet, anyway. And so you could treat them differently. It was easier to like them. In fact, they were a bit like pets, the way you could feed and clean and tidy up after them day after day, and even if you got cheesed off, you didn’t feel they should be pulling their weight more. No one in his right mind would go all huffy because a baby wasn’t doing as much for him as he was doing for the baby.
But people were a whole knottier prospect, with one side or another always feeling put upon, or taken for granted. Why, even Fruzzy Woods had got the final flick from Lucinda three days ago, for much the same sort of problem. ‘I’m finished with you!’ she’d yelled at him. ‘I’m sick of living on a one-way street! I cheered you on in all your football matches. I even chum you to practice. And what happens when I ask you to come and support me in my badminton final? You say you haven’t time!’ And now, each time Fruzzy phoned her after school to beg her to come out and talk, that’s all she’d say to him: ‘I haven’t time.’
Compared to that, loving a baby was a piece of cake. In a sudden rush of affection, Simon halted in his tracks, tugged the flour baby out of his bag, and sat down with her on his knee beside the canal.
‘I’ll tell you what I like about you,’ he said, staring into her big round eyes. ‘You’re very easy to get on with. You’re not like Mum, always telling me to put my plate in the sink, or shut doors more quietly, or pick my shoes off the floor. You’re not like Gran, always telling me how much I’ve grown, and asking me what I’m going to do when I leave school. You don’t want me different, like all my teachers do. You don’t tease me, like Sue. And you don’t run off and leave, like my dad.’
Tucking her under his arm, he gazed out over the water.
‘I wouldn’t mind you being real,’ he said. ‘Even if it was more work. Even if you howled, and kept filling your nappies, and threw giant tantrums in shops. I wouldn’t mind.’
He peeped down at her, comfy and safe in his armpit, and pressed a finger where her nose would be, if she weren’t just a bag of flour.
‘I’ll tell you what I don’t understand,’ he confided. ‘I don’t understand how people can treat babies badly.’
Her huge eyes stared up at him. He tried to explain.
‘Mum says she knows how it happens.’ Simon couldn’t help scowling. ‘In fact, she says she wouldn’t like to count the number of times I nearly copped it from her, when I was teething.’
He shook his head in amazement.
‘And Gran says her sister lost her temper once, and threw her baby in the cot so hard that one of its legs broke.’