How to Find Love in a Book Shop(16)

They left the hospital two weeks later, the smallest family in the world. The baby was in a white velour Babygro, warm and soft and pliant. Julius picked up a pale yellow cellular blanket and wrapped her in it. The nurses looked on and clucked over them, as they always did when sending a new little family out into the world.

There was still a plastic bracelet on her wrist. Baby Nightingale, it said.

He really hoped that this was as complicated as his life was ever going to get as he stepped out of the hospital doors and into the world outside.

The baby snuffled and burrowed into his chest. She’d been fed before they left the ward, but maybe she was hungry again. Should he try another bottle before getting in the taxi? Or would that overfeed her? All this and so many questions was his future now.

He put the tip of his finger to her mouth. Her tiny lips puckered round it experimentally. It seemed to placate her.

She still hadn’t got a name. She needed a name more than she needed milk. He had two favourites: Emily and Amelia. He couldn’t decide between the two. And so he decided to amalgamate them.

Emilia.

Emilia Rebecca.

Emilia Rebecca Nightingale.

‘Hello, Emilia,’ he said, and at the sound of his voice her little head turned and her eyes widened in surprise as she looked for whoever had spoken.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Dad. Daddy. I’m up here, little one. Come on, let’s take you home.’

‘Where’s the missis, then?’ the taxi driver asked him. ‘Still a bit poorly? Aren’t they letting her out?’

‘It’s just me, actually,’ said Julius. He couldn’t face telling him the whole story. He didn’t want to upset the driver. He didn’t want his sympathy.

‘What – she’s left you holding the baby?’

The driver looked over at him in surprise. Julius would have preferred him to keep his eyes on the road.

‘Yes.’ In a way, she had.

‘Bloody hell. I’ve never heard of that. Picked up plenty of new mums whose blokes have done a runner. But never the other way round.’

‘Oh,’ said Julius. ‘Well, I suppose it is unusual. But I’m sure I’ll manage.’

‘You’re not very old yourself, are you?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Bloody hell,’ repeated the driver.

Julius sat in the back as the taxi made its way through the outskirts of Oxford and wondered why on earth he didn’t feel more scared. But he didn’t. He just didn’t.

He had met Thomas Quinn very briefly a few days’ after Rebecca’s death. The Quinns were flying her body home, and Julius didn’t argue with their wishes. She had been their daughter and he felt it was right for her to be buried in her homeland.

Their meeting was bleak and stiff, both men shocked by the situation. Julius was surprised that Thomas didn’t blame him for his daughter’s death. There was some humanity in him that made him realise anger and resentment and blame would be pointless.

Instead, he gave Julius a cheque.

‘You might want to throw this back in my face, but it’s for the baby. I handled everything wrongly. I should have given you both my support. Please put it to good use.’

Julius put it in his pocket. Protest and refusal would be as pointless as blame.

‘Should I keep you informed of her progress …? A photo on her birthday?’

Thomas Quinn shook his head. ‘There’s no need. Rebecca’s mother would find it too distressing. We really just need to move on.’

Julius didn’t protest. Though he was surprised anyone could turn their back on their own flesh and blood, it would be easier for him, too. To have no interference.

‘If you change your mind, just get in touch.’

Thomas Quinn gave a half nod, half shake of his head that indicated they probably wouldn’t, but that he was grateful for the offer.

Julius walked away knowing that he had made the final transition from boy to man.



He got back to the house. It was mid-afternoon. It felt like the quietest time of day. He made himself a cup of tea, then made up a fresh bottle of baby milk and left it to cool. He put Nina Simone on the record player.

Then he lay on his bed with his knees crooked up and put Emilia on his lap so her back was resting against his thighs. He held her in place carefully and smiled. He picked up his camera and took a photo.

His baby girl, only two weeks old.

He put the camera down.

As the piano played out he pretended to make Emilia dance as he sang along.

He’d never really met a baby before, he realised. Not to pick up and hold. How funny, he thought, for the first baby he’d ever met to be his own.





Three

It was a delicate balance, trying to hit the right note between a tribute and a shrine. The last thing she wanted to be was mawkish, yet she couldn’t think of a nicer memorial than filling the book shop window with all of Julius’s favourite books. But at the rate she was going, thought Emilia, every book in the shop would be in here.

Amis (father and son), Bellow, Bulgakov, Christie, Dickens, Fitzgerald, Hardy, Hemingway – she was going to run out of space long before she got to Wodehouse.

She had resisted the temptation for a black backdrop, instead opting for a stately burgundy. Nor had she put up a photo or his name or any kind of pronouncement. It was just something she wanted to do: capture his spirit, his memory.