Catherine liked going to Macey’s café when she was having a bad day. It was small and quiet, off the beaten track and rarely attracted mothers with babies. So she felt peeved when a young blonde woman with a pram sat at the table beside her. Catherine buried her head in a magazine. The woman seemed happy to be left alone too.

Abba belted out ‘Waterloo’ through the crackling radio. The waitress fiddled with the control knob as Thin Lizzy tried to butt in from another station. Catherine gritted her teeth. She stole a glimpse into the pram. The sleeping baby looked about seven months old. Just like her Angie when she… A lump formed in her throat, the dull ache inside her intensified. She looked away. Who said time heals?

The young mother ordered tea and lit a cigarette. She kept glancing at the telephone that hung on the back wall. The baby wriggled under the knitted yellow blankets, and whimpered softly. Catherine resisted the urge to advise the woman it was weather for wearing bonnets, and kicking bare legs in the air, not cocooned in crochet.  Don’t interfere…it’s not your business.

She wished someone had made it their business to tell her how to take better care of Angie; warned her not to turn her back on her baby, as she stood looking at shoes in a shop window. She wouldn’t have experienced the horror of losing the most precious thing in the world. Years of torment and suffering; never knowing who took her baby. She had been feeling better, even stopped taking her tablets, but current events stirred up her painful memories.

The woman pulled hard on her cigarette, the long ash dropped onto her lap. She stared at the telephone as she pushed the pram forward and back to quieten the baby; each forward push gave Catherine a clearer view of the child.

It looked like a girl…like her wee Angie. Catherine’s stomach churned when the baby turned her head, exposing a strawberry birthmark just below her ear. She understood only too well the significance of that mark. Angie had one just like it on her shoulder. So many times Catherine wished it had been on her face—just like this little girl—then perhaps someone somewhere might have recognised her. Images of the raised red mark flashed through her mind; on Angie’s soft peachy skin, on the news, in the papers, on this little baby.

The woman poured more tea and lit another cigarette. She focused her attention more on the telephone than on the baby; stupid woman. Catherine prayed silently.

The telephone rang and the woman stood, watching as the waitress answered it. She looked at the woman and asked, ‘Is your name Paula?’

She nodded, grabbing the receiver. The waitress returned to washing the cups. Catherine steadied herself and took a deep breath. She had to do what her heart told her.

The woman hunched her shoulders and faced the wall as she muttered into the phone. Catherine swiftly lifted the baby from her pram and left the café. It was that simple. No one noticed.

She never wanted anyone to go through what she went through when her baby was stolen. She walked fast, out of breath, until she reached her destination. The Garda station.

‘This is the missing baby that’s on the news,’ she panted.

 When the news reader reported the headlines later that evening, Catherine cried tears of happiness.

“Baby Rosie Reunited with her Parents. Young Woman Arrested in Connection with her Abduction.”

Featured image courtesy of Pixabay