Little Man, What Now? (31 page)

‘Thank heaven,’ said Lammchen. ‘Thank heaven. You can’t imagine what it’s like being without that tummy.’

‘Oh, yes, I can,’ he said seriously.

They stepped out through the entrance into the March sunshine and the March wind. Lammchen stopped momentarily, and looked up at the sky with the white cotton-wool clouds scurrying across, at the green of the Little Tiergarten, and at the traffic in the street. She didn’t speak.

‘What is it, Lammchen?’ he asked.

‘You know …’ she began. And broke off. ‘Oh no, nothing.’

But he persisted. ‘Tell me. It was something.’

‘Oh, it’s silly. It’s being out again. When you’re in there, you don’t need to worry about a thing. And now everything depends on us.’ She hesitated. ‘We’re still very young. And we’ve got nobody.’

‘We’ve got each other. And the baby,’ he said.

‘I know that. But you do understand?’

‘Yes, I understand. It worries me too. And things aren’t so easy now at Mandels. But it’ll work out.’

‘Of course it will.’

And then they crossed the road arm in arm and went slowly, step by step, across the Little Tiergarten. Pinneberg said: ‘Give me the baby for a bit.’

‘No, no, I can carry him. Why ever shouldn’t I?’

‘It’s no trouble. Let me.’

‘No. No. If you like we can sit on a bench for a little while.’

They did so, then set slowly off again.

‘He’s not moving at all,’ said Pinneberg.

‘He’ll be asleep. He had a feed just before we left.’

‘When does he have his next feed?’

‘Every four hours.’

And then they were in Mr Puttbreese’s furniture store, and the master-carpenter was there himself, watching the threesome arrive.

‘Well, did it go off all right, young lady?’ he asked, blinking. ‘Did the old stork give you a nasty peck?’

‘I’m all right, thank you,’ said Lammchen.

‘Now, how are we to going manage this?’ asked the master-carpenter nodding towards the ladder. ‘How do we get up there with the little chap? It is a boy?’

‘Of course.’

‘But how are we going to get up?’

‘We’ll manage,’ said Lammchen, looking rather dubiously towards the ladder. ‘I’m getting well very quickly.’

‘I’ll tell you what, young woman, put your arms round my neck and I’ll carry you piggy-back up the ladder. Give your son to your husband. He’ll get him up there safe and sound.’

‘Actually it’s quite impossible …’ began Pinneberg.

‘What d’you mean, impossible?’ asked the master-carpenter. ‘The flat, do you mean? Have you got a better one? Could you pay for a better one? If it’s impossible you can move out any day. That’s fine by me.’

‘I didn’t mean it that way,’ said Pinneberg, chastened, ‘but you’ve got to admit it’s a bit difficult.’

‘If you mean it’s difficult for your wife to put her arms round my neck, then you’re right, it is difficult,’ said Puttbreese crossly.

‘Come on, let’s go!’ said Lammchen.

And before Pinneberg could think twice about it, he was carrying the long firm parcel and Lammchen had put her arms round the neck of the tipsy old carpenter, and he gripped her gently
round the thighs and said, ‘If I pinch let me know and I’ll let you down at once, young woman.’

‘Oh yes? Half way up the ladder?’ laughed Lammchen.

And clutching the ladder like grim death with one hand, his other arm round the parcel, Pinneberg clambered up behind them, one rung at a time.

Then they were in their room, alone. Puttbreese had vanished, they could hear him hammering in his storeroom, but they were here by themselves. The door was shut.

Pinneberg stood there with the warm, motionless parcel in his arms. It was bright in the room, a few splashes of sunshine lay on the polished floor.

Lammchen had flung off her coat onto the bed. With light soundless steps she moved around, and Pinneberg watched her.

She went to and fro, delicately straightening a picture-frame, patting the armchair, stroking the bed, bending momentarily over the two primulas at the window, all very softly and light-footedly. She went to the cupboard, opened the door, looked inside, shut the door. At the sink she turned on the tap and let the water run a minute, then turned the tap off again.

And suddenly she had her arm round Pinneberg’s neck. ‘I’m happy,’ she whispered. ‘I’m very happy.’

‘I’m happy too,’ he whispered.

They stood for a while like that, quite still, she with her arm round his neck, he holding the child. They looked out of the windows, shaded already by the green of the treetops.

‘This is lovely,’ said Lammchen.

‘It is,’ said he.

‘Are you still holding the baby?’ she asked. ‘Lay him on my bed. I’ll go and do his cot.’

She quickly put on the little woollen blanket and spread the sheet. Then she cautiously opened the parcel. ‘He’s asleep,’ she whispered. And he too bent over the package, and there lay the
Shrimp, their son. His face was rather red, he had a worried expression, and the hairs on his head had got rather lighter.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I think I ought to put a dry nappy on him before he goes in the cot. He’s bound to be wet.’

‘D’you have to disturb him?’

‘He’ll get sore! I’d rather put a dry nappy on him. Wait, the nurse showed me how.’

She laid a couple of squares of cloth in a triangle, and then unpeeled the parcel, very slowly. Oh heavens, how small his limbs were, they looked wasted, and his head was so enormous! Pinneberg was disturbed, there was something gruesome about the baby, but he knew he mustn’t avert his eyes. That was no way to start out with your own son.

Lammchen was fiddling hurriedly with the nappy, talking under her breath: ‘How was it now? Oh, why am I so clumsy?’

The little creature had opened its eyes. Eyes of a tired, faded blue. It opened its mouth and began to cry, or rather to scream, a helpless, complaining, piercing wail.

‘There, he’s awake!’ said Pinneberg reproachfully. ‘He must be cold.’

‘I’ll be done in a minute!’ she said, trying to get the nappy firmly around him.

‘Do be quick!’ he urged her.

‘Um. It won’t do like that. There mustn’t be any wrinkles or he’ll get sore. How ever did it go …?’ She tried again.

He looked on, frowning. Lammchen was very clumsy. So what you did was pull the corner through, that was easy enough, then from the other side …

‘Let me!’ he said impatiently. ‘You’ll never do it.’

‘Oh, please do,’ she said, with relief. ‘If you can.’

He took hold of the nappy. It looked so easy, the tiny limbs could scarcely move. So, you laid him on it, you took hold of the two points and pulled the other one through …

‘It’s full of creases,’ said Lammchen.

‘Just wait, will you,’ he said impatiently, and fiddled quicker. The Shrimp screamed! The small bright room re-echoed with his screeching; his little voice was extremely loud and piercing. He was getting bright red. He’s got to draw breath some time, thought Pinneberg, and he couldn’t refrain from looking at him, which did not assist his efforts.

‘Shall I have another go?’ asked Lammchen gently.

‘Please!’ said he. ‘If you think you can manage it.’

And suddenly she had got it; it all happened quite smoothly, in the twinkling of an eye.

‘We’re just nervous,’ she said. ‘But it’s easy to learn.’

In his cot the Shrimp began to screech again, staring up at the ceiling. Now he had got into his stride he looked set to continue.

‘What do we do?’ whispered Pinneberg.

‘Nothing at all,’ said Lammchen. ‘Let him cry. In two hours he’ll get his feed, and then he’ll stop all on his own.’

‘But we can’t let him cry for two hours.’

‘Yes we can. It’s better if we do. It’s good for him.’

‘What about us?’ Pinneberg wanted to ask. But he didn’t. He went to the window and stared out. Behind his back, his son cried. Once again, things were rather different from what he had imagined. He had wanted to have a cosy breakfast with Lammchen; he’d actually laid on some nice things for it, but while the Shrimp was bawling like that … the whole room was full of it. He rested his head against the panes.

Lammchen was standing behind him.

‘Could we walk up and down with him for a bit, or rock him?’ asked Pinneberg. ‘I believe I’ve heard that’s what you do with crying babies.’

‘You just start doing that!’ exclaimed Lammchen indignantly. ‘Then we’d never be able to do anything else but walk up and down and rock him.’

‘But perhaps just for today, as it’s his first day with us,’ begged Pinneberg. ‘We ought to make it nice for him.’

‘I’m telling you,’ said Lammchen emphatically. ‘We’re not going to start that. The nurse told me the best thing was to let him bawl himself out; the first few nights he’ll cry all through the night. Probably …’ she corrected herself, glancing at her husband. ‘It can work out differently. But on no account are we to pick him up. The bawling can’t hurt him. And then he realizes that crying gets him nowhere.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Pinneberg. ‘It seems a bit heartless to me.’

‘But Sonny love, it’s only the first two or three nights, and then everyone benefits when he begins to sleep through.’ Her voice took on a seductive tone: ‘The nurse said that was the only right way. But not three out of a hundred parents manage it. It would be great if we were ones that did!’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘I can understand that he has to learn to sleep through the night. But during the day, like now, I could easily carry him.’

‘Under no circumstances,’ said Lammchen. ‘Absolutely not. He doesn’t know the difference between night and day.’

‘You don’t need to speak so loudly, that must disturb him too.’

‘He can’t hear anything yet!’ said Lammchen triumphantly. ‘In the first weeks we can make as much noise as we like.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Pinneberg, quite horrified by Lammchen’s views.

But things did settle down, and after a while the Shrimp stopped crying and lay still. They breakfasted as nicely as he had intended, and from time to time Pinneberg stood up and went nearer to the cot and looked at the child who was lying there with open eyes. He crept up on tiptoe. In vain Lammchen explained to him again that the child wouldn’t be disturbed by anything yet, he still went on tiptoe. Then he sat down again and said to Lammchen:

‘It’s really nice, you know. We’ve got something to look forward to every day.’

‘Certainly we do,’ said Lammchen.

‘The way he’ll develop,’ he said. ‘When he’ll first learn to speak. When do children learn to speak actually?’

‘Some as early as a year.’

‘Do you call that early? I’m already looking forward to telling him a story. When will he learn to walk?’

‘Oh Sonny, it all happens gradually. First of all he learns to hold up his head. And then to sit. And then to crawl. And then to walk.’

‘It’s as I said, something new all the time. I’m glad.’

‘I’m glad. You can’t imagine how happy I am. Oh, Sonny!’

THE PRAM AND THE TWO HOSTILE BROTHERS. WHEN IS THE NURSING MOTHER’S ALLOWANCE DUE?

It was three days later, on a Saturday. Pinneberg had just come home, and stood a minute by the cot looking at the sleeping Shrimp. He was now sitting at table with Lammchen eating his evening meal.

‘D’you think we could go out tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘It’s such nice weather.’

She looked doubtfully at him: ‘And leave the baby here alone?’

‘But you can’t stay indoors until he can walk. You’re looking quite pale already.’

‘No,’ she said, slowly. ‘We must get a pram.’

‘Of course,’ he said. Then, cautiously: ‘How much would it cost?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh, it’s not only the pram. We have to have pillows and covers for it.’

Suddenly he was nervous. ‘The money’s running out.’

‘Oh gosh, yes,’ she said, echoing his alarm. Then she had an idea: ‘You can claim the health insurance money now!’

‘Fancy me forgetting that!’ he cried. ‘Of course.’ He thought about it. ‘I can’t go there. I can’t take any more time off. And the lunch-hour’s too short.’

‘So, write.’

‘All right. I’ll write to them now. Then I’ll run down and put the letter in the box at the Post Office.’

‘Listen,’ said he, rummaging for their seldom-used writing materials. ‘What d’you think, Lammchen, should I go and get a newspaper so we can see where we can get a second-hand pram? People must put ads in.’

‘A second-hand pram? For the Shrimp?’ she sighed.

‘We have to save,’ he warned.

‘Well, I’ll have to see the child who’s been in the pram,’ she declared. ‘We can’t put him in any old child’s pram.’

‘You will be able to see the child,’ he said.

He sat down and wrote his letter to the Health Insurance, with his membership number, etc., and put in the discharge letter from the hospital and the note certifying that Lammchen was a nursing mother, and politely requesting that they should forthwith be sent what was due to them out of the confinement and nursing mother’s allowance after deduction of the hospital charges.

After some hesitation he underlined the ‘forthwith’ once. Then again. And signed: ‘Respectfully yours, Johannes Pinneberg.’

On Sunday they bought the newspaper and found a number of small ads for prams. Pinneberg set off, and saw a very nice pram, not far from where they lived. He reported on it to Lammchen. ‘He’s a conductor on a tram. But they seem very decent people. Their little boy is walking now.’

Lammchen wished to be better informed. ‘What does the pram look like? Is it high or low?’

‘Weell … It’s a proper pram.’

She tried again. ‘Does it have large or small wheels?’

He felt prudence was called for. ‘Medium’.

‘What colour is it?’

‘Now that I didn’t get a good look at,’ he said, and as she began to laugh, defended himself by saying, ‘It wasn’t all that light in the kitchen.’ Suddenly, he had a flash of inspiration: ‘There was white lace round the hood.’

‘Oh Lord!’ she sighed. ‘I wonder what you did notice about this pram.’

‘Pardon me! It was a very good pram. For twenty-five marks.’

‘I’ll have to look at it myself. The type of pram that’s in fashion now is low, and deep, with really small wheels.’