‘What on earth are you doing?’ Bernard asked. He’d caught me spying on them, craning my neck at the crack of the open door.

‘Let me help you with the tray,’ I said. He wouldn’t let it go and we entered the room still tussling over it. Bernard plonked the tray on the table with such a thud the milk spilled from the jug. He went back to his paper without bothering to wipe it up. Grumpy blighter. I poured the tea, asking about sugar and milk. Two sugars for Hortense. Three for Gilbert, which made Bernard tut behind the news. I handed Gilbert his tea. But Hortense had Michael so she couldn’t take hers. I was holding her tea out to her not knowing how I could get it to her mouth. I knew she’d want to hand Michael back to me. She started shifting all awkward in the chair. There was no time left – I had to say it then.

‘Will you take him?’ I asked her.

She was puzzled by what I’d said. ‘I thought,’ she began, ‘that you might hold the baby so I could drink my tea.’

‘Will you take him?’ I said again.

‘But I already have him, Mrs Bligh.’

‘No. You don’t understand, listen.’ I was still holding the blinking cup of tea, the cup rattling on the saucer as my hand shook. I put it on the table and carried on, ‘Will you and Gilbert take him with you when you leave?’

‘Leave where?’ Gilbert said.

‘The house. When you move. Will you take him with you?’

I’d never seen frowns so deep. Both of them staring at me, trying to find some meaning or joke on my face. I knelt down on one knee. Took both of Gilbert’s hands in mine. He pulled them back but I grabbed them again. ‘Gilbert,’ I said. I squeezed his hands. ‘Will you take him with you? Look after him for me. Will you take him and look after him?’

There was a moment of stillness in the room before it fizzled like a live squib, once they realised what I meant. Both at once, questioning, ‘What you saying? . . . What you mean? . . . What you want?’

I pleaded to Hortense, turned to her. I was on both my knees now. ‘Take him and bring him up as if he was your son. Would you, would you, please?’

‘Mrs Bligh . . .’ was all she could get out.

‘Hortense, please. I trust you and Gilbert. I know you. You’re good people.’ I was begging, I know I was, but I didn’t care. She was trying to hand him back to me. I pushed him towards her again. Shoved the little mite back into her arms.

That was when I heard Bernard. ‘Queenie, what in God’s name are you doing?’ He was on his feet standing over me.

‘I want them to take him, Bernard.’

‘He’s your child. What are you saying?’

‘Listen, Bernard. He needs a home. A good home.’

‘He’s got a home.’

What the hell was the stupid man talking about? I just wanted him to shut up. Shut his bloody mouth. What was this to do with him? ‘Don’t speak, Bernard. Do you hear me? Just don’t speak,’ I yelled at him.

‘What are you thinking?’ He was red as a berry, pure anger looking down at me. But I needed to persuade Hortense and Gilbert and he was just getting in the blinking way. He grabbed me. Pulled me up from the floor. And Michael started crying. And Gilbert was on his feet telling Bernard to leave me or else.

I faced Bernard. Took a breath. ‘I need someone to look after him.’

‘You’re his mother.’

‘I know, but I can’t look after him. Bernard, we can’t look after him. Don’t you see?’ I pulled away from him. Gilbert sat and I got back on my knees. Michael was still whining but Hortense was softly shushing him.

And I heard Bernard ask, ‘Why ever not?’

It was so desperately spoken that we all stared at him. So earnestly asked that it should have been funny. Had he really no idea why we, two white people, could not bring up a coloured child? I was winded. I never expected that – Bernard questioning what was so obvious.

‘We can’t look after him,’ was all I could think to say.

‘Why not?’ Bernard asked.

I thought my argument would be with Gilbert or Hortense. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘Because I don’t know how to comb his hair, Bernard,’ I said.

‘But that’s ridiculous. We’ll work something out.’

‘Bernard, what are you saying?’

‘We’ll bring him up.’

‘Oh, yeah? And what will we tell him when he asks? That we left him too long in the sun one day and he went black?’

‘There’s been a war, all sorts of things happened. Adopted, that’s what we’ll say. An orphan. Quite simple.’

Bernard had no right to be so sensible. So just. So caring. Words. He’d found them but he had no business to try to use them now to persuade. Make me think I could be wrong. Because I wasn’t – I knew I wasn’t. Crikey, I’ve never even seen a hummingbird! Not even in a book. Who’ll tell Michael what one is like?

‘He’s coloured, Bernard.’ I was crying. Drinking fat salty tears. ‘And . . . and he’s not your son.’ That shut him up. Flung him back in his seat with the blow. ‘You might think you can do it now,’ I told him, ‘while he’s a little baby saying nothing. But what about when he grows up? A big, strapping coloured lad. And people snigger at you in the street and ask you all sorts of awkward questions. Are you going to fight for him? All those neighbours . . . those proper decent neighbours out in the suburbs, are you going to tell them to mind their own business? Are you going to punch other dads ’cause their kids called him names? Are you going to be proud of him? Glad that he’s your son?’

‘Adopted, that’s what we can say,’ he said, so softly. This was blinking daft.

‘Bernard. One day he’ll do something naughty and you’ll look at him and think, The little black bastard, because you’ll be angry. And he’ll see it in your eyes. You’ll be angry with him not only for that. But because the neighbours never invited you round. Because they whispered about you as you went by. Because they never thought you were as good as them. Because they thought you and your family were odd. And all because you had a coloured child.’ He was going to say something else. Opened his mouth but nothing came out. ‘It would kill you, Bernard,’ I said. ‘Have you thought about all that? Because I have. I’ve done nothing but think about it. And you know what? I haven’t got the guts for it. I thought I would. I should have but I haven’t got the spine. Not for that fight. I admit it, I can’t face it, and I’m his blessed mother.’

At last I could turn back to Gilbert and Hortense. ‘I’d have to give him away, you see,’ I told them. ‘To an orphanage.’ I took Gilbert’s hand again. This time he let me. ‘And they don’t want them, you know – the coloured ones.’ I needed to stop crying – I had to explain carefully. I gulped on the tears. ‘In the newspaper they said they were going to send all the half-caste babies that had been born since the war – sons, daughters of coloured GIs mostly – they were going to send them to live in America.’ I giggled, but God knows why. ‘Gilbert, can you imagine? You remember, don’t you? The Americans. They’d want Michael to go up to the back of the picture house.’

Bernard turned himself away from us. And I knew why. It was the sight of me on my knees in front of these darkies. He sighed, or at least it sounded like it.

‘If I gave him to an orphanage,’ I carried on, ‘I’d never know about him. Never. And he wouldn’t know how much I loved him. And how all I wanted was to be a good mother to him.’They were just staring at me. I must have looked – no, I was – pathetic. ‘You might let me know how he was getting on. You might write to me and tell me. I know it’s a lot to ask.’

Gilbert’s troubled eyes were asking all sorts of questions.

‘I can give you money, if that’s the problem,’ I said.

‘No,’ Gilbert snapped. ‘Don’t sell your baby, Queenie.’

‘No, no, you’re right. I just want him to be with people who’ll understand. Can’t you see? His own kind. But I’ll do it any way you want to. Any way. But you have to say you’ll take him.’ Michael started to cry. I pressed both my hands together. ‘You know I’m begging. But it’s not for my sake. Honest to God, it’s not for me. I know you could give him a better life than I ever could. Don’t do it for me – please, do it for him. That’s what I’m on my knees for – my darling little baby’s life.’