Tales of the Unexpected

already seated in the living-room waiting for the moment to arrive. The bottle with the milk formula in it was standing in a saucepan of warm water on the mantelpiece. The baby was asleep in its carry-cot on the sofa.
    At twenty minutes to six it woke up and started screaming its head off.
    ‘There you are!’ Mrs Taylor cried. ‘She’s asking for the bottle. Pick her up quick, Albert, and hand her to me here. Give me the bottle first.’
    He gave her the bottle, then placed the baby on the woman’s lap. Cautiously, she touched the baby’s lips with the end of the nipple. The baby seized the nipple between its gums and began to suck ravenously with a rapid powerful action.
    ‘Oh, Albert, isn’t it wonderful?’ she said, laughing.
    ‘It’s terrific, Mabel.’
    In seven or eight minutes, the entire contents of the bottle had disappeared down the baby’s throat.
    ‘You clever girl,’ Mrs Taylor said. ‘Four ounces again.’
    Albert Taylor was leaning forward in his chair, peering intently into the baby’s face. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘She even seems as though she’s put on a touch of weight already. What do you think?’
    The mother looked down at the child.
    ‘Don’t she seem bigger and fatter to you, Mabel, than she was yesterday?’
    ‘Maybe she does, Albert. I’m not sure. Although actually there couldn’t be any
real
gain in such a short time as this. The important thing is that she’s eating normally.’
    ‘She’s turned the corner,’ Albert said. ‘I don’t think you need worry about her any more.’
    ‘I certainly won’t.’
    ‘You want me to go up and fetch the cradle back into our own bedroom, Mabel?’
    ‘Yes, please,’ she said.
    Albert went upstairs and moved the cradle. The woman followed with the baby, and after changing its nappy, she laid it gently down on its bed. Then she covered it with sheet and blanket.
    ‘Doesn’t she look lovely, Albert?’ she whispered. ‘Isn’t that the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen in your
entire
life?’
    ‘Leave her be now, Mabel,’ he said. ‘Come on downstairs and cook us a bit of supper. We both deserve it.’
    After they had finished eating, the parents settled themselves in armchairs in the living-room, Albert with his magazine and his pipe, Mrs Taylor with her knitting. But this was a very different scene from the one of the night before. Suddenly, all tensions had vanished. Mrs Taylor’s handsome oval face was glowing with pleasure, her cheeks were pink, her eyes were sparkling bright, and her mouth was fixed in a little dreamy smile of pure content. Every now and again she would glance up from her knitting and gaze affectionately at her husband. Occasionally, she would stop the clicking of her needles altogether for a few seconds and sit quite still, looking at the ceiling, listening for a cry or a whimper from upstairs. But all was quiet.
    ‘Albert,’ she said after a while.
    ‘Yes, dear?’
    ‘What was it you were going to tell me last night when you came rushing up to the bedroom? You said you had an idea for the baby.’
    Albert Taylor lowered the magazine on to his lap and gave her a long sly look.
    ‘Did I?’ he said.
    ‘Yes.’ She waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.
    ‘What’s the big joke?’ she asked. ‘Why are you grinning like that?’
    ‘It’s a joke all right,’ he said.
    ‘Tell it to me, dear.’
    ‘I’m not sure I ought to,’ he said. ‘You might call me a liar.’
    She had seldom seen him looking so pleased with himself as he was now, and she smiled back at him, egging him on.
    ‘I’d just like to see your face when you hear it, Mabel, that’s all.’
    ‘Albert, what
is
all this?’
    He paused, refusing to be hurried.
    ‘You do think the baby’s better, don’t you?’ he asked.
    ‘Of course I do.’
    ‘You agree with me that all of a sudden she’s feeding marvellously and looking one-hundred-per-cent different?’
    ‘I do, Albert, yes.’
    ‘That’s good,’ he said, the grin widening. ‘You see, it’s me that did it.’
    ‘Did what?’
    ‘I cured the baby.’
    ‘Yes, dear, I’m sure you did.’ Mrs Taylor went right on with her knitting.
    ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
    ‘Of course I believe you, Albert. I give you all the credit, every bit of it.’
    ‘Then how did I do it?’
    ‘Well,’ she said, pausing a moment to think. ‘I suppose it’s simply that you’re a brilliant feed-mixer. Ever since you started mixing the feeds she’s