The first occasion was when Mrs. Roberts was getting Rosie a fresh nappy ready.
The job was delaying a game that they had been playing with teaspoons on the kitchen
table, and Rosie was annoyed.
She cried and later shrieked in frustration and then Mrs. Roberts saw one of the spoons
slide across the table top into Rosie's hand.
Apart from a startled glance and a quick look under the table, where she thought Buster,
their dog, might have rubbed against the legs, she thought and did nothing about the moving
spoon.
A week later, when Rosie's food was delayed by a parcel being delivered, Mrs. Roberts
was returning to pick up the already filled bottle when it moved firmly away from her
hand towards the yelling baby.
There was simply no mistake this time, though it was true that Rosie had been bouncing about,
enough perhaps to shake the bottle a little.
But not enough to move it.
That evening, Mrs. Roberts told George, her husband.
She had anticipated correctly his reactions.
"You're imagining things again, Shirley," he snapped irritably.
"You and your mothercare books.
What the kid wants is less 'psychology' and a bit more ordinary affection."
Mrs. Roberts flushed angrily.
"Just because you give Rosie everything she cries for.
Anything for peace and quiet, that's you!"
She said no more.
It was just possible that the bottle had somehow slid with the vibration of her tread on the
wooden kitchen floor.
And the spoon moving could certainly have been Buster.
But the third time was more positive.
They were both, mother and baby, in their small living room.
Mrs. Roberts was reading the daily paper in a chair by the fire.
Rosie was inside her play pen absorbed with her toys.
After some minutes, Rosie started to yell, pointing out of the pen across the room.
Unable to see what was wrong, Mrs. Roberts fussed and played with the baby, who continued
to scream.
A small plastic doll had fallen out of the play pen and rolled out of sight under the
sideboard.
Rosie's cries became even more fierce and hysterical as Mrs. Roberts tried to comfort
her.
Finally, Rosie gave a particular violent shriek and
held out both arms in the direction of the sideboard.
As Mrs. Roberts turned to look that way, to see
what was the matter, she saw the missing doll slide steadily though slowly out from under
the sideboard, across the carpet, up to the play pen frame and, as she stared motionless
with astonishment, the doll gave a heave and lifted over the frame and into Rosie's outstretched
hand.
The next few minutes were crowded.
With a swift smack Mrs. Roberts knocked the doll from her baby's hand, swept her into
her arms and ran from the room.
Once in the kitchen, she sat Rosie roughly in her high chair by the table.
She was not without courage.
Crossing the room, avoiding the pen, she took the decorative pair of fire tongs from the
hearth, then approached the doll.
It took some time to grip this securely.
Then she lifted it and carried it to the open fire.
There, she dropped it amongst the glowing coals, where its plastic coating shriveled
and melted, curling unpleasantly, and exposing a wiry skeleton that slide down red hot into
the grate.
Hours later, after she had let the fire die right out, Mrs. Roberts found the wire remains
and took them down the garden, which backed on to a garage, and flung them over the wall
into a heap of wreckage.
The same day, she took Rosie to the doctor's surgery.
Dr. Paisley heard her out thoughtfully, eyeing professionally the slight tremor of her hands,
the dry lips.
"Well, Mr. Roberts, what you say is certainly remarkable.
But you know, there may yet be natural explanations."
"It did move, Doctor.
I saw it.
Across the carpet.
The other times I wasn't sure, but this . . ."
"But you say there was metal in the doll," said Dr. Paisley reasonably.
"Now there's always magnetism you know.
Queer things happen when there's electricity about."
"Yes . . . but we haven't got many electric things.
Only the garage does have those welding things.
Those that spark.
Do you think they could have done it, Doctor?"
"Well, I'm no engineer, Mrs. Roberts, but it may well be so.
And how are you yourself.
Sleeping well?
No dizziness or fainting?
You look just a bit peaky."
After a while, Dr. Paisley wrote out a prescription of a particular kind and saw Mrs. Roberts
out.
It was three weeks before Dr. Paisley looked up to see Mrs. Roberts entering his surgery
again, carrying a protesting Rosie.
He mentally sighed, but motioned her to a chair.
Over the increasing cries of the irritated Rosie, who was late for feeding and wanted
her milk, which was already made up in her mother's basket, he listened.
"I waited for three times," Mrs. Roberts burst out.
"I could see you never believed me, you're just like George and in any case she never
does it when he's there because he lets her have everything she wants so she never gets
into a temper and it's only then that she does it at all . . ."
Between the broken streams of words and the yells of Rosie, Dr. Paisley gathered that
more things had been "moved" by Rosie when she was in a temper.
"So I came now, Doctor, so you could see, she's not had her milk and she's getting all
worked up and you see, she'll do it like I said."
Rosie's cries were certainly getting fiercer, and the noise was distracting.
Paisley winced as the shrieks reached a higher pitch when Mrs. Roberts took out the bottle,
but held it away from the baby.
She tantalizingly waved it in the air, Rosie's red eyes following it as she yelled, tears
of frustration running on the plump cheeks.
"Come on, baby," Mrs. Roberts mouthed, sweat gleaming on her forehead.
"Get your milky . . ."
Paisley frowned and half rose from his chair as Mrs. Roberts placed the bottle deliberately
on a cabinet, just out of reach of Rosie, whose screams reached a crescendo of violence
that he could hardly credit.
Hysteria shone in the child's eyes and suddenly the doctor leaped up and took the bottle himself,
passing it to the baby, who at once settled to satisfied sucking.
The silence was sudden and deafening.
Standing, Paisley and Mrs. Roberts faced each other.
"Please sit down, Mrs. Roberts.
I think we'd better have a little talk."
Paisley forced a soothing smile.
After a second of more or less silence, Mrs. Roberts collapsed on to the chair, and leaned
heavily forward over the doctor's desk.
Her head lowered and she began to weep softly.
Paisley picked up the phone.
"Nurse?
Would you come in, please.
I'm going to examine Mrs. Roberts.
And try to get Baxter from the General on the line."
For Baxter was a psychiatrist.
After two private sessions, Baxter was of the opinion that Mrs. Roberts would respond
to treatment without entering hospital.
Unlike Dr. Paisley, he had made no bones about his beliefs to his patient.
"Many of us see things that never happen, Mrs. Roberts.
In fact, between you and me, I'd go so far as to say that we all do from time to time.
You have been run down, and your mind has been playing tricks."
"I do understand, Mr. Baxter.
But why?
I mean, why should I—imagine things like this about Rosie?"
"I frankly don't know, Mrs. Roberts.
If I were to say I did, I'd be deceiving you.
But we shall find out, if you will cooperate, and then we can put things right.
"For the time being, avoid any situation where the baby gets frustrated.
Keep her happy and satisfied, if you can.
Obviously, these—appearances—have something to do with the baby crying.
It affects all mothers, you know.
I know you feel that your husband is too soft with Rosie, but for the time being, follow
his example."
In Baxter's letter to Dr. Paisley, he was less certain and cheerful.
". . . and it is difficult to detect the real motive behind these attacks.
The basic theme is that the child gets what it wants without the mother's help.
This may be significant.
Perhaps a concealed rejection symptom.
I don't anticipate danger at this stage, especially since the patient is so amenable to treatment.
But I'd look in occasionally, if I were you.
We don't want any . . . accidents . . ."
Five weeks of peace followed.
Rosie found life considerably easier.
Food and playthings were provided on demand, even before demand.
Mrs. Roberts, at first on edge to prevent the outbursts that had started the whole thing,
found that the easier path was not always so unpleasant.
Disaster came because of the cold weather.
A sharp nip caused Mrs. Roberts to light fires more frequently, and make them up larger.
Coal ran short and she ordered more.
The blaze had the usual fascination for Rosie that it has for all children, and with bigger
fires, the flames became brighter, more desirable.
Rosie crept to the fireguard and thrust her small arms through at the flames.
At once her mother drew her back, in spite of kicks.
"Burny, dear," she said soothingly.
But the attraction of the fire was great, and Rosie, now unused to opposition at all,
began to cry in earnest.
She fought to escape her mother's imprisoning arms.
Mrs. Roberts placed the baby beside the guard, but kept her hands firmly gripped.
"Pretty fire, but burny," she cooed to the squirming Rosie.
"Mustn't touch!"
Rosie's face became suffused with dark pink as she wrestled to get her hands free.
She started to shriek, dragged one hand from her mother's and thrust it through the guard.
Mrs. Roberts snatched it back, grazing the soft skin on the metal.
Rosie screamed louder and arched her back in a desperate struggle to be free.
Rage glared from her small face.
Mrs. Roberts held on firmly and at that moment the doorbell rang.
It was the coal delivery.
With due forethought, Mrs. Roberts hastily swung the child over into her play pen that
stood in the middle of the room, well away from the fire.
"Mummy won't be long," she said to the screaming child.
"You stop there just a minute.
Then Mummy play."
There were six bags of coal to be shot into the outhouse, and the money to be found in
the kitchen cupboard.
As she went outside to the waiting man, Rosie's yells echoed even louder.
The coalman grinned.
"Sounds as if you got trouble in there!"
"She wants to play with the fire," said Mrs. Roberts.
"You know what they are."
"All kids are the same," agreed the man amiably.
"By God, though, she's got some lungs!"
And indeed, Rosie, was excelling herself with piercing screams.
Screams of a different, subtly altered, tone.
When Mrs. Roberts, followed by the curious coalman, ran into the living room this was
full of smoke.
In the play pen was a pile of flaming coals, and clinging screaming to the bars, Rosie
tried to keep her legs up away from the flames.
Her dress was smoking . . .
They took Mrs. Roberts away that afternoon, as soon as her husband could be found to take
charge of the shocked but almost uninjured Rosie.
She went without resistance.
In that smoky room the coalman had saved the baby.
She had done nothing but stare and scream and stare again at the coals.
Dr. Paisley was able to deal with the police, and put them in touch with Baxter, who at
once arranged for a bed in the General.
By evening, Mrs. Roberts was under light sedation, and a conference had been held with Baxter,
Paisley and George Roberts present.
"I knew she was nervy, of course," Roberts was saying.
"But I never thought she'd harm the kid."
"She didn't," put in Baxter quickly.
"Notice how she arranges these things.
There was a man actually there, at the time, and she positively encouraged him to come
in to help.
If she had intended real harm, she would have done it when nobody was about."
"But why, Mr. Baxter?
And whatever are we going to do now?"
"Have you anyone who could look after the child.
Just for a week or two?"
Baxter asked, frowning.
"Oh, yes.
Our Frances.
She always wanted kids of her own.
She's got Rosie now.
There's no problem."
"Well, Mr. Roberts, let's leave it there, for the moment.
I'm confident that this—trouble of your wife's is something temporary.
I admit I never expected such . . . an unusual and dangerous demonstration as this with the
fire.
Let's see in a week's time."
"Shall I bring the kid, Doctor?
I mean, will she . . ."
"I should leave Rosie at home for a few days, Mr. Roberts.
Then we'll see . . ."
It was three weeks before Rosie saw her mother again.
Not that they were days of unhappiness.
Aunt Frances was easy going, kindly and had central heating.
Moreover, she had brought large supplies of the small sweets that Rosie favored.
But after three weeks Mrs. Roberts herself was becoming anxious.
In her sedative-confused mind she became harassed by fears that Rosie might, after all, have
been burned in the fire and was being kept from her.
Baxter felt that a meeting was necessary, and might be interesting.
He authorized George Roberts to bring Rosie for half an hour, and arranged to be present.
The meeting was unexpectedly touching.
At first Rosie was too interested in the great white hospital building, the long, glittering
corridors, the lift that swept her and Mr. Roberts up to the fifth floor, the white clad
nurses and the small room with its sterile bed.
She hardly noticed her mother.
But then, Mrs. Roberts raised herself and held out her hands.
Rosie's face lit up and with a gurgle of delight she strained in her father's arms to try to
reach the bed . . .
Baxter watched for ten minutes, then left, thoughtfully.
There was no trace of the problem that he had feared; rejection through fear of the
mother by the child.
Obviously, Rosie remembered her mother only with pleasure, the old frustrations forgotten,
and the fire with its terrors.
He had Roberts called from the private room into the corridor.
". . . not quite yet, Mr. Roberts, but fairly soon.
It's obvious that Mrs. Roberts is much better.
And Rosie seems quite—er—normal with her."
Roberts nodded.
"I did wonder whether the kid'd remember, like.
Be feared of her own mum.
But she isn't and that's a fact."
"All the same, Mr. Roberts, I'd like to take a few precautions.
Perhaps your sister could stay with Mrs. Roberts a few days, after she comes home.
Just until she settles in."
"Easy, Mr. Baxter.
Just as long as you say."
They both re-entered the room, to see a happy Rosie trying to reach the glass apparatus
that a smiling nurse was placing just out of her reach.
A trace of a scowl crossed Rosie's face, but the sight of her mother once again distracted
her.
"Time to go, Mrs. Roberts, I'm afraid," smiled Baxter.
"But good news.
Another week or so and I think it's home for you, for good!"
As her father lifted her from Mrs. Roberts' arms, Rosie began to wail.
As Baxter, the nurse and Mr. Roberts paused in the doorway to smile farewell, the wail
grew to a cry.
As the room door closed the cry became a yell.
Rosie squirmed in her father's grip and he smiled wryly at the nurse.
"She's a right handful when she gets mad."
Rosie's screams became louder as they entered the lift and slid downwards.
Tears of rage and frustration gathered in her eyes and ran down her soft, rounded cheeks.
As Roberts crossed the wide, pale hall of the hospital entrance other visitors turned
curiously to stare at the raging, shrieking baby, fighting in his arms.
He hastened out to his car, mercifully parked immediately outside below the tall white walls
of the ward block.
As he fumbled awkwardly for his keys, clamping the baby beneath one arm, Rosie's suffused
face turned upwards, staring desperately up at the vast rows of steel framed windows behind
one of which her mother lay.
Rosie shrieked again, agonizingly, demandingly, raising her free arms towards the high, motionless
walls.
Her eyes glared with effort.
From the fifth floor, about sixty feet above, came a crash of glass as a body smashed through
a window.
Mrs. Roberts fell screaming, writhing, hurtling to the pavement.
Her body swept Rosie from her father's arms and smashed her to the concrete.
George Roberts was uninjured, but mother and child were both dead on examination.
The window glass was supposed to be unbreakable, but it is common knowledge that insane people
have unusual strength.
There was no other explanation.