In Which Ben has a Bath

It was Christmas evening and we were giving Ben his first bath.

Charlie was stumbling around in the loft, looking for some of James' (or, at a pinch, Minnie's) old clothes. Minnie was clearing up the mess downstairs with very bad grace.

Ben had had an envigorating first day. He had met people for the first time, got named, encountered various parts of his body and explored his living space. He had laughed for the first time, cried for the first time, and taken his first ever sip of water. He had also pulled the Christmas tree over on top of himself, dribbled on the TV remote control and poked Dodgson in the beak (earning himself a nipped finger). Clearly he was enjoying life outside his growing tank.


"Why does Ben have blue eyes when yours are brown?" I asked James. Ben was showing great interest in the bathing process. Àfter giving the soap an exploratory nibble, he weed in the water (another new and exciting experience) and then began to chew the rubber ducky. We wrestled the soap off him and put it to its usual use.

James shrugged. "Data errors," he said. "Clones are never exact copies. They have to check each one to make sure it's in proper working order. Some of the early ones had bits in the wrong places."

I shuddered. "I hope Ben's got all his bits in the right places!" I said fervently.

"Kate checked him over," answered James. "She said his heart and lungs were working properly, She wants to be a doctor when she grows up."

"Maybe we should get him checked over by a real doctor," I mused. I wondered how our family GP would react. "Here's our brand new three year-old, Doctor Proctor, I wonder if you could check him to see if he's correctly assembled?" She'd review my medication quicker than you can say Prozac.

We lifted Ben out of the bath (to the accompaniment of a howl of protest), and towelled him dry. Ben was not impressed and tried to free himself by biting his way through the towel.

Of all the things I find disconcerting about my newly-born son, the fact that he doesn't talk is possibly the strangest. He has the body of a three year-old, and he seems to have the mind of one, but he has no understanding of language and doesn't even go "goo-goo".

"I suppose he'll learn to talk in time," I mused aloud.

James nodded. "Virus says they soon pick it up," he assured me.

I sighed. "I don't put much store in Virus' parenting skills!" I grumbled. "I thought he was decidedly cold towards Ben."

James grinned. "Well, he is supercool!" he joked.

I grunted. I don't usually take an instant dislike to people, but I must admit I hadn't found my great-grandson at all appealing.

"Covered in permafrost would be more like it! He didn't treat Ben with the least warmth or kindness. What kind of person can hear a child cry and not try to calm it down?"

James shrugged. "I don't think Virus considers Ben to be a real person. He's just a home-made bendy to him. A science project, not a kid you want to keep."

I took a deep breath. I could feel a Moral Stand coming on.

"I want you listen to this very carefully, James Dunwich," I said flatly. "Ben is alive, he's human and - even more to the point - he's one of us. He is every bit as important and special as me, Dad, you or Minnie. He's not going to be disassembled, fiddled with, examined or experimented on. I hope I make myself clear?"

James looked affronted. "Of course, Mum!" he protested. "I don't think like that about Ben. I said that's what Virus thinks. Virus is soooo twenty-second century. He even eats meat! And he's really old."

James thinks his grandson is old. I decided not to think too hard about that in case my brain melted.

A crash, a muffled expletive and a dull thudding sound reminded me of my husband. I went out to the landing to find a black sack full of slightly musty children's clothes.

"Guess what, Ben!" I said brightly. "I've got a whole new sensory experience for you. These are called pyjamas, and you are going to wear them!"

A spirited but brief struggle later, Ben was thoughtfully contemplating a set of My Little Pony pyjamas from the inside. I lead him to the big bed (since he doesn't have a bed he'll have to sleep between me and Charlie) and read him, to his immense puzzlement, "Wibbly Pig can build a Spaceship".

He snuggled into the crook of my arm and drifted off to sleep, while I wondered how to explain his existence to the Authorities. No-one was going to believe that he was really our son, even though a DNA test would proves that we are his parents. Would Social Services accuse us of stealing him and take him into care?

He was going to need some proper documentation. A birth certificate at least. How many computer records does it take to be legally born in this country?

"I think I'm going to need the services of a mad computer genius and a time machine," I whispered to the sleeping child beside me. "I'd better bake a cake!"