Patty cake, patty cake baker's man
      Bake me a cake as fast as you can
      Roll and pat and make it with a B
      And put in the oven for baby and me.

Old Pat Macquillan regularly wheeled her pram down the quiet suburban streets. Inside the pram was a large doll with a hard rubber face and moulded light brown curls. The doll wore a pink cardigan with tiny pearl buttons and underneath, a clean white dress and white ribbed socks on its feet. The doll's name was Baby. Baby sat propped up so she could see out of the carriage.

The woman wore a shapeless pink wool cardigan, missing most of its buttons and riven with pills and pulled threads, and a loose print dress of some indeterminate flower that flopped around her wizened breasts and drooped at the hem. Long ago, Pat¹s custard face had collapsed because she never bothered with her false teeth.

Pat never spoke to Baby, but had imposed a disciplined routine of care. Baby maintained a sweet smile on its mouth, which had a hole for a bottle. On Mondays, Pat emptied the wee clothes into a brown bucket, filling it with lukewarm water and Omo flakes. She swirled the flakes around to create suds and scrubbed each garment by rubbing both sides of the cloth together. She poured the dirty water into the sink and ran cold water onto the sodden clothes, leaving them to rinse. She collected her blue plastic pegs from her room and carried the bucket full of clothes out to the clothesline and, stretching each garment so it would wrinkle less, pegged them onto the line. Then, it was time to change Baby' s nappy. Later, she would have to attend to fixing Baby' s bottles and feed her. Mondays were busy days.

Tuesdays, Pat liked to lie-in; Baby didn't wake until mid-morning. As she lay in bed, Pat planned her walk for the day, nutting out with great deliberation the best streets to walk Baby down, where there would be no nervous dogs nor naughty children, who would roll their eyes at her and poke poor Baby hard.

Baby liked walks and did not cry when Pat parked the pram in the corner of the senior citizens' hall where Pat did pasting and cutting. The other old people ignored Baby except for the middle-aged woman who ran the group. She beamed at Pat and never failed to ask, "How is Baby today?" Pat smacked her toothless gums together nodding and said "Baby." The official pleasantries were then completed until next week.

On Wednesdays, Pat made baby food, cooking apples in the microwave and squashing old bananas with a fork. Baby had her own high chair with a tray. Pat set the food on the tray and with a miniature curved spoon scooped up portions for Baby. Baby never blinked as the spoon came straight towards her and clinked against her hard open mouth. Baby was fussy and was not going to eat. After every mouthful that Baby rejected, Pat popped the laden spoon into her own mouth and sucked the food down. Afterwards, Baby had a long sleep in her pram out in the garden. Pat pottered around washing dishes.

Thursday was park day. Pat hated park day. She was always happy when it rained. Then, she could turn the television on and place Baby on the floor on the bunny cloth. Pat sat on the couch, watching the pictures move, and laughed when the TV audience laughed. Baby was too little to know when to laugh; she just stared at the screen, lying on her tummy, head up.

But today was sunny. Pat dressed Baby in a clean nappy, a stripped blue T-shirt, denim overalls, white socks and soft black shoes with a thin strap that snapped closed. The teeny snaps were fiddly to manoeuvre and were no longer supple. When the child was dressed, Pat lifted Baby up, under the armpits, and walked with her to the mirror so the doll could see it was time to play. Baby's glassy blue eyes stared into the mirror and reflected in their hard retinas Pat's doughy face.

The park was empty of children. Pat sighed with relief. Like a nurse, she supported the head well as she picked up Baby and seated her in the sandbox, arranging Baby's legs at sharp angles to her body. On slippered feet, Pat shuffled back to the pram to pull out a plastic box and a large wooden spoon. She knelt over the ledge of the sandbox and tugged at Baby¹s arms. Baby now sat bolt upright with her arms wide apart, balancing the plastic box on the top of her arms. The spoon lay beside her in the sand. In deep shade, Pat sat on a bench and squinted her eyes, keeping a sharp lookout for other children and grown-ups. Two little boys ran into the playground with their mother trailing behind with a new baby in the pram. The boys made a beeline for the sandbox and jumped into the sandpit feet first, spraying sand over Baby's play outfit.

Alarmed, Pat rushed over to Baby and glared at the big boys. The boys ignored Pat and began to heap wooden spoonfuls of sand on Baby's head, chanting, "It's raining, It's pouring, the old man is snoring." Pat made a desperate grab for Baby and clutched one of her out stretched arms. The two little boys stared at Pat. Their mother hurried over. Pat's face crumbled into hate and fear. The mother shrugged her shoulders. Pat turned her back and thumped Baby's back to shake the sand off. Gently, she lowered Baby into the pram and with shaky pushes rolled the carriage away from the family as she heard loud whoops of giggles explode from the boys' mouths.

Friday was better. Pat sat cross-legged on the floor, her back against the saggy sofa, with her collection of brightly-coloured women's magazines and hard-cover children's books gathered from op shops spread over the coffee table, and read to Baby, fixed in a sitting position on her lap.

Slowly, Pat turned the magazine pages and with her finger pointed out the pretty lady, the red dress and the bow-wow dog. Baby leaned forward to see the pictures better. Pat did all the showing and telling wordlessly. Happy Baby.

On Saturday, Pat had been invited out with the senior citizen's group. There was no room for Baby on the bus. The middle-aged woman had told her so. Pat stared at Baby asleep in her wicker basket next to her bed. Bath time. She turned on the hot tap all the way; the water gushed and growled into the tub. She let the water come almost to the brim.

With motherly gestures she undressed Baby, running her old cramped fingers up and down the slick body with its tiny navel and the few small creases where the legs came together, and gave her hard face sloppy kisses. Carrying Baby in the crook of her arm, she padded into the bathroom and heard her knees creak as she bent down on the tile floor next to the tub. In one quick motion, Pat pressed Baby beneath the steaming water, holding her under stiff-armed. Pretty soon, Baby stopped struggling.

It was time for Pat to get ready to go out.