CHAPTER 4

i

Heather

Heather Norris went into hospital on the 24th February, 1990. Saturday, just as she had calculated, although it was two weeks after the doctor’s prediction. Barbara Norris, her mother-in-law, had been summoned the day before, when Heather had decided to clean the house and shift all the furniture. She had been like that before Bibs was born, so Martin decided it was a sign. He was smugly pleased with himself when she had the first pains.

‘I told you.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Just as well Mum’s here. Better get Bibs.’

‘No. For God’s sake, let him play. He won’t have the first idea what’s going on.’

‘He knows he’s going to have a little brother or sister. Can’t wait.’

‘Didn’t show the slightest interest if you ask me.’ She was determined to be argumentative, resenting the fuss that was about to mushroom around her. Her sheer bloody agony and being manhandled, legs akimbo, prodded and bullied and patronised by doctors and nurses who would insist on calling her Mother, as if her breeding function were all the identity she deserved.

‘Well, anyway, Mum’s here to take care of him. I’ll get the car out.’

‘Oh, no rush.’ Heather plumped down, staking her claim to the sofa. A stupid move. It was too soft and deep; she’d be half an hour getting back out of it. ‘I’ve had a couple of twinges. Hours apart. It’s going to be ages yet.’

But Martin was already calling Barbara, who was tidying Bibs’ room. Tidying it properly because she alone knew how to tidy a child’s bedroom effectively. Mother-in-law. There were worse, Heather supposed. Most of the time, when there was nothing fundamental to fight about, they got on very well. Barbara had patronised Heather as she would have done any stray kitten her son had brought home, hoping that he would lose interest quickly. With their marriage, she had accepted that this kitten was here to stay, and had better be treated with affectionate tolerance. She was never overtly critical about the way her poor son’s wife cooked or ironed, or dusted, or brought up their child, even if the criticism was there, in every firm, authoritative gesture.

‘Now then, dear.’ Barbara was in charge the moment she walked in, patting Heather on the head. No panic, no excitement, just a field marshall deploying troops. ‘Calm down, Martin darling. There’s no need to rush round like a headless chicken. Have you phoned the hospital to say she’ll be on her way? Heather dear, I suppose you are sure. Definite labour pains? Not just indigestion? Constipation?’

‘I do remember what it’s like,’ said Heather, heaving herself up. ‘And there’s no rush. I think I’ll make a cup of tea. Do you want some?’

‘Now dear, you just rest. I’ll make it. Nice and strong. I may not have many talents but I do know how to make a proper cup of tea. Martin did say it would be today. You’re lucky to have a husband who notices such things, but then he was always a sensitive boy. Caring. And we’re both going to care for you now, so don’t you worry about a thing.’

Barbara was already in the kitchen, determined to be mother. Shielding her poor sensitive son from the demanding needs of his flaky wife with her unnatural emotional outbursts. Barbara wasn’t going to forget the fuss Heather had caused at Christmas. Other people could. The manager at Sainsbury’s had decided that prosecuting an hysterical pregnant woman would be bad publicity, and the paramedics had decided, once she had calmed down, that if she let her GP sort her out she’d be fine. Just a bit stressed. Pregnant women often were.

Martin had been eager to forget, to get on with Christmas, to have fun with Bibs under the tree and not ever to mention all those terrible things Heather had let slip.

But Barbara, who had not even been there, had not forgotten. ‘Poor Heather can be – well, I wouldn’t like to say unbalanced, but I’m afraid she’s finding it very difficult to cope. We’ll just have to keep an eye on things, make sure she doesn’t fly off the handle again.’

It had worked, in a perverse way. It made Heather determined to remain calm, to cope. She was not going to lose her temper or her reason again. Not if it meant Barbara Norris wrestling her into a straitjacket. So while her mother-in-law made the tea, Heather dragged herself upstairs, and checked through the bag she had ready packed. Nightdresses, dressing gown, slippers, brush, toilet bag, books – and baby clothes; some of Bibs’ old things, and some new. Like doll’s outfits. Once upon a time she would have gone gooey at the sight of the oh-so-cute little bonnets, bibs and babygros. Now she could only picture endless months of non-stop washing, and the washing machine was threatening to pack up.

‘Heather?’ Barbara appeared. ‘Now you don’t need to be bothering with that. We’ll sort out everything for you. I know just what a nursing mother needs.’

‘I’m already packed, Barbara. See? Totally prepared. Dib, dib, dib.’

‘Oh, good girl. Mind you, I’m sure I’ll think of something you’ve forgotten. One always does. Not to worry; we’ll be in to see you every day.’

‘I’m not in for a month, you know. It’s my second, so they’ll probably turf me out tomorrow.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, dear.’

‘They’re always short of beds.’

Barbara tutted. ‘We should have found a proper nursing home. You need time to rest. Believe me, I know.’

I know too, Heather swore to herself. She hated hospital, the smell, the lack of privacy, the discomfort, but hospital would mean having other people to take the baby, cook her meals, change her sheets; professionals, not interfering relatives trying to take over her home. As long as she was in hospital, she wouldn’t have to worry about checking on her father or buying the milk or doing Martin’s shirts or getting Bibs’ tea. She could just lie and do nothing. But since Barbara thought she needed a week of doing nothing, Heather was determined to be in and out in twenty-four hours, just to prove her wrong.

Martin had phoned the hospital and was wanting to move, to get her safely inside. Bibs, aware that something was happening, sat down and screamed in terror. On another day, Heather would have fought for the right to comfort him. Now she let Barbara take charge. It would keep her occupied.

‘Poor Bibsy Wibsy, is it all too much for you? But don’t worry, we still love you, oh yes we do. Granny will always love you, my special weshal boy.’

‘Go on, Bibs,’ prayed Heather silently. ‘Throw up on her.’ Ah. The pains again. Getting more frequent. Shit. She remembered what it was like, she’d said, but it wasn’t true. She had forgotten what a screaming torture it was. Get it over with, for Christ’s sake. Epidurals, gas, any damn thing. Somebody just put her under and prise the bloody thing out of her.

‘Come on,’ she said, as the cramp receded, and she could look at Martin’s anxious face without cursing. ‘Let’s go.’

He carried her bags to the car. Barbara stood with Bibs, making him wave as if, given the choice, he wouldn’t wave to his mummy.

‘Be good, won’t you,’ said Heather, kissing him before Martin shovelled her into the passenger seat. She delayed shutting the door, looking back at Barbara. ‘I’ve left a couple of meals in the freezer. If they need more than that…’

‘Oh good heavens, dear, you shouldn’t have bothered with that. I’m here. I’ll make sure they have proper meals, good home cooking. It will do them good for a change. Now off you go. Martin, you will phone, won’t you?’

‘You’ll bloody eat those casseroles I’ve left, whatever she tries to feed you,’ said Heather as they lurched out of the drive onto the street.

Martin laughed. ‘Scout’s honour.’

‘And you will go round and see Dad as soon as you can, won’t you? I know he probably won’t understand, but you’ve got to tell him.’

‘I’ll call straight there on my way home. Right, let’s hope there are no roadworks. Come on, come on!’ A bus had stopped in front of them and he was itching to squeeze past.

‘Martin, there’s no…’ She couldn’t finish. The pain pounced on her again.

He was sweating with terror. He would be there, when she gave birth, because it was expected these days; he could cope with that, but the thought of her going into labour in the car was panicking him. He was crunching the gears like a learner driver on his first lesson.

‘I’m all right,’ she assured him.

He wouldn’t believe it until he passed her into the care of the hospital staff.

Here she was again. First time round it had been huge, this event of events. She’d expected a fanfare of trumpets, every face in the hospital lighting up with awe at the thought of Heather Norris bringing a new life into the world. Surely the clouds were parting and crowds applauding.

That was then. Now there was no awe, no one to give a damn. Not even Heather herself.

The nurses who took charge of her joked among themselves, continuing conversations, barely registering her. She was one more parcel on the conveyor belt. A doctor was wheeled in, got her name wrong, inspected her like a prize cow. He watched dispassionately as the cramps took over again. At least the painkillers helped a bit, but as God was her witness, she was never ever going to go through this again.

Martin was no help. For an hour he got in the way, expecting instant fireworks, asking her if there was anything he could do.

‘Have a vasectomy,’ she ordered.

He winced. ‘Let’s just wait and see, eh.’

‘No. It’s an ultimatum. If you get me in the club again, I’m having an abortion.’

His wince turned into a full-blown grimace. Nerves and fear. He couldn’t tell if she were joking or going to explode again with all that resentment he couldn’t understand. ‘You do want it, don’t you, Heather? You were just kidding, that time. Weren’t you?’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, what does it matter what I want?’

She felt her body relax. It gave her space for sympathy. Poor boy, he couldn’t help being useless. ‘Look, Martin, it’s going to be ages yet. I tell you what we’ve forgotten. A teddy bear.’

‘Oh no, Mum’s bought one.’

‘No, I mean one from us. Just a nice squishy little bear. Nothing posh. I wanted to choose one but I never got round to it. You know I was eight hours with Bibs and you don’t want to be hanging round here that long. Can you choose one?’

‘Where?’

‘There are shops just round the corner. Choose a nice one.’

‘Right. A bear. Yes.’ Did he know he was being shunted away, out of her hair? Probably as anxious to escape as she was to have him go. What were fathers supposed to do for eight hours? Bring back the civilised days when they were just sent off to smoke or boil water.

The door had barely swung to behind him when the pain was back and she knew this was it.

‘Shit!’ She slammed the button summoning the nurse.

Abigail Laura Norris was born at half past five after a very quick and uncomplicated labour. Seven pounds five ounces and wailing even as she emerged. A gasping mew. Heather was vaguely aware of it, through the pain and the sweating and a raging fury she couldn’t understand and hoped no one else would notice.

‘There we are,’ said the nurse, presenting her with a raw red bundle with screwed up eyes. She had forgotten how small and ugly babies were. She dutifully had to hold it and feed it while they all looked on. What was she, an exhibit in a freak show?

‘What a pity Father missed it. Never mind, he’ll be so thrilled. Now let’s get you cleaned up and sorted out and off to a nice fresh bed.’ She was at the end of the conveyor belt. They wanted her out of the delivery room quick, and in with the next. She was wheeled to a side ward with five other mothers, three of them beaming as if they had fulfilled the divine purpose of the universe, one asleep, one muttering that she needed a fag. Maybe I could start smoking, Heather thought.

Martin turned up, with a blue bear, suitable squishy. He looked terrified and apologetic. ‘I missed it! Will you ever forgive me? I didn’t realise it would be so quick this time. There wasn’t anything local so I drove into town, to Woolworths. So sorry, Heather.’

‘Don’t worry, I was too doped up to notice. There she is then.’

Granted permission, he turned to the cot, drooling over his baby daughter. ‘She’s so beautiful. Isn’t she? Has your eyes. Oh God, she’s lovely.’

‘She’ll do. You’d best get home to Bibs, give him the good news. But make a big fuss of him. Say it’s a present for him. I don’t want him to be jealous.’

But Martin wouldn’t go at once. He had to go down to the foyer, phone Barbara, come back with flowers and chocolates and magazines, grinning as if he’d just won an Olympic gold.

‘God, look at her, an absolute cherub. I’ve phoned home, told Mum.’

‘Don’t forget my father.’

‘I won’t. Oh poor Heather.’ His attention was back to his wife for a moment. ‘I shouldn’t have gone. How was it? Really bad?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Absolute hell at the time, but the memory was already a blur. ‘I just feel a bit sore. And tired. I want to sleep for a week. You don’t mind, do you?’

Martin left and Heather slept. She woke in the middle of the night.

The gentle snoring and burbling of five other women and six babies, in the silence of a sleeping hospital. Distant clangs and soft feet in the corridor. Light, from outside, painting moving patterns on the ceiling. A twinge of deep depression. This was an alien place, and there she was, Heather Norris, forgotten, ignored, utterly alone.

Except for that one little fragment of humanity sleeping beside her. Her baby. Her one connection. Flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone, soul of her soul. Dependent on her.

She rolled over to study the little wrinkled face, and met a glimmer of blue eyes. Eyes without knowledge or fear, fixed on her, trusting. Eyes that knew her, that knew nothing but her.

She reached to ease the child out of her cot. ‘Now you mustn’t have baby in bed with you,’ the nurse would say, soon enough. But the nurse wasn’t here just now. No one was here. Heather was alone with her child.

‘Just us, Abigail Laura,’ she whispered, cuddling down with the child. ‘You and me and no one else. Us two against the whole bloody world. God, I love you.’

ii

Gillian

‘So where’s this wonderful baby then?’ Gillian’s younger sister Pam looked around vaguely, expecting a baby to materialise out of thin air. ‘I thought they’d have given you one by now.’

‘They’ve approved us, that’s all,’ said Gillian. A letter of approval and then silence. How much longer could she wake each morning with a burst of hope that grew weaker and weaker each day? ‘We’re waiting for the right baby to come along. It’s got to be right, for the baby and for us.’

‘Oh.’ Pam considered reaching for a biscuit but the tin was too far away and she couldn’t be bothered.

Without thinking, Gillian got up and passed it to her.

‘Ta. So you do get to choose then. I wouldn’t like not being able to choose. I mean, you don’t want a retard or something.’ Pam laughed in horror.

‘I don’t care if it’s handicapped.’ She meant it. A handicapped child would need her even more than a healthy one. She could feel her heart swelling at the thought of being needed forever.

‘Ugh.’ Pam grimaced.

‘You’ll want a boy,’ said Sandra, the eldest sister. She had been a dark pretty teenager, full of life, but at thirty-eight, she was every inch a second edition of Joan. Ironic, as she had spent her childhood screaming foul-mouthed defiance at Joan. ‘Don’t go for a girl. They’re nothing but bother and pregnant before you know it.’ She was qualified to talk. Bustled down the aisle at sixteen with hapless Dennis Taylor, because one had to in those days. Trevor had been born six weeks later. Now her daughter Sharon was expecting her second child, at seventeen. The girl had been left to run wild, to live her life on street corners, getting drunk on cheap lager. Talked about the pill as if she knew it all, but never actually did anything about it. Sandra had done nothing to guide her and she’d doubtless follow the same route with four-year-old Dana.

‘Ask me, they’re never going to give her a baby,’ said Joan, from the kitchen. She came through in a haze of smoke. ‘Too old, in’t she. Thirty-five? Looking for young mums, I reckon. Missed her chance.’

Gillian could feel tears prickling, not at her mother’s unfeeling brutality, but the probable truth. Thirty-five was the age limit with the adoption authority. She’d been warned when she and Terry first applied.

Pam looked at her with sympathy. ‘Well you won’t be missing much, you know. They’re just a fuss and a bother.’

‘Bleeding pain in the arse,’ agreed Sandra. ‘Never a moment to think of yourself. Count yourself lucky you’re out of it.’

‘I want a baby!’ Gillian’s nails bit into her palms. ‘Just because it’s been so easy for you, even when you didn’t want them.’ They looked at her with incomprehension and contempt. Of course they didn’t understand. Three Summers girls and only Gillian was truly capable of responsibility and love and caring. Why was she the only one denied the fulfilment they regarded as an irritation? Why was she condemned to this burning desperation?

She had always been the peacekeeper in the family, the good-humoured calming one, bowing to other people’s egos. Sandra had been the rebel. There were still dents in the plaster where she and Joan had thrown things at each other. Pam was the baby, with the curls and the sweet smile. Cared for and pampered as a child, cared for and pampered as a woman. She had never had to make decisions or take charge in her life and that was how she liked it. Gillian had always understood by instinct. Sandra was to be calmed and obeyed, Pam to be worshipped and comforted.

Gillian had done whatever was asked of her, without complaint mostly. Looking back now, she could see just how much she had sacrificed. She had done really well at school. Probably as eager to please her teachers as friends and family. While Sandra played truant and Pam allowed others to do her work for her, Gillian sat and listened and worked and sailed through her eleven plus.

‘That means you get to go to the girls’ grammar,’ said Aunty Doreen from next door, awestuck.

Joan, had laughed and said ‘You kidding? She doesn’t want to be stuck with that toffee-nosed lot.’

So Gillian had gone to Houghton Road Secondary Modern, like nearly everyone else on the Marley Farm estate, and she hadn’t complained. Sometimes, the memory of her mother’s laugh came back to her. If Gillian had put her foot down and claimed her right to grammar school, perhaps Joan would have given way. Not with a good grace certainly. With plenty of comments about hoity-toity and the sacrifices I have to make and you needn’t think I’m going to wait on you hand and foot just because you’ve gone all posh. But she would perhaps have given way, complained about the cost of the uniform and sniffed with contempt in case anyone thought she might actually be proud.

But it was pointless wondering, because Gillian hadn’t put her foot down. So she didn’t go to grammar school and become a teacher, which is what grammar school girls did. She went to Houghton Road Secondary Modern, and she passed her O levels in English and Maths and she took her commerce, shorthand and typing courses, and she got a secretarial job with the Gas Board, which was the acme of career success on Marley Farm Estate. A nice office job to see her through until she settled down to the proper business of a woman’s life, getting married and having babies.

She did it all. She qualified, she worked, at twenty-one she married Terry, a nice undemanding lad with a decent job at the car plant, and she prepared to embark on motherhood.

And the needle stuck.

Why? How could life be so spiteful? It was all she’d ever asked. For a year after her marriage she’d stayed on the pill, while they worked on putting a bit aside, sorting themselves out, thinking about a proper home, instead of the rented flat over the florist’s shop. Then they’d decided that now was as good a time as ever, and she’d come off the pill and waited for nature to take its course.

When nothing happened there was no great panic during the first year or even, really, during the second. Just a little uneasiness as time passed, as she lay awake in the early mornings, listening to Terry’s snores and trying to detect the faint flutter of nausea.

In their third year of trying, she was determined. There must be something simple they were doing wrong. She borrowed manuals, wrote to advice columns in magazines, she insisted on new daring positions which left Terry struggling between titillation and embarrassment. She kept thermometers in the bathroom and demanded performance by the calendar clock, her husband grumbling.

And still nothing. In the fourth year she consulted a doctor, although it took another year before she could persuade Terry to go too. Fertility treatment. Poking and prying, living like a lab rat, and more humiliations than she had ever believed she could endure, and still nothing. Their savings dwindled and Terry was sympathetic and irritated in turns. He wanted a child, she knew. He didn’t long to change nappies and attend parent’s evenings, but he liked the idea that he might pass on the mysteries of the internal combustion engine to another generation.

But Gillian wanted a child in a different way. It grew and grew within her like a cancer, devouring body and mind, until it seemed the only thing she had ever wanted. Her only purpose was to carry a child, to protect and nurture it and watch it grow into some fabulous bird of paradise that would finally spread its wings and fly. Little by little, her sense of failure passed through worry, frustration and anger into aching, all-consuming despair.

Despite that letter of approval, if a baby wasn’t available in the next few months, that door would close on her forever, and there would be nothing left except to die.

‘You have no idea what they cost,’ said Pam.

‘And do you?’

Pam wasn’t accustomed to being attacked. ‘A lot! Ask Dave.’

Joan nodded. ‘Eat you out of house and home. Want, want, want, that was all I ever got from you lot.’

‘Yeah, and want was all we ever got from you,’ said Sandra.

‘Worked my fucking arse off for you, I did. Not that I ever got a word of thanks. Where would you all have been without me, answer me that.’

‘In care and in bloody clover probably.’

Gillian put her tea down and left them to it. The washing was flapping out on the line, dry enough by now. Best to get it in before the skies opened.

Her mother and her sisters were terrible parents. What if it were inherited? All those months Gillian had spent trying to convince the powers that be that she would make a perfect mother. But what if she too were a failure, damned by the warped Summers genes? Should she withdraw? Warn the agency, for the sake of all children, to keep clear of her family?

For one bleak moment, she imagined it. ‘Claire, it’s wrong. This family isn’t fit to have a child.’

‘No!’ She shouted it loud, though her denial was muffled by the flapping sheets. She couldn’t do it. She wasn’t that noble. And she wasn’t Joan or Sandra or Pam. She was Gillian Wendle, a woman who wanted nothing but to be a mother. A good mother, if only they would give her a child.

‘Crazy cow,’ she heard Sandra laugh, back in the house. ‘Who the hell wants a bloody baby?’

iii

Lindy

‘Get that fat lump out of here, can’t you.’ Gary scowled at her. ‘Got people coming. Don’t want a great fat cow pushing herself in their faces.’ He groped in the cupboard for a fresh packet of cigarettes. ‘Look at that. Baked beans. Baby crap. Go get us some proper food. A pizza or something.’

‘Yes, Gary, all right.’ Lindy pulled her coat on without being asked twice.

Slumped at the table, Gary assessed her from head to foot. She wasn’t really a great fat cow. Too skinny by nature. If she walked right and let the big coat hang, you wouldn’t even notice the bump. ‘Watch yourself. Don’t want the whole world knowing that thing’s on its way. When is it due, anyway?’

She chewed her lip, like she was struggling to calculate. Dozy cow. ‘I dunno. A couple more weeks, I think.’

‘Okay. Just keep your head down. Couple of weeks, then we get rid of it, right?’

She looked at him, pleading. ‘It’s your baby, Gary.’

‘Like fuck it is.’

‘I swear.’

‘Well I don’t give a fuck, see. You stay with me – it goes. Got that, girl?’

She nodded.

‘So don’t go telling no one.’

‘What about a doctor or something?’

‘You don’t need a doctor. It’s natural, dropping a baby. Dogs and cats, they just do it, don’t they? Just do it and no one need know. Now clear out. And bring back some beer.’

‘Okay.’

Lindy knew she had to be out of the house while Gary did business, so there was no point in hurrying. No point in just trotting along to the local Spar and lifting a few cans and packets. Besides, she’d done it so many times now that Mr Patel was on the lookout for her. It would be better to go into town, the big department stores and the bustling shopping centre where no one would pay her any attention. She was a professional. She knew what to do.

Rain began to spot the pavement, gathering for a downpour. The voluminous coat was twice as heavy when it got soaked, and it took forever to dry in the damp flat. She was glad that she could slip into the shopping centre, where there was no rain or wind or sky. Always the same light, the same heat. Keep the customers focussed on the big glass windows. Boots, Debenhams, River Island, Next. It wasn’t such a great place for food though. The Kentucky Fried Chicken and the Donut parlour were no use to her, unless she fancied trying to lift a couple of dozen sugar sachets. She could imagine how Gary would react to that.

She paused a moment, inhaling the smell of fried chicken. Not a good idea. It made her feel hungry, and she couldn’t afford it. Forget it. There was a little Tesco’s at the far end. That would do. Busy aisles and easily diverted check-out girls.

It would be tricky because she didn’t have enough money to buy anything as cover. She’d had more cash, to be honest, when Gary was still inside. She’d been desperate for him to come back, to be her man, to take care of her, but now he never gave her any money, and he took her benefit, spent it all on fags. Still, she had him.

She plodded on. Wafted along by gentle skating muzak. People could skate here, the floor was that polished. Lindy had seen it being done. Working here for Greg, coming in through one of the unnoticed back doors beneath the multi-storey car park, in the dead of night, to join the cleaning crew, she had seen the polishers at work. No dirt and litter in the sanitised shopping centre.

She needed to sit down. It had been a long walk from Nelson Road, and she was feeling odd. Light-headed. Her back was breaking and her legs ached. She sat down on the island seats that were designed to be not too comfortable so the shoppers would be up and shopping again. Kept her coat clasped around her. A fat old woman sat down beside her, muttering at her disapprovingly for not being fat and old. Lindy wanted to give her lip. Wasn’t her fault she was young. But she couldn’t afford to get into a swearing match, because she had to keep her head down, Gary said, until the baby was born and they could dump it.

So after a minute she trailed on, leaving the fat old woman to spread herself. No rush to go round Tesco’s. Try her hand somewhere else first. Didn’t matter where. He could sell anything she nicked. Videos and records were good; there was HMV round the corner. Or here. Baby Garden, with its bright bubbly displays. Loads of stuff just asking for it. It didn’t matter what.

Not many fat old women in here. Mums with buggies or dragging toddlers, or mums-to-be in frilly maternity dresses, edging their bulges round the displays. Baby clothes, soft and pastel and bright. Jackets and playsuits and tiny little bootees. Cots and quilts and changing mats and bottles and dummies and teddy bears and cloth books, and women thumbing through them all like this was expected, like this was what a baby had to have.

Just as well she and Gary weren’t going to keep her baby, because she didn’t have nothing for it. She stood watching a woman choosing between two tiny jumpsuits, one striped, one with stars. What would Lindy do? Wrap hers in newspaper? Gary was right, it was a joke, her keeping it. Stupid.

These women paid good money for this stuff. It must be worth nicking. Lindy picked up a gift set. Plastic mug and bowl, two plates, knife, fork and spoon, all with dancing bears, in rigid plastic wrapping. She’d take this. And that tiny quilted coat with the fluffy hood. Must be worth a bit.

The manager was looking her way. Suspicious. She could play it canny, put down the gift set and the coat and pick up something else, those cloth alphabet bricks maybe, keep mooching, choosing, edging out of sight until the manager’s attention was drawn elsewhere. Then again, sometimes it worked just as well to play all innocent. Chin up, guileless, ‘Course I’ve paid, do I look like I’m shoplifting?’ That’s what she’d do now. She slipped the gift set and clothes inside her coat and walked boldly for the door.

She heard the hasty ‘Oi!’ of the store manager, barely a second before a man’s hand closed on her arm.

‘Excuse me, madam, I believe you have items there that you have not purchased.’ Polite preliminaries by rote. She looked up into his eyes and knew his courtesy had already run its course. No more of that ‘excuse me’ stuff for the likes of her. Big and burly, thick red neck, he was grinning with contempt, grabbing at the plastic packaging peeping from her coat. She fought him off, but he was stronger, dragging her back into the store.

‘Geroff me!’

‘Shoplifting. You’re not going anywhere, my girl.’

‘I ain’t nicked nuffing.’

‘What’s this then?’ Treating her like a rag doll, he pulled out the quilted coat.

‘They’re mine. I got them weeks ago.’

‘Oh yeah?’ He held them up to show the Baby Garden labels.

‘Can we take this through to the office, please, Mr. Gilbert.’ The manager joined them, nervous more than triumphant. She had spotted the probable shoplifting, but now they had an actual situation, a girl caught, an over-zealous security guard wanting to demonstrate his he-man qualities, she was just desperate to keep any unpleasantness from sullying her store. Customers were watching, uncomfortable and embarrassed, or tutting indignation.

The guard frogmarched Lindy through the store. ‘Okay, don’t you go making a fuss. Caught red-handed.’

The manager patted his arm, speaking softly to show him that shouting wasn’t a good idea. ‘Just come through to the office, please, and we’ll wait for the police there.’

‘Stop pushing me! You’re hurting me!’ It was true. Lindy was hurting. ‘I’m pregnant!’

‘Ha ha, I doubt that,’ said the guard with a lewd laugh. ‘I know how these girls operate. Bit of padding in the right place. She’s no more pregnant than I am. You see.’ He thrust Lindy at the manager, who raised her hands to ward her off.

‘I am, see!’ Lindy flung her coat open. A pair of gloves, still with its Debenhams label, flopped out of one of the inner pockets, but her bump was evident. Painfully real on her thin frame.

‘Then you should be thinking about your baby,’ said a woman, prim cow. ‘What sort of example are you going to set? Not fit to be a mother.’

‘I just want stuff for my baby!’ said Lindy hotly. Facing the hostility of the world was normal. She was born to be bruised and to fight back if she had to. ‘I want stuff just like you and I ain’t got no money, so there.’

‘Yes, well, I’m sorry,’ said the manager, ushering her on. ‘I’m very sorry.’ She sounded as if, left to her own devices, she would mean it. ‘But that can’t excuse shoplifting. We have a very strict prosecution policy; there’s nothing I can do about it. You’ll just have to tell your story to the police, when they get here.’ She was breathing deeply. Why weren’t the police here already, to relieve her of this embarrassment?

In the meantime, she needed Lindy out of sight, and Lindy knew it. The manager didn’t want a pregnant woman kicking and screaming and making a scene.

‘I ain’t going no-where. Don’t push me!’ She could play hurt easily, because she was hurting. ‘You shouldn’t shove a pregnant woman.’

‘Oh dear.’ Another customer stepped forward, looking anxiously at Lindy, then down at the floor. ‘I think she’s a wee bit wet.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said the manager, wincing in disgust.

‘I think, maybe, her waters have broken,’ said the customer.

Lindy watched the manager’s jaw drop. ‘Oh, Christ.’

All different then. Suddenly, she wasn’t a sneaky little shoplifter. She was a helpless little mum-to-be, in need of urgent attention.

‘Poor thing, she’s only a child herself.’

‘Are you with anyone, dear? Is there someone we can get for you?’

‘Is there a doctor in the centre?’

‘Hadn’t you better call for an ambulance? She should be in hospital.’

‘Ambulance.’ The manager was hovering, hapless. ‘Oh God, yes. Of course, I’ll phone.’

‘Here you are.’ An assistant brought a chair. ‘You sit down, dear. Someone will be along soon.’

‘Best get the weight off your feet, eh?’ It was the security guard, who told her he had a daughter who had just given birth. Funny what this business did to people, however threatening they had been before.

Everyone except Gary. He’d warned her to keep her head down.

There was nothing she could do about that now. They’d sent for an ambulance, and she was glad, because the pain wasn’t easy like dogs and cats, whatever Gary said. It was real and Lindy was frightened. Terrified. This was all wrong and upside down and Gary would be mad, but what could she do?

Ambulance men appeared at the door of the shop, and a dozen eager shoppers directed them to Lindy.

‘All right, love? Nothing to worry about. We’ll have you in hospital in no time.’

The manager was on the phone, talking to head office, taking orders. A woman shoplifting was one thing. A woman giving birth was another. The Baby Garden chain had fourteen shops and the owners wanted their share of the Mothercare market. Right handling, right publicity, who knew how this could work out? The manager put the phone down, still nodding agreement, and raised a hand to the ambulance men, telling them she was going to attend to them as soon as she’d spoken with her assistants.

‘So what’s your name then?’ asked one of the ambulance men, squatting down by Lindy.

‘Lindy. Lindy Crowe.’

‘All right then, Lindy. So how often are the pains coming?’

She looked at him helplessly. How often?

‘I think she’s got a while to go yet,’ confided one of the spectators, who saw herself as an expert. ‘But you can never tell, can you.’

‘Well, we’ll get you into hospital and the docs can have a good look at you, eh?’

How could she argue with them? She couldn’t run away. As she was escorted out, the manager and her assistants stood at the door, like the three kings at the manger. Offering carrier bags bulging with Pampers, bonnets, bootees and babygros.

‘Got to give Baby something to be getting on with,’ said the manager, trying a tentative smile. ‘Baby Garden believes that every child deserves a decent start in life.’

Lindy clutched the bags. She felt the softness of wool and towelling. She didn’t know how to respond. She’d come to steal, hadn’t she? And they had given her all this. So she’d got away with it. Was that how Gary would see it?

She didn’t want to think about Gary. This was stuff for her baby, just like a proper mum would have. And she was going into hospital, just like mums did.

Lyford and Stapledon General. She had been here once before. One of Gary’s friends had been in with an overdose last year, and she’d come to see him, because Gary wanted to make sure Pete wasn’t saying nothing about where he’d got the stuff. She hadn’t liked it then, too official, too full of people in uniform. Too many horrible smells, too much sickness and death. Pete was out of his head and she’d never liked him anyway.

It was different now. People were fussing round her, being nice to her. Nice but firm. When she’d been in care, firm sent her running. But now it was a relief. Nothing she could do, whatever Gary wanted.

‘Now then, dear, let’s have your details,’ said the nurse who seemed to have taken charge of her. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Lindy Crowe.’

‘Lindy. Is that Linda?’ As she wrote, the nurse checked Linda’s hands, her fingers – no ring.

‘Rosalind.’

‘Oh what a pretty name. And your address.’

They wanted everything, her date of birth, her place of birth, her doctor. Wouldn’t believe she didn’t have one. Hadn’t she had any medical check-ups while she was pregnant? No clinic? Nothing at all since she’d been at the home down in Barking? Who were her parents? Long gone. Mum dead, dad in gaol. Next of kin? Brother Jimmy, she supposed, but she hadn’t seen him for eight years. Probably banged up too by now. She was too scared to name Gary; he wouldn’t like it. But she’d given her address in Nelson Road so maybe they’d find him anyway. She should have said 28. That way, if they did track her down, she could say it was a mistake. 28 instead 128. Too late now. She wasn’t thinking straight because of the pain.

And then there was so much pain she didn’t want to answer any more questions, and she didn’t want to be here, with all these strangers, people in white coats, people with forms to fill in. No one was telling her that she shouldn’t be here, and that was scary. But the pain was scary too and she just wanted it to end.

‘Breathe,’ the nurse said, panting at her. ‘Like this. Don’t push.’

And then, ‘Push. That’s right, push. Good girl, keep pushing.’ She thought she was being ripped open, ripped in two, and soon she would be dead and she didn’t care.

But then it all drained away, all the pain and the pressure drifting off in a blur. She was floating, and there was something on her face. Floating.

A hand on her brow, fingers on her wrist. ‘She’s all right now, aren’t you, Mrs Crowe.’

Was she? The huge pain had gone. No, not all right. Something was missing. She was too groggy to think, but something was missing. Something vital taken away.

Then she heard it, the faint wail, and her eyes began to focus again. She fixed on the little wrapped bundle they were holding out to her. The baby. Her baby. Rosalind Crowe’s baby, her family, her everything. She reached out.

‘A little girl. A teensy bit underweight, but not too bad, all things considered. See? You’ve done all right. Now would you like to feed her?’

They wanted to help. They wanted her to breastfeed. She wasn’t sure about that. Didn’t seem natural. She’d fed babies before. Angie’s baby, with a bottle. This wasn’t right, this tit stuff. Not with all of them watching.

‘Maybe you’d feel better with a bottle? Just for now.’

Then she was all right, even if one of the nurses looked at her like she was a lump of shit. This was what she wanted, to be here, all alone with her baby, feeding her, cradling her. Her little girl.

‘Have you got a name for her?’

Lindy looked into the hungry blue eyes. No reason. It just came to her. ‘Kelly,’ she said.