CHAPTER TEN

October 11th

Lainey was waiting for her the next time she got the bus into Ashton. As the bus turned into the bus station Mia glimpsed her hovering by the flower shop, and then when she walked down the precinct Lainey was at the same spot as before. She had on a red jumper today, hand-knitted, like something from a charity shop, and old-fashioned leggings. Mia waved.

‘You’re late. Seven days late.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t say I’d be here. I can’t come in every day. Where do you live then?’

Lainey shrugged. ‘My house.’

‘Don’t you ever go to school?’

Lainey pulled a face. ‘Stop asking me questions.’

‘OK. Sorry. Are you hungry? I just thought – well – it’s cold. We could go to a cafe.’

‘If you want.’

‘I’ll pay. I’ve got money from my dad today.’

They perched on stools in the covered market cafe. Mia ordered hot chocolates and a bacon sandwich for Lainey. The little girl looked tiny, legs dangling from the high stool. She shouldn’t be out on the streets like this. It wasn’t safe. Close up, her face looked older than Mia remembered.

‘How old are you, Lainey?’ Then she remembered about the questions. ‘Sorry.’

‘My turn.’

‘OK.’

‘When are you having your baby?’

‘Oh.’ Mia’s voice came out small and scared. ‘I’m… not.’

‘Why not?’

Mia buried her face behind a curtain of hair. ‘I can’t,’ she mumbled.

‘Why not?’

Mia was silent.

‘But you said. You said you were having a baby? How can you not have it then?’ Lainey was persistent. ‘Where will it go? Will you give it away?’

‘You go to hospital. They take it away.’

Lainey looked confused. ‘And then where does it go?’

‘Shut up, can’t you?’

Lainey waited just a few minutes. She swung her legs against the wooden stool and hummed. Then she started up again. ‘Won’t it be sad, the baby?’

‘It’s not a baby yet. It’s just a sort of blob. It doesn’t feel anything.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Shut up!’ Mia snapped.

She sipped the hot chocolate. It was sweet and comforting.

They sat in silence together for a while. Lainey huddled over the counter top, her fair hair tangled over her arms. Eventually she looked up at Mia.

‘My baby’s sick,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring him next time to show you.’

‘You can’t do that, Lainey. Not on your own.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re not old enough. It’s not your baby anyway.’

Lainey wouldn’t speak after that. She didn’t drink her hot chocolate or eat her bacon sandwich. In the end, Mia had both. She was starving. She watched Lainey slide off the stool and go and stand at the jewellery stall where a woman was choosing earrings. She called out to her.

‘Lainey? I need the loo. Wait here. I won’t be long.’

But Lainey had disappeared by the time she got back. Mia wandered around the town for a while, looking for her. She went over the bridge and along the river path, then back to the precinct and the high street, but there was no sign of Lainey. It began to rain, cold, slanting arrows of wet that pierced her thin jacket and turned her hair into rat’s tails. She still had the shopping to get.

Until this September it had always been Kate’s job. She liked cooking; Mia didn’t. This morning, before he left for work, Dad had opened the fridge and the kitchen cupboards and issued instructions to Mia, sitting at the kitchen table with the list. ‘Pasta, baked beans, eggs, bacon, wholemeal bread, digestive biscuits, cheese, potatoes –’ and Mia had added her own things: oranges, grapefruit, plums, grapes, chocolate. In the end they decided the list was too long and Dad said he’d go to the supermarket after work with the car, but he still gave Mia twenty pounds, just for a bit of fruit and vegetables and bread. He’d gone soft about money the last few days. And softer with her too. Treating her like she was made of glass or something. At supper he’d tried to tell her about when Mum was pregnant with Mia. ‘Sick as a parrot. Not just in the mornings either. Exhausted. Couldn’t manage the girls. Or cooking, shopping. Nothing.’

‘Shut up, Dad.’

He’d looked hurt. Stupid man. Didn’t he understand anything?

He ate the rest of his dinner without talking, except to ask her to pass things. Pepper. Tomato ketchup.

Mia didn’t want to hear him talk like that about Mum. He made her feel worse. Like Mum hadn’t wanted her even then, before she was born. Or maybe it was Dad? Or both? Maybe she’d just been an accident? And it was the last straw, and six years later Mum had finally had enough.

Mia stopped on the wet pavement for a moment. Instinctively, her hands clutched protectively over her own belly. I’m sorry. Not out loud, but inside her head she spoke her first words to the little blob growing inside. Sorry, little bean. That was how she imagined it. A small bean nestled in a silk-lined pod. Like the broad beans Dad used to grow when she was little. Fat green pods sprouting off a straight stem. The flowers like black and white moths. You slit the pod to find the row of bright green beans snug in the white furred lining. Plucked them out.