with the heartfelt thanks, are more than my bruised emotions can handle right now.
‘Are you alright?’ says Hannah’s mother. She must now notice the nappies bulging in the thin carrier bag because she bursts out with, ‘You’ve not had … a baby?’
This is it. This is the moment to tell them.
But I can’t do it. I can’t risk harm coming to that innocent child because I’m not brave or strong enough to help him. I’m all that little boy has right now. I take a small breath in before speaking again.
‘No, dear me, no!’ My attempt to sound chirpy and friendly comes across as shrill and deranged now. ‘But my, er … my … friend is staying. In fact, I’d better get back! It’s been so good to see you, Hannah! And you too, Mrs …’ but it’s no good, the surname has gone again, ‘and you too.’
I hurry across the forecourt before either of them have the chance to detain me any longer, feeling their curious eyes on me as I go. They must be wondering where the hell my car is too.
I know I’ve come across as a total fruitcake, but I have no time to worry about that now. Two damaged, possibly violent people are currently in charge of a tiny, innocent life. At their very best, they are rough and incompetent, even if they aren’t about to inflict any deliberate damage. Heaven knows how they are coping with the screaming, which must surely be getting worse as hunger bites deeper. All the very worst stories about child cruelty on the news tickertape through my mind now; babies with burns, babies with tiny broken limbs, babies in bins …
I start to run.
My breath is tight in my chest and my skin bathed in sweat in the muggy air as I get to the roundabout and negotiate my way back to Four Hays. Carl bobs into my head and I picture him running alongside me with precise, economic strides. It does not help.
And now my stupid, stupid brain is unhelpfully filing another thought: Ian jogging alongside Sam the first time Sam rode his bike without stabilizers at the bottom of this road. Why think of that now, for God’s sake? But I can see it so clearly; the pale pink blossom from the apple tree in our garden blowing in the breeze like confetti, Sam’s delighted shrieks of, ‘Look at me! Look at me, Daddy!’ The shared look of love between Ian and me. The memory has a honeyed, golden glow. It’s pleasure and pain all mixed together and I cling to it as I slow down.
My knees ache and I can’t get my breath, so I stop and walk; small, panicked sobs punctuating my gasps as I struggle to fill my unfit lungs with air.
It feels like someone has played a terrible joke and made my road, so familiar I notice the tiniest change in vegetation over the seasons, twice as long as usual. But at last I see the lights of my home and force a last surge of energy to get myself to the back door, where I hammer the flat of my hand against the wood, almost doubled-over with exhaustion.
The door flies open and Angel stands there, looking down at me.
‘Took your time,’ she snaps, eyes flashing with fury.
The first thing I notice when I come inside is that the baby has stopped crying. Is this a good thing or very bad indeed? The radio that lives by the sink is playing some sort of generic pop.
Lucas is not in the kitchen. I see the baby lying on the makeshift mat on the table, fast asleep, arms at right angles by his head. His tiny ribcage is rising and sucking inwards in that speeded-up way of the very young. It unnerved us so much when Ian and I were new parents.
Suddenly wrung out, I place the milk and nappies onto one of the kitchen surfaces. Then I lean my hands against the cool granite and try to catch my breath.
‘Why were you so long?’ Angel’s voice is whingey, behind me. ‘You were fucking ages. We were starting to think …’
‘I’m sorry, but there was a queue and then …’ I pause, ‘it just took longer than I expected, that’s all.’ I had been this close to saying I’d run into someone I know, but I’m sure that would be a mistake. I must try and appear calm in the hope that they will follow my lead and not do anything stupid.
‘Well, it felt like forever.’ Angel’s voice is quiet. ‘We had to put the radio on to stop it screaming. Thought you were never coming back.’
This seems to be entirely at odds with the calm scene before me and I shoot a look at her. But her head is down again, eyes plugged into the screen of her phone.
It looks as though Angel has been raiding the fridge in my absence, judging by the mess of bread, cheese, houmous and ham at the other end of the table. A knife has fallen out of the houmous and left a slick smear on the surface.
Angel licks her fingers and stares back at me.
I turn away, realizing I will have to sterilize the bottle all over again to feed the baby. I’d forgotten what a faff it is, feeding infants. But thank God for the milk.
I go to the kettle and switch it on. It’s all so long ago, when I could do this stuff in my sleep. More or less did, sometimes.
The radio burbles on in the background. It is a local station; one which Sam likes because one of the morning DJs makes him laugh. I get a sudden, vivid mental picture of my son shovelling in Weetabix and giggling like a maniac at the kind of high jinx I find irritating first thing in the day. This sends a spasm of pain through me and I think, At least he’s not here. It’s some small comfort.
Lucas coughs, from the sitting room, I think, and we both glance in that direction. Angel’s expression is soft, but there’s something else there too. Fear? It’s hard to tell.
‘You’re very close, aren’t you?’ I say gently. Angel’s gaze snaps back to me, suspicion tightening her face again. ‘I mean, you’re lucky,’ I add quickly. ‘Lucky to have that relationship.’
Angel gives a bitter laugh then her face becomes serious again as though mulling these words over more carefully.
I press on. ‘Not all siblings are like that, you know. I have nothing in common with my brother at all.’
This is true. Steve is a successful insurance broker who lives in a virtual mansion in Wimbledon. He has a long-term girlfriend called Clare, who always looks as though she has a bad smell under her nose. We only meet at Christmas at Dad’s place in Yorkshire, or at family weddings. I don’t think about him much in my everyday life.
At first it seems that Angel is not going to reply but then she finally responds.
‘Had to be,’ she says quietly. ‘No one else to look out for us.’
Wondering how far I dare go with this, I lean back against the sink and regard Angel, who has a faraway look.
‘What about your mum and dad?’ I say, after a moment. I immediately think I’ve blown it because Angel looks at me with narrowed eyes. Then she sighs deeply and yawns unselfconsciously, revealing surprisingly white teeth.
‘You don’t
