Little Wing by Joanne Horniman Page B

giving her a small allowance. She hadn’t wanted their money, and hadn’t looked in her account for ages.
    In a chainstore she flicked through racks of babies’ clothes: impossibly small jumpsuits covered with teddy bears or plain ones in pink, yellow, blue or white. Then there were slightly larger clothes in brighter colours – dark blue and red, or bright green. And bigger clothes still – little sundresses with ruffled hems, or baby-sized cargo pants. A feeling of panic gripped her, and she wiped a tear from her eye as she pushed her way out of the shop. She had absolutely no idea what size her baby would be now, or what would be suitable to get her. She didn’t even know of a way to even begin imagining it.
    In a toyshop, she looked at blocks and musical trains and various dolls and toy animals and remote-control cars, and everything seemed increasingly unreal to her. What should she buy? Anything was suitable. Nothing was. Again, she walked out.
    She was in an enclosed shopping centre and the walkways were crowded and confused. Voices and music assaulted her on all sides. Above it all she heard the high, piping sound of a bird. She thought at first that it was a part of the recorded music, but when she looked up she saw a sparrow perched on one of the lights. She watched as it took off, streaking swiftly under the ceiling, looking for a way out. Unsuccessful, it returned the way it had come, and sat on top of the light again.
    Emily made her way to the toilets, where she sat hunched in a cubicle, staring at her feet. She tore a piece of toilet paper from the roll and used it to mop her eyes and blow her nose. The rough paper scratched her skin, and she searched in her pockets for a tissue, but found none.
    She flushed the toilet and emerged to wash her hands. Wadded-up tissue paper clogged the basin, and swirled dismally as she ran the tap. ‘I hate you!’ yelled a child from one of the cubicles. ‘I hate you and I want my mum! I’ll tell her how you smacked me.’ Emily leaned against the basin and took a deep breath. She wiped her hands quickly on her pants and pushed her way through the door.
    Out on the walkway again, she heard the plaintive sound of the bird, high above the voices and music. Emily felt dizzy. She looked for a way out.
    She felt lost and helpless. Apart from not being able to picture her baby, she realised that she didn’t even know what day of the week it was – or what month. She tried to think of what town she was in, and again drew a blank. It was as though she had lost a part of her mind. She existed in a world where time and place meant nothing. And she was nothing.
    She stumbled through the shopping centre until finally she came to a huge plate-glass door that opened wide as she approached. She made her escape, and her feet took her back to Charlotte’s place.
    There she crawled into bed. It was a warm day, but Emily pulled the cover up over her head, and kept her hands up sheltering the front of her face, and cried.
    She heard the back door slam, and Charlotte moving around in the kitchen. Then she sensed someone at the door of the room.
    â€˜Emily?’
    The side of the mattress dipped.
    â€˜Emily . . . are you in there?’
    Emily sniffed the tears into the back of her throat.
    A hand reached out and pulled the cover gently away from her face. Emily turned.
    â€˜Hey, what’s the matter?’
    â€˜I’m having a really bad day . . .’
    And then it all came out – about not knowing what to buy the baby for Christmas because of not knowing how big she’d be, down to the way her mind had even lost the basic knowledge of what day it was.
    â€˜And do you think you know what day it is now?’
    Emily swallowed some mucus. ‘Tuesday?’ she asked apprehensively. Charlotte smiled. ‘Correct. Come out to the kitchen and I’ll get you a drink.’
    When Emily sat huddled at the table with a glass