The Hours Before Dawn by Celia Fremlin

putting him firmly in the cot andleaving him to it; something in the quality of the yells now told her that they would exhaust themselves in ten minutes or so. But ten minutes would be quite enough to rouse the household; there was nothing for it but to set off down the stairs once more.
    She reached her uninviting destination, and sat down again on the chair by the sink. As she settled her feet against the mangle and leaned her head against the draining-board in the now familiar position, she felt for a moment that she was settling right back into the nightmare; as if it was waiting there, to go on for her exactly where it had left off.
    But Louise knew the cure for this. She had only to shift her position a little, and the nightmare would shift too. As if it could only catch the people who were in one particular attitude ; and now it must depart frustrated, and hover over the towns and cities of the world – waiting – watching – peering – until at last it found another woman with her feet propped against another mangle, her head resting on another draining-board . And perhaps that woman, too, would not have washed up the supper last night; she too would have the smell of stale tea-leaves in her nostrils, would see the stacks of dirty saucepans looming at her in the darkness, huge, like towers, like lumpish, shapeless bodies, with little gleaming eyes where the street lamp caught the curve of the enamel. Brown eyes of course, the saucepans were brown; it was only common-sense that their eyes would be brown, too. Green saucepans would have had green eyes. Brown eyes, so brilliant and so hard. Enamel eyes, with all the hatred of all the earth mirrored in them….
    But this time, as the face approached, Louise knew it was only a dream. She tried to cry out, to wake herself. She even knew that Michael was in her arms, and she clutched him more tightly to protect him from the nightmare. Closer came the face, and closer; and Louise saw now that the malignant eyeswere filled with tears; the face was stupid with grief, sobbing, crying; and the tears poured down in great swollen streams. Suddenly the twisted mouth opened. ‘Don’t make me laugh!’ it shrieked; and again, in rising agony, ‘ Don’t make me laugh! ’ And a moment later it was laughing, showing great teeth, pointed as nails – teeth set wide apart, like bars…. And louder came the senseless laughter – louder – louder – until it seemed to fill the room….
    *
    ‘For God’s sake, Louise, what the devil are you doing down here? What’s happened?’
    Mark’s voice was loud and anxious, raised above the crying of his son, as he stood at the scullery door in his pyjamas. Louise blinked in bewilderment. For a moment she could only stare at the scullery window, barred by some careful previous tenant against burglars. The bars stood silhouetted against the dawn sky, and Louise said stupidly: ‘They’re just like the teeth. That’s what must have made me dream about the teeth.’
    Mark stepped forward and shook her roughly by the shoulder. ‘Wake up!’ he cried, his voice sharp with anxiety. ‘Wake up! Come back to bed! What is all this?’
    Louise fumbled hastily for her returning senses.
    ‘Baby was crying,’ she explained. ‘I had to bring him down or he’d wake everyone up. I’ve been bringing him here for several nights now. Not to wake everyone up.’
    Mark pulled her to her feet, anxiety, as often happens, making him lose his temper.
    ‘You’re killing yourself over that damn brat!’ he exploded, steering her across the kitchen and out into the hall. ‘We never ought to have had him! I told you from the start that two was enough—’
    Louise didn’t answer. She was too dazed to listen properly; too dazed even to talk sense herself, for she heard herself saying,mechanically: ‘Harriet, get back into bed!’ Why had she said that? Had she heard a movement from upstairs? – Footsteps? Too tired to explain it, too tired even to think