The Hours Before Dawn by Celia Fremlin Page A

about it, she crept into bed, leaving Mark to put Michael back into his cot. He wouldn’t cry any more now that the dawn had broken. With the first shrill stirrings of the birds Michael always fell into a deep and tranquil sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I t was thoughtful of Mark to switch off the alarm so that Louise should have an extra hour’s sleep after such a night. It was thoughtful of him, too, to get his own breakfast and to bring her a cup of tea when he left for work at half past eight. The only trouble was that by half past eight the girls also should have had their breakfast; should, indeed, have been almost ready for school instead of lying peacefully in their beds reading comics. Thus it happened that Louise was able to produce only the thinnest pretence of gratitude for all these attentions; and as she leapt out of bed and dashed into the girls’ room, leaving her tea half slopped into its saucer, she knew very well that Mark’s feelings must have been hurt. If only there was more time! Hurting someone’s feelings was so often the quickest thing to do – the shortest route from one task to the next.
    She knew, too, as she hustled the girls from their beds, that she was defeating her own purpose by all this hurrying. Harriet, perhaps, would stand up to it – would get herself sketchily dressed and then stuff herself with bread-and-butter in time to set off at ten to nine and run all the way to school. But Margery! Heaven help those who tried to hurry Margery. Even as she scolded, Louise knew exactly how it was going to be.With every exhortation from her, Margery would grow more exasperatingly slow and clumsy. Bit by bit she would become incapable of buttoning her dress – of finding her socks – even of putting on her shoes … and finally she would be sitting on the floor in floods of hopeless tears. Precious minutes, and even more precious self-control, would then have to be expended on comforting her, and then everything would have to be started again from the beginning. And, of course, there hadn’t been time to give Michael his orange juice, or change him, or anything ; his yells mingled with Margery’s tears and with Louise’s more and more strident instructions. And just at this point Miss Brandon had to appear on the stairs, neatly dressed and ready for school. She stood for a moment hesitating, as if about to intervene – whether with criticism or an offer of help Louise could not tell. Nor could she tell which of the two would have infuriated her most, and so it was well that Miss Brandon thought better of it and went on her way down the stairs.
    It ended, of course, in Louise dressing Margery herself, as if she was a baby, and then running with her all the way to the school gates, pulling her by the hand and scolding. All the time she knew exactly what she looked like. No lipstick; hair scarcely combed; the shapeless old coat failing to hide her overall as she ran. She knew how she sounded, too, her voice shrill and ugly as she hustled along the dragging, tearful child. So many mothers just like this had she watched and despised; so many children just like this had she pitied as they took the brunt of their mothers’ late-rising and mismanagement. And the more clearly she saw the picture, the more infuriating became Margery’s sniffs and stumbles. By the time they reached the school gates she could joyfully have driven the child inside with a resounding slap.
    And after all this, here was Margery kissing her goodbye. Kissing her wetly, passionately; hugging her as if in boundlessgratitude. Had the little girl really not noticed that all the scolding and misery she had suffered that morning had been entirely her mother’s fault? Or, noticing, had she so quickly forgiven? Or was the whole question of no importance to her – a mere ripple on the surface of that deep pool of self-absorption in which all lives begin?
    Louise returned the little girl’s kisses, and no longer felt ashamed of