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‘All right, Jakey,' she says. ‘Mummy's here.' She's stung by Rod's sarcastic look.

‘So, will you fetch Seth now?' Rod says.

Dodie holds her breath, but Hannah opens her hands, helplessly. ‘I don't know how to tell you this,' she says, ‘but he's gone.'

‘
Gone?
' Dodie and Rod say together.

‘Decided it's not for him. There was some confusion. I think Martha might have told him you'd gone.'

‘Why would she have said that?' Dodie has to take a deep breath against a sudden swimminess in her head. ‘He's gone
home
?' she says. ‘Back to the UK?'

‘I reckon so.'

‘I must go then. Now.'

Rod puffs out his breath and shakes his head at Dodie. All this for nothing then, says his expression, and Hannah's got her snarky face on.

‘No, I don't believe you,' Dodie says. ‘He
wouldn't.
He wouldn't do that, would he, Rod? He wouldn't hold out on me all this time and then go!'

Rod looks at her witheringly. ‘Don't ask me.'

‘But he wouldn't!'

‘Well, he has,' Hannah says, with a little shrug. ‘It's Martha's fault.'

‘Can I talk to Martha?'

‘She's busy. She'd only tell you the same thing.' Hannah speaks to her but smiles at Rod, almost flirtatiously, almost deferentially. Because he's a man. He does seem very masculine here, out of kilter with the floral fussiness: wild, leathery, tobaccoey. There's a silence. Rod looks at Dodie again, shaking his head at her waste of time, her folly, the folly of the world.

‘I'll be off then,' he says.

‘No.' Her voice comes out almost like a wail, but he stands anyway. ‘Wait, I'll come with you.'

‘Got a cab waiting, and . . .' There's an odd flicker in his
eyes. She stares at him, not believing. Surely he hasn't got another woman with him?

‘I'll take you out,' Hannah says.

Dodie tries to get up, but with the weight of Jake clamped around her she overbalances.

‘See you,' Rod says. He leans over and briefly kisses her on the mouth.

‘Have you . . .' she begins. ‘Is there . . .'

‘Bye, Jake,' says Rod.

‘Is it
her
?'

‘Look after Littl'un,' he says.

‘Wait.'

But Hannah opens the door, almost rushes him out. He lifts his hand in a kind of salute. ‘See you,' he says.

‘Keep in' – she says, and the door shuts, leaving her alone with Jake – ‘touch.' She frowns at the door. Did she imagine that? Did she read too much into that hesitation? He wouldn't have someone else already. Would he? Or is she getting paranoid? If only Jake could talk properly, he would tell her. She sniffs his hair again, searching for a trace of perfume or other female smell. And
Seth
. Gone? But . . . her mind is exhausted, thoughts blowing round like rubbish at a blustery corner.

But at least if Seth has gone it means that she can leave.

Jake clambers down from her lap and goes to the door. And after all, he is what is important. She focuses on him. Her baby, real and live and
here
. His walking is steadier, he does look taller, chunkier, older. Can he really have grown so much in . . . how long? It's only been a couple of weeks. Hasn't it? ‘Dadda?' he says.

‘Daddy's gone,' she says. ‘Gone,' she says again. Jake stands and stares at her, fingers in his mouth, the bib of his dungarees dark with dribble. Dodie smiles. ‘Mummy's here though.' He continues to stare, his eyes so round and clear, reading, reading; she feels almost shy, shy of her own child's scrutiny. But Seth gone? And Martha telling him she'd gone and sending him away. She can't believe that of Martha. Martha was always on her side.

‘Come and drink your juice,' she says. Jake stands beside her and she holds the cup against his mouth, and some of it spills, further wetting his clothes; he needs a bib, at home he always wears a bib, such a dribbler, but of course Rod wouldn't think to put a bib on him. She can't think what to say. This is ridiculous.

‘Incy Wincy Spider,' she begins, wiggling her fingers, ‘climbed up the spout.' Jake laughs, knocks over the rest of the juice. Hannah comes back with Daniel. He blinks at her and smiles.

‘Hi,' Dodie says.

‘This is Jacob,' Hannah says.

‘Just Jake,' Dodie says.

‘Jake,' Daniel says. ‘Hi there.'

‘
When
did Seth go?' Dodie asks Hannah. ‘Can I see Martha?'

Daniel flaps his hands at Jake but he hides his face against Dodie now and she puts her hand protectively on his silky head. She's mother again now, she's safety.

‘I want to speak to Martha.'

‘Sure,' Hannah says.

Daniel dimples and his eyes shine. The way he's looking at Hannah you'd think he was in love.

Dodie presses her face into Jake's hair. She's holding him too tight now; he starts to wriggle. Why are they both looking like that, both of them now, gazing so greedily at Jake?

‘Can you call me a taxi?' she says. ‘I need to change his nappy. I need to see Martha. No, I just need my clothes, my bag . . .'

She could maybe catch up with Rod at the airport, she thinks, if she goes now. Can Jake feel the punching of her heart?

‘Take him,' Hannah says, and Daniel comes forward, arms outstretched.

‘No!' Dodie tightens her arms.

‘It's OK,' Hannah says, ‘don't get hysterical. Daniel will get him cleaned up, give him his tea, while you get ready to go.'

‘No. He's OK with me. I'll change him. Just bring me the stuff. Call me a taxi.'

‘That's how it's going to be,' Hannah says.

‘No it's not.' Despite herself, her voice rises. But must not scare Jake, must not. ‘Can you fetch Martha?'

Hannah shakes her head. ‘Martha is busy right now, and you're not thinking straight. Look at you. Jake needs changing, needs to be fed. Daniel will get him sorted while we get your things. You want to change, don't you? You need your tickets. You need your money.'

Dodie's arms tighten and Jake struggles to get away from her. ‘It's OK, Jake,' she says, but her voice sounds anything but OK and she
is
frightening him.

‘Look at the state you're in,' Hannah says. ‘Let me take Jacob.'

‘No.'

Hannah tries to lifts him from Dodie's arms and she holds on; but Hannah pulls hard and he starts to cry. She can't play tug-of-war with him. ‘It's
Jake
,' she says weakly, letting go, but standing up, standing close.

‘Mumma.' Jake kicks against Hannah's thighs with his little trainers, and reaches out for Dodie.

‘Hey, little fella,' Hannah says. ‘He's leaking,' she adds and she's right, there's a reek of ammonia and a patch of wet ness left on Dodie's trousers. He'll be getting nappy rash.

‘Give him to me,' Dodie says, but Hannah hands him to Daniel instead, and wipes her hands down her sides.

‘Why don't I?' Dodie tries to take him from Daniel, but Hannah grabs her arms, holds them tight behind her back. ‘Take him,' she says, and before Dodie can believe what's happening, Daniel has gone and the door's banged shut behind him. Jake's wail recedes along the corridor. Hannah lets her go and Dodie draws her hand back and punches her in the chest, first time in her life she's punched a person. Her fist striking ribs and the softness of a breast. Hannah gasps and shrinks away, arms crossed against her chest.

‘Let me out!' Dodie screams. ‘Help!' Her hands go to her mouth, gasps in the smell of Jake ghosting from her fingers,
her breasts ache, her womb tightens, she breathes through the wave of panic. She bangs on the door and kicks. But nothing happens. Behind her she can hear Hannah breathing hard. Both of them are almost panting, like men, or bulls.

When she turns, Hannah's sitting on the sofa, hands protecting her chest. There's a ring of white round her mouth and she looks like she might cry. Dodie takes a deep breath in. Keep calm. This can't be happening.

‘Just take me to Jake. Now. Please.' Her voice trembles below its even surface. ‘Hannah,
please
.'

Hannah doesn't answer or move.

Dodie goes to the door again. ‘Help!' she yells. ‘Help!'

If Martha is near she will come. Someone must be able to hear her. Her heart is smashing itself against her ribs, the noise of it exploding through her head. She wonders if she's going to faint, or have a heart attack, the way her breath's gone ragged.

‘Dodie,' Hannah says suddenly from too close behind her. Dodie whips round, ready to fight if she has to, ready to punch again, or kick, but Hannah steps back quickly and only says, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Just let me out.'

‘Fair dos,' Hannah says. She actually looks embarrassed. Ashamed. And so she should. What was it? A moment of madness? Martha will hear about it, you can't go round treating people like that, pushing people about, ripping their babies off them. Maybe she is insane?

‘I'm sorry,' Hannah says again. ‘Everything's so tense and . . .'

‘Take me to my baby.'

‘I will.'

Hannah opens the door and Dodie bursts out ahead of her, but there's no way of knowing which way Daniel took him.

‘We'll get your clothes first, then we'll fetch Jake.'

‘No, Jake first. Forget the clothes.' Dodie listens for Jake's cries, but can hear nothing.

‘I'm really sorry,' Hannah says. ‘I shouldn't have done that.'

‘I'll tell Martha.'

‘Please don't.'

Dodie shoots Hannah a look. She doesn't look as contrite as she sounds. They are entering a new section of the building now, Dodie doesn't recognize these walls and they go down what is surely a different set of stairs, but you can't tell with all the white walls and doors, the same plain wooden floors.

‘Here we are.' Hannah opens a door – and Dodie steps in, her arms already opening for her baby. But there's a hard shove between her shoulder blades; she stumbles to the floor and the door slams behind her. There's the sound of a locking mechanism – and then silence.

Her mouth dries and her heart shouts in her chest, knocks its fists so hard it hurts and quails away, screws itself into a corner of the cage of ribs. There's a bed, a toilet, a small basin with a tap. This is a cell.

I
n 1974, when I was sixteen, and Stella thirteen, our mother died of drink. Dad was in Saudi with his brand-new family. We nearly had to go and live in Peebles with Aunt Regina, but we convinced the social worker not to move us from our school. And after checking up on us a few times, and after several displays of stunning good behaviour, we were allowed to stay on in the house in Felixstowe, as long as Aunt Regina visited often – and as long as the social worker didn't catch us out.

In August, the day the O-level results came out, there was a party on the beach. I'd got six, with an A for English. So what? There was no one to tell. No one who cared. We'd gone round Cobbold Point, away from the tourists and the promenade, and built a bonfire in an old dinghy stuffed with tarry ropes and broken lobster pots. When the blaze got going it was a fierce and fabulous roar. We drank cider and smoked Player's No. 6 and some people smoked dope.

It wasn't dark enough for stars yet, and the sky was streaked with soaring orange cinders. Stella was meant to be at home but I saw her on the edges with her tragic friends. I ignored her. We always ignored each other in public.

It was mostly teenagers at the party, but then some grownup hippies came along, attracted, like shaggy old moths, to
the blaze. I was sitting at the edge of the party, watching. Some guys were playing guitars and singing – while someone with bongos struggled to keep up. My friend, Marion, was dancing by the fire. She saw me looking and waved.

‘Come and dance,' she called.

I pretended not to hear. I was raised above the party on a shingle bank, clutching my bottle of Merrydown. I felt detached. Out at sea were the lights of ships – one of them
Radio Caroline
. A hippy climbed up on the bank and sat down beside me. I didn't speak to him. The cold shingle was biting into my bottom and I'd been about to move – but I felt stuck when he arrived. I took a swig of cider and hugged my knees.

‘Hi,' he said. He had long flat hair and his eyes were in hiding behind his little gold-rimmed specs. He lifted a long joint to his lips, breathed in, closed his eyes and held his breath. His nose was beaky between the flaps of his hair. He breathed out on an elegant lavender plume, then offered it to me. It was damp from his mouth and bits of tobacco tickled my lips. The smoke was sweetish and I held it in my lungs.

Stella was in the corner of my eye, pointing and laughing.

‘What's your name?' the guy said.

‘Melanie,' I told him.

‘Far out,' he said.

A ship's hooter went; sea owl, I thought. Marion came back.

‘Hi,' she said, giving me a beady look.

Smoke still held down, the guy said, ‘Hi,' in a pent-up voice and passed her the joint before breathing out. She squatted down and held it expertly between finger and thumb.

‘This is Marion,' I told him.

A woman came crunching gingerly up the shingle on her bare feet. She sat down and put her arm across the man's shoulder. The orange flames flashed off the lenses of his glasses.

‘Hi, Celia,' he said.

‘You coming, Bruce?' She was wearing a thin paisley blouse and no bra. Her breasts were frighteningly adult, matronly even, and crying out for a control garment. I started to smile and the smile stretched across my face and right up into my ears. My face felt like grinning toffee.

‘Where are you going?' Marion asked.

‘Back to our pad,' the woman said.