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Authors: Ruth Dugdall
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jumper, nuzzling for the milk it could smell.
The prospect of returning downstairs and sterilising a bottle in a saucepan, facing the social worker, was impossible. Matty was desperately tired and her breasts hurt. Two damp patches on her top announced that her milk had not yet dried up. Sitting down, she experimentally raised her top and lowered her bra. Though unpractised, the baby knew instinctively what to do, like any animal trying to feed from its mother. Matty watched its mouth circle and miss. Eventually, uncertainly, she guided it. After some seconds she felt a jolt as the baby latched on, and within seconds her baby was lapping up the warm, sweet fluid for which she had been crying.
Holding her, watching her, Matty thought of the childless couple who would give her daughter a home. She knew nothing about them, but had no doubt that they would love her child. Her daughter who still had no name. Watching her baby’s face, eyes closed in concentration, tiny hands curled, she wondered if she was capable of being a good mother. Not knowing the answer she bent her head down, smelt the soft scent of new life and, for the first time since she was born, gave her little girl a kiss.
Matty Mariani finally decided on a name for her daughter. She called me Alice.
Nine
“I want it all off,” Cate said to the face in the mirror. The hairdresser made a non-committal motion and lifted the shiny scissors from a pouch around her waist, chewing vigorously on gum.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” said Cate, as the blade cut, hair falling like autumn leaves. She closed her eyes and smelt mint.
Amelia loved going to the hairdressers and buzzed around the teenage staff, filling cups at the water cooler and held the swishy horsehair brushes to her face.
“It’s so soft, Mummy.”
The hairdresser laughed, still snipping, as Cate looked down at the magazine trying to finish an article on women who used male prostitutes. Behind her Amelia was chatting to another customer, an elderly woman who asked Amelia how old she was and commented on her pretty nails. Cate caught sight of her own nails. She should have put some paint on them when she did her daughter’s – since when did a four-year-old get pampered more than her mother? Since forever, probably, she thought, listening to Amelia singing a song to her admiring audience.
The snipping continued around her ears, interrupted with occasional demands to look down. She flicked through the magazine, the litany of sex and glamour and interchangeable skinny bodies and perfect pouts.
When Cate felt the swishy brushy on her neck she folded the magazine and looked in the mirror. The hairdresser was gazing proudly at the reflection and Amelia’s new friend had also stopped to see.
“You’ve got great features,” said the hairdresser with expert knowledge, touching the tips with styling wax, “you suit short hair. You should never grow it long – just look at what it does for you.”
The hair was brutally short over her ears, tapered into jags at the nape of her skull. Her eyes looked large, exposed by the short wispy fringe, which barely touched her brows. She hardly recognised herself.
They left the hairdressers on a mission. Cate had put it off as long as she could, but Tim’s daughter was now two weeks old. She had to go through the motions of civility, even if it was a charade. For Amelia’s sake. After all, the new baby was her stepsister.
When he opened the door Tim’s mouth fell slack, and Cate’s hand went instinctively to her hair, feeling self-conscious. He ushered them into the lounge with reverential silence, motioning to the baby sleeping in a Moses basket be-decked with pink gingham. Cate hadn’t been in the lounge before, choosing to collect or drop Amelia off at the front door without crossing the threshold, and she looked around with curiosity. The room was literally swamped with flowers, every surface had a Congratulations card, and a silver balloon announcing It’s
The prospect of returning downstairs and sterilising a bottle in a saucepan, facing the social worker, was impossible. Matty was desperately tired and her breasts hurt. Two damp patches on her top announced that her milk had not yet dried up. Sitting down, she experimentally raised her top and lowered her bra. Though unpractised, the baby knew instinctively what to do, like any animal trying to feed from its mother. Matty watched its mouth circle and miss. Eventually, uncertainly, she guided it. After some seconds she felt a jolt as the baby latched on, and within seconds her baby was lapping up the warm, sweet fluid for which she had been crying.
Holding her, watching her, Matty thought of the childless couple who would give her daughter a home. She knew nothing about them, but had no doubt that they would love her child. Her daughter who still had no name. Watching her baby’s face, eyes closed in concentration, tiny hands curled, she wondered if she was capable of being a good mother. Not knowing the answer she bent her head down, smelt the soft scent of new life and, for the first time since she was born, gave her little girl a kiss.
Matty Mariani finally decided on a name for her daughter. She called me Alice.
Nine
“I want it all off,” Cate said to the face in the mirror. The hairdresser made a non-committal motion and lifted the shiny scissors from a pouch around her waist, chewing vigorously on gum.
“You sure?”
“Yes,” said Cate, as the blade cut, hair falling like autumn leaves. She closed her eyes and smelt mint.
Amelia loved going to the hairdressers and buzzed around the teenage staff, filling cups at the water cooler and held the swishy horsehair brushes to her face.
“It’s so soft, Mummy.”
The hairdresser laughed, still snipping, as Cate looked down at the magazine trying to finish an article on women who used male prostitutes. Behind her Amelia was chatting to another customer, an elderly woman who asked Amelia how old she was and commented on her pretty nails. Cate caught sight of her own nails. She should have put some paint on them when she did her daughter’s – since when did a four-year-old get pampered more than her mother? Since forever, probably, she thought, listening to Amelia singing a song to her admiring audience.
The snipping continued around her ears, interrupted with occasional demands to look down. She flicked through the magazine, the litany of sex and glamour and interchangeable skinny bodies and perfect pouts.
When Cate felt the swishy brushy on her neck she folded the magazine and looked in the mirror. The hairdresser was gazing proudly at the reflection and Amelia’s new friend had also stopped to see.
“You’ve got great features,” said the hairdresser with expert knowledge, touching the tips with styling wax, “you suit short hair. You should never grow it long – just look at what it does for you.”
The hair was brutally short over her ears, tapered into jags at the nape of her skull. Her eyes looked large, exposed by the short wispy fringe, which barely touched her brows. She hardly recognised herself.
They left the hairdressers on a mission. Cate had put it off as long as she could, but Tim’s daughter was now two weeks old. She had to go through the motions of civility, even if it was a charade. For Amelia’s sake. After all, the new baby was her stepsister.
When he opened the door Tim’s mouth fell slack, and Cate’s hand went instinctively to her hair, feeling self-conscious. He ushered them into the lounge with reverential silence, motioning to the baby sleeping in a Moses basket be-decked with pink gingham. Cate hadn’t been in the lounge before, choosing to collect or drop Amelia off at the front door without crossing the threshold, and she looked around with curiosity. The room was literally swamped with flowers, every surface had a Congratulations card, and a silver balloon announcing It’s
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