Mother Care

Lunch time.

Five minutes of sun remains before ITV is brought into disrepute by torrential rain. Two choices: staff canteen and door-stop sandwiches, or Marks and Sparks. I chance it. The sky spits on me as soon as I step out. Mum told me to take an umbrella. She told me by leaving the umbrella on the coffee table next to my cup of tea before she left for work. I rebelled, and now I’m wet.

I walk past Next, GAP, TK Maxx, Waterstone’s. My purse sighs.

In a window, I see a pale red dress I know mum would really like. I’ll get it for her next pay day. If it’s still there. If I can afford it.

A woman stands by the boot of her car, plastic bags by her high heels. She’s cradling what looks like a doll. She makes 'ummmm' noises in its face whilst her mouth does gymnastics.

The baby is no bigger than a large bag of flour. Its head is covered in a thin layer of brown moss. I can’t see its expression from where I am, but I imagine it’s looking up at its mother thinking, Why the hell are you making those faces? I know I could get closer and she wouldn't notice me. Or she might, and take a swipe at my face, the mother bear protecting her cub.

My phone rings. It’s mum: please buy some milk and bread on the way home. Love you.

Ditto, mum, I reply.