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  She placed him in the pram, propped up by a small pillow (she had embroidered the case herself with his name, Patrick.) She tied on the white bonnet. It made him look pale but in the late autumn a slight chill was seeping into the air. She pushed the pram into the path, pushing down hard on the handbar so that she could lower it down the steps on two wheels. There was no need to lock the door, she would not be long. The letter to her mother had to be posted and it was not far to the blood red postbox. As she walked she talked to him in the pram. His feet jiggled the letter lying on his blanket. He watched her carefully, hands held out in the air at either side of his body. He responded to her sounds with sounds of his own, his whole body involved in the interaction. They were complete. They began and ended with one another. They took and gave back to each other, never diminishing, always growing.

  She became aware of a noise some way off. She realised at once that it was the sound of a horse galloping very fast. There were other noises with it. Dragging, scraping, urgent noises that she could not identify, but felt a growing panic surging up into her throat. She instinctively stood frozen to the spot leaning into the hedge, her knuckles white on the black, black handle of the pram as she tried to pull it into the hedge with her. The child watching her started to cry, sensing her fear. The horse broke upon them around the bend with such suddenness that she screamed out. Its eyes were white, weird and wild and reflected the fear in her own. It frothed at the mouth, the foamy bubbling, sprayed away from its mouth and caught on the chestnut flanks. It drew the air in through its nostrils with sharp whines. It galloped towards the pair with crazed, blind speed not noticing her at first, standing there crouched in the hedge. When it did see her it veered away and it was then that she saw the trap. It was still harnessed to the horse and swinging from side to side. The trap caught her on one of her legs and threw her on to the road and there she watched helplessly as it gathered up the pram.

  She started to run after her child and saw the pram turn over. He was strapped in, she remembered, as she heard the thud. With the pram on its side, wildly thrashing about the road she noticed the blood. And he was not crying.

  The horse was getting tired, she could tell it was slowing. Even so, it was far ahead of her still, the trap and pram bouncing oddly on the hard surface. Other voices burst upon her consciousness. A man had run up to the horse with his hands above his head, stopping it. The creature was exhausted and relieved to be under control. The workmen saw her coming and stood silently as she knelt on the road slowly undoing the strap that had held her child. The pram cover and blanket were shredded and muddy. The ‘k’ in Patrick had been obliterated by blood. One man took off his coat and placed it on the road next to the wrecked pram. She laid the lifeless child on it and looked at him.

  She stood up and looked down at him. She knew he was dead.

  She suddenly gathered him up holding him tightly to her body. She felt her milk come with a sharp, stinging hardness as she pressed him to her. She held him so that his mouth was near her nipple, her painful stinging breast that was leaking his milk. A damp patch grew on her dark blouse.

  They asked her name, where she was from. Women arrived in aprons smelling of bread and soap and told her that the doctor had been sent for. Her distress repelled them, no one moved towards her. They looked at the limp child and she thought … they know. They know. No one dared to move the baby from her. They stood around her as if guarding her and him from more danger. They did their bit. One woman recognised her.

  ‘It’s that English woman. You know. Her husband is doing the Government work in Betws-y-Coed. Shy she is.’

  ‘We must get a message. How do we get in touch with him?’

  She knew she must answer. She did not.

  The doctor came.

  ‘You must come with us. You must come to the hospital with him. You can carry him if you want.’

  A car arrived from somewhere. As she got into it clinging on to him, the letter to her mother fell out of his clothing and fluttered on to the road alongside the wet and muddy leaves. She noticed the ink bleeding across the envelope and then it ceased to claim her attention further.

  At the hospital they took him away. They pulled him from her. One nurse held her arms from behind and another prized the bundle away. Her coat was open exposing blood and milk stains. She looked down at herself feeling the cold entering where she was wet. Blood and milk. She remembered the moment of his birth. Blood and white …

  Your name please?’ said a nurse standing with a form and pen. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

  ‘Speak up.’ said the nurse sharply. There was so much to do, this was irritating. She tried again. No sound.

  ‘It’s shock,’ said another nurse. ‘Go and get that doctor back before he leaves, quick.’

  ‘She is suffering from shock. She needs a sedative … to calm her down … the husband … she won’t be able to stay here … ask her to write down her name, address and how to get in touch with him … need to know the child’s name, age, any other information we should know … ? He’s in Ward 5 … Yes, head injury … not much hope … For God’s sake get that woman out of here … give her something … stay with her a while … ’ The voices went in and out of focus. Her throat solidified and froze.

  A middle-aged nurse came and held her hand.

  “It’ll be all right dear. Come on, now. Here’s a cup of tea. I’ve put some sugar in it. It will help you. You’ve had a shock. It’ll be all right, it looks better than we thought at first. You should go home now … he’s in the best place. He is in the right hands, you mustn’t worry yourself about him. That’s better.’

  Swallowing was almost impossible, there was a constriction. She could only let little sips through.

  ‘You get in touch tomorrow, we’ll let you know how he is. You’d better leave some of your milk, if he’ll take it that is. Come on. I’ll get the breast pump, we can keep your milk in the fridge. There is always other babies that need it … had a mother die in childbirth two days ago … now, what did you say your name was?’

  She again tried to speak but the sounds would not come. She mouthed her name. The nurse turned towards her so that she could stare at her mouth.

  ‘What’s that? Margaret? Is that what you are called? Margaret? Yes? Good. Margaret what?’ Again she closely watched the mouth.

  ‘Ommm? Margaret Ommalee? No? O, yes? No? O’Malley? Margaret O’Malley? Good.’

  When her husband took her home, he talked gently to her and coaxed her to tell him what had happened that day. She tried to talk but her throat had knitted across. It had tightened and hardened so that no sound was possible. Her voice had been left back there in the past.

  The child remained in hospital for three weeks. He had been hurt badly, the doctor said, but he had made an amazing recovery. There might be some long-term effects but nothing had surfaced so far. He had to have check-ups every week. Every week she took in a pad and pencil and wrote or signed answers to the questions about the baby’s activities. After six months the doctors said he was fine. There was no need for her to bring him back unless he showed unexpected signs that caused her worry. He congratulated her on how bonny the baby was. How strong and healthy and how very, very alert he was. She smiled and was proud. On the way home in the bus he sat on her lap watching her face all the time. She spoke to him constantly. No sound came out of her mouth but he understood every word. He watched her eyes, her hands, her mouth and he responded all the while with the same wordy and agitated silence.

  THE NICE BOYS

  Isabel Colegate

  October 8th

  Of course Venice is not the same. How could it be? Last year was the first time, and with Jacob.

  There were two nice boys on the train from Milan. I talked to them. I have been through bad periods before. I know how easy it is to become isolated if you are unhappy.

  I asked them for a light.

  The one in the corner brought out a box of matches, lit one,