‘Of course,’ I say, sitting forward in my seat.
Kathryn half stands, leaning over the grey plastic table between us, handing the baby to me. It feels awkward at first and for a moment I think I might drop the baby or she might wriggle free, but she seems quite content to lie back, nestled into the crook of my elbow. She’s not heavy, just a warm, solid presence, wonderfully and joyfully alive in my arms, her big blue eyes gazing up, her lips curling into a smile. Babies love faces, that was what all the books said. They were hardwired to respond to eye contact and smiles, their own eyes focusing to that first distance between mother and child. The distance between us now. How is it possible to feel a loss for something I’ve never had and probably never will have?
‘You’re a natural,’ Kathryn says, then immediately puts a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . That was a stupid thing to say.’
I shake my head, unable to take my eyes off the baby.
‘No need to apologise.’
Mia reaches out, the tips of her little fingers brushing my cheek with the lightest of touches, tiny points of warmth on my skin. She makes a happy gurgle of delight as I lean a little closer, allowing her fingers to touch my chin, my jawline. I reach over with my right hand and Mia’s fingers wrap around my index finger, a tiny clamp, as gentle as a feather. She has the smallest, most exquisite fingernails. I blow a raspberry onto her fingertips and she giggles, a hearty chuckle that warms my heart.
‘Nice to meet you, Mia.’ I smile down at her. ‘My name’s Ellen.’
Kathryn has pulled the white rucksack onto her lap. She has a pen in her hand and is busy digging through the contents, rearranging the bottles and nappies packed inside. As she zips it closed, her iPhone starts ringing again, vibrating against the plastic tabletop. The screen displays a man’s face, thirtyish, dark ginger hair, stubble, a kink in the bridge of his nose as though at some point it has been broken. The name below the image is Dominic.
‘Sounds like he’s keen to get hold of you,’ I say.
‘I’d better answer.’ She nods distractedly, glancing again at the phone’s display. ‘Would you be all right with Mia just while I take this call? It’s . . . urgent.’
‘Sure. Go ahead, we’ll be fine for a minute.’
‘I’ll just be down there.’ She gestures over her shoulder, down the carriage. ‘I’ll be back.’
I look up again and I swear I see tears glistening in her eyes.
‘Kathryn, are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yeah,’ she says, getting up out of her seat. ‘Thank you. I won’t be long.’
She reaches out and touches her fingertips gently to the crown of the baby’s head, as if reluctant to leave her even for a moment. Then she takes her phone down the aisle, towards the end of the carriage, mobile clamped to her ear.
Mia gazes up at me and yawns, blue eyes blinking shut for a moment. I rock her gently from side to side, her wonderful weight in the crook of my arm, the unfamiliar smile returning to my lips. My heart fills my chest, a powerful rush like the strongest drug, a tide of emotion I haven’t felt in so long that I’ve wondered whether it even still exists inside me.
I allow myself to imagine – just for a moment – what it would be like if this little one was mine. If I was returning from the hospital with a baby in my arms, instead of a prognosis even bleaker than the last time. To finally use the little box bedroom for what it had been intended for, saved for: a nursery. Instead of a quiet, empty corner of the house left in stasis like a shrine to a life unfulfilled, to something that will never be. I’ve imagined this for so long, dreamed of it, of night feeds and cuddles and tiny fingers, walks in the park and first words and bedtime stories. All the little things that parents take for granted. I lean closer to Mia’s forehead, breathing in that indefinable soft-sweet baby scent of pure, clean skin and talcum powder and new life. Wondering if Kathryn knows how lucky she is.
There’s a shift in the train’s momentum, its speed easing as it begins to decelerate into the next station, the last stop before Marylebone. Open countryside has been replaced by busy little villages and roads, church steeples and barn conversions, commuter land on the way into north-west London. I look up to see if Kathryn’s on her way back, but she’s still hidden from my view in the vestibule connecting the two carriages. How long has she been gone now? Two minutes? Three?
The next stop slides into view. Seer Green & Jordans, a little two-platform country station with a footbridge and a small wood-panelled waiting room, a handful of people waiting to board. Kathryn has not reappeared. The train wheezes to a stop in a shudder of brakes, three long beeps as the carriage doors slide open and a few passengers step down onto the platform. I raise myself carefully out of my seat and look around, checking the other way down the carriage in case Kathryn has somehow slipped past while I’ve been busy with Mia. But I can only see the football fans, all in identical red and white-striped shirts, with close-cropped hair and long legs sticking out into the aisle. The seats across from me are occupied by a small red-faced man in a pinstriped suit, who has managed to spread out his briefcase, laptop, newspaper and raincoat across five of the six seats, as well as the little table. He has not looked over at me once.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to him. ‘I don’t suppose you saw the woman sitting here? Did she come past us just now?’
The man glances up, gives a single irritated shake of his head, and goes back to his laptop. I’m about to stand up, to walk down the carriage in search of her, when movement outside catches my eye. A figure hurrying past, right by my window. A blonde woman in a rust-coloured jacket.
Kathryn is walking away down the platform.
2
It takes a second to process what I’m seeing, to make sense of what my eyes are telling me. Is Kathryn suddenly ill? Confused? Is it a prank? Has someone taken her jacket, walked off the train wearing it?
No.
It’s her. Blonde hair swishing from side to side as she marches down the platform, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her jacket, head down as if she doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone. I lean over to rap on the window as she passes, the glass cold against my knuckles, the move made awkward by the baby on my left side.
‘Hey!’ I shout, sensing other passengers turning towards me. ‘Kathryn! Hey!’
She looks up and our eyes meet for just a second, long enough for me to see the expression on her face, to notice the tears on her cheeks. She mouths a single word. Sorry. Then drops her gaze and hurries on, wiping her eyes and striding down the platform towards the barriers.
A second later and she’s out of sight.
An automated female voice comes over the speakers. ‘This train for London Marylebone only. Please take care of the closing doors.’
A handful of new passengers have boarded for the final stretch of the journey, hoisting bags into racks and looking for seats. The train doors slide shut with a hiss of finality. This isn’t supposed to be happening. It’s a mistake, some kind of misunderstanding. I was just going to hold Mia for a few minutes, give Kathryn a moment’s respite, then hand the baby back. I don’t really know how to look after—
Someone is talking to me.