She lay on a scarlet beach and Uncle Camillo bent over her. He hauled the crimson obstacle from her womb. She felt it go as if her body had been disembowelled.

So this was the abortion. The pain was terrible. Much worse than that girl had said.

‘One last try. Push.’

She could not push. What did it mean?

A fearful rhythm like galloping horses—stopped.

It was so quiet.

There was so much light, but growing darker.

‘You can rest now.’

Who were these people, so many of them, crowding round her in a white hedge. Had she fallen in the street?

The pain had ended. There was another pain, but it was different, slow and closing.

Something cried like a savage animal in the wilderness.

It was alive.

The thing had been got out of her, and it lived. It made noises, horrible and unhuman.

In a sort of aperture she saw a white baby hanging upside down from a nail of light. A single, blood-red ribbon marked its back, shining.

‘A girl. You see? She’s quite perfect.’

❖

Emma Watt sat by the bed. She was bright-eyed and faintly flushed. She had brought pink roses and a bottle of apple-juice, and grapes, and sweets in coloured wrappings.

‘You’re not to worry about a thing, Rachaela,’ she must have found the name out from a nurse. ‘I’ve seen to it all. Everything. We can sort the money side out later, but I don’t want you to worry about that either. It really doesn’t matter. I have more than enough, my old love saw to it I was comfortable. And I know, well—let’s not talk about it now. The baby clothes are pink, of course. That’s one good thing about not getting anything until we knew.’ Emma hesitated. ‘They’ll be along soon, won’t they.’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t wait to see her again. Oh, Rachaela, don’t you feel clever? A gorgeous little girl.’

‘I don’t feel anything.’

‘Well that can happen. Have you told them how you feel?’

‘It isn’t any of their business.’

‘But Rachaela, it is. They can help you to feel better.’

‘I feel all right.’

‘But you said—’

‘Emma, I told you. I didn’t want this—baby.’

‘But she’s here now. And she’s yours.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you wishing,’ said Emma cautiously, ‘that he—’

‘No. He wouldn’t be any more interested than I am.’

Emma looked away. After a moment she said, ‘Have you been luckier in feeding her.’

‘Luckier? Do you mean can I breast-feed her yet? No I can’t. Apparently I haven’t got much milk.’ Rachaela fought down her disgust. ‘I find it repulsive. It’s bad enough with the bottle.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Emma.

‘Emma, you’ve been more than kind, but you don’t understand.’

‘No. I’m sorry about that too.’