Emma held Ruth in her arms. She sat down and fanned the baby gently with a Japanese fan. Ruth looked like a radish, as if her blood were slowly boiling. She snivelled weakly, on and on.

They said nothing, but sat facing each other.

The rest of the hour ticked by.

‘It’s Doctor Chatterjee,’ said Emma at last. ‘I’ve never had to call him out, I don’t know what he’s like. Poor man, he must dread these late calls. Doctors have a very rough time of it.’ She fanned Ruth. ‘You should have taken her to the clinic, Rachaela,’ she said, without accusation. ‘You never did.’

‘No.’

‘She would have had regular checks, and any shots. They give them so much protection nowadays. But Ruth hasn’t had any of it.’

‘She’s strong,’ said Rachaela. It was instinct which made her say it.

‘Of course, of course she is. Silly old Emma getting in a state about nothing. Poor sausage, poor pretty.’

The baby was feebly sick on herself and Emma’s cardigan.

Emma rose without flurry or distress to clean this up. She spoke to Ruth, explaining what they were doing.

Rachaela sat on the chintz chair, and asked herself if she felt anything, any pang. But nothing was there in her. It was as if Ruth were truly Emma’s child and for some reason Rachaela had had to come down and witness this scene. The baby’s sickness turned her stomach, affronted her. Ruth had frequently sicked up her bottle milk, as if on purpose, like the endless stinking miasmas of the wet nappies.

While Emma and Ruth were still in the bathroom, the door sounded.

Rachaela got up and answered the phone, pressed the button and let in Doctor Chatterjee, who presently arrived in the flat.

He was a small, fat Indian with a fussy manner and clever eyes.

Emma brought him Ruth and he examined the baby carefully.

‘Yes, you did right to call me,’ he said, to Rachaela. ‘This is a very sick child. I am recommending that we take her to the hospital immediately.’

Emma exclaimed in horror.

Doctor Chatterjee looked from one woman to the other.

‘You are the mother, yes?’ he said to Rachaela.

‘Yes.’

To save time we will go in my car.’

‘Thank you,’ said Emma humbly.

She wrapped Ruth up too thoroughly in her fear, and the doctor loosened the blanket a little.

Rachaela took her damp hair out of the towel.

Emma brought two of Ruth’s favourite fluffy toys.

Outside the night was hot and compressed, waiting for a storm. Chip papers strewed the pavement and a buckled can of Sprite lay by the back wheel of the doctor’s Sierra.

They drove fast but wisely to St Mary’s, the great brick façade like that of a prison, the chimney of the incinerator.