The woman with the pram sat in the waiting room of Edgeware Surgery, watching the clock. The second hand spun continuous, not stopping between seconds. She wondered whether to remind reception that her appointment was for thirty minutes ago but wasn’t sure she could move. Showers were forecast, the pram silent under the rain cover. She wished that she could join her baby, get some sleep.

Her eyes darted about the room where elderly patients read magazines or stared into space, their mouths open as though catching flies. There was a smell of something unpleasant, a square of carpet cleaned with disinfectant. One of the nurses kept coming out to spray air freshener.

The woman saw herself in the glass separating the patients from the foyer, not recognising her reflection. It seemed to her that age, dormant for so long, had crept up on her with a suddenness that felt unfair. Then she thought she heard her name being called, more than once, and there in the doorway stood a man, looking down at her.

‘Elena Webb,’ he said.

Doctor Ince was tall, with spider-brown hair and eyes that bulged. Elena was sure that his deep voice put patients at ease (laxative for constipation, pads for incontinence, cream for the bothersome rash) and she hoped he would be able to help her where nobody had yet been able.

‘I’ve kept you waiting,’ Doctor Ince said, from behind his desk.

‘That’s all right.’

‘I don’t seem to have your records. Where were you before?’

‘Wormshead.’

‘Wormshead Medical Practice?’

‘Yes… Yes, I think so.’

Doctor Ince scrawled pencil into a jotter. He said:

‘How can I help?’

He looked black against the window. Down came the rain; the room darkened, his features in shadow. Only the whites of his eyes stood out. Elena was aware of Stanley in his pram, snoring gently. Nothing in the room was extraordinary, everything appeared washed out: beige walls; brown linoleum floor; a sink and waterspout; a plastic bin for used syringes; hand sanitizer; a set of scales; an imitation Monet; a padded bed under paper sheets. She wished that she could lie down and sleep, if only for a moment. On the wall another clock, the same constant, soundless, second hand.

‘It’s Stanley,’ Elena said. ‘He’s not developing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, compared with the other babies.’

‘Can you give me an example?’

She saw herself at the traffic lights, waiting with the pram. On the other side stood Barbara, whom she’d met at her antenatal classes, whilst pregnant with Stanley. She had been avoiding Barbara because she was tired of hearing all the new tricks her son Damon was up to when she herself had nothing to contribute. This time there was no possibility of avoiding Barbara, waving hysterically from across the road.

Damon has been crawling for months, Elena told Doctor Ince. He’ll soon be walking. Stanley just lies there, like a piece of meat.

‘Babies develop at their own pace,’ Doctor Ince said. ‘I’m sure he is perfectly normal.’

That was what everyone told Elena; she was tired hearing it. She went on to tell the doctor that Stanley hated ‘tummy time’, that he only ever wanted to be on his back and screamed when rolled onto his belly. Just leave him frustrated a bit, the other mums said. But she couldn’t bear to see Stanley upset, and comforted him whenever he made a fuss.

Damon could brush his teeth, Barbara had said, after she crossed at the green man. Elena could remember fresh black paint on the railings, the smell taking her back three decades. She wondered whether to tell Doctor Ince she had lied to Barbara: Stanley was crawling. He’ll be walking soon. I’ll teach him French when he’s a bit older.

‘And Stanley’s father?’ Doctor Ince asked.

Elena shook her head. Trevor lived 40 miles away in Wormshead, in a flat two doors from the one she used to rent. She thought he would be eating lunch about now, at the table with his wife and two boys. Elena never loved Trevor, hardly liked him in fact; it had been easy to leave without telling him where she was going, or that he had a third son, her first, growing inside her. She wanted to tell him that she was bored, that’s all it was. She had been lonely, she indulged in loneliness, she could see that now. It was loneliness she ran from and the baby would free her from it: Trevor had no part to play in that shining future.

‘Parents? Friends? Any help at all?’ Doctor Ince asked.

‘I’m sorry, what was that?’ Elena said, looking at the doctor as though for the first time.

‘You seem so very tired, Elena. Perhaps you should book another appointment, after I’m done with Stanley.’

Elena nodded. She struggled to make out the letters at the top of the eye chart tacked to the wall:

W…

N… I…

C… Y… E…

Black beasties, like little spiders, climbed up into Elena’s vision. Every time she tried to focus on them individually, they vanished.

‘Is he asleep?’ Doctor Ince asked, nodding at the pram.

Elena appeared not to hear. She felt helpless, she told Doctor Ince. The mums were no help! There were things she wasn’t doing and anything she was, wasn’t being done right. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to Stanley.

‘He’s got a flat patch on his head where the hair doesn’t grow so well,’ Elena said.

‘I’m afraid we’ll need to wake him.’

‘I overfeed him. Everyone comments on his weight. He’s a 98^th percentile.’

‘I’m sure everything is quite all right,’ Doctor Ince said, rising.

‘All the other babies can roll front to back, back to front.’

Doctor Ince moved around the desk and stood over Elena, placing a hand on her shoulder.

‘I feel so guilty. It’s my fault. I’m a failure,’ Elena said, her eyes red, stinging with salt water.

‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ Doctor Ince said. He pulled the rain sheet from the pram. Inside was a knitted blanket. He removed the blanket and saw that the pram was empty. He nodded, looked at Elena: her eyes were closed. She appeared to have fallen asleep, head on her shoulder. A string of saliva stretched from her chin like spun silk.

Doctor Ince folded the pram and packed it away with the others. Then he gathered Elena Webb in his long arms and laid her out on the bed, under the soundless clock. Beyond the window, the wind carried off the dark clouds.

And then out came the sun.  

May 2020