Free Snow Garden by Rachel Joyce Page A

complained about their children, how difficult things were, and feel a touch of complacency. Even when the girls were teenagers, their mood swings had been short-lived. But since the death of their father, they’ve become formal, more removed. Spiteful, actually. As if it is their mother’s fault they have no father. As if she could have done more to save him if only she’d made the effort.
    ‘How about this for a plan?’ she asks. ‘We’ll each choose our own gift.’
    They emerge fifteen minutes later with perfume, a golden chocolate bar and a gift box of anti-ageing cream.
    ‘Happy now?’ asks Christina, and even the word ‘happy’ sounds like something she has trodden in.
    Magda has to hold on to the sink in order to keep standing. She remains very still, hoping the pain won’t find her again. She holds her breath.
    ‘You can’t stay here,’ says a woman in a white overall. She holds a mop, but confusingly is also wearing a tinsel halo and a pair of large fluffy wings. ‘These facilities are officially shut for cleaning purposes.’
    ‘Can I lie down?’ asks Magda. ‘I don’t feel very good.’
    ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ says the angel. ‘Have you looked at the state of the floor? If you’re ill you need to report to the medical centre.’
    ‘Where is the medical centre?’
    ‘You have to ask at the information desk.’
    But there is a queue for the information desk and there is so much noise, there are so many travellers shouting at the two officials (also dressed as angels but looking on the verge of tears) that Magda feels dizzy. She waits patiently in the queue, but the queue keeps spilling outwards and sideways as more people join it, all shouting questions at the angels. Instead she spots a floor plan and discovers that the medical centre is only at the other side of the departure lounge.
    The pain is more frequent now, her stomach making a tight fist and growing rock hard. She has to walk very slowly, almost in and around the pain, as if it is lying in wait for her and one foot in the wrong place will set it off. The medical centre is locked.
Seasons Greetings!
says the sign.
    Then she remembers Johanna – all she wants is Johanna – and with that thought comes the realization that she has lost her bag. She must make her way back to where she was waiting before, only she can’t think where that was because it all looks the same. Her breathing is fast and high in her chest. She has to go very slowly because she is about to drop something, she can’t carry it any more. She has never felt so alone. People push past, not noticing her distress. Someone even jabs her in the stomach with a rucksack.
    An arm shoots out and pulls her close and Magda is about to fight it off until she realizes it is Johanna’s.
    ‘You look awful. What’s happening?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ she moans. ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Do you need a doctor?’
    ‘There isn’t one.’
    ‘We need to get you away from all these people.’
    But it’s too late. Water – a tide of water is rising. Magda had no idea there could be so much of it. She can’t move. She can’t even get back to the toilets. She experiences a pressure mounting inside her and then a kind of pop. Her legs are wet, as if someone has thrown a bucket of warm water at her.
    ‘Oh my God,’ says Johanna, noticing Magda’s jogging pants.
    Magda moans. ‘It’s happening.’
    ‘Now? Here? It can’t—’
    Magda’s neck flips backwards as a new wave of contractions passes through her. Her eyes are closed and her skin is clammy and grey. She grips her fingers tightly around Johanna’s arm as if she is afraid of being pulled away by the pain.
    ‘I’ll ring for an ambulance,’ shouts Johanna. And then she remembers the gridlocked traffic surrounding the airport. How will an ambulance get through?
    ‘It’s too late,’ moans Magda again. ‘No.’ The ‘no’ becomes more of a low, like a cow groaning. Magda rocks from one foot to the