Free Motherlove by Thorne Moore

bawl its head off.’
    Was she shouting? Screaming? Shocked faces were staring at her. Martin stood open-mouthed. Look at them all, bloody strangers telling her that she didn’t count, all that mattered was this thing inside her. She didn’t want it. She just wanted to be rid of everything. In a rage she hadn’t realised she was capable of, she thrust the laden trolley from her, sending it charging down the aisle.
    Sailing between the parting shoppers, Bibs stared back at her, a whimper already beginning. His chariot collided with a pyramid display, sending jars of mincemeat flying with a sickening shatter of glass.
    iii
    Lindy
    â€˜Gi’s a kiss then. C’mon,’ he said, unkempt and unwashed, his stubble dark with dirt.
    Lindy turned her head to avoid his whisky-soaked breath, and wriggled under his arm, braced against the wall. ‘Geroff me, Tyler.’
    â€˜Aw, c’mon,’ he said to the wall, not realising that she was no longer there. Pissed out of his tiny mind as usual.
    Lindy was already climbing the narrow stairs to the first floor landing, and the safety of her own room. The lock was crap, but she could put a chair under the handle if Tyler followed. Time was, she used to bound up these stairs out of his reach, but today she was too weary. And too bulky. She hauled herself up, listening, ready to kick out if he tried to grab her.
    Nothing. She looked back. At the bottom of the stairs, Tyler had slid to the floor and was mumbling into his chest. So maybe there’d be a racket and things flying when he woke up, but for now she’d have a bit of peace. No one else in the house was stirring. They didn’t usually emerge until after dark.
    She pulled back the curtains. Dark January gloom. She didn’t like to have the lamp on in the day. Or the heating. It was fucking freezing, but the electric fire ate money up, and she only had one 50p left. When she saw him coming, she’d switch it on for a few minutes, but better without for now.
    Her coat was good and thick. And voluminous. Wide enough to wrap round an army, which was the point of course. Anyone looking at her would think she was nine months gone with triplets. She unbuttoned it and began to empty the improvised sack beneath. Soup packets. Pot noodles. Biscuits. Three apples. They were healthy, fruit and stuff, she knew that, though she’d picked them because they were easy to slip inside. Like the packet of dishcloths she’d taken, because they had been there and easy.
    She had a basket too, tinned stuff and a bottle of milk. You had to buy something if you spent half an hour wandering round a shop, or people would look at you funny when you came out. Fastest way to get stopped, that. So she had bought a tin of beans, a tin of ham and four cans of the cheapest lager. 50p left for the meter. If Gary did come home today, he’d find food in the cupboard, and a beer waiting for him. It made her feel competent, a useful little housewife. Maybe he’d be glad to be home with her again.
    No need to think about what he was more likely to feel when he saw her.
    She smoothed down the old quilt covering the mattress on the floor. With one of the new dishcloths she wiped down the formica table, the cupboard, and the one-ring Baby Belling. She used the worn brush to thwack the armchair free of dust – not too hard in case it lost more stuffing. She liked housework, this making-a-home game, even if she only had one room to play it in.
    All she needed now was for him to arrive. It might not be today; the grapevine might have got it wrong. And he might be going somewhere else first. With a quiver, she thought: he might not choose to come here at all, ever again.
    But no, she trusted Gary Bagley to come back to her because there was really no point in thinking anything else. You had to hope, or there was nothing.
    Pulling her coat back round her, she dragged one of the vinyl-covered kitchen chairs to the