Free The Hours Before Dawn by Celia Fremlin Page B

breaking in the queer shapes and shadows of a downstairs room at this uninhabited hour.
    Tonight Louise took Michael straight to the scullery. The comfort of the warm kitchen was out of the question with him screaming as loud as this. This time, even feeding him did not bring the usual temporary peace. He seemed restless, aggressive, pulling away from her breast, and would not settle to sucking steadily. Of course, it probably wasn’t a feed that he needed at all – everybody said he was far too old to be needing a night feed. Except, of course, the people who said he was far too young to be denied one. Oh, there was so much advice to be had; and it was all so kind, and sound, and sensible. All the problems of child management seem to be solved, mused Louise, except the one problem which confronts me . Is that why I always feel so guilty when I’m talking to Nurse Fordham? She knows the answers to so many questions – it seems dreadful to bring just the question that doesn’t fit any of her answers. As if I’d done it deliberately. Like going into a smart dress shop when you weigh about fifteen stone. Of course they can’t fit you – and it’s your fault, not theirs…. ‘No, Moddom, nothing like that at all, I’m afraid.’ … It was Nurse Fordham’s voice that rang so genteel and scornful in Louise’s ears … Nurse Fordham who was advancing across the deep pile carpet, a slinky model gown draped over her arm….
    Louise started awake, and clutched Michael more tightly. Somehow, one never actually did drop a baby, however much one drowsed and dreamed, but all the same there must be a risk. And this hard stone floor, too. She should have brought down a blanket to spread at her feet, just in case. Or an eiderdown. Yes, an eiderdown would be better. Only the floor was so dirty; you couldn’t put an eiderdown on a floor like that. Thursday was supposed to be her scrubbing day; had she missed scrubbing it last Thursday? No, of course she hadn’t, she remembered it very clearly, particularly the slimy scantiness of that old worn cloth. She would need a new cloth. Oh, most certainly she would….
    Louise found that she could think about the new floor cloth better with her eyes shut…. She could think really hard…. But wait: this was a new cloth, wasn’t it? New and white – but why so big? And so stiff? What is it that is stiff and white? A shroud? No, of course it couldn’t be a shroud; no one would use a shroud for scrubbing floors. It must be a sail. A canvas sail for a ship….
    Oh, but it was so heavy to work with! It needed all her strength to pull it out of the pail, heavy and dripping. Her arms ached. She had been scrubbing for hours, surely, and still the unwashed floor stretched ahead … yards of it … acres of it … all thick with grease and old sodden rubbish.
    She must clear it all, though. They would make her. They were watching her even now, their eyes fastened on her, murderous, and without pity. Such eyes! All the hatred of the whole earth must be mirrored in those eyes … those bared teeth coming closer, closer … she could feel the hot breath on her face, and it smelt of hatred….
    Panting, gulping with fear, Louise awoke. For a second she thought the baby had slipped off her lap while she slept. But no; if anything, he seemed even more securely pressed against her than before. She clung to him in relief, sat up straighter; but even now that she was fully awake shreds of the nightmare still clung about her. The smell of hatred still seemed to hang like steam in the chill of the scullery; she seemed still to feel the damp threat of it on her cheek.
    But at least Michael was quiet now. She staggered to her feet and cautiously, painfully, she carried him upstairs again, the giddiness of sleep compelling her to feel with her toes for every step.
    But it was no use. The moment she bent towards the cot, Michael began to yell again. If she had been alone in the house it would have been worth