Free Shape-Shifter by Pauline Melville Page A

jail and the pristine hospital. Sonia had a brightly patterned red and black carpet. A May breeze was catching and blowing the net curtains and the colour television in the corner of the room was like a burst of flowers. Sonia’s little boy Marlon came to look at the new baby:
    ‘He’s a nice boy, innit Marlon?’ said Winsome. Marlon nodded.
    ‘ OK ,’ said Sonia. ‘I’ll go to the shops. Don’t answer the door.’
    During the afternoon, Winsome occasionally peeked out of the window. People came and went in the streets, in and out of the banks, the greengrocers and the hardware stores. Everything appeared to be a mockery of normality. The people looked like extras in a film, acting out everyday life for the cameras.
    Sonia shopped, burning all the while with rage.
    Winsome gave Denzil his first bath and oiled his little brown body, pleased to administer these rites in an ordinary bathroom, hung with lines of little shorts and T-shirts. At tea-time, she automatically fed the two little girls and Marlon.
    ‘Can you take care of the girls for me, Sonia?’ she asked when eventually Sonia returned, laden with plastic carrier bags. ‘I don’t want my mum to get her hands on them. She don’t treat them right. But she’ll always help you out with money and so will Junior.’
    ‘Course I will. Me tek good care o’ dem an’ me bring dem up to see you. And as soon as I find Junior I tell him to come straight down to see you and the baby. Listen Winsome, you’re not just going back like that. It’s disgusting what they do to you. Mek we phone those television people so you go back with everybody knowing just what is going on.’
    ‘I don’t feel no way about it. Do what you want,’ said Winsome. ‘Phone them in the morning. I’m going to bed for a bit.’
    The television crew had difficulty setting up the lights and cameras in Sonia’s small front room with the kids running about and playing. The television journalist who smelt of after-shave lotion asked Winsome to move her chair a little bit further from the window. Winsome noticed how the bright artificial lights drained the room of colour and made everything harsh and pale. She still had a headache. She moved her chair, clutching Denzil in one arm. The production assistant fumbled with her clip-board and tried to prevent Anita and Marlon having a tug-of-war with an electric cable.
    ‘Now then.’ The newsman was embarrassed now that he was face to face with the silent black woman with the scar on her lip. ‘What I thought was I’d ask you one or two questions and, maybe, ask your friend here what she thinks and then, if you’re going to give yourself up anyway, which you say you are, we could give you a lift back to the prison and take a final shot of you walking into the jail with the baby to sort of finish the story off. If that’s OK with you. I don’t want to put any pressure on you. So is that OK?’
    Winsome nodded. Sonia perched anxiously on the edge of an armchair, puffing at a cigarette. The camera started to roll, taking in pictures of Winsome sitting in the low chair with Denzil in her arms and Chantale sucking her thumb and holding on to her mother’s skirt. In hushed and sympathetic tones the newsman asked:
    ‘Why did you run away from the hospital?’
    The lights were white and hot. Winsome became aware of two cold patches of sweat under her arms. She did not know what was required, what to say:
    ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, barely audible. Her hand comforted Chantale at her skirt. The camera swung from Winsome’s expressionless face to Sonia. Sonia looked bright and defiant. She had dressed specially for the interview in her new, red nylon blouse and her gold chains:
    ‘I think it’s terrible that a judge should send someone to jail for a year just when she’s due to have a baby. I think it was a wicked thing to do.’ Sonia sounded clear and cool. Winsome just wanted it all to stop.
    ‘Thanks, that’s fine,’ said the