Free With No Crying by Celia Fremlin Page B

against her somewhat off-white pillows, her knees crooked up to support the plate of half-eaten cereal.
    Had he noticed anything? Was this flat stomach of hers, devoid of its daytime padding, somehow visible to him even beneath this mound of bedclothes?
    Impossible!—but all the same, she found herself clutching uneasily at the concealing blankets, bunching them up yet higher against her body. She could not meet his eyes; her heart was thudding wildly; and now—horror of horrors!—she could feel the beginnings of a blush creeping slowly up her neck and towards her cheeks.
    But he seemed to suspect nothing. Although his scrutiny was a searching one, it soon became clear that it was simply concern for her welfare, and not any doubts as to her bona fides, which had prompted it. Once reassured, he continued chatting to her, easily and pleasantly, for a few more minutes; and at the end, glancing at his watch, remarked apologetically that he “must be getting home”.
    “Home?” Miranda was surprised. “But I thought you lived here?”
    “I do. That is, I don’t.” He gave a short laugh. “I live in at the hospital, actually, except that I’m never in—not in my room, that is—and you certainly can’t call it living! So—well, I suppose yes, I do still live here. Sort of. You could say so… For the time being…”
    Here, he dropped his voice, and glanced sharply at the half-open door, as if he had caught some slight but significant sound out there in the passage.
    Only for a moment, though; he recovered himself almost immediately, and when he turned again to Miranda, his voice was relaxed and friendly as ever, though still with that note of concern.
    “You’re sure you’ll be all right, then?” he asked, for the second time. “I don’t really like leaving you on your own like this, so near your time. When, actually, are you expecting it, as a matter of interest?—The actual date?”
    The actual date. Oh dear! A direct and specific question like this was more than she’d bargained for. The whole thing, really was becoming more than she’d bargained for. Last night, she’d come among them as a stranger among strangers: anonymous, free of identity, untrammelled by past or future: and already this morning they were strangers no more. Already they were her friends, her flatmates, with a right to be concerned about her, to involve themselves in her problems. This principle of Share and Share Alike didn’t apply just to money and groceries, but to everything. This non-existent baby of hers already belonged to all of them
    And now, here was Alison, as well as Tim, leaning forward eagerly, eyes fixed on her face, all agog for her answer. She’d got to tell them something. And fast.
    The actual date … the actual date. Oh, not for ages yet, she’d have liked to reply nonchalantly; but how could she, when they all seemed so sure, from her appearance, that the birth was imminent ? “Twins is it, or triplets?—” Iris had asked, with raised eyebrows, implying that Miranda was already over-large, even if she was presumed to be at full term. And Tim, too, just glancing at her by the darkened roadside, through the glass of the car window, had at once jumped to the conclusion that she might be on her way to the hospital. In the face of all these expectations—and knowledgeable ones, too—how could she dare put the date more than a very few days ahead?
    “August the 11th,” she blurted out, “another five days yet.”
    Five days. With her own lips, she realised, she had pronounced her sentence of exile from this friendly, infinitely supportive place. After August the 11th, she must be gone.
    “August the 11th,” Tim was repeating thoughtfully. “Well—I suppose that gives us a bit of a margin … though of course you can never tell. A few days this way or that. Still…”
    Taking an old envelope from his pocket, he proceeded to scribble down for her the various telephone numbers by which she would be able