Stolen Child by Laura Elliot Page B

motionless until she had washed her hands and left. Then I tied the strings securely over my hips and emerged. The white tiled walls cast a hard reflection on my face. My eyes were red-rimmed, shadowed, filled with anticipation.
    I splashed water over my face until my skin was raw and flushed. No more…no more …the whisperers drove me forward. I could have stopped at that point. I wanted someone to enter and order me from the premises. A hard-faced matron or an enquiring nurse who would accept my excuse about being lost in this labyrinth of corridors. Then I heard you for the first time. You , my daughter, your voice calling out to me. I pushed the door open, hoping I would find Carla Kelly awake, protective and alert. But she was sleeping, one arm resting on the counterpane.
    You made no sound when I lifted you. Light as thistledown, you moulded yourself against my breasts. Swiftly, swiftly, we moved as one, mother, daughter, into the ladies’, into the canvas holdall, into the future. Hush little baby, don’t say a word…walking fast down the stairs with its muffled carpet, past Reception where figures moved behind yellow glass, past the builders who did not stare or wolfwhistle at a pregnant woman, to the car park where I held my bag away from the spiky cotoneaster, safe inside the car, driving away, my stomach cramps beginning to subside, and deep in the depths of the canvas holdall, you moved, jutted an elbow, kicked a foot, struggled to be free from the dark confines. Then you settled back to sleep again.
    Rain wrapped the city in a grey shroud as I drove through the traffic and out into the countryside, my foot hard on the accelerator, heading for home.
    When you cried I pulled into a lane. The rain dripped like tears from black branches and a cow poked a damp, inquisitive face over a gate. I opened a flask and filled a bottle with your first feed. My hand trembled so much the formula spilled over my trousers. You whimpered, struggled to adjust your mouth around the teat. Your cheeks worked, your lips puckered, your eyes screwed up in outrage. You threw upyour feed. The smell was faint but sour. I had to drive on, terrified a farmer would round the bend in a tractor. I wanted to turn back. Leave you where I had found you. But she would be awake by now and already screaming. So I kept driving. Your wailing terrified me – so strident and demanding from such tiny lungs. When I pulled into another lane and fed you again, you sucked reluctantly on the teat and eventually fell asleep.
    I drove fast until I came to towns where the rain forced the traffic into a slow, sullen crawl. After Limerick City it wasn’t so difficult. I kept expecting to hear the wail of a siren but only the swish of the windscreen wipers disturbed my concentration. When I reached Gort, I noticed the fields were already under water, the same in Kinvara. Water ran from the hills and gathered in the ditches, spilled across the road, splashed dangerously under my wheels. The rocks of the Burren came into view. I drove through Maoltrán and past the craft centre. Lights were on in the windows. Miriam was in London, exhibiting at a craft fair. She’d warned me, before she left, to drive to the hospital if I experienced even the slightest twinge.
    The windscreen kept hazing over and the rain was so heavy it flowed under the swishing wipers. I drove past the Lyons’ house and, suddenly, I was facing the wet rump of a cow. Cattle fanned across the road and Phyllis, walking behind in a bright yellow sou’wester, looked over her shoulder and moved close to the hedgerow. I skidded, the car waltzing on the scum of dead leaves, but I managed to control the wheel and glide gently into the grassy embankment. The front bumper took the shock, but the holdall slid from the seat. I grabbed it as it was about to topple over and held it steady. Phyllis peered through the window, tapped on the glass. I saw her lips moving and when I lowered the window shestuck