The first draft of a short short story I wrote between 1 and 3 this morning.

She pushes the pram through the doors and parks it at the end of a back pew. She sinks down onto the smooth wood and looks around for a moment. It is a Presbyterian church, not at all ornate. It is Easter Monday, early afternoon. The minister is home recovering from the weekend’s extra services, but the building, by order of the elders, must always be open during the week. There is a sign saying this on the door, and presumably one of the elders unlocked the door this morning and will lock it again later. At the front, to one side of the pulpit, is a large papier-mache tomb painted to look like rock, with a round papier-mache stone rolled away from its entrance. Inside it are folded white cloths. Beside her, her baby gurgles and waves his fat arms. She looks at him. She looks back at the tomb. She crosses her arms on the back of the pew in front, rests her head on them and starts sobbing quietly.

Footsteps, heavy on the wooden floor. She lifts her head an inch and looks from the corner of her eye. It is a small and plump old woman, with short and dirty grey hair and three layers of cardigans that don’t match. Stained grey sweatpaints. Pink and white sneakers made for a teenager. The woman is mumbling: An’ I said to him – his own damn mother, not going to stand for it – lock me up and throw away - a bloody home - they’re not getting a cent. A cent. Look after meself alright… The woman passes her and she can’t pick out any more words. The mumbling becomes a background thing like the hardness of the pew and the brightness of the sunlight through the narrow windows. She lowers her head again, not crying, not feeling anything but a hard, hot ache in her stomach.

Hey. Hey, missy, yer baby wants yer. The baby, love. Hey. Her elbow is shaken. She was asleep, or nearly. The old woman is leaning over the pew in front, smelling sourly of sweat and old clothes. She blinks hard. Her arms are stiff. The baby is waving his ams up and down in frustration, face red, making insistent, nearly-crying noises. She looks at her watch. Thanks, she says. I must’ve dropped off. She puts her hands under the baby and lifts him into her lap. What a bonny wee feller. Eeh, my Gavin was big like him. He is fat and white like the old woman’s fingers on the pew back. His little body is growing strong. He is hungry and makes sucking noises. She was embarrassed, at first, to feed him around strangers, but with the months that have passed since then, practicality has taken over. She unbuttons, unhooks, gets her breast out, settles the baby in the crook of her arm and he latches on immediately. While the baby sucks, the old woman talks. I come here now an’ again. I would a’ been your age - this is where me and Roy got married. He’s passed now, of course. Just got me Gavin I have. He’s a good boy. But he says, go into a home, Mum. You need to be in care. Not bloody likely. Look after my own self, I do. Ooh, a hungry wee feller that one is! What’s his name then?

The baby sucks for a long time, then she moves him to the other breast because he is still hungry. His name is James Kahu Davis. She tells the old woman this. Yesterday there was a car crash, in another town. She had come home from that town before James was born. When she left the town, she left a man there and didn’t look back. Now, there is no-one to look back to. She doesn’t tell the old woman this. When the baby is full, she lets the old woman hold him.