But one day a woman went past with a baby strapped to her front in a sling. The baby, whose head was still wobbly, used its arms to push back against its mother’s chest; it looked up into her face and smiled. Her baby used to do just that. She was just about that age when Emily went away. Mahalia. She slept and woke with the cat on her chest. Had she dreamt of her baby? It was the first thing she thought of each morning – nothing as definite as baby or Mahalia, or a particular image; it was more that there was a continuing presence that didn’t even need to be named. One morning Charlotte came and sat beside her on the bed. In her hand she had something Emily had almost forgotten about: her logbook for learning to drive. ‘Your father sent it,’ said Charlotte. ‘He says you were almost ready to get your licence; that you probably only need a few more lessons before taking the test.’ Emily took the booklet and flipped through the pages that recorded all the places and conditions she’d driven in.
