Belinda sits on the toilet seat in a cubicle with a broken lock, the smell of bleach almost masking the smell of urine. Too late to move now with the baby straddled across her knees, legs kicking as she frees him from a dirty nappy. She braces the door closed with her foot.

Muffled station sounds. The 6.15 to Plymouth . . .  Belinda cleans, creams and changes the baby. His arms shoot out in alarm as the outer door slams. High heels clatter across the tiles to a cubicle further along the row. ‘Baby, baby, where did our love go?’ rings out tunelessly.

Where indeed?

She unbuttons her blouse, lifts the baby from her lap and cradles him. Cupping a breast with her free hand, she strokes her nipple against his cheek. He turns towards her, his head bobbing against her full breast, his mouth wide like a hungry bird. Tiny lips find the puckered bud that drips milk at his cry. Belinda winces at the toothless pull on her nipple, her toes curling against the elemental and exquisite pain. Beneath his downy dark curl’s, the baby’s heartbeat pulses visibly in the fontanelle as he pulls urgently on her breast. She feels her womb contract.

‘I’ve got this burnin’ burnin’ yearnin’ feelin’ inside me … oooh deep inside me … ‘ clattering footsteps in the direction of the washbasin, the tap squeaks, water trickles. Station sounds amplify for a moment as the exterior door to the washroom opens. A disembodied male voice shouts into the void. ‘Hurry up Dora, we’ll miss the bloody train. What are you doin’ in there?’

The tuneless singing stops, ‘Hold on Sid, just washing mi hands.’

Retreating footsteps head quickly towards the outer door. An echoing clang as it slams shut.

The baby’s eyes startle open,  focus and find her face, She smiles down at him, strokes his cheek, and moves him over to her other breast. He suckles with renewed vigour. The left side has always been his favourite; it feels as though he’s pulling her breast inside out.

Belinda marvels at the velvet softness of her son’s cheek, the baby smell of him, the strength of his grip as he holds her finger in his tiny hand.

Sated, the suction lessens and his eyelids flutter. His mouth relaxes allowing her to pull her lengthened nipple from between his lips. He’s almost asleep.

My beautiful boy.

Belinda fastens her blouse, and snuggles him into his shawl, tucking the blue teddy she knitted him into its folds. She kisses him gently, then lowers him carefully into the cardboard box wedged between the toilet and the cubicle wall and covers him with his blanket.

 

Out on the platform, Belinda shrinks herself into a corner under the stairs. Startled from its sanctuary a pigeon flutters down to peck at an empty crisp packet at her feet.

A woman, dressed to impress, shakes back her sleeve and looks at her watch. Commuters hide behind headlines. A couple approach, pushing a pram along the platform towards the cafeteria. The man puts his arm around the woman’s shoulders.

That should be me.

‘Excuse me love, can I get past?’

Belinda looks at the man blankly; a station porter with a cart full of letters and parcels.

‘The door. You’re blocking the door. I need to get into the office.’

Belinda shuffles to one side.

The hands on the huge clock suspended above the platform move inexorably towards seven o’clock.

They’ll be getting up. Someone will notice I’ve gone. They’ll tell the nuns. They’ll come after me.

A tinny voice crackles over the loudspeakers suspended above the platform. ‘We regret that all trains are subject to severe delays. A signal failure . . .’

Time stands still, no one moves.

The announcement ends and the passengers are released to grumblingly move along the platform, heading towards the buffet or the waiting room.

Belinda recoils further into her corner. No trains. What shall I do?

A sudden waft of perfume. The elegant woman breezes past, stilettos sharply ringing on the stone slabs.

She’s going to the toilets!

Belinda’s unglues her feet from the platform, runs after the woman, leaden legs suffused with sudden urgency.

Please God, don’t let her find him. Let me get to him first.

Belinda forces herself to shut the door quietly.

If it bangs, he’ll wake, cry out and she’ll find him.

Belinda’s pale face, eyes red rimmed, cheeks mottled with tears stares out from the mirror. Who is this empty-armed, wild-eyed creature, coat straining over a still rounded-baby belly?

Oh God. Where is she? Where’s she gone?

The woman comes out of the cubicle furthest away from the door and moves towards the sink. Belinda’s frozen reflection stares at her from the mirror.

‘Are you alright, dear?’

Something snaps.

‘Oh. Yes. Thank you. I’m fine. Er . . . Sorry. I need to . . . er . . .’

Belinda pushes open the cubicle with the broken lock and braces it closed with her foot. The baby stirs. His mother picks him up and holds him close.