Who is she, walking down the street, buggy ahead of her, arms outstretched?
Who is she, passing the semis and the front lawns, here a burst of Spring yellow, there a smart sports car, sunning itself?
Do you see her go, glancing at the trees laden with blossom? She likes the contrast of pink petals with the lush green grass below.
There is the local shop, complete with affable owner.
There is the bus stop. It's not far to town, really.
Here are the little cafes and a couple of delis. She smiles hello at a familiar mother and child. Gym group, she thinks.
They find a spot, and order their usual: a pot of tea for her, an 'apple' juice for him, though really it's orange but he insists on calling it by the wrong name. A tantrum might ensue if she corrects him, so she lets it go.
He wants the Spider Man magazine they bought at the newsagent. She gets it out and shushes the high-pitched excitement issuing from his small mouth.
She reaches for a newspaper on the next table. There's that pain again. In the stomach. Like a knot, tightening.
A jangling buzzing sound breaks through the cafe hum. 'Mummy!' he shrieks. His eyes are huge. She fumbles in her bag and pulls out the shiny black offender. 'It's a text,' she says.
'Who is it, who is it?' he says. He reminds her of the irritating man from Big Cook, Little Cook.
'It's from Sarah,' she says. 'The one we met at the Monday group. She's inviting us for a play date. That's nice of her.' She wants to feel pleased. It's a step forward. She stares into space a bit.
'Mummy! Mummy!'
'Sorry – what?'
'Why are you crying?'
'I don't know. I'm just sad.'
'Don't be sad, Mummy. Be happy.' He does the 'cheese' grin that she asks him to do when she takes snaps of him.
This woman, panini in hand, small child slurping from a straw on her lap, she has taken a pin and pricked it on the central-most point of her map of Britain. And here she is.
Who is she?
