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“You poor thing!” a posh old white lady called to Coralie from across the street. “I carried all my children in high summer too !”

Coralie had to get the impression down as quickly as she could. “You poor thing!” She exclaimed the whole exchange into a WhatsApp voicenote and sent it straight to Alice.

Gathering in Fiona’s hallway, the women and Sam were moaning and fanning themselves.

Upstairs, the skylight blinds and curtains had been closed. Two fans raged in opposite corners. “Cushions, patch of carpet,” Fiona ordered. “Now, let’s get on our knees and vocalize!”

Coralie and Lydia swapped glances. It was the part they hated the most.

“I know it’s not comfortable,” Fiona said.

“To take up space and make a noise. But when you’re giving birth, making noises freely opens everything up, the lips up the top and the lips down below!

Brrrr! ” She blew a dry raspberry, and the circle copied her.

“Buh, buh, buh!” While everyone was still saying “Buh, buh, buh,” Fiona cried: “Let’s moo! ”

“Moo!” everyone lowed. “Moo!”

“Good,” Fiona said. “There’s nothing embarrassing about any noise you make in labor. Who’s pooed their pants before, as an adult?”

Sam raised his hand. “Food poisoning in Morocco.”

“Mortifying!” Fiona said. “Fantastic! You know you can survive! Now we’re standing, we’re rolling our ankles, loosening them up.

If you lose your balance, steady yourself and start again.

We’ll go round the circle: Say how many weeks you are, and let’s talk about our mothers.

If you didn’t grow up with your mother, make it your main carer instead. Lydia!”

“Thirty-six weeks,” Lydia said. “I can only have this baby because of my mother. She showed me a single mum can provide everything a child needs. And she’s coming down for the first month to help. Um, Fiona, I hope that’s what you meant.”

“Wonderful,” Fiona said. “Coralie?”

Coralie had just taken a gulp of water from her flask. She choked and coughed. Red in the face, she waved an apology. Fiona nodded. “We’ll come back! Charlotte?”

“Thirty-three weeks, not enjoying this heat, ha-ha! To put it simply, my mother’s my best friend.

” Charlotte had that beauty-queen delivery Coralie found triggering in other women.

She paused after every sentence as if waiting for applause.

“We can share anything.” (Triumphant pause.) “I just know she’d do anything for me.

” (Triumphant pause.) “She can’t wait to be a granny! ” (Thrilled smile, wave at crowd.)

“Thank you, Charlotte.”

With her instinct for a leader’s feelings, Coralie knew this shallow analysis of the maternal bond had not gone down well with Fiona.

“Coralie,” Fiona said. “Are you ready?”

“Um, I’m thirty-four weeks.” Normally she experienced thoughts and feelings as a flowing stream, and even when put on the spot in public, she could dip in her cup and get something out.

The stream appeared to have dried up. “My mum picked me up when she said she’d pick me up.

My clean school uniforms were always hanging in the cupboard.

Um…” She trailed off. The cup was empty. So was her mind.

“And does she take an active role with your daughter now, or is she in Australia?”

“Sorry, Fiona. I should have mentioned,” Coralie said. “She’s dead.”

“Oh!” Charlotte gasped, as if Coralie had shot her mother.

Fiona ignored Charlotte. “I’m sad to hear that,” she said sincerely.

“We’re getting on the floor, we’re drawing one leg up and rolling around.

When we give birth and have a vulnerable infant in our care, we can access quite primitive states and memories that have been closed off to us for years,” Fiona said.

“It can be disturbing to go back in time and feel as you did back then. Greet the feelings when you see them, pause, and take a note. What’s happening now, and what’s a ghost from the past?

Important distinction, keep it in mind. Mothering—parenting (sorry, Sam)—it takes it right out of you.

It can leave you empty, running on fumes.

Not enough care to go round. Someone has to be there to hold you in their mind as you are holding the baby.

It doesn’t have to be your mother. It doesn’t have to be a partner.

But someone. You need to be looked after too. ”

···

That night, Coralie had a strange dream.

She was hiking in a jungle. She was alone and it was hard going.

Up ahead there was a cupboard. When she opened it, her mother toppled toward her, straight and stiff as an ironing board.

Coralie caught her, alarmed, and tried to angle her back in, but it was difficult, because she was mixed up with a mop, a broom, and a vacuum cleaner.

At her touch, her mother began to unfreeze (that was why she was stiff: She was frozen).

Life came back into her eyes, which searched Coralie’s face, and her mother’s mouth moved as if she was about to say something.

I’m sorry? I love you? Why had everything always been so empty between them?

Even the fact Coralie was paying attention meant she was too conscious to dream.

Reality rushed in. Her mother faded away. She was alone, awake, and crying.