ABSTRACT
Sixteen-year-old Sharon was frightened. Sitting up in bed on the maternity ward, she just wished it would be over, and the pains would stop. It reminded her of school, when she came in for the tests after she’d missed all the lessons. The other women were all older than her; she was sure they all had husbands who had driven them to the hospital. They probably all had plasma televisions, semi-detached houses and bank accounts. She found it hard to imagine wanting a man with you in the delivery room. As she tried to get comfortable, she hadn’t realised she had spoken to herself: ‘I want mummy’, she had said out loud, and was immediately shocked, looking round to see if anyone had heard, not knowing how loud she had spoken. ‘Why did I say that?’ she thought, and retraced her train of consciousness. Ah yes, it was because she was thinking about having someone with you in the delivery room. The last person she wanted was Bella, her mum. It was more like she was trying out the words, to see what they sounded like. She rested her hand on her tummy and hoped she hadn’t hurt the baby with all that stuff she had done. It was weird to think the baby might say, ‘I want my mummy’ if he was tired, or hurt, or alone.
