Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake

I don’t know what I’ve walked into this morning, but the atmosphere is wrong. Thick as treacle, clinging to your skin and lungs alike. The kind you could cut with a knife and still find no way through. There have been redundancies. People have been sent packing — mislabelled parcels shoved back out into the cold, no forwarding address, no apology, no ‘thank you for your service’ sticker slapped on the side. Kev storms past me, red-faced and snorting, a Royal Mail lifer with thirty-five years under his belt and murder in his eyes. He moves like an enraged bull, nostrils flaring, boots slamming. “This is a fucking joke,” he spits. “Thirty-five years, and this is how they treat me.” He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t wait for comfort. He just barrels on, rage echoing behind him long after he’s gone, like a siren everyone's learned to ignore. My stomach tightens. I half-expect my name to be next. The polite tap on the shoulder. The sympathetic smile. The laminated condolences. Instead, the boss glances at me and points — casually, almost kindly — towards a frame stacked high with letters and parcels. Relief slips in. Thin. Temporary. The kind that knows it's borrowed. Then the new girl appears. She doesn’t work near me so much as on me. Every few minutes she steps directly into my path, lunges across my shoulders, climbs my frame like it’s an indoor climbing wall and I’m just another brightly coloured foothold. Her elbows jab my ribs. Her breath warms my neck, hot and sinfully oblivious. I imagine shunting her so hard with my arse she flies across the depot, a human mis-sort. I don’t. I smile. Quietly. I shrink a little. I let her take my air, my space, my patience. What can I say? I have no backbone. It must’ve been made redundant years ago. When I’m finally packed and ready to go, I pass Ryan and Lloyd from Hybrid — or what’s left of them. They’ve been told their jobs no longer exist, and they react exactly how erased men tend to react. Lloyd retaliates by setting a bin on fire. Classic Lloyd. “I hope you all burn!” he yells, sprinting for the exit as smoke curls behind him in the shape of a massive middle finger. Ryan just stands there. Empty. Hollow. Like someone’s hoovered his soul straight out of his meat suit and left the casing behind. “Have you lost your job too?” I ask. “Yeah,” he says, glum. “They said my legs are too white.” I snort before I can help myself. Then I look down. My god. They weren’t wrong. His legs are blinding. Pure, brilliant white. Like two polished milk bottles shoved into shorts, reflecting the strip lights with clinical precision. “They aren’t that white,” I lie. He smiles — tight, resigned — and gathers his things. As he walks away, his legs glow faintly, like emergency exit signs leading to nowhere. The scene rolls away like a milk bottle escaping down a hill, gaining speed, impossible to retrieve. I’m with my mother-in-law now. Of course I am. The dream gods are spoiling me tonight: work-based trauma followed immediately by my mother-in-law. A double blow no one asked for. She’s promised to take us to Clarke’s Village to buy our Christmas present. Chosen by her, naturally. Fancy dinner plates. Respectable ones. The kind you only bring out when you’re trying to prove something to people you don’t even like. I would’ve been perfectly happy with Sainsbury’s homeware. She’s hunched over the table, writing a letter. Or trying to. Her hands shake. The pen scratches, stalls, starts again. She keeps rewriting the same line, tearing the paper up, beginning anew. Over and over and over. The table is littered with paper corpses. “Would you like me to give you a hand?” I ask, switching on my good daughter-in-law voice. The one with soft edges. “No thank you,” she snaps, sliding the paper out of sight like I’ve reached for a loaded weapon. The letter feels important. Dangerous. The kind you write when the decision’s already been made — you're just formalising it. Eventually my husband suggests we go without her. I don’t argue. She has a habit of appearing where she’s not invited, dispensing advice like scripture. Newsflash: she doesn’t know what’s best for us. Well, some times. But mostly she doesn’t. Instead, we drive to Whitmore Road and park outside the house we once rented. I barely recognise it. The soft 1930s build is gone, replaced by glass, angles and something aggressively modern. An architectural threat. A gaping eyesore. “I’ve put in a bid,” Mat says, excited. My chest locks. Panic flares. We’ve just bought a home. Just settled. Painted every sodding room. Bled into the carpets. And now he wants to move? Whitmore Road holds too much. The long garden backing onto woods where the kids ran wild. The oak tree swing. Neighbours who felt like family — hours of laughter over the fence. And the darker things. Mat away at university. Me alone with three kids. Days stretching endlessly. Loneliness pressing its face against every window. The man across the street. The one who wouldn’t take the hint. Wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t go. A man much older than myself, disguised as a friend, who mistook my vulnerability for permission. My politeness for consent. He settled in quietly, knowing the walls wouldn’t hold forever. Lights off. Curtains drawn. Pretending I wasn’t here, though he knew I was. Alone. So unbearably alone. “I think I’m quite happy where we live now,” I say. I expect sulking. At least an hour of stony silence. Instead, he nods. “You’re right. They massacred it.” The scene crumbles away like a bulldozer through memory. Home again. The kitchen smells warm. Wrongly warm. Like something has been cooking for too long but no one’s checked — because no one wanted to be responsible. My mother-in-law stands at the counter, pinny on, humming a tune that drills straight into my skull. “Oh, I’m glad you’re here,” she says brightly. “The baby’s about to come.” “The baby?” I echo. She taps the oven dial. “Nine months. Fully baked.” I crouch, heart hammering, and peer through the oven door. There’s a baby inside. An actual baby. Its tiny arms and legs kick against the glass, impatient. “But—” I begin. “Are you ready to meet your new baby?” she asks, smiling. “I didn’t want another baby,” I whisper, backing away. “It’s too late now,” she says, pulling on oven gloves. “Full term.” She opens the door. Heat blasts my face. She slides out the tray. The baby screams. The sound pierces straight through me. I stumble back and collide with Mat. “Have you met our new baby?” he asks, eyes shining. Proud, expectant. “No no no,” I say. “This isn’t right. Babies aren’t baked.” She laughs, delighted. “Well how on earth do you think they’re made, Amanda?” She presses the letter into my hands. It isn’t a letter. It’s a recipe. How to Bake a Baby in Ten Easy Steps. I can’t move. I can’t scream. Somehow the baby is in my arms. Warm. Perfect. Heavier than it should be, like responsibility has mass. Ten fingers. Ten toes. My heart betrays me. It swells. My home-baked baby. The oven ticks as it cools, pleased with itself. The air grows thick, sweet, oppressive. The baby opens its mouth to cry. No sound comes out. Instead, smoke slips from its lips — thin and pale at first, curling upwards like a secret finally escaping. The smoke spreads slowly, brushing my cheeks, my throat. I try to step back. I can’t. The cupboards soften. The ceiling lowers. The room blurs, as if the house itself is breathing in time with the baby. The baby’s eyes stay open. Watching me. I feel her behind me before I hear her — the calm, unhurried presence of someone who has always known how this ends. My mother-in-law leans in close, her voice gentle. Almost kind. “What’s wrong, Amanda?” she asks. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” The smoke fills my lungs. And the baby finally screams.