The tea room

I am six when my mother falls. My newborn sister is crying, and in my mother's haste to reach her the rug slips from under her feet. Frightened by my mother's cries of pain, I run back to the passage. I edge forwards and see her move cautiously on the rug. It is egg-shaped with swirls of yellow and brown and has a fringe like a horse's. My sister stops crying. My mother, on all fours, inches herself upwards. Between my fingers I rub the worn hem of my dress. This is the memory of my sister's arrival. Not the long, drawn-out labour or the concern on my father's face when he returns from the hospital. Or the cabbage boiled in milk that he makes us for dinner or, later, the visits to the specialists in the big city. These memories come with hindsight.