Isabella is happy. Dribbly giggles bubble up into the air around the baby stroller.

Her mother smiles and frowns into a familiar 'inevitable' expression.
'Yeh, we're delighted really.'
She pats her still hidden 'bump' to reassure the latest Baby Badenoch it's wanted. The 'really' translates to 'although we're skint, although I'll have to stop work again, although we're still in a flat, although, although...'

'Really' she says again, with just enough conviction to let the conversation turn away.

Isabella gurgles, strains against the harness to reach me.

'How's your Mum? I ask.
'Oh, you know.'
I do: thin as a pencil and yellow as a duck's foot.

We take turns on the stroller along a roundabout route to the tube. When it's my turn she walks ahead a pace. I feel suddenly old at the sight of her back, blonde hair swinging, sunlight turning honey to gold. Then I'm caught in the backwash of her aura and I am young again.

'What can I do?'
'I know' I say.

This is why we are friends. We don't expect answers. Isabella dozes off and we smile at each other. It is all so easy: the sun, the day, sleeping babies.

In the underground we split. I hug my friend tight. 'Soon' and turn away.

'Ahem.' Looking back I see her smile again, head cocked, she glances meaningfully at Isabella. Of course. I run in exaggerated baby steps to the pram and kiss the waking baby's head.
'Soon.' Smiling. 'Yes, soon.'

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