Mad Cows by Kathy Lette

lessons
? Tomorrow I’ll be back with my baby!’ The overwhelming relief at the thought of being able to feed again set Maddy’s breasts into cappuccino mode. She surveyed herself in the mirror. For all their good intentions, with her half an eyebrow and swollen lip, all she needed was a tattoo to complete the barcoding which read ‘ CRIMINAL ’.
    When the screws came for Maddy, her cellmates kissed her goodbye. All the way back to ‘reception’, she was serenaded with traditional Holloway songs: ‘If you sprinkle, when you tinkle, be a sweetie, wipe the seatie.’ ‘Have a bonk for me, or then again have three . . .’
    Things were looking up. Not only was Maddy about to be released, but something spectacularly joyful had already happened. After Jack’s birth, it had been easier to reunite the Serbs and the Croats than the teeth of her fly. That morning Chanel had lent her size 10 Levis. And, for the first time since the birth, Maddy had
actually zipped up a pair of jeans
.
    In the cells beneath the magistrate’s court, Maddy’s optimism dissolved like aspirin in aqua. The bare walls, the hard bench, the stench of urine; it was wintery with despair. All along the corridor, prisoners were calling out for a loo or a light, begging to be allowed to open their bowels, see loved ones, talk to after-shaved solicitors, or get a nice hot cuppa. In the hallway, it was chaos. Maddy could hear all the other solicitors and social workers bellowing to their clients through the cat flaps. ‘So you were abused as a child? Who wasn’t?’ ‘Bottom line is – the girl, she suffered no physical harm, right, apart from being raped.’
    The spy hole in Maddy’s door flipped open. Dwina’s face, shrouded in a cloud of Body Shop secretions, appeared in the grim porthole.
    â€˜This is your last chance, Madeline. Your solicitor—’
    â€˜Peregrine? Oh don’t tell me,’ she replied sarcastically, ‘I bet he’s fired with enthusiasm.’
    â€˜But you
can’t
fire him. Not under the new legal-aid rules. That means unless you tell me the whereabouts of your baby, he’ll blow your bail application and it’s back to Holloway.’
    The slight tremor in her voice caught Maddy off guard. She made a casual inspection of her new lacquered nails – when really all she wanted was to put them in her mouth and gnaw them
up to the elbow
.
    â€˜One struggles not to get too involved – to keep one’s distance. But there are always the cases which stay with you. Like
yours
, dear.’ Maddy had a crick in her neck from bending to converse through the hatch. Behind Dwina, the building’s dark entrails wound out of sight. ‘I shouldn’t have pushed you on the adoption. You need time to think about what’s best for baby. I can see now what a good mother you are.’
    Grief gushed into Maddy’s throat. Dwina had hit an emotional artery. Maddy torniqueted her feelings, tight.
    â€˜The first three months is the critical bonding period between mother and child. The skin contact, the closeness . . .’ Maddy detected a subdued sob in the psychologist’s voice. ‘Imperative in avoiding psychiatric disorders in later life.’ Maddy had never felt so tired. She had the resilience of a Claes Oldenburg Sculpture. ‘Madeline, let me get your baby back for you.’ Dwina’s words were like anaesthetic. ‘The address, Madeline. I need the address.’
    The door opened. The key-jangling jailer called her name in a ten-pack-a-day voice. ‘You’re on now, darl’.’ Maddy stood, automatically. Dwina’s hand was warm and soothing on her arm as she passed.
    â€˜I’ve done my best, Madeline.’ Dwina’s voice sounded bruised. ‘If you don’t give me that address, I’m throwing in my psychoanalysis books, and off to the Cotswolds to open a little craft