Mad Cows Read Online Free PDF

shame.’
    The nasal twang of the Tannoy announced the collection of the dinner trays.
    â€˜Hey,’ complained Maddy. ‘Lactating mothers aren’t supposed to skip a meal. We’ve got to eat
some
thing . . . even if it’s only five or six courses per bloody second . . .’
    Maddy was issued with a brown paper bag, containing toothpaste, comb and a cake of soap thoughtfully monogrammed with the Queen’s initials, then escorted to the door of her new home – a cell so small she could hardly turn round without having sex with herself. There was a cot for the baby and a narrow iron bed for her. The slatted Perspex windows – Maddy had to climb on the bed and crick her neck sideways to look through it – offered a charming view of the prison wall, bristling with a crew-cut of barbed wire. Interior décor consisted of a bucket, scrubbing brush, grey scuffed linoleum and thin, white-washed walls. The Mother and Baby Unit gave mums the perfect opportunity to share some quiet moments together . . . listening to each other plotting the penile dismemberment of their respective twenty-four carat cads.
    In an effort to avoid a Jules Verne trawl through the depths of despair, Maddy decided to cling to her routine. It was bathtime. She was undressing Jack with philatelic care, painstakingly folding his clothes, when the door detonated open.
    â€˜And whose little population explosion are you?’ The voice emerged from a glowing face which played host to the kind of button-features pastry chefs tend to pipe on to kiddies’ cakes. It oozed goochi-goos before its owner planted a polka-dotted posterior on the narrow bed. The nose tissue permanently wedged into one fist and the armour-plated shoulder pads signalled to Maddy two tiresome words – social worker.
    Maddy’s single mum status in hospital had brought her into close contact with this species. There were two breeds. The big dangly earring-wearing kind, Doc Martened, it’s-all-a-capitalist-plot ones, or the Advanced Scarf Drapers. The woman whose namepass read ‘Edwina Phelps’ was draped in a scarf
and
a pussy bow, alerting Maddy to the fact that she was Crafty; the sort who collect poignant porcelains, mail-ordered from magazine adverts. Her spare time would be spent drying flowers and spraying tiny pinecones silver for the home-made pot-pourri she handed around the office at Christmas. The sun would never set on an empty slow-cooker in Edwina Phelps’s house. Her petrol gauge would invariably read ‘F’. The date of her next period would be circled on her desk calendar; a rain bonnet in a plastic travel pack at the ready in the drawer . She was what the English call Head Girl material. The type who carries an emergency tube of Canesten in her bag for the thrush she never got but read about in womens’ magazines. The type who would go to the Chippendale male strip show and look at the
audience
.
    â€˜My friends call me Dwina. And as your psychologist we
will
be friends, Madeline.’ She looked at Maddy the way an alcoholic looks at an unopened bottle of Smirnoff. ‘You mustn’t feel alone.
All
my girls in the Mother and Baby Unit are scarred, emotionally.’
    â€˜I really don’t need any psychological plastic surgery, okay? What I
need
is a court hearing.’
    â€˜All of us long to connect with our inner child.’
    Maddy winced. ‘Um . . . it’s called pregnancy. And I’m in touch with him already.’ Indicating the wriggling worm of her son. Maddy made an artless fumble at the press studs of his baby gro.
    Dwina waggled her forefinger. ‘Beneath your bravado, Madeline, there’s a little girl inside who’s hurting.’
    â€˜Does she get child allowance?’
    â€˜You’re only being glib because you’re in denial.’
    â€˜Of course I’m in bloody denial.’ Peeling off Jack’s nappy, Maddy’s fingers stuck to the