Six Geese a-Laying

sorry,’ she says, getting up from her chair. ‘Crisis at work. I’ve got to go. Thanks very much for the presentation, but to be brutally honest, this baby stuff doesn’t really interest me.’
    She breaks off, as a kind of angry flash comes from the spirit. On the screen appears an image of Gabby in a maroon suit, holding a baby. She’s just standing there in a white room, holding a tiny baby, while in the background someone’s shouting ‘Gabby! Taxi’s here!’
    Her face is utterly stricken.
    ‘Gabby!’ comes the voice again. ‘You’ll be late! Just bring the baby down, he’ll be fine with the nanny—’
    A tear trickles down on-screen Gabby’s face. Then another. Then another.
    I risk a glance at Gabby. She’s staring at the screen, transfixed. There’s a faint sheen to her eyes.
    ‘Er…Tristan…’ she says into her mobile. ‘I’ll be along later. Yes well,
this
is important.’ She snaps her phone shut and quietly takes her seat again.
    There’s a subdued atmosphere, and I can’t help feeling a rising apprehension.
    ‘I can’t believe it’s all doom and gloom!’ says Georgia defiantly. ‘I’m sure some of us are going to have perfectly wonderful labours and gorgeous babies!’ She looks around, as if for support. ‘And I’m certainly not going back to work. I’m going to devote myself to my child!’
    The spirit seems to regard her thoughtfully for a moment. The next moment, an image of Georgia appears on a screen. She’s breastfeeding a baby in a vast, expensive kitchen, while Mozart plays in the background.
    ‘There,’ says Georgia smugly. ‘I knew it! Of course, I have prepared for this baby
very
thoroughly…’
    The image fades away and is replaced by one of a small boy in a school playground.
    ‘Milky… Milky…’ a gang of boys is chanting around him.
    ‘Don’t call me Milky!’ he yells desperately. ‘I’m Mike!’
    ‘No you’re not! You’re Milky Melchior!’
    The images fade away and Georgia clears her throat.
    ‘All children are teased,’ she says, sounding a little discomfited. ‘It’s perfectly normal.’
    Another image comes into view. This time a man in his twenties is at the entrance to a smart restaurant together with a blonde girl, her hair in a very peculiar hairstyle. The place looks rather like the Savoy Grill, although they’ve done a few strange things to it. ‘My name’s…Mel.’ His face twitches in a nervous tic.
    ‘Are you all right?’ says the maître d’.
    ‘I’m fine.’ He gives a tight smile and hands over his coat. Then, as piped music becomes audible through the loudspeakers, his whole body seems to tense. ‘Oh my God. No.’
    ‘The music,’ says the blonde girl urgently to the maître d’. ‘Can you turn off the music?’
    ‘I can’t stand it.’ The young man’s hands are to his head and he’s heading for the door. ‘I can’t stand it!’
    ‘It’s the Mozart clarinet concerto!’ the blonde girl shoots over her shoulder as she hurries after him. ‘He’s phobic!’
    The images die away. I dart a glance at Georgia – and she looks utterly shellshocked.
    ‘I knew it.’ Grace’s trembling voice comes from the back. ‘That’s why we were picked for this class. Because things were going to go wrong for us.’
    The spirit lifts her head and seems to look directly at Grace. And all of a sudden a new image is on the screen. It’s Grace. Her figure has snapped back into shape, she’s had a new haircut and is walking jauntily down the street. In fact if I’m utterly, grudgingly honest, she looks better than anyone.
    Must be her age.
    Now she’s sitting in a café, holding her baby and sipping a smoothie. The baby starts to cry, and with an expert ease she slips a finger into its mouth and carries on drinking. She looks totally content and natural.
    ‘Your hair’s fab!’ says Georgia. ‘Where do you go?’
    ‘I dunno,’ says Grace in bewilderment. ‘I never cut my hair.’ She peers at the screen. ‘I don’t understand. What’s wrong? What’s the catch?’
    ‘Nothing, apparently,’ says Gina, sounding a little petulant.
    ‘Maybe that’s what you had to learn, Grace,’ says Geraldine, sounding kinder than I’ve ever heard her. ‘That it would all be OK.’
    I’d murmur some agreement, but I’m feeling too tense to speak. I’m the only one in the room who hasn’t seen her future yet.
    ‘So, what about me?’ I try to give a casual laugh. ‘What’s going to happen to