apparently,’ she had said, ‘neither of us has ever known the other as well as we thought we did.’
When Lizzie had realized, soon after, that she was pregnant again, she had done her best to try to contemplate termination, but had found it simply impossible.
Another brother, or a sister, for Edward and Jack.
Joy had kicked in, ousting dismay.
And so the marriage had gone on, Lizzie still wary of Christopher, grieving for the end of her trust in him but relieved that he at least seemed, judging by his restraint with her, to be doing
as she had asked. She asked him from time to time if he was still receiving treatment, and, when he said that he was being counselled, asked no more, for she had no wish to know more, and she
supposed it might be healthier for what was left of their marriage if she could leave him at least a vestige of self-respect.
And she had her boys and her unborn child to focus on.
Sophie had come into their world the following spring. A dainty, sweet-tempered daughter, golden-haired with dark-blue eyes, born into the outward ideal that was the Wade family. Christopher had
been ecstatic, had continued – Lizzie had never had the slightest doubt that this side of him was utterly genuine – to be a loving, giving, well-balanced father.
That September, six months after Sophie’s birth, having obtained a prescription from Dr Hilda Kapur, their GP in Marlow, for the Pill, Lizzie had let Christopher make love to her again. It
was very tentative and almost sad, in view of what they had shared in her ignorant, more innocent past, but Christopher seemed so glad of the breakthrough, so grateful and filled with optimism that
Lizzie decided that forgiveness
had
been the right thing, for all their sakes, that happiness, albeit of a diluted kind, might once again be in reach.
And then, five months later, the Wade family’s world fell apart.
Chapter Twelve
The promise of self-control Tony Patston had made to Joanne after Irina’s first birthday had proven empty. On the contrary, he’d begun drinking more, his growing
alcohol dependence equating, so far as he was concerned, with what he had begun to see as the source of all his troubles: the little cuckoo in his semi-detached nest. Without drink, Tony felt
increasingly tetchy, unable to cope with his money problems and with the cuckoo’s incessant squawking; with a few pints sunk, he felt better, more capable of magnanimity, but
in
capable
of stopping at those few, and soon after that the better feelings drained away and the reddening mists of anger began to overwhelm him.
He hit the child regularly. ‘Just a smack’, he maintained. ‘Not with a belt, like my dad used on me.’
Small mercy so far as Irina and her mother were concerned. The sound and sight of his slaps against Irina’s skin made Joanne’s stomach clench with rage, made her want to lash out at
him, screaming out her feelings, but on the two occasions she had done that, Tony had turned back to the child and actually punched her.
‘Your punishment,’ he told his wife as Irina wailed.
‘You bastard,’ Joanne wept. ‘You filthy
bastard
.’
He’d raised his right hand. ‘Want me to give her another one?’
‘
No
!’ she’d screamed. ‘If you need to hit someone, for God’s sake hit
me
!’
Tony had dropped his hand. ‘I don’t want to hit you,’ he had said.
Joanne had longed to report him, or at least tell someone, either her mum or Nicki next door, but she knew she couldn’t, knew as well as Tony that she would never,
could
never, do
that, because then the truth would come out and they would take her little girl away.
Maybe, she wondered sometimes, that might be better for Irina.
No, she answered herself each time, it would not, because Irina loved her, because she was her mother.
Not her real mother.
Real enough, she told the voice in her head, fiercely. Real enough to love her, passionately, desperately.
Enough for both parents.
It was not
When Lizzie had realized, soon after, that she was pregnant again, she had done her best to try to contemplate termination, but had found it simply impossible.
Another brother, or a sister, for Edward and Jack.
Joy had kicked in, ousting dismay.
And so the marriage had gone on, Lizzie still wary of Christopher, grieving for the end of her trust in him but relieved that he at least seemed, judging by his restraint with her, to be doing
as she had asked. She asked him from time to time if he was still receiving treatment, and, when he said that he was being counselled, asked no more, for she had no wish to know more, and she
supposed it might be healthier for what was left of their marriage if she could leave him at least a vestige of self-respect.
And she had her boys and her unborn child to focus on.
Sophie had come into their world the following spring. A dainty, sweet-tempered daughter, golden-haired with dark-blue eyes, born into the outward ideal that was the Wade family. Christopher had
been ecstatic, had continued – Lizzie had never had the slightest doubt that this side of him was utterly genuine – to be a loving, giving, well-balanced father.
That September, six months after Sophie’s birth, having obtained a prescription from Dr Hilda Kapur, their GP in Marlow, for the Pill, Lizzie had let Christopher make love to her again. It
was very tentative and almost sad, in view of what they had shared in her ignorant, more innocent past, but Christopher seemed so glad of the breakthrough, so grateful and filled with optimism that
Lizzie decided that forgiveness
had
been the right thing, for all their sakes, that happiness, albeit of a diluted kind, might once again be in reach.
And then, five months later, the Wade family’s world fell apart.
Chapter Twelve
The promise of self-control Tony Patston had made to Joanne after Irina’s first birthday had proven empty. On the contrary, he’d begun drinking more, his growing
alcohol dependence equating, so far as he was concerned, with what he had begun to see as the source of all his troubles: the little cuckoo in his semi-detached nest. Without drink, Tony felt
increasingly tetchy, unable to cope with his money problems and with the cuckoo’s incessant squawking; with a few pints sunk, he felt better, more capable of magnanimity, but
in
capable
of stopping at those few, and soon after that the better feelings drained away and the reddening mists of anger began to overwhelm him.
He hit the child regularly. ‘Just a smack’, he maintained. ‘Not with a belt, like my dad used on me.’
Small mercy so far as Irina and her mother were concerned. The sound and sight of his slaps against Irina’s skin made Joanne’s stomach clench with rage, made her want to lash out at
him, screaming out her feelings, but on the two occasions she had done that, Tony had turned back to the child and actually punched her.
‘Your punishment,’ he told his wife as Irina wailed.
‘You bastard,’ Joanne wept. ‘You filthy
bastard
.’
He’d raised his right hand. ‘Want me to give her another one?’
‘
No
!’ she’d screamed. ‘If you need to hit someone, for God’s sake hit
me
!’
Tony had dropped his hand. ‘I don’t want to hit you,’ he had said.
Joanne had longed to report him, or at least tell someone, either her mum or Nicki next door, but she knew she couldn’t, knew as well as Tony that she would never,
could
never, do
that, because then the truth would come out and they would take her little girl away.
Maybe, she wondered sometimes, that might be better for Irina.
No, she answered herself each time, it would not, because Irina loved her, because she was her mother.
Not her real mother.
Real enough, she told the voice in her head, fiercely. Real enough to love her, passionately, desperately.
Enough for both parents.
It was not
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