glimpses blue triangles of sky between the scallops of the station awning. He wonders how long it would take him to walk to Charing Cross , where he’ll be able to catch an alternative train.
The traffic’s so loud it’s a kind of torture, but as soon as he steps into St James’s Park the noise level drops. He pauses for a moment, suddenly aware of his surroundings: the vibrant colours of the flowers, the random, melodious snatches of birdsong. He sits down on a bench. A couple of men in suits walk slowly past him. Civil servants, he thinks, or even MPs discussing affairs of state in low serious voices. A girl wearing running gear jogs past at the same time. Alexander pulls in his long legs to let her by and her smile is so white and orthodontic she can only be American. As he watches the small lime green knapsack between her shoulder blades bumping up and down into the distance, he wonders if the years of smiling a mouthful of metal were worth it for her. Or is the nervous eagerness to please which he caught in her eyes due to all that time lived as an unkissable teenager?
A man of about his age, maybe younger, approaches pushing a turquoise and navy Mamas and Papas pram. He sits down at the other end of the bench from Alexander, smiles, then takes a cigarette from the packet which is resting incongruously on the pale blue cotton cellular blanket and puts it to his mouth. He catches Alexander looking, picks up the packet and offers him one.
‘No, thanks,’ Alexander says quickly, and then, so that he doesn’t appear to be disapproving, he asks, ‘How old is he?’
‘Four months.’
The man lights up.
‘ Your first?’
‘Yeah. You got kids?’
‘One girl. She’s five.’
‘ S’great , isn’t it?’
‘When they’re sleeping,’ Alexander says, nodding at the baby who’s lying on his back with his hands stretched up beside his head.
‘Yeah, right,’ says the man, blowing smoke out, and they both laugh.
Alexander feels a jolt of disloyalty to Lucy as he remembers the pure pleasure of watching her sleeping this morning, as peaceful and perfect as a baby, and the innocent smell of her skin as he bent and dropped a silent kiss just above her forehead.
Lucy is great. She’s bright and she’s gorgeous, and he loves the way she sticks her tongue out and over her bottom lip when she’s trying to read, and he loves the paintings she does of herself, all fingers and toes, and he doesn’t know why he’s said he prefers her sleeping, or why he feels so beleaguered by his responsibility for her.
He glances at his bench companion who’s drawing hard on his cigarette. You wouldn’t be smoking if you really knew the risks, he thinks. He tries to think of a way of telling him without sounding sanctimonious, but he can’t. His creeping sense of failure is like a cloud going over the sun, dulling everything.
Alexander gets up.
‘See you,’ he says to the new father.
‘See you, mate,’ the man calls cheerfully.
Instead of going out of the park at Admiralty Arch, Alexander decides to walk round again. He cannot face going home just yet.
He walks southwards past the edge of the lake, trying to make himself concentrate on the questions that are hovering around his head like persistent wasps round a picnic.
Question one: why was his instant reaction to the thought of another baby so hostile? Is it because he feels that he wasn’t involved in the decision, or because he does not want to have another child? He thinks it is the latter, although he is still annoyed about the former because he thinks that Nell should have told him that there was a chance of conception. So, why doesn’t he want another child? Is it because it would tie him closer to Nell, or because he doesn’t want all the worry that goes with a child? If someone could guarantee that there would be no worry like they’ve had with Lucy, would he welcome the thought of the baby?
Does he still love Nell?
However logically and simply he
The traffic’s so loud it’s a kind of torture, but as soon as he steps into St James’s Park the noise level drops. He pauses for a moment, suddenly aware of his surroundings: the vibrant colours of the flowers, the random, melodious snatches of birdsong. He sits down on a bench. A couple of men in suits walk slowly past him. Civil servants, he thinks, or even MPs discussing affairs of state in low serious voices. A girl wearing running gear jogs past at the same time. Alexander pulls in his long legs to let her by and her smile is so white and orthodontic she can only be American. As he watches the small lime green knapsack between her shoulder blades bumping up and down into the distance, he wonders if the years of smiling a mouthful of metal were worth it for her. Or is the nervous eagerness to please which he caught in her eyes due to all that time lived as an unkissable teenager?
A man of about his age, maybe younger, approaches pushing a turquoise and navy Mamas and Papas pram. He sits down at the other end of the bench from Alexander, smiles, then takes a cigarette from the packet which is resting incongruously on the pale blue cotton cellular blanket and puts it to his mouth. He catches Alexander looking, picks up the packet and offers him one.
‘No, thanks,’ Alexander says quickly, and then, so that he doesn’t appear to be disapproving, he asks, ‘How old is he?’
‘Four months.’
The man lights up.
‘ Your first?’
‘Yeah. You got kids?’
‘One girl. She’s five.’
‘ S’great , isn’t it?’
‘When they’re sleeping,’ Alexander says, nodding at the baby who’s lying on his back with his hands stretched up beside his head.
‘Yeah, right,’ says the man, blowing smoke out, and they both laugh.
Alexander feels a jolt of disloyalty to Lucy as he remembers the pure pleasure of watching her sleeping this morning, as peaceful and perfect as a baby, and the innocent smell of her skin as he bent and dropped a silent kiss just above her forehead.
Lucy is great. She’s bright and she’s gorgeous, and he loves the way she sticks her tongue out and over her bottom lip when she’s trying to read, and he loves the paintings she does of herself, all fingers and toes, and he doesn’t know why he’s said he prefers her sleeping, or why he feels so beleaguered by his responsibility for her.
He glances at his bench companion who’s drawing hard on his cigarette. You wouldn’t be smoking if you really knew the risks, he thinks. He tries to think of a way of telling him without sounding sanctimonious, but he can’t. His creeping sense of failure is like a cloud going over the sun, dulling everything.
Alexander gets up.
‘See you,’ he says to the new father.
‘See you, mate,’ the man calls cheerfully.
Instead of going out of the park at Admiralty Arch, Alexander decides to walk round again. He cannot face going home just yet.
He walks southwards past the edge of the lake, trying to make himself concentrate on the questions that are hovering around his head like persistent wasps round a picnic.
Question one: why was his instant reaction to the thought of another baby so hostile? Is it because he feels that he wasn’t involved in the decision, or because he does not want to have another child? He thinks it is the latter, although he is still annoyed about the former because he thinks that Nell should have told him that there was a chance of conception. So, why doesn’t he want another child? Is it because it would tie him closer to Nell, or because he doesn’t want all the worry that goes with a child? If someone could guarantee that there would be no worry like they’ve had with Lucy, would he welcome the thought of the baby?
Does he still love Nell?
However logically and simply he
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