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Authors: Helen Smith
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day and ask to have the journal back. Lucas wouldn’t have read them, anyway (at any rate, he hoped not, because if so, he might have guessed the identity of the woman Jesmond had been writing to) so he might as well keep them with him. The memories would die with him, when the time came.
Chapter Ten ~ The Pie
Angela looked so lovely when Lucas got home. She’d been baking something. She had flour on her nose. The wife in his imagination and the woman he was married to were never quite the same person. Maybe it was OK to fantasise about other women because even when you fantasised about your own wife, you weren’t really fantasising about her, you were fantasising about a fantasy.
She seemed cheerful today, not so beaten down as she’d seemed in recent weeks. He was cheerful, too. She noticed it.
‘Your miracle people not so annoying as usual?’
‘I met this woman; she used to read the news on TV.’
‘You’re kidding? How old is she?’
‘She’s not so old. I reckon she’d have been quite young back then. She was just starting out, she said.’
‘What’s she do now, then?’
‘She takes care of her kid. This disabled kid.’
Angela looked sad at that. Shit. So now he couldn’t ask her about getting pregnant because she’d be thinking of the kid.
Look, nobody was saying they didn’t want a disabled kid. Nobody was saying that. It’s just you didn’t want your kid to have anything less than another person’s kid, and that included speech and mobility and all the rest of it. The thing was, with antenatal care the way it was in London – i.e. non-existent – infant mortality and death in childbirth and previously avoidable complications leading to disability in the child, they were all a very real possibility. People started to question whether it was a good idea to bring a child into the world. First, because it might be a short journey with a sad ending. Second, because if the kid did make it past their first year, they might not have a very happy life, especially if they were a girl.
‘Did you mean it, what you said?’ he asked her. ‘About doing something about it if you were pregnant and you had a girl?’ Some people smothered the kid at birth if it was a girl. It was frowned on but people did it.
‘I never said that.’ She was shocked.
‘No, but you said something about having a girl – not wanting one.’
‘Did I? You must have misunderstood.’
He was having the conversation he hadn’t wanted to have. ‘Let’s not talk about it. What’s for tea? I’m hungry.’
‘I’m making a pie.’
‘Ooh, lovely.’
She wasn’t an idiot, though. She wouldn’t leave it. ‘I didn’t say I’d kill our child if it was a girl.’
‘No.’
‘What made you say it, then?’
‘There was this girl today, she was disabled.’
‘You think I’d kill a child because it was disabled?’ She screeched the words. She was incredulous.
‘No, I’m not saying that.’
‘What then?’
‘No, there was this girl – this lovely disabled girl – and I thought “I wish we could have a child,” and I wondered why we haven’t.’ It took him by surprise. He was nearly crying. He had to turn away so she wouldn’t see. He pretended to do the washing up. He put some water in the sink. He wished he hadn’t thought all those horrible things about dunking Maureen’s head in a sink full of washing up, and the baked beans. He had no reason to think she even fed baked beans to her family. It was snobbish of him. It’s because he’d thought she was poor and ignorant, before he realised she used to read the news on TV. He wondered if people thought that Angela was stupid because she didn’t have a job to give her any status. They wouldn’t think it if they’d ever heard her sing.
‘And you don’t ever sing any more.’ He actually was crying. She came and put her arms around him, put her head against his back between his shoulder blades. There was no use pretending he wasn’t
Chapter Ten ~ The Pie
Angela looked so lovely when Lucas got home. She’d been baking something. She had flour on her nose. The wife in his imagination and the woman he was married to were never quite the same person. Maybe it was OK to fantasise about other women because even when you fantasised about your own wife, you weren’t really fantasising about her, you were fantasising about a fantasy.
She seemed cheerful today, not so beaten down as she’d seemed in recent weeks. He was cheerful, too. She noticed it.
‘Your miracle people not so annoying as usual?’
‘I met this woman; she used to read the news on TV.’
‘You’re kidding? How old is she?’
‘She’s not so old. I reckon she’d have been quite young back then. She was just starting out, she said.’
‘What’s she do now, then?’
‘She takes care of her kid. This disabled kid.’
Angela looked sad at that. Shit. So now he couldn’t ask her about getting pregnant because she’d be thinking of the kid.
Look, nobody was saying they didn’t want a disabled kid. Nobody was saying that. It’s just you didn’t want your kid to have anything less than another person’s kid, and that included speech and mobility and all the rest of it. The thing was, with antenatal care the way it was in London – i.e. non-existent – infant mortality and death in childbirth and previously avoidable complications leading to disability in the child, they were all a very real possibility. People started to question whether it was a good idea to bring a child into the world. First, because it might be a short journey with a sad ending. Second, because if the kid did make it past their first year, they might not have a very happy life, especially if they were a girl.
‘Did you mean it, what you said?’ he asked her. ‘About doing something about it if you were pregnant and you had a girl?’ Some people smothered the kid at birth if it was a girl. It was frowned on but people did it.
‘I never said that.’ She was shocked.
‘No, but you said something about having a girl – not wanting one.’
‘Did I? You must have misunderstood.’
He was having the conversation he hadn’t wanted to have. ‘Let’s not talk about it. What’s for tea? I’m hungry.’
‘I’m making a pie.’
‘Ooh, lovely.’
She wasn’t an idiot, though. She wouldn’t leave it. ‘I didn’t say I’d kill our child if it was a girl.’
‘No.’
‘What made you say it, then?’
‘There was this girl today, she was disabled.’
‘You think I’d kill a child because it was disabled?’ She screeched the words. She was incredulous.
‘No, I’m not saying that.’
‘What then?’
‘No, there was this girl – this lovely disabled girl – and I thought “I wish we could have a child,” and I wondered why we haven’t.’ It took him by surprise. He was nearly crying. He had to turn away so she wouldn’t see. He pretended to do the washing up. He put some water in the sink. He wished he hadn’t thought all those horrible things about dunking Maureen’s head in a sink full of washing up, and the baked beans. He had no reason to think she even fed baked beans to her family. It was snobbish of him. It’s because he’d thought she was poor and ignorant, before he realised she used to read the news on TV. He wondered if people thought that Angela was stupid because she didn’t have a job to give her any status. They wouldn’t think it if they’d ever heard her sing.
‘And you don’t ever sing any more.’ He actually was crying. She came and put her arms around him, put her head against his back between his shoulder blades. There was no use pretending he wasn’t
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