9

Monday 26 May 1986

Colley was lying in bed looking at the clock, a blurred circle which

seemed to be saying either twenty-five to five or twenty past seven. It didn’t matter. The mountain that was Genista spoke: ‘Are you awake?’

‘No. Anything I can get you, madam?’

‘A cup of tea. Strong. At once’

‘Certainly, madam. Will madam be requiring anything else?’

‘No thank you, James. That will be all’

Colley rolled out of bed, donned dressing gown and slippers, and padded to the kitchen, not waking the existing children. The kitchen clock was larger, more informative: it must have been twenty past seven after all — not a bad time for waking up; a good time to enjoy the tea. When he returned with it, Genista was, of course, asleep again. Colley waited for the tea to draw — ‘as long as it takes to sing the Miserere slowly’ ; he had no idea how the Miserere went — let alone how long it took to sing it; whenever he thought of it, he meant to find out, but then was never the time for research. He poured out the tea after a decent interval:

‘Room service for basking sharks!’

Genista rose up, and they greeted one another as they had every morning for some twelve years.

‘It feels as though something might happen to-day’

‘Time something did. Hairnt got a lot on at the offas’ There was a scuffle and a knock at the door.

Nikki and Giles tumbled into the room.

‘Don’t bounce the bed ... !’

Nikki stood on one leg.

‘Um ... if we get some cups ... can we have some tea?’

‘Yes ... but then you must get dressed’

Nikki departed for the kitchen at top speed: there was a loud crash.

‘It’s all right’ she shouted.

‘‘GOOD!’’

She returned with the cups: ‘Mummy, if I’d broken that little milk jug you don’t like, would you be cross? ... [Genista opened her mouth to say something] ... because I haven’t’

Colley poured the tea, and the room became relatively quiet.

Colley left before the usual morning rush of mislaid combs, books, ribbons, plimsols; Mrs Drewitt came to pick up the children and the house was suddenly empty. Genista washed up and tidied round. She knew it was going to come today. She had just put the kettle on for a cup of coffee when the twinges began.

No sooner had Colley put down the phone than it rang again; it was Jinny the switchbird: ‘Genista rang while you were on the phone. She said to tell you that the midwife’s been, and her bag’s packed, and her mother’s on the way, and all she needs is you’

‘I’m on my way’

Once again, Colley reflected that parents are the very worst people to have children; he ought to have a better idea of what it was all about third time round, but he was by no means sure. Would it be a boy or a girl? Did he care as long as it was all there? It was a bit of a cliché; people kept saying it when they knew Genista was pregnant: ‘Do you want a boy or a girl?’

And then they would answer the question themselves: ‘I don’t spose you mind, as long as it’s healthy’

Colley arrived home: Genista was lying in an armchair.

‘You look like a bloated plutocrat’

‘I feel like one ... two. Come on — the case is in the hall’

She heaved herself up and waddled to the door; she sang: ‘Quand deux poules vont au champ ... [together] ... ‘La première marche devant’’

The journey to the hospital was uneventful. Every time there was the slightest hold up, one of them said something like: ‘Company director delivers baby in traffic jam’.

In no time at all, it seemed, Genista was in bed, Colley sitting beside her holding her hand and feeling important as he timed the contractions. Efficient blue ladies with aluminium trumpets came and went. Colley and Genista got the giggles, Genista’s stopping short with a sharp intake of breath and a grimace. A doctor came in, looking even younger than a policeman, and broddled about: ‘Have you been timing her?’

‘Yes — it seems to be about eight minutes’

‘Ah ... I don’t think anything’s going to happen just yet Mrs ... Er’

He squinted at the label, and turned back to Colley: ‘And you’re Mr ... Er?’

Colley nodded, sorely tempted to say that he was a passing purloiner of placentas, but even he thought this was in questionable taste. The doctor continued: ‘I should go and get some lunch if I were you. I very much doubt if anything will happen before this afternoon’

He glid out, developing his professional walk.

‘Go and get some lunch ... [commanded Genista] ... It’ll be a very long afternoon’

‘Do you think I should? You’ve been very quick before’

‘Then you should go and have very a quick lunch. You can try that new place over the road. Then I’ll know where you’ve bin’

‘Good bye, dear Octopus’

She squeezed his hand as he kissed her lying helpless in the bed. He glid out, developing the professional walk. A passing blue lady eyed him through curious spectacles.

‘Just a touch of rigor mortis’ he murmured.

She glared at him.

He turned to wave to Genista, but there was no line of sight.

Colley walked out into the bright sunlight, with birds twittering in the bushes in the hospital grounds; he ignored his car, as though the imminent event gave him divine right of parking — the miracle of life, he thought.

He crossed the road to a little goldmine recently opened by a young man with a striped shirt, an ear of gold studs, dark glasses, a hairy medallioned chest, and a strong sense of purpose. He looked at the menu in the window and didn’t feel hungry.

He went in, noting that the ashtrays on the smoking tables were suitably large — and, he was glad to see, clean.

A take-it-or-leave-it-looking waitress in tee-shirt and jeans sidled up and gave him a languorous menu, somehow contriving to caress his cheek with her long blonde hair. He looked up at her and smiled; she smiled back, bosoming his left ear. ‘How does she do it?’ wondered Colley. ‘Is there an evening class in it? "Your turn to be the diner" "But I was the diner last week" "You’ll be the diner every week until your hair grows — sit down"’

‘Have you come from "over there"?’ she asked in inverted commas.

Colley wondered if the evening course provided conversational algorithms. He thought of a useful book: Conversational Algorithms for Servile People. Would it work?

‘Yes’

‘Is y’wife having a baby is she?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘They don’t usually come here lunchtimes after it’s been born’

It all seemed to make sense, but he was hungry:

‘I’d like a prawn omelette with trimmings’

She wrote it down busily: ‘Would you like anything to drink at all? We’ve just got our licence’ Proudly.

‘Sweet sherry ...’ said Colley, wondering if that were what he wanted.

‘A large one’ she assumed, taking an extraordinary amount of time to write down what need hardly have been more than five characters —

L Sw Sh.

‘ ... and then a draught Guinness’

His faith in human nature was such that he believed she’d tell him if they didn’t have draught Guinness. However, they didn’t, and she didn’t.

At last everything was inscribed, and she went away. Colley looked round. There was a lot of pine and dimness and not many people — ‘but then,’ he reflected virtuously, ‘most babies come at less convenient times’.

He suddenly realised that he was not worrying about Genista; then wondered if the horrors of the décor had been deliberately perpetrated with that in mind — like the tank of fish in the dentist’s waiting room. He knew that Genista would be all right, and that everything would wait until he returned.

The sherry came; the omelette and trimmings were satisfying; even the ‘draught’ Guinness was passable. Colley found that he was hungry after all; he ordered apple pie and cream and finished with an Irish coffee.

Alcoholically speaking, it was all stronger than he’d bargained for; having paid the bill, he returned to the ‘bedside vigil’ (as he now thought of it) in a floating saunter. But somehow, he got lost in the works of the hospital.

Usually bustling with life, it was now double siesta time. He came to a blank wall. Turning round, he seemed to be enveloped in the corridor.

There was a door; he tapped on it, and waited. Nothing happened. He opened it slowly, put his head round it, and looked in. It was a bare room, with a bare wooden floor and an archaic gas-stove in the corner fireplace. The walls were painted gloss green and brown. Colley wondered if he had been teleported to the waiting room of a rural station circa 1923.

He withdrew his head, and shut the door reverently. Now he saw another door: ‘When one door shuts, another door opens’ he murmured, tapping discreetly.

‘Come!’ shouted an imperious female voice.

Colley opened the door, to be confronted by the blue rigor mortis lady glaring over her curious glasses. Colley wondered if these were the ‘obscene spectacles’ that the law forbade.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m, er, looking for my wife’

‘She’s in the delivery room’

‘You must have second sight ... [Colley combined her instant recognition of him with her fearsome eyewear] ... Can you tell me the way? Please?’

‘Certainly ... [was that a kindly smile?] ... out of here, turn left and left again. Delivery Room 2. It’s on the door. Good luck’

‘Thank you’

Room 2; Genista grinned, then grimaced; something was going to happen very soon now. The window was wide open, looking out on to a courtyard of surprisingly noninstitutional aspect: trees laden with blossom; a lawn; flower-beds. A hidden thrush warbled in the branches. Colley looked round the room: it was less clinical-looking than the ward; he couldn’t quite make out how this had been achieved. There was something infantile about the décor: gambolling lambs amid daisy freshness (‘perhaps they’re kipling’ he thought), designed to put mothers — parents — in the mood ... it could hardly be for the new arrivals.

He sat on a comfortable chair by Genista’s bed (noting appreciatively that, comfortable as it was, it was not too low) and squeezed her hand. Genista was heaving and grunting, and the thrush was singing its heart out. And now: ‘Push! Push!’ the midwife was exhorting, aluminium trumpet at the the ready. Colley could feel a strange sympathetic stirring in his loins; he was excited and breathless with the effort, wondering whether it would be a girl or a boy.

Everything was unexpectedly quiet — except for the thrush singing, the midwife moving about, Doctor ... Er coming in and mumbling at her in subdued technicalities.

Time stood still, marked only by the warbling of the thrush and the obtrusive ticking of Colley’s watch as (from habit) he noted the intervals between events — not that that had much relevance now.

Then things started to happen. Colley moved a bit to get a better view without obstructing the professionals — savouring their quiet professionalism. A head appeared: ‘Good, it’s got hair, lots of hair’

Anterior shoulder.

Intramuscular syntometrine.

‘Push! ... Push!’

Posterior shoulder ... body ...

‘Wow! A quart in a pint pot’

An expectant wait for the moment of truth. Heave!

‘Darling ... it’s another boy!’

And so William was born, mucus cleared, clamps, scissors, injections, measurements, bathing ...

materialised. And time stood still for all alike as they enjoyed a post-natal cup and ‘three cheers for the National Health’ thought Colley.

Happy and relaxed, Genista was now wanting to get some sleep. William himself was asleep, the doctor had gone, the midwife had gone. Colley sat and Genista lay, appreciating one another.

‘Darling?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you for a lovely birthday present’

‘He could have waited another day’

‘Don’t be so literal’

‘Well, a closer birthday present than Nikki was a Christmas present’

At last, he kissed her; went out into the fresh summer evening thinking how clever everybody was, and: ‘It’s a boy! It’s a boy!’ pounding through his whole being.

From wanting to tell everybody in the world, he remembered that there were certain people he must tell — his parents, Genista’s mother patiently waiting at home ... and Nikki and Giles would want to know too. A telephone box stepped out remindingly; prepared Colley pulled out a handful of change.

He would have to phone his parents and his mother-in-law; then he would be free. It’s a boy! It’s a boy! He dialled his parents’ number. The telephone rang and rang and rang. He waited until honour was more than satisfied; then hung up and dialled his home number.

‘Yes? Hello?’ It was his mother-in-law.

‘Hello, it’s a boy’

‘Is that you, Colley?’

Colley looked at his reflection in the glass and cast his eyes upwards in sympathy with himself: ‘Yes, it’s a boy, and he weighs seven pounds eight ounces, or three point four kilograms as they say nowadays, and Genista is well, and sends everybody her love, and hopes the children are being good’

‘Give her my love and tell her she’s got to get plenty of rest’

‘Yes, I expect she’ll do that’

‘When will you be home?’

‘Are the children in bed?’

‘Yes, they’re reading — they’re looking forward to seeing you’

‘Give them my love, and tell them I’ll see them in the morning, and they’ll be able to see Mummy tomorrow probably’

‘I expect so ... I’ve been too busy to look at the times ... [not strictly true, but he must keep the upper hand] ... so expect me when you see me. Don’t wait up’

‘You’ll be late then?’

‘Might be. I’ll get myself something to eat ...’

‘I’ll leave something out for you ...’

‘No, don’t worry. Good bye — and thanks for everything’

‘Good bye ...’

Colley hung up, leaving his mother-in-law staring into the mouthpiece. Nikki and Giles had gone to bed; once he’d gone home he wouldn’t decently be able to go out again — neither would he want to.

He thought the opportunity of not going home too good to miss; he owed his mother-in-law some company, but tonight he didn’t relish the way she would cosset him, cook him some huge, plain meal he didn’t want, and keep up a non-stop barrage of comment and criticism at a volume level even higher than that of the television which would form the focus of her attacks, turned up so that she could hear it from the kitchen. But, dammit, he was hungry, he realised; in that same moment he saw, smelt and tasted a Great Indian meal; the salivary pain was excruciating.

He found his car patiently waiting, drove to Chilton Crescent, and parked out of sight of his house. He was now intent on celebrating, even if he had to celebrate alone. He walked back to the Market Square, going the long way round to avoid passing Chaite’s flat. Half of him would dearly have loved to have seen Chaite; the other half was all too well aware that an out-of-office meeting must surely be incompat-ible with his new office of fatherhood. He went into the Great India Restaurant, greeted with familiar smiles and deferent movements by the staff — but he hardly noticed, for there in the far corner, studying the menu, sat Chaite. Had Providence come to his rescue; made up his mind for him, as so often She did? Should he go to a different table and pretend not to notice her?

‘Don’t want to upset Providence’ he said to himself ... just as Chaite looked up and smiled beckoningly at him. He went over to her table.

‘Congratulations — come and join me. I’ve only just sat down’

‘Thanks. How did you know?’

Chaite exercised her will on a waiter — she had restaurant presence — and gestured towards Colley. The waiter flourished a menu and a wine list in elaborately-tooled maroon carapaces before him:

‘Yes, Sir? Something to drink?’

‘A pint of draught Guinness — NO — let’s have some bubbly’

Chaite didn’t restrain him as he chose a modestly priced candidate.

‘Are you ready to order Sir? Madam?’

‘Oh ... four poppadoms and a sumbol tray — please ... and a sweet sherry and ... [to Chaite] ... have you a drink coming?’

‘Yes, I’ve ordered a G&T’

‘Gin and tonic, Madam? Very good’

The waiter melted before he could be reprogrammed. They waited. Then three waiters bore down on their table with four poppadoms, a sumbol tray, two gins and tonics, a sweet sherry and a pint of draught Guinness. A fourth arrived with the cooler and bubbly. Chaite and Colley laughed quietly, relaxed with one another in the oneness of the moment.

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, I can hardly believe it. Two boys and a girl’

‘TRIPLETS???’

‘No — another boy — two ... [he saw she was teasing] ... you know what I mean ... [He felt he ought to keep things going] ... He weighs just over seven and a half pounds. Three point four kilograms to be precise’

‘And Genista?’

‘I can’t remember what she weighs ... [Colley wished he hadn’t said that] And he’s got all his ... um. Do you know, it’s Genista’s birthday tomorrow? Isn’t that strange? What are you going to eat? This is on me, of course’

The choosing was uneasily punctuated by that ambiguous noise which is either the cook scraping rice in a pan or the proprietor clearing the saveloys out of his throat.

Chaite was hungry — she had been working hard all day and had missed lunch. Colley had been working hard, albeit vicariously; he too was ravenous, in spite of his lunch. Their meal lasted a long time, from chicken tikka via king prawn mossolla to kulfi. They got through two celebration bottles. A succession of waiters with satyrical smiles enquired as to their enjoyment of the meal.

Colley was nearing its end. She liked Genista very much, and refused to be the instrument of any unhappiness. Colley just needed saving from himself; strange that such a man of business should be so ignorant of reality. He would get over her departure quite rapidly; she hoped — expected — that he would become absorbed in his newly-extended family. The time for her to leave had come.

‘Coffee, Madam? Coffee, Sir?’

They looked at one another.

‘‘No thank you’’

Before Colley could ask for the bill, the waiter dematerialised again. After some age, Colley was able to catch an eye and make the scribbling-on-the-palm-of-the-hand sign that universally achieves instant results. Chaite rose to pay a visit to the loo. The bill arrived on a plate.

‘Do they wash them before recycling them?’ Colley wondered as he surreptitiously slid his Access card on to the plate. The waiter bore the arcana away for his rituals; the chit arrived with its total box empty.

‘I thought service was included’ said Colley, not unkindly.

The waiter peered at the chit as though he had never seen it before:

‘Sorry, Sir, you are right, service is included’

Unhurriedly, he performed gradus secundus: scrutiny of signatures, checking of carbons, parting of perforations, return of regalia.

Chaite reappeared, having realised that Primrose Cottage lay between the Great India and Chilton Crescent.

‘Well timed’

The waiter vanished; rematerialised at the door, holding it open:

‘Thank you, Sir. Madam. Good night’

‘‘Thank you’’ they said, stepping out into the warm May evening.

‘Where’s your car?’

‘I left it at home so I could celebrate ... I’m on foot’ he added unnecessarily.

They strolled along. He tried to take her hand, but she avoided his approach. Yet, this was not the night to deflate him completely, so she sought out his and grasped it. And still Colley got the feeling that she was beginning to elude him. He stopped; sat down on a low wall.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I feel slightly ... it’ll pass ... the food’s excellent, but I just don’t like their coffee’

‘You didn’t have any of their coffee ... [Chaite came straight to the point] ... do you want me to invite you in for coffee?’

They reached Primrose Cottage; Chaite got out her key. Colley followed her up the steps; they went in. Miss Primrose, ears like those of a hawk, called up stairs: ‘Can you come down a minute, Chaite? I’ve got something I must tell you’

‘Can’t it wait? I’m very tired ... [Even as she spoke, Chaite feared that Miss Primrose would come up and find Colley and get the wrong idea] ... all right — I’m coming. But I’m nearly asleep ... [she would be huffing alcohol and curry all over her landlady — explain in advance] ... I’ve been celebrating’

‘With your friend?’

Chaite had reached Miss Primrose’s sitting room; she deliberately stayed standing, by the door: ‘Yes?’

‘I had The World, Judgement Reversed, Knight of Coins, Six of Swords, and Six of Batons’

Chaite knew that whatever it meant it would touch her condition somewhere: ‘Were you Consulting for me?’

‘Yes. You’re going to bring something to a successful conclusion; it’s the end of one of your cycles of destiny. At the same time, you’ll feel some sense of loss, some guilt, perhaps that you’re being punished for some failure. However, don’t worry — you’re following a code of honour based on the highest moral principles and values of mankind. You’ll have to work hard to do this; you may even have to move away from the problem — or danger — I’m not sure what it is. But your victory over adversity will be complete, and you will emerge pure and shining. That’s all’

‘All? It sounds as if — whatever it is — I’m in for a change’

‘I should think so, dear. Good night. You’ll sleep well, I know’

Chaite made her way upstairs. She could tell by the lights that Colley was in the kitchen; now she could hear him making coffee.

‘What was that? What did Madame Sosotris want? Oh ... you look done in’

‘Oh, Colley’

Chaite sat down, and burst into tears. She laid her head on the table. Unsure what to do, Colley sat down beside her and tried unsuccessfully — for it was topologically impossible — to put an arm of comfort round her.

‘Come on, drink your nice coffee and go to bed’

deliberations and conclusions. Yet if she told Colley, he would be bound to think that she was letting the cards influence her.

’I had a few things on my mind ...’

‘Don’t I know it?’

‘... and I’d sort of decided what to do and, funnily enough, everything Primmy said sort of confirmed it’

‘And what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going on holiday in July, and I was wondering where to go’

‘Are you? Yes, I remember. Where are you going? You don’t need cards to tell you that, surely? ... [He put on a conventional ghostly voice] … You’re go-ho-hing on a jou-hour-ney ...’

‘I think I’ll go and see my sister. But right now I’m go-ho-ing to turn you out because I’m go-ho-hing to be-hed’

She joked to show that, though she was serious, she was not unkind.