fathers of girls.’ He pondered, the mushroom stalk pale in his hands. ‘I sure hope our baby’s a boy, that’s all.’
* * *
‘Well, we had a super honeymoon, thank you for asking,’ Prue said sharply.
‘Good. I’m delighted to hear it.’
‘It was nice of you to pay.’
‘Your mother paid. It was her present.’
Prue shrugged. ‘Same thing. Anyway, I think honeymoons are a
great
idea.’
Goaded, he said, ‘Is honeymoon quite the word?’
‘Why not?’ She opened her eyes wide: he could almost believe her surprise was genuine.
‘In the circumstances,’ he said tightly.
‘“Honeymoon,”’ Prue recited, ‘ “the first month after marriage, the interval spent by a newly married pair before settling down in a home of their own.” That’s the dictionary definition. I looked it up.’
‘You know quite well what I mean.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. It doesn’t say anything about pregnancy, if
that’s
what you mean. And anyway, why is that such a dirty word? After all I am
married
now, it’s all
respectable
. Don’t you want to be a grandfather?’
‘In normal circumstances, yes of course.’ But he had never considered it. It had always seemed such a long way off.
‘So you haven’t forgiven me.’ She came nearer, eyeing him curiously. ‘Funny, on Monday I thought you had.’
‘Prue, you know my views. I just don’t want to discuss it any more.’
She turned away. ‘No, you really don’t, do you?’ She shrugged, and picked up the paper. ‘Which room have you put us in, by the way?’
‘What? Oh, the spare room.’ The question took him by surprise.
‘Oh. Not my old room.’
‘No. We—thought you’d be more comfortable in the spare room.’
She turned back, wearing the disappointed face of childhood. He had seen it often (No, you can’t have another meringue, Yes, you must clean your teeth after meals) and knew well the sulk that followed it.
‘Oh, what a pity. I love my old room. We could perfectly well have managed in a three quarter bed. No trouble at all.’
He flinched from the picture she was conjuring up. ‘Well, your mother thought the spare room would be better.’
‘Oh,
Mummy.’
A tiny smile, just this side of mockery. ‘I bet she didn’t. I’m not big yet or anything. In fact it doesn’t show at all yet, does it?’
‘No.’
‘Can’t we swap? I hate twin beds.’
Prue, it’s all arranged …’
‘Oh, I see. You’re putting your foot down. Well, the spare room it is then. I
guess
we can manage in one of the beds if we try.’
* * *
In the evening a concert on television. Submerged by the music, trying to pretend that the undercurrents simply don’t exist. My daughter quiet and tense, withdrawn in her chair, curled up with her feet under her. Somewhere inside her, beneath the absurd heap of clothes, that baby floats. His baby. Little arrogant go-getting runt in the chair next to her, impregnating her, marrying her, holding a gun to our heads, when she should have had the best and all the time in the world to find it. For what else was she born, for what else did we make her, Cassie and I?
He’s holding her hand. If I didn’t love her I wouldn’t care that she’s lowered herself to this. But what a solution. Is this the answer, to stop loving your children so that whatever they do it cannot hurt you, because you don’t care? Her choices are over, and they’d hardly begun. She’s only nineteen and her life is fixed, a long corridor, interminable, with no doors opening off it. Whither he goeth, she goes. He’ll drag her down and down, to whatever level he chooses, and I am powerless to help. There is nothing more I can do for her. I am reduced to buying her lunch at the Mirabelle and paying for a lease on her flat so that she can live in comfort with
him
. I can no longer guide her, advise her or help her: she is out of my sphere of influence. All her potential, all that bright shiny talent we nurtured so happily, the
* * *
‘Well, we had a super honeymoon, thank you for asking,’ Prue said sharply.
‘Good. I’m delighted to hear it.’
‘It was nice of you to pay.’
‘Your mother paid. It was her present.’
Prue shrugged. ‘Same thing. Anyway, I think honeymoons are a
great
idea.’
Goaded, he said, ‘Is honeymoon quite the word?’
‘Why not?’ She opened her eyes wide: he could almost believe her surprise was genuine.
‘In the circumstances,’ he said tightly.
‘“Honeymoon,”’ Prue recited, ‘ “the first month after marriage, the interval spent by a newly married pair before settling down in a home of their own.” That’s the dictionary definition. I looked it up.’
‘You know quite well what I mean.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. It doesn’t say anything about pregnancy, if
that’s
what you mean. And anyway, why is that such a dirty word? After all I am
married
now, it’s all
respectable
. Don’t you want to be a grandfather?’
‘In normal circumstances, yes of course.’ But he had never considered it. It had always seemed such a long way off.
‘So you haven’t forgiven me.’ She came nearer, eyeing him curiously. ‘Funny, on Monday I thought you had.’
‘Prue, you know my views. I just don’t want to discuss it any more.’
She turned away. ‘No, you really don’t, do you?’ She shrugged, and picked up the paper. ‘Which room have you put us in, by the way?’
‘What? Oh, the spare room.’ The question took him by surprise.
‘Oh. Not my old room.’
‘No. We—thought you’d be more comfortable in the spare room.’
She turned back, wearing the disappointed face of childhood. He had seen it often (No, you can’t have another meringue, Yes, you must clean your teeth after meals) and knew well the sulk that followed it.
‘Oh, what a pity. I love my old room. We could perfectly well have managed in a three quarter bed. No trouble at all.’
He flinched from the picture she was conjuring up. ‘Well, your mother thought the spare room would be better.’
‘Oh,
Mummy.’
A tiny smile, just this side of mockery. ‘I bet she didn’t. I’m not big yet or anything. In fact it doesn’t show at all yet, does it?’
‘No.’
‘Can’t we swap? I hate twin beds.’
Prue, it’s all arranged …’
‘Oh, I see. You’re putting your foot down. Well, the spare room it is then. I
guess
we can manage in one of the beds if we try.’
* * *
In the evening a concert on television. Submerged by the music, trying to pretend that the undercurrents simply don’t exist. My daughter quiet and tense, withdrawn in her chair, curled up with her feet under her. Somewhere inside her, beneath the absurd heap of clothes, that baby floats. His baby. Little arrogant go-getting runt in the chair next to her, impregnating her, marrying her, holding a gun to our heads, when she should have had the best and all the time in the world to find it. For what else was she born, for what else did we make her, Cassie and I?
He’s holding her hand. If I didn’t love her I wouldn’t care that she’s lowered herself to this. But what a solution. Is this the answer, to stop loving your children so that whatever they do it cannot hurt you, because you don’t care? Her choices are over, and they’d hardly begun. She’s only nineteen and her life is fixed, a long corridor, interminable, with no doors opening off it. Whither he goeth, she goes. He’ll drag her down and down, to whatever level he chooses, and I am powerless to help. There is nothing more I can do for her. I am reduced to buying her lunch at the Mirabelle and paying for a lease on her flat so that she can live in comfort with
him
. I can no longer guide her, advise her or help her: she is out of my sphere of influence. All her potential, all that bright shiny talent we nurtured so happily, the
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