A Time for Courage by Margaret Graham

had given him enough backing to start up the office in London. Just the two of them, not her, not his mother. He shook himself to remove her memory and looked across at his son. Thank God the boy was a true Watson in spite of those eyes. He was devoid of the flaws which had been run deep into his father’s wife, a woman he refused to call Mother. And what about Edith, his own wife?
    He sucked heavily on the cigarette. He did not relish returning to Eliza’s home now that Edith was considerably better and able to join them downstairs. He could hardly bear to look at her; at the woman who hid such sordid lusts behind that sickly exterior.
    He grimaced. Was it too much to ask that a man should be able to think of his wife as beyond reproach, nurturer of his home and children? Good God, was it any wonder the wretched woman was unable to bear a living child? Each year they had tried, each year they had failed since Hannah was born. Her lack of decency had brought its own punishment but this afflicted him also and for that she was doubly to be condemned. Such selfishness did not bear thinking of and there was no point in her tears at the side of the empty cradle, no point unless it was to rue her own wickedness, her own sin.
    For men, of course, it was different; they needed an outlet for their natural instincts and the correct place to practise these was with the women who were outside the code of chivalry, the harlots who roamed the streets. It was only with these that contraception should be considered, and then solely for protection against disease. How could that woman have even conceived the thought let alone mentioned it as she had done when he had swept from the room that night. A damned tube of sheep gut for use with a wife, he had roared. And what had she said? Only that rubber was available now.
    He removed a piece of tobacco from his tongue. Carnal activity without procreation was a sin, everyone knew that. It would mean that a respectable woman was admitting to enjoyment and that, of course, was impossible. He shook his head in despair. Didn’t she understand that by that attitude she debased her value in his eyes, quite apart from repelling him as a companion and provider. She was, first and foremost, the breeder of children. That was her sole purpose, to breed and nurture the family. What would she do with herself if she was not producing children, for God’s sake, and no, he would not think of his own mother.
    The wind was strengthening now. He pinched the stub of his cigarette and tossed it over the side of the cart. The pony was labouring, tired from the journey. He lashed the whip, glad that the end caught its hindquarters, pleased to see it start and rear its head. ‘Pass over the waterproofs, Harry.’ His voice was sharp and Harry obeyed quickly. His father did not thank him, he had too much outrage in his head.
    What was to be done though, for he needed another son? A man should have more than one, it was too risky. But perhaps his wife had learnt her lesson now; she had been obedient and dutiful since that day. Yes, there was only one thing to do and that was to overcome his repugnance for long enough to produce another child. Please God, not another daughter though. They were nothing but an inconvenience, a burden.
    He noticed that the wind had sprung up harshly and that the sky was black. He lifted his head as the lightning came. Then the thunder clapped loudly overhead and the pony shied. They were off the moor and heading down the lane which led eventually to the junction when the pony’s frightened movement brushed the cart against the high-earthed hedge.
    Harry called, ‘Steady, Father.’
    The pony tried to back in its shafts as the rain came, in what seemed like a solid dark sheet.
    ‘Over the side, boy, grab his head,’ John Watson shouted, reining in sharply. Through the deluge he could see Harry as he gripped the halter of the pony, near to the bit. Saw him as he put his hand on its nose,