ever.
At the same time, which was five eighteen in the morning in New York, Kate was woken up by Kieran starting to grizzle again. She eased herself out of bed and out of the bedroom and walked across the living room to Kieran’s crib. She lifted him out and he was hot and damp and smelled of pee.
‘There,’ she said, jiggling him up and down. ‘Is it those nasty teeth again?’
She carried him across to the window and looked down at East 13th Street. It had been raining during the night and there were stacks of sodden cardboard on the sidewalk. There was no traffic, although she could hear a fire truck honking somewhere in the distance, and the warbling of sirens.
‘There, there,’ she sang, rocking Kieran from side to side. And then she sang, ‘ Chip, chip, my little horse. Chip, chip again, sir. How many miles to Dublin town? Fourscore and ten, sir . Will I get there by candlelight ? Yes, and back again, sir .’
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and then a kiss on the back of her neck, and then another kiss. She turned and said, ‘We tried not to wake you, didn’t we, baby?’
‘That’s all right, Sissikins. I couldn’t sleep anyway. Every time I closed my eyes I had dreams about Michael. I can’t think why, like. I haven’t thought about Michael for years.’
Kate reached up with one hand and touched his cheek. ‘Poor Michael,’ she said. She kissed the top of Kieran’s gingery hair and for a long moment Kieran was silent, as if she had given him a blessing.
THE BATTERED WIFE
H alfway through the afternoon it began to rain, almost laughably hard, and they retreated under the canvas awning of the bric-a-brac stall.
‘You should leave him,’ said Heather, over the syncopated drumming of the rain. ‘You should pack everything up, take the kids and walk out. You could always come to Tunbridge Wells and stay with us until you find somewhere else to go.’
‘How can I?’ said Lily. ‘And why should I? Poppy’s only just started at Elm Trees – she’d be so upset if we had to move – and Jamie keeps wetting the bed as it is. Apart from that, damn it, Heather, half of that house belongs to me, and I’ve spent three years decorating it exactly the way I want it.’
‘But you can’t go on the way you are, Lily. One day he’s going to kill you.’
Lily didn’t know what to say. She knew that Heather was right. It was a gloomy wet afternoon in late September but she was wearing dark glasses to conceal her two bruised eyes. Two nights ago Stephen had come home in one of his moods. He had been drinking, although he wasn’t incoherently drunk, like he sometimes was. She had cooked him a chicken-and-tomato casserole, one of his favourites, but for some arcane reason he had interpreted this as mockery.
‘What? You think I’m some kind of a peasant, all I ever want to eat is chicken-and-tomato casserole?’
He had dropped the Le Creuset casserole on the kitchen floor, cracking the tiles and splashing her ankles with scalding red sauce, and then he had punched her, once, on the bridge of the nose.
‘Me – I would have called the police,’ said Heather.
‘Oh, yes. And then Stephen would tell them that he’s suffering from stress at work and how sorry he is and how he’ll never ever lay another finger on me.’
‘At least see a counsellor, Lily. Please.’
Lightning crackled behind the horse chestnuts that bordered the village green, followed by an indigestive grumble of thunder. Children scurried in the rain between the tents, screaming.
Heather said, ‘Why does it always rain whenever we hold a fête? You would have thought that God was all in favour of us raising money for a donkey sanctuary. His son went everywhere by donkey.’
But Lily wasn’t really listening. She was frowning at a woman who was sheltering under the cake stall opposite. The woman was wearing a grey knitted hat and a grey three-quarter-length raincoat, and she had a pale, drained face, with tightly pursed
At the same time, which was five eighteen in the morning in New York, Kate was woken up by Kieran starting to grizzle again. She eased herself out of bed and out of the bedroom and walked across the living room to Kieran’s crib. She lifted him out and he was hot and damp and smelled of pee.
‘There,’ she said, jiggling him up and down. ‘Is it those nasty teeth again?’
She carried him across to the window and looked down at East 13th Street. It had been raining during the night and there were stacks of sodden cardboard on the sidewalk. There was no traffic, although she could hear a fire truck honking somewhere in the distance, and the warbling of sirens.
‘There, there,’ she sang, rocking Kieran from side to side. And then she sang, ‘ Chip, chip, my little horse. Chip, chip again, sir. How many miles to Dublin town? Fourscore and ten, sir . Will I get there by candlelight ? Yes, and back again, sir .’
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and then a kiss on the back of her neck, and then another kiss. She turned and said, ‘We tried not to wake you, didn’t we, baby?’
‘That’s all right, Sissikins. I couldn’t sleep anyway. Every time I closed my eyes I had dreams about Michael. I can’t think why, like. I haven’t thought about Michael for years.’
Kate reached up with one hand and touched his cheek. ‘Poor Michael,’ she said. She kissed the top of Kieran’s gingery hair and for a long moment Kieran was silent, as if she had given him a blessing.
THE BATTERED WIFE
H alfway through the afternoon it began to rain, almost laughably hard, and they retreated under the canvas awning of the bric-a-brac stall.
‘You should leave him,’ said Heather, over the syncopated drumming of the rain. ‘You should pack everything up, take the kids and walk out. You could always come to Tunbridge Wells and stay with us until you find somewhere else to go.’
‘How can I?’ said Lily. ‘And why should I? Poppy’s only just started at Elm Trees – she’d be so upset if we had to move – and Jamie keeps wetting the bed as it is. Apart from that, damn it, Heather, half of that house belongs to me, and I’ve spent three years decorating it exactly the way I want it.’
‘But you can’t go on the way you are, Lily. One day he’s going to kill you.’
Lily didn’t know what to say. She knew that Heather was right. It was a gloomy wet afternoon in late September but she was wearing dark glasses to conceal her two bruised eyes. Two nights ago Stephen had come home in one of his moods. He had been drinking, although he wasn’t incoherently drunk, like he sometimes was. She had cooked him a chicken-and-tomato casserole, one of his favourites, but for some arcane reason he had interpreted this as mockery.
‘What? You think I’m some kind of a peasant, all I ever want to eat is chicken-and-tomato casserole?’
He had dropped the Le Creuset casserole on the kitchen floor, cracking the tiles and splashing her ankles with scalding red sauce, and then he had punched her, once, on the bridge of the nose.
‘Me – I would have called the police,’ said Heather.
‘Oh, yes. And then Stephen would tell them that he’s suffering from stress at work and how sorry he is and how he’ll never ever lay another finger on me.’
‘At least see a counsellor, Lily. Please.’
Lightning crackled behind the horse chestnuts that bordered the village green, followed by an indigestive grumble of thunder. Children scurried in the rain between the tents, screaming.
Heather said, ‘Why does it always rain whenever we hold a fête? You would have thought that God was all in favour of us raising money for a donkey sanctuary. His son went everywhere by donkey.’
But Lily wasn’t really listening. She was frowning at a woman who was sheltering under the cake stall opposite. The woman was wearing a grey knitted hat and a grey three-quarter-length raincoat, and she had a pale, drained face, with tightly pursed
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