coming up for the start of a new day cleansed all the trouble that had gone before – whether that was mean girls at school or a fight with a boyfriend. I told myself that when I heard about their crash, that night. ‘It will all be all right in the morning.’ Except it wasn’t, of course. Because in the morning, they were no longer there. There’s an exception to every rule though. That was it. For all the other mornings, everything will be all right. By the power of my mother’s word.
So I turn off the light, position myself on my left side (good for the baby) and drift away to sleep. When Will comes back to bed, I wake for a moment as he settles behind me, arms looped round me in our usual sleep-spooning. Not holding me quite as tight tonight, but maybe he’s just worried about hurting little Leo. Or maybe we haven’t quite made up yet. But I still feel myself drift off towards sleep. I don’t have any guilty conscience that would stop me. Why, after all, would I? I just want the best for Will, and the truth is always the best. For us, anyway.
I awake in the night to the sounds of music. At first, I think I am imagining it, that it’s a fragment of dream that’s wafted over into my waking world. But no. I am fully awake. And it’s really there. And Will really isn’t; the bed next to me is empty and cold. The sound is coming from downstairs. I get out of bed and open the bedroom door. The music gets louder. I tiptoe downstairs to the living room. The door is shut. I push it open, as gently as I can. Will is curled up on the sofa in foetal position. His eyes are shut. In sleep or in contemplation, I don’t know. On the coffee table lies the Max Reigate CD case. His concerto is the music I heard. I look at the CD display indicator. Still on the first track, so he can’t have been listening long.
“Will?” I say softly. No answer. I wait a moment. How that piano hammering away can act as a lullaby, I don’t know. But then, the pianist’s not my father. I tiptoe out of the room again. The music can offer more persuasion than I can.
In the morning, I go downstairs to find Will already at the breakfast table. He looks up when I come in. There’s a smile. Small, but enough. The anger is gone.
“Let’s find that letter,” he says.
Chapter Twelve
-Will-
I can see Ellie thinks that she’s convinced me.
But she hasn’t.
I just don’t want any more of those dreams. As I walk to the station, I feel like I’ve only slept for twenty minutes. And of course, that could be true. But it must all have been REM phase, otherwise I don’t know how I managed so many nightmares.
And there’s the counting to ten mentality. In other words, the need to indulge your pregnant wife. I was furious last night, when we got home. Really, I was. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I couldn’t stand to look at her any more that night, to go and sleep on the sofa. But you can’t do that, can you? You can’t run away from the mother of your child, however mad she is. And half of the madness must be hormone-induced. Can’t ever
say
that of course – I’d be lynched, or divorced, or both. But it’s true, I’m sure. So half the stuff that Ellie comes out with isn’t her at all; she’s just a mouthpiece for raised progesterone. I’ve got to be the strong, stable one in the centre of this. To take responsibility for keeping our marriage on track until that baby’s out. It will all be much better then.
At first, though, I couldn’t sleep at all. I was just too angry. At myself, just as much as at Ellie, for rising to her bait. I’d put my arms round her to spoon her, like we usually do – she can’t stand it when I sleep with my back to her – but my heart wasn’t in it. Then came the remorse. I shouldn’t be lying in bed projecting anger into the home of my little boy. Ellie, in her own peculiar way, is just looking out for me. She gets these odd ideas. That’s why I love her. She must know I was
So I turn off the light, position myself on my left side (good for the baby) and drift away to sleep. When Will comes back to bed, I wake for a moment as he settles behind me, arms looped round me in our usual sleep-spooning. Not holding me quite as tight tonight, but maybe he’s just worried about hurting little Leo. Or maybe we haven’t quite made up yet. But I still feel myself drift off towards sleep. I don’t have any guilty conscience that would stop me. Why, after all, would I? I just want the best for Will, and the truth is always the best. For us, anyway.
I awake in the night to the sounds of music. At first, I think I am imagining it, that it’s a fragment of dream that’s wafted over into my waking world. But no. I am fully awake. And it’s really there. And Will really isn’t; the bed next to me is empty and cold. The sound is coming from downstairs. I get out of bed and open the bedroom door. The music gets louder. I tiptoe downstairs to the living room. The door is shut. I push it open, as gently as I can. Will is curled up on the sofa in foetal position. His eyes are shut. In sleep or in contemplation, I don’t know. On the coffee table lies the Max Reigate CD case. His concerto is the music I heard. I look at the CD display indicator. Still on the first track, so he can’t have been listening long.
“Will?” I say softly. No answer. I wait a moment. How that piano hammering away can act as a lullaby, I don’t know. But then, the pianist’s not my father. I tiptoe out of the room again. The music can offer more persuasion than I can.
In the morning, I go downstairs to find Will already at the breakfast table. He looks up when I come in. There’s a smile. Small, but enough. The anger is gone.
“Let’s find that letter,” he says.
Chapter Twelve
-Will-
I can see Ellie thinks that she’s convinced me.
But she hasn’t.
I just don’t want any more of those dreams. As I walk to the station, I feel like I’ve only slept for twenty minutes. And of course, that could be true. But it must all have been REM phase, otherwise I don’t know how I managed so many nightmares.
And there’s the counting to ten mentality. In other words, the need to indulge your pregnant wife. I was furious last night, when we got home. Really, I was. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I couldn’t stand to look at her any more that night, to go and sleep on the sofa. But you can’t do that, can you? You can’t run away from the mother of your child, however mad she is. And half of the madness must be hormone-induced. Can’t ever
say
that of course – I’d be lynched, or divorced, or both. But it’s true, I’m sure. So half the stuff that Ellie comes out with isn’t her at all; she’s just a mouthpiece for raised progesterone. I’ve got to be the strong, stable one in the centre of this. To take responsibility for keeping our marriage on track until that baby’s out. It will all be much better then.
At first, though, I couldn’t sleep at all. I was just too angry. At myself, just as much as at Ellie, for rising to her bait. I’d put my arms round her to spoon her, like we usually do – she can’t stand it when I sleep with my back to her – but my heart wasn’t in it. Then came the remorse. I shouldn’t be lying in bed projecting anger into the home of my little boy. Ellie, in her own peculiar way, is just looking out for me. She gets these odd ideas. That’s why I love her. She must know I was
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