The Child in Time by Ian McEwan Page A

you see the television news?’
    ‘I saw the evening paper.’
    ‘The story is I’m having a breakdown.’
    ‘Well?’
    Charles looked at Thelma, who said, ‘We’ve made some well-considered decisions. Charles is giving up his career, and I’m resigning. We’re selling the house and moving into the cottage.’
    Charles went to the fridge and refilled his glass with milk. He did not return to his chair, but stood behind Thelma’s, with one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. For as long as Stephen had known her, Thelma had wanted to give up university teaching, move out to the country somewhere and write her book. How had she got round Charles? She was looking at Stephen, waiting for a reaction. It was difficult not to read triumph into the slight smile, and difficult to follow her instructions and not ask questions.
    Stephen spoke past Thelma to Charles. ‘What are you going to do in Suffolk? Breed pigs?’
    He smiled wryly.
    There was a silence. Thelma patted her husband’s hand and spoke without turning to face him. ‘You promised yourself an early night …’ He was already straightening. It was barely eight-thirty. Stephen watched his friend closely, marvelling at how much smaller he appeared, how slight in build. Had high office really made him larger?
    ‘Yes,’ he was saying, ‘I’ll go up.’ He kissed his wife on the cheek and said to Stephen from the doorway, ‘We really would like you to come and see us in Suffolk. It will be easier than explaining.’ He raised his hand in ironic salute and left.
    Thelma refilled Stephen’s glass and pursed her lips into an efficient smile. She was about to speak, but she changed her mind and stood. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said as she crossed the kitchen. Moments later he heard her on the stairs calling after Charles and the sound of a door openingand closing. Then the house was quiet but for the baritone hum of kitchen equipment.

    The day after Julie left for her retreat in the Chilterns, Thelma had arrived in a snow storm to collect Stephen. While he fumbled about the bedroom for clothes and a bag to put them in, she cleaned up the kitchen, bagged the rubbish and carried it down to the dustbins. She gathered up handfuls of unopened bills and stuffed them into her handbag. In the bedroom she supervised Stephen’s packing. She worked with brisk, maternal thoroughness, speaking to him only when it was necessary. Did he have enough pairs of socks? pants? Was this sweater really thick enough? She took him into the bathroom and made him select items for a washbag. Where was his toothbrush? Was he going to grow a beard? If not, where was his shaving soap? There was no single action for which Stephen could generate a motive. He saw no point in being warm, or in having socks or teeth. He could carry out simple commands so long as he did not have to reflect on their rationale.
    He followed Thelma down to the car, waited while she opened the passenger door for him, and sat motionless on the scented leather seat while she returned to the flat to turn off the water and gas. He stared ahead at the large flakes melting on contact with the windscreen. There came to him images of a Dickensian melodrama in which his shivering three-year-old daughter beat a path through the snow to her home, only to find it locked, and deserted. Should they leave a note on the door? he asked Thelma when she came down. Rather than argue that Kate could not read and was never coming back, Thelma returned upstairs and pinned her address and phone number to his front door.
    Forgotten weeks passed in the carpeted, marble-and-mahogany tranquillity of the Darkes’ guest bedroom. Heexperienced a chaos of emotion amidst the impeccable order of monogrammed towels, pot pourri on waxed, dustless surfaces, laundered sheets which smelled of lavender. Later on, when he was steadier, Thelma spent evenings with him and told tales of Schroedinger’s cat, backward flowing time, the