Read an Excerpt
7:15 P.M.
Clare watched as the young woman passed her in the corridor.
First-timer, definitely: excitement and panic were etched on her pale
face as she made her way slowly down the hall, dragging the IV on its
wheels beside her, legs bent and shoulders hunched, shuffling in
girlish slippers bought for this special day. Her glance at Clare
said, "Help me. When will this be finished? When will he be here?"
Probably came in half a centimeter dilated -- when she'd fiddled with
her TENS machine at home for a while, then called her mother and
repacked the holdall with all the impossibly small, impossibly white
sleep suits, scratch mittens and hats like egg cozies.
The double doors behind the woman swung open, and a big, dark man went
to her, put one hand in hers, the other round her shoulder. He handled
her gingerly. He was paler than she was. A Type X, Clare thought. They
were copers, the strong ones. Type Ys barely made it through the
epidurals without crying. They were a few decades too late -- would
have been happier pacing the corridor with a cigar behind each ear.
Clare liked the Type Ys better.
Elliot was probably an X. Or maybe the hybrid: Y masquerading as X.
They were okay unless things got scary. Who was she kidding? She had
no idea which type he'd be. Not that it mattered. Not anymore. The
girl moaned, leant forward. Clare answered his imploring look. She
never felt detached. Still, each story that played out, each life that
started within these walls pulled her in. Still.
"Okay, hold on, let's give you a hand. What's your name?"
"Lynne."
"Okay, Lynne. We'll get you back to your room. You probably need a bit
of a rest. Who's looking after you?"
A colleague appeared from behind the same double doors. "Sorry, Clare.
Hang on, Lynne. We've got you. Got it from here, Clare. You're off,
aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Have a good night, then."
"Cheers."
Tonight, thank God, she had a reason not to be at home, not to see
Elliot. She'd probably be out again before he got back from college,
and he'd be asleep by the time she made herself climb into bed beside
him.
And that girl, Lynne, would be holding her baby in her arms.
7:20 P.M.
As usual Harriet climbed the stairs with a teetering
pile of single socks, discarded sweaters, stray toys -- the flotsam
and jetsam of the day. Down was usually a mug or two, plastic cups
found under beds, read newspapers and sticky plastic medicine spoons.
Up, the aforementioned. Still, she supposed, with a fairly twisted
smile, variety was the spice of life. Ha, ha. Domestic bliss reminded
her of that silly film she'd seen once, Groundhog Day, where this guy
was compelled to repeat the same day over and over again, never quite
getting the girl because he couldn't change what happened. And
slightly higher up the cultural scale, wasn't there that guy in
mythology -- Sissy something . . . Sisyphus, was it? -- sentenced by
the gods for some transgression to spend eternity pushing a boulder up
a big hill only to watch it fall straight down again, and on, and on.
At least pushing a big boulder up a hill would soon sort out these bat
wings she was developing beneath her upper arms, Harriet thought.
Sweeping the flipping kitchen floor four times, loading and unloading
the washing machine three times and answering forty-two questions
about why there aren't any more dinosaurs, and if there were, how big
their poos would be, wasn't doing much for hers.
Upstairs, all was quiet for the first time since 6:00 a.m. Harriet
followed the sound of Tim's voice to their bedroom. He was sitting on
the sofa under the window, having been allowed by his kidnappers to
remove his shoes and jacket, and loosen his tie. The children, damp
and clean from their bath, were huddled, one under each arm, listening
to their story. Tim was reading slowly, ascribing to each character
his or her own voice, occasionally making animated gestures. Harriet
felt a twinge of habitual guilt. She usually chose the shortest story
and speedread it: her children might be forgiven for thinking that
every character in literature had been raised in the middle-class
South, for all the effort she made with her inflection. Still, it was
easier, wasn't it? Coming in at the end of the day, when the snot and
the pasta sauce and the tears had been wiped away, and the fight over
the toothbrushing, and the frantic shoving of toys into too-small
cupboards had all been done. Easy to reward the exuberant greeting
with warmth and affection and a story reading fit for Radio 4. The
kids had spent their energy through the long day, and Harriet had
absorbed it. Now the fight had gone out of them: they were passive,
gentle. And she was catatonic.
Harriet hovered at the doorway, not wanting to go in and disturb the
perfect tableau, the circle of love. Somehow, she didn't fit into
these moments. Instead, she deposited her bundle on the guest bed and
went into the bathroom. Studiously ignoring the bubble scum around the
bath, the toothpaste squeezed carelessly across the washbasin tap, she
poked ineffectually at her mad hair in the mirror and flicked some
powder across her nose and chin. She hastily drew a line of lipstick
on her upper lip, then rolled her lips together in concentration. (Not
for her the liner-brush-blot prescribed by glossies she only saw every
three months in the hairdresser's.)
Tim appeared in the doorway, carrying a slumped, sleepy Chloe. "Say
'Night-night, Mummy.'" Thumb firmly plugged in, Chloe waved her
plastic beaker of warm milk vaguely in Harriet's direction.
"Night-night, sleep tight, darling." Harriet smiled.
Behind Tim, Josh asked, "Are you going out, Mummy?"
"Yes, I am, sweetheart. Daddy's going to look after you. I'll be home
again later, though."
From The Reading Group by Elizabeth Noble. HarperCollins
Publishers. Used by permission.
