never knew when things might come in handy. Bloody Boy Scouts had drummed that one into him, and he supposed it had come in useful. Had Kit been a Boy Scout? Could he tie knots? Whistle through his teeth? He wouldn’t know where to begin.
Leaning forwards, he lit the candles, and when he’d blown out the match, he said, “Things were strained between Vic and me. We hadn’t been … sleeping together much—”
“It only takes once,” Gemma interrupted with a grin.
“Well, yes.” Christ, this was awkward. There had been an argument, and a passionate reconciliation, some weeks before Vic left. He had forgotten.
“Was she unusually emotional those last few weeks? The hormonal changes at the onset of pregnancy are powerful enough to—”
“What you’re saying is that Vic might have walked out—which was irrational and totally unlike her— because she was pregnant?” There was no room to pace. He forced himself to sit on the foot of the reclining leather and chrome chair he called the torture cradle. “I should have seen it. You’re quite right.”
“That’s not the way I meant. And she might not have known herself—”
“But I failed her then as well.”
Gemma slid from her chair and came to kneel at his feet so that she could look up into his face. “Bollocks. You can’t change what happened. There’s no point indulging in that sort of thing. What you have to decide is what you’re going to do now.”
“What can I do?” he protested. “Kit’s life has been disrupted enough as it is. He thinks Ian is his father—”
“Do you really think Ian is going to be much use to him, even if he should come back? And Kit’s prospects with his grandparents are worse than dismal.” Removing her hands from his knees, she sat back on her heels but kept her eyes fixed on his face. “I think, love, that it’s your life you’re afraid to disrupt.”
CHAPTER
14
And because I,
For all my thinking, never could recover
One moment of the good hours that were over.
And I was sorry and sick, and wished to die.
RUPERT BROOKE,
from “Pine-Trees and the Sky: Evening”
Cambridge
3 September 1965
Darling Mummy,
You are so sweet to be concerned for me, but as much as I’d love to have you here, I’m fine, really. (Though I must admit it’s rather amusing to have you and Morgan conspiring treats behind my back, and I feel rather like the heroine in a Victorian novel, propped up in bed having my boiled egg and toast on the tray you sent.) You have enough to deal with just now, with Nan ill, and Morgan makes a gloweringly tender and surprisingly competent nursemaid.
But although this most recent miscarriage has been relatively easy, I’ve decided not to try again. I’ve schooled myself not to want it so desperately, but still the cycle of hope and disappointment is wearing, and it keeps me from getting on with my work. It’s been difficult for Morgan, too, and he says no child is worth my health and well-being. So I’ll soldier on, and try to count my blessings.
I find I can’t bear all the radiantly fecund young wives of our married friends, but Daphne’s been a comfort, and visits often. Morgan seems to be prepared to tolerate her for my sake.
There is wheat among the chaff, darling Mummy. I’ve had an offer from a small press here in Cambridge to publish my latest collection of poems. They mean to specialize in the avant-garde, and I’m quite set up to be considered so. It will mean some work, to revise and finish the collection, but I look forwards to it. Just think, a book, at last! It will be a child of sorts, I suppose.
We were right, you know, Morgan and I, in deciding that our art must come from experience. It’s the daily stuff of living, bloody as it sometimes is, that gives the photos and poems the sting of truth.
Morgan’s been approached by a London gallery to do a solo exhibition! They want all of the Welsh miner series, and anything else he can get ready. You’ll have to come up to London for the opening, and we’ll make an evening of it.
So try not to worry—I promise I’ll have shocking roses in my cheeks by the time you see me next.
Love, Lydia
The smell of coffee teased Kincaid up through the layers of consciousness like a hooked fish. Finally, he could no longer deny wakefulness, but lay with his eyes still closed, trying to figure out who could possibly be making coffee in his flat.
Then it dawned on him that he was not in his flat at all, nor in his bed, but Gemma’s.
Ordinarily, it made her uncomfortable for him to stay, because of Toby, but last night she had insisted, and they’d made love with the silent urgency of two teenagers fearing discovery. Just the memory of it stirred him to arousal, and he opened his eyes, hoping to find her still sleep tousled and willing to come back to bed.
She sat, fully dressed, at the half-moon table, drinking coffee and shuffling pages of typescript.
“You were just using me last night,” he said, injured.
Gemma looked up and smiled. “Your powers of deduction are astounding, sir.” She stretched, showing an inch
