Disordered Minds

'I'll call the police.'

He blocked her attempt to close the door. 'Don't be an idiot, sis. What would you tell them? That you've never seen me before in your life? All I'd have to do is phone the folks and get them to come up. Mum'll know you immediately. You've probably still got that mole on your thigh and the scald mark where you spilled boiling tea on your stomach.' He watched her shoulders slump in resignation. 'They've been worrying about you for twenty bloody years. We were told you'd gone to Australia.'

She stood irresolutely in the doorway, her head to one side as if she were listening for something in the farther reaches of the house. 'Look, you can't come in,' she said, touching a small hand to his arm. 'Nick's in his office and I don't need anymore aggro. I'll meet you somewhere. When are you free?'

'Now. I'll take you for a drive.'

'I can't. He knows I'm home.' They both heard the sound of a door opening. 'Oh Jesus!' she hissed. 'I'll meet you outside Dingles at four this afternoon. Now, piss off quick, or I'll get my face smashed in again.'

He put his hand out instinctively to stop her closing the door. 'This is crazy. Tell him I'm your brother.'

But she was too fast for him. 'He won't believe me,' she whispered as the latch locked against him.

'I hate meeting women like that,' said George of Miss Brett as she unlocked her car door.

'Really?' said Jonathan in surprise. 'I thought she was incredible. Brain like a laser ... memory like a computer. If I'm like that when I'm in my eighties I won't have any complaints.'

'Exactly,' said George, slinging her case onto the backseat. 'Life is so bloody unfair.'

He waited while she reached in to release the lock on the passenger side then stooped to face her across the seat. 'Loads of people beat cancer, George. There's no reason why you shouldn't make eighty if you do what your doctors tell you. You mustn't get hung up on genetic history-it's the curse of modern living. Just because your mother died of it doesn't mean you're going to.'

She settled herself on the seat. 'That's not why I don't like meeting women like Miss Brett. She's a wonder, Jonathan. She should have had babies. Imagine what they would have been like-intelligent, healthy, wise. It makes my heart bleed, it really does. What's wrong with men that they can't recognize a peach when it's under their nose?'

He wondered if she was she talking about herself. 'Genes aren't everything. Nurture's just as important. Miss Brett's role in life has been to mold other people's children, and that's a far harder prospect than thirty seconds' drunken copulation that produces a random selection of dodgy chromosomes. In any case,' he finished with a grin as he attached his seat belt, 'how do you know she hasn't had a child?'

'If she did, she wouldn't have been allowed to keep it ... or talk about it. They'd never have put an unmarried mother in charge of a secondary school in the sixties.' She fed her key into the ignition and locked her own belt. 'It's a crazy world that helps the least able in society to go on reproducing but discourages intelligent career women.'

It was a surprisingly illiberal view for a woman who portrayed herself as the opposite. 'It's better than it was,' he murmured. 'At least women aren't stigmatized for having children out of wedlock these days.'

'Maybe not,' she said roundly, 'but you're certainly penalized for it financially. You try holding down a full-time job and paying for forty-plus hours of childcare on what remains of a single salary after taxes have been deducted. That's the disincentive. It's a ridiculous waste of good genetic material. If I were in government, I'd make it a requirement of law that every workplace had a creche.'

'Too expensive and impossible to manage,' said Jonathan. 'Imagine the cost to a small company if only one female employee had a baby at any given time.'

'Then they form a cooperative creche with other businesses in the area,' said George, starting the engine. 'What's the alternative? I read a report recently that said over thirty percent of professional women are choosing to remain childless. That's a disaster. What happens if the rate reaches sixty percent? What happens if we end up with a society produced entirely by underachievers?'

'That's a very bleak view.'

'I wish it were,' she answered, pulling away from the curb and performing a three-point turn.

'It's just as hard for men,' said Jonathan.

'Except your clocks take longer to run down,' George said with a smile, 'and you can father a baby a week if you find enough accommodating women.'

'It's not that easy,' he said morosely.

She glanced at him as she drew to a halt at the junction with the main road. 'Then start making compromises,' she said bluntly. 'You're an attractive and talented man, Jonathan, and you should be a father.'

He gave a low chuckle. 'Thank you, George. Sadly, the more usual response to my clumsy efforts is: 'I wouldn't have a baby with you if you were the last man on earth.' '

'Then do something about it.'

'Like what?'

'Make compromises,' she repeated, waiting for a car to pass.

'Did you?'

'No. There was always something better round the corner ... and by the time I realized what a flawed philosophy that was, I'd become redundant.' She flashed him a bright smile to quell any attempt at sympathy. 'Don't make the same mistake, Jon. There's nothing worse than living with regrets.'

In an uncharacteristic gesture, Jonathan put his hand on hers and gave it a quick squeeze. 'If it's any consolation,' he said, 'you're just as redundant if you do pass on your genes. Once a child is born-and barring the few years of nurturing that allows him to achieve independence-there's nothing you can add to him that isn't already there. It may be good, it may be bad, but by the third generation your genes will have