rested a glass of red wine on the arm and his cashmere-coated feet rested on the hearth. Thick curtains kept most of the draughts out of the old cottage but a gusty wind rattled the panes.
‘You didn’t mind not going out, did you?’ asked Amanda.
On the mantelpiece above them, nestling between greetings cards and some drying sprigs of holly, was an invitation to a party sent to them by someone they hardly knew. Their close friends knew to leave them alone that night.
‘8 ’til 8. Don’t be Late! It’s an important date! Dress: optional!’ screamed the invitation.
‘Er . . . no. Not at all. It sounded awful, that party,’ murmured Richard. ‘I don’t think we’d really be in the mood, would we?’
‘There’s just so much pressure to have fun, fun, fun on New Year’s Eve. As far as I’m concerned, tomorrow is just another day.’
Richard looked at her, uncertain how to proceed.
‘But it’s more than that, isn’t it?’ he said quietly.
Amanda continued methodically cracking nuts, as though hoping she might one day perfect the technique and extract one whole.
‘It’s a turning point . . . an ending,’ said Richard, ‘. . . and maybe a beginning, too?’
‘Mmm. Yup,’ she said crisply. ‘Hope you’re right.’
She glanced up at him, for a moment interrupting her activity.
She was neat and economical in everything she did and almost unchanged since she was a schoolgirl, still able to sit comfortably cross-legged on the floor as though she were in the third form in assembly, her long dark hair still loose around her shoulders, just as she had worn it when she was sixteen. Her clipped response to Richard was typical of late; she kept everything under control, contained.
Richard sipped his wine and stared into the fire.
‘People say you can see your future in the flames,’ he said.
‘I think that’s probably nonsense,’ retorted Amanda. ‘You’ll just see what you want to see.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think that’s maybe the point. Yourimagination helps you to work out what you want and then you aim for it.’
‘But we know what we want. And I don’t want to see it on fire.’
She looked into Richard’s eyes and could see them watering. It was not the smoke from the fire, she was certain of that. The events of that year had made them both fragile, but Amanda hid it better, arming herself with a brittle carapace. She wanted to forget their pain.
Precisely a year ago to the day she had been lying in a hospital bed. The baby was due to be born that night and they knew the midwife wanted Amanda to hold on until the stroke of midnight so that the baby would be the first of that year. ‘You could even get in the newspapers,’ one of the nurses said excitedly, ‘if the timing’s right!’
Things had gone well at first; she was wired up to a monitor and the baby’s heart had a perfect, even beat, almost in time with the ticking clock whose hands rhythmically worked their way towards midnight. Only when the pattern changed, at around five minutes to the hour, did the calm and ordered scene change to one of chaos and panic. She saw it on the nurses’ faces. She saw it on Richard’s. A paediatrician burst through the door, breathless. They spoke as if she was not really there, ignoring Richard’s pleas to know what was going on. It was too late for an emergency Caesarean, that much they understood, and as the hands of the clock met on the moment of midnight, the baby slithered out. Stillborn, the cord wrapped around his neck. A disaster, a terrible shock, a statistic. No one to blame.
So this year, when the postman delivered cards showing apicture of a Renaissance Madonna with child, Amanda dropped them straight in the bin. She had always thought Mary looked smug, but now she found her unbearable. If the prophets had foretold of a stillbirth, the whole course of history, the story of civilisation, would have been so different, she reflected. But Jesus came out happy and
‘You didn’t mind not going out, did you?’ asked Amanda.
On the mantelpiece above them, nestling between greetings cards and some drying sprigs of holly, was an invitation to a party sent to them by someone they hardly knew. Their close friends knew to leave them alone that night.
‘8 ’til 8. Don’t be Late! It’s an important date! Dress: optional!’ screamed the invitation.
‘Er . . . no. Not at all. It sounded awful, that party,’ murmured Richard. ‘I don’t think we’d really be in the mood, would we?’
‘There’s just so much pressure to have fun, fun, fun on New Year’s Eve. As far as I’m concerned, tomorrow is just another day.’
Richard looked at her, uncertain how to proceed.
‘But it’s more than that, isn’t it?’ he said quietly.
Amanda continued methodically cracking nuts, as though hoping she might one day perfect the technique and extract one whole.
‘It’s a turning point . . . an ending,’ said Richard, ‘. . . and maybe a beginning, too?’
‘Mmm. Yup,’ she said crisply. ‘Hope you’re right.’
She glanced up at him, for a moment interrupting her activity.
She was neat and economical in everything she did and almost unchanged since she was a schoolgirl, still able to sit comfortably cross-legged on the floor as though she were in the third form in assembly, her long dark hair still loose around her shoulders, just as she had worn it when she was sixteen. Her clipped response to Richard was typical of late; she kept everything under control, contained.
Richard sipped his wine and stared into the fire.
‘People say you can see your future in the flames,’ he said.
‘I think that’s probably nonsense,’ retorted Amanda. ‘You’ll just see what you want to see.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think that’s maybe the point. Yourimagination helps you to work out what you want and then you aim for it.’
‘But we know what we want. And I don’t want to see it on fire.’
She looked into Richard’s eyes and could see them watering. It was not the smoke from the fire, she was certain of that. The events of that year had made them both fragile, but Amanda hid it better, arming herself with a brittle carapace. She wanted to forget their pain.
Precisely a year ago to the day she had been lying in a hospital bed. The baby was due to be born that night and they knew the midwife wanted Amanda to hold on until the stroke of midnight so that the baby would be the first of that year. ‘You could even get in the newspapers,’ one of the nurses said excitedly, ‘if the timing’s right!’
Things had gone well at first; she was wired up to a monitor and the baby’s heart had a perfect, even beat, almost in time with the ticking clock whose hands rhythmically worked their way towards midnight. Only when the pattern changed, at around five minutes to the hour, did the calm and ordered scene change to one of chaos and panic. She saw it on the nurses’ faces. She saw it on Richard’s. A paediatrician burst through the door, breathless. They spoke as if she was not really there, ignoring Richard’s pleas to know what was going on. It was too late for an emergency Caesarean, that much they understood, and as the hands of the clock met on the moment of midnight, the baby slithered out. Stillborn, the cord wrapped around his neck. A disaster, a terrible shock, a statistic. No one to blame.
So this year, when the postman delivered cards showing apicture of a Renaissance Madonna with child, Amanda dropped them straight in the bin. She had always thought Mary looked smug, but now she found her unbearable. If the prophets had foretold of a stillbirth, the whole course of history, the story of civilisation, would have been so different, she reflected. But Jesus came out happy and
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