The Child in Time Read Free

read and write at an earlier age and with greater enjoyment, the transition to the conventional alphabet promised to be effortless. Stephen held a pencil in his hand and looked poised to take notes. He was frowning and moving his head slightly, though whether in agreement or disbelief it was hard to tell.
    Kate was at an age when her burgeoning language and the ideas it unravelled gave her nightmares. She could not describe them to her parents but it was clear they contained elements familiar from her story books – a talking fish, a big rock with a town inside, a lonely monster who longed to be loved. There had been nightmares through this night. Several times Julie had got out of bed to her, and then found herself wakeful until well after dawn. Now she was sleeping in. Stephen made breakfast and dressed Kate. She was energetic, despite her ordeal, keen to go shopping and ride in the supermarket trolley. The oddity of sunshine on a freezing day intrigued her. For once she co-operated in being dressed. She stood between his knees while he guided her limbs into her winter underwear. Her body was so compact, so unblemished. He picked her up and buried his face in her belly, pretending to bite her. The little body smelled of bed warmth and milk. She squealed and writhed, and when he put her down she begged him to do it again.
    He buttoned her woollen shirt, helped her into a thick sweater and fastened her dungarees. She began a vague, abstracted chant which meandered between improvisation, nursery rhymes and snatches of Christmas carols. He sat her in his chair, put her socks on and laced her boots. When he knelt in front of her she stroked his hair. Like many little girls she was quaintly protective towards her father. Before they left the flat she would make certain he buttoned his coat to the top.
    He took Julie some tea. She was half asleep, with herknees drawn up to her chest. She said something which was lost to the pillows. He put his hand under the bedclothes and massaged the small of her back. She rolled over and pulled his face towards her breasts. When they kissed he tasted in her mouth the thick, metallic flavour of deep sleep. From beyond the bedroom gloom Kate was still intoning her medley. For a moment Stephen was tempted to abandon the shopping and set Kate up with some books in front of the television. He could slip between the heavy covers beside his wife. They had made love just after dawn, but sleepily, inconclusively. She was fondling him now, enjoying his dilemma. He kissed her again.
    They had been married six years, a time of slow, fine adjustments to the jostling principles of physical pleasure, domestic duty and the necessity of solitude. Neglect of one led to diminishment or chaos in the others. Even as he gently pinched Julie’s nipple between his finger and thumb he was making his calculations. Following her broken night and a shopping expedition, Kate would be needing sleep by midday. Then they could be sure of uninterrupted time. Later, in the sorry months and years, Stephen was to make efforts to re-enter this moment, to burrow his way back through the folds between events, crawl between the covers, and reverse his decision. But time – not necessarily as it is, for who knows that, but as thought has constituted it – monomaniacally forbids second chances. There is no absolute time, his friend Thelma had told him on occasions, no independent entity. Only our particular and weak understanding. He deferred pleasure, he caved in to duty. He squeezed Julie’s hand and stood. In the hall Kate came towards him talking loudly, holding up the scuffed toy donkey. He bent to loop the red scarf twice around her neck. She was on tiptoe to check his coat buttons. They were holding hands even before they were through the front door.
    They stepped outdoors as though into a storm. The main road was an arterial route south, its traffic rushed withadrenal ferocity. The bitter, anti-cyclonic day was to serve an