hysterically. ‘I think my waters have broken.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Christopher. ‘What do we do now?’
A West Indian nurse, smiling broadly, was standing in front of him, holding out a bundle of terry cloth. Buried in a loop of towelling was a tiny pink face: eyes, nose, lips and ears, compressed into an unfeasibly small space. Christopher took his daughter and sat down on an orange plastic chair. Without breaking the spell of this first, special communion, the nurse repositioned hiselbow so that the baby’s head was better supported. Her ministrations were performed with such sensitivity that Christopher was completely unaware that she had intervened. Time became meaningless. Each subjective moment stretched beyond the arbitrary limits of measurement. Christopher, entranced, stunned, placed his index finger into the palm of his daughter’s hand. She opened her mouth and emitted a small cry. Her vulnerability was simply too much to bear. Something seemed to rupture in his chest, the world blurred and tears began to stream down his cheeks. ‘Faye,’ he said very softly, struggling to control himself. ‘Hello, Faye.’
March 1975
Four months later
The door of the house was wide open. Christopher could hear the sound of hammering and loud, distorted music. He locked the car and made his way through the front garden between a yellow skip and piles of stacked timber. After entering the hallway, he turned into the drawing room, where he found two carpenters replacing floor-boards. The air was opaque with cigarette smoke. One of the men noticed Christopher and nodded.
‘Where’s Mr Ellis?’ Christopher shouted above the din.
‘The governor’s upstairs,’ the man hollered back.
Christopher climbed to the top of the house where he found a ladder angled into the attic. Footsteps crossed the ceiling and Mr Ellis’s face appeared in the square outline of the hatch. He had long, greasy hair and uncultivated sideburns that grew down to his jawline. ‘Ah, Mr Norton. How are you?’
‘Very well, thanks. And you?’
‘Not so bad. I’ve been taking a look at the roof.’ The builder paused and his expression became sombre.
‘Bad news?’ asked Christopher.
‘Why don’t you come up here and have a look for yourself?’ Christopher climbed the ladder and joined his builder. The attic was much brighter than Christopher had expected. ‘Just walk on the beams, yeah?’ said Ellis. ‘If you put your feet anywhere else, you’ll go straight through.’ He chopped the air to make sure that his companion understood what would happen. Christopher followed Ellis like a tightrope walker, his arms extended, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. The two men arrived beneath a gaping hole through which slow-moving clouds were visible.
‘Jesus,’ said Christopher.
‘You need a new roof, really,’ said Ellis. ‘But I can patch it up if you want.’
Christopher thought about his mortgage, his bank loans and the number of HP agreements he had signed recently. ‘Patch it up.’
‘All right,’ said Ellis. The builder pointed at an assortment of objects in a shadowy recess. ‘Do you want me to take this stuff down to the skip?’
‘What is it?’
‘Junk.’
‘What kind of junk?’
‘Old junk.’
‘I’ll take a look at it first.’
‘Fair enough.’ Ellis returned to the ladder. ‘I’m going to see how they’re getting on downstairs. Don’t forget to walk on the beams, eh?’
‘I won’t.’ The builder paused to have one more look at the roof, before vanishing through the floor.
Christopher went to examine the discarded items. At first it was difficult to determine what he was looking at, because everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. The most conspicuous objects were four large boards lying on their sides. They were decorated with faded Chinese dragons. Christopher thought that they were probably the remains of an oriental screen, and wondered whether it could be
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Christopher. ‘What do we do now?’
A West Indian nurse, smiling broadly, was standing in front of him, holding out a bundle of terry cloth. Buried in a loop of towelling was a tiny pink face: eyes, nose, lips and ears, compressed into an unfeasibly small space. Christopher took his daughter and sat down on an orange plastic chair. Without breaking the spell of this first, special communion, the nurse repositioned hiselbow so that the baby’s head was better supported. Her ministrations were performed with such sensitivity that Christopher was completely unaware that she had intervened. Time became meaningless. Each subjective moment stretched beyond the arbitrary limits of measurement. Christopher, entranced, stunned, placed his index finger into the palm of his daughter’s hand. She opened her mouth and emitted a small cry. Her vulnerability was simply too much to bear. Something seemed to rupture in his chest, the world blurred and tears began to stream down his cheeks. ‘Faye,’ he said very softly, struggling to control himself. ‘Hello, Faye.’
March 1975
Four months later
The door of the house was wide open. Christopher could hear the sound of hammering and loud, distorted music. He locked the car and made his way through the front garden between a yellow skip and piles of stacked timber. After entering the hallway, he turned into the drawing room, where he found two carpenters replacing floor-boards. The air was opaque with cigarette smoke. One of the men noticed Christopher and nodded.
‘Where’s Mr Ellis?’ Christopher shouted above the din.
‘The governor’s upstairs,’ the man hollered back.
Christopher climbed to the top of the house where he found a ladder angled into the attic. Footsteps crossed the ceiling and Mr Ellis’s face appeared in the square outline of the hatch. He had long, greasy hair and uncultivated sideburns that grew down to his jawline. ‘Ah, Mr Norton. How are you?’
‘Very well, thanks. And you?’
‘Not so bad. I’ve been taking a look at the roof.’ The builder paused and his expression became sombre.
‘Bad news?’ asked Christopher.
‘Why don’t you come up here and have a look for yourself?’ Christopher climbed the ladder and joined his builder. The attic was much brighter than Christopher had expected. ‘Just walk on the beams, yeah?’ said Ellis. ‘If you put your feet anywhere else, you’ll go straight through.’ He chopped the air to make sure that his companion understood what would happen. Christopher followed Ellis like a tightrope walker, his arms extended, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. The two men arrived beneath a gaping hole through which slow-moving clouds were visible.
‘Jesus,’ said Christopher.
‘You need a new roof, really,’ said Ellis. ‘But I can patch it up if you want.’
Christopher thought about his mortgage, his bank loans and the number of HP agreements he had signed recently. ‘Patch it up.’
‘All right,’ said Ellis. The builder pointed at an assortment of objects in a shadowy recess. ‘Do you want me to take this stuff down to the skip?’
‘What is it?’
‘Junk.’
‘What kind of junk?’
‘Old junk.’
‘I’ll take a look at it first.’
‘Fair enough.’ Ellis returned to the ladder. ‘I’m going to see how they’re getting on downstairs. Don’t forget to walk on the beams, eh?’
‘I won’t.’ The builder paused to have one more look at the roof, before vanishing through the floor.
Christopher went to examine the discarded items. At first it was difficult to determine what he was looking at, because everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. The most conspicuous objects were four large boards lying on their sides. They were decorated with faded Chinese dragons. Christopher thought that they were probably the remains of an oriental screen, and wondered whether it could be
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