1959 and 1964. Wendy lay in bed next to her boyfriend Ken. Wendy was twenty-one and wore an apricot-coloured shortie nightie in brushed nylon. Her hair, for all she was eight months and one week pregnant, had that day been coiffeured, lacquered and backcombed until it stuck out all around her head. Wendy lay on her back. No other position was comfortable. Ken lay beside her, stiff and tense, not able to sleep. Her body was warm and relaxed; she had no choice in the matter. The baby dictated things such as maternal temperature and tension. It seemed to have no power to affect the father. Ken had come home late from a gig he had not enjoyed. He played banjo for a living and did a little woodwork on the side: fitting a bathroom here, a kitchen there, anywhere but at home.
‘I think he’s on the way,’ said Wendy.
‘She,’ said Ken.
‘He,’ said Wendy. ‘I know it’s a boy.’
‘We only have girls in our family,’ said Ken. He had five sisters.
Ken was twenty-eight. He had a round pink face, little bright eyes, a small body, a lot of fair hair, quick fingers, a quick mind, and a great deal of energy. He was no beauty, women agreed, but he had charm. A twinkle from the back of the band and they were his. If he wanted, which he told Wendy he didn’t, now he had her. Tonight he was tired and contrary. Anger had tired him. What he described as the class system had rendered him contrary. A private party: mostly Rolls-Royce dealers: five hours’ practically non-stop playing: family favourites only: raised eyebrows if the band took a break; stale ham sandwiches and bright yellow orange squash the only meal provided, part of the deal, and ten pounds for the whole band divided by five. Not enough. The guests drank champagne. The men wore dinner jackets: they brayed; the women evening dress and squealed. The band wore dinner jackets too, the girl singer more jewels than the lady guests, but Ken had sussed that one a long time ago. It was a joke played by the haves against the have-nots. You don’t work for money, the haves conceded, all you want is to be near us in order to become us. So dress like us for an hour or so: come close, come closer: brush up against us if that’s what you want. We’ll dance to your tune the happier, syphon off your magic the better. Then take your money and go. Back to your hovels. Now he was back in his hovel and naked, lying next to a girl who was having a baby and had moved in with him on that account.
‘If you only have girls in your family,’ said Wendy, ‘how come you exist?’ She was quarrelsome. That too the baby seemed to dictate: She thought perhaps the baby was very clever: her friends remarked upon how sharp she’d got since she became pregnant. It stood to reason, Wendy thought, that the mother-baby connection worked both ways. With every child you had, you’d get infected with that baby’s qualities. The ‘friends’ were mostly girls at work: she had to have those independently of Ken. Ken tended to put people off. He slept when he was sleepy, ate when he was hungry, only talked if he had something to say, whether there were guests in the house or not. Wendy liked him the way he was. He made her feel real. She would rather have him than a hundred friends.
‘By mistake,’ said Ken sharply. ‘Go to sleep.’
‘I can’t,’ said Wendy. ‘I keep getting this pain.’
‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Ken. ‘I’m so tired I’m deaf,’ and he fell asleep. She soothed his brow for a little. He smiled in his sleep. Wendy rang her mother.
‘I keep getting this pain,’ Wendy whispered. ‘Do you think it’s the baby?’
‘You woke me up,’ whispered Rhoda. ‘It’s only indigestion. You’ve three weeks to go and first babies are always late.’
‘If they’re always late,’ said Wendy, a little more loudly, ‘then they’re not late, they’re just normal. First babies just take longer to hatch than other babies. So why don’t they admit it? Why do they insist all babies take the same time?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ whispered Rhoda. The phone was by the bed and her husband Bruno slept by her side. Bruno was Wendy’s father. He was Italian. He had grey hair and a black moustache which rose and