Tim Parks - Goodness

Hilary is in severe pain. Naturally, through the long nights and days that follow my return there will be no question of trying out my vasectomy. Though one evening Shirley does cling tight to me a moment in bed. She murmurs: ‘You know what I can’t believe about you, George.’ ‘What?’ ‘That deep down, after all your huffing and puffing and playing tough, you’re really a good man.’

I make no comment.

‘I’m glad you made up with your mother. I’ll have her over tomorrow to help if she’s free.’

Obviously everything gets chatted about behind my back. Fair enough I suppose. I never really imagined otherwise.

‘I don’t even really mind about this woman you’ve got at work. I understand the pressure you must have been under.’

‘What?’

A desperate half hour then trying to persuade her that all that’s over, that I only saw her once or twice, that I never really cared for her, etc., etc. And how did she find out, anyway? How, how, how? Shirley insists she doesn’t care. After all, she’s been unfaithful in her time. I insist that she should, she must care, it was a terrible thing for me to do, I want her to care, and I’m sorry, truly I am; that was the whole reasoning behind the vasectomy after all, to get back to her and to family life after this second derailment. Which would never have happened had it not been for Hilary.

In the end, after maybe an hour’s persuasion I actually manage to get her involved in something resembling foreplay, kissing, fondling, albeit somewhat listlessly, when Hilary’s harsh cries interrupt us from the next room.

I offer to go since I’m on holiday. Anyway, there’s guilt to assuage. I pad down the landing.

The baby’s room has a red nightlight. It’s full of cuddly toys which Hilary has at last learnt to hold to herself and presumably draw some comfort from. The little girl is twisting and turning in her cot, buckled up with stomach pains. I pick her up. Not without some effort given the size she is now. She recognises me at once and whimpers. I push my cheek against hers on the side where the head lolls. Her skin, poor girl, is dry and burning. She relaxes a little, then doubles up with pain again. Her eyes screw tight. Since it’s impossible to sit her on one’s knee — she just collapses — I put her into a little tipped-back bucketseat kind of thing that we had cut for her from a huge cube of rigid foam rubber. This more or less immobilises her while keeping her sufficiently upright to take a few spoonfuls of medicine.

I give her a specially made up additive-free antibiotic and a sedative in heavy syrup. The antibiotic tastes foul and she refuses to open her mouth. I trick her by dipping my finger in the sedative syrup and smearing it lightly on her plump, child’s lips. She has the features of a five-year-old but utterly blank. Sometimes I force myself to use words like gormless, to remember what the hard world will think of her, how they will laugh, as once long ago my friends would laugh at Aunt Mavis. The coral lips are delicate though and faintly rubbery under my finger.

She falls for the syrup trick and opens her mouth. As soon as the spoon of foul-tasting medicine is in, I force the mouth shut to prevent her from spitting the stuff out. I manage to do this quite gently really. Firmly. Without frightening her. I’m not bad as a nurse. The only problem then is convincing her that the syrup to follow really is syrup. In the end I have to press thumb and forefinger into her cheeks to force open the mouth. As soon as she gets the whole spoon of syrup I can give her two, three, four more spoonfuls. Double the maximum dose. From small red-rimmed brown eyes, she looks, or gives the impression of looking, in my direction, and there is a hint of appreciation. So that I sense how much within my power she is, her feverish infant body in that foam rubber chair we thought was such a clever idea.

For I could keep spooning and spooning this whole bottle of sedative, couldn’t I? Her mouth is open, eager. So why don’t I? Why not? Because I know that Shirley would see. Because I reason that the way they measure out these drugs it wouldn’t quite kill her anyway. Because it’s not the solution I’ve settled on and I simply can’t face reopening the whole discussion. Yet in the quiet of her little nursery room, with its red light warm on walls and blankets, on the Beatrix Potter frieze and on the shambles of soft toys people like my mother insist on buying for her as if she were capable of distinguishing one from another — in this cosy atmosphere smelling of cream and talcum and warm breath, I feel that this would be an acceptable, a humane way to do it. If only society would sanction it. If only everybody would say, yes, George, we forgive you, George, you are right, George, go ahead, kill your dragon, save your damsel (for I do love her). Yes, here and now. This would be the way. Spooning sedative to the child as she senses my friendly presence and enjoys one of her few sensual luxuries, the rich cloying sweetness of that syrup.

Are those red little eyes really looking at me? Is she asking me to do it?

But of course she can have no concept of such things. All she knows is her pain, her comforts.

She begins to whine and wriggle again. I lay her down and sing to her. Nursery rhymes. Christmas carols. I sing them with expression as if I meant them. I even sing, why I don’t know, ‘Rock of ages cleft for me’, insisting on the words of the last verse (When I soar through tracts unknown/See thee on thy judgement throne. .). I keep it up for half an hour, wondering how Shirley will rate this virtuoso performance on the domestic contribution scales. Will Marilyn be forgotten? Will I ever get a blowjob again? Finally I pull off the miracle and my little girl falls into an uneasy sleep. Feeling really pretty proud, I pad back to our bedroom, but Shirley is snoring soundly. Fair enough, she does have a filthy cold. I slip downstairs, pour myself a generous Glenfiddich and watch a European football match in which a Scottish team is soundly beaten.

Our tenth wedding anniversary, I think, should be excuse enough for a party, but Shirley says wrily, ‘Hardly an occasion for celebration.’ She’s not really objecting, though. It’s just that she never expected the idea of a party to come from me.

‘If you look at it as a life sentence,’ I suggest, ‘let’s say we’re celebrating completion of the first quarter. Why not?’

I’m straightening my tie. She’s copying things down from a recipe to complete a shopping list, writing rapidly, a sliver of tongue between her teeth as so often when she concentrates. Now she looks up.

‘You’re not serious, are you?’ She laughs. ‘Okay. I’m game. We can call it the Vasectomy Ball.’

Because yesterday we finally made love. And again this morning. Hence the pleasant atmosphere. I choose my moments.

I tell her: ‘You don’t want to spread that kind of news about, sweetheart, the phone’ll never stop ringing.’

Again she laughs. Then wrinkles her nose. She really doesn’t seem to care terribly much about my faithfulness or otherwise. In many ways she is more independent of me than I of her. I can’t really decide whether this is a good thing or not. I don’t want to feel free to do what I choose. I want her to want all or nothing, like me. Perhaps when she no longer has the child to exhaust all her energies. .

Come the evening of that same day and she is positively enthusing about it — our Tenth Anniversary Party. A grand affair. In the space of a day the idea has taken on a milestone symbolism. George and Shirley back on the rails.

‘You see,’ she says happily, as we draw up the guest list. ‘There’s no reason why Hilary should prevent us from having a good time. It’s all in your mind.’