until the end of their lives.
He was born in 1940, during the Blitz; desperate times. What sort of a world are we bringing him into? Grace used to ask. What if Hitler
wins?
And Roy would say, Now now, girl, you know that canât happen.
After his birth - and he
was
a big baby: nine pounds, three ounces - Grace had to have a few stitches, and stayed in hospital for three weeks. They named their son Frederick, after her father, knowing it would please him, and Albert, after his.
âFrederick Albert Southgate,â Grace said, gazing at the childrolled up tightly in a shawl and lying on her bed. âHeâd better be prime minister when he grows up, with a name like that!â
Outside feeding and visiting times their child took his place in a room with all the other babies, two rows of them in identical cots. No matter how much they yelled, feeding was strictly regulated. No point in tiring yourself out, feeding him all hours of the day, the starched sister told Grace. You feed him every four hours and heâll soon learn whatâs what. He did too. By the time she came out he was feeding at six, ten, two, six, ten: regular as a mathematical progression.
Roy was back with his Company by then. They wrote to each other as often as possible, and she would describe the baby, how he smiled and waggled his arms about, how greedily he fed. Roy would imagine him sucking at her breast and wondered whether it was wrong to find this idea exciting. Then, when little Freddie was just over three months old, came the news. Grace had slept late one morning, exhausted by broken nights, and woken up to find him dead in his cot beside her. They gave Roy forty-eight hoursâ compassionate leave, and he and Grace and her parents had buried the baby and wept together.
âI should have taken him to the country!â she said, over and over again. âIt was the raids that killed him, Iâm sure of it! Night after night, having to get him out of his warm cot and go underground to a stuffy air â raid shelter - that canât have been good for a tiny baby.â
âAnd where else could you have gone?â Roy had said, wearily, guiltily. âTo my Mum in Folkestone? Thatâd been just as bad.â
After that they had decided: no more babies till the war was over. Hitler had taken one child from them: he wasnât going to have any more. Grace spent the war in Purley, grieving over her one small death in the midst of so many others, and never forgot Frederick Albert.
Where was I? thought Roy drowsily. Oh yes, sixty ⦠But instead of counting further, he fell asleep thinking of his little lost son, rather than of the grown-up man who was also hisson, and whom he had also nearly lost. The thought of Frederick and Grace together brought some hint of comfort; the thought of Alan was no comfort at all.
A couple of weeks later, Reginald was preparing to go up to London to see the family solicitor. Maryâs will was to be read and her estate distributed - what there was of it. In the afternoon he had an appointment with his trustees to discuss new ways of investing his money and her bits and bobs - the odd shares, if she had any left. High time he had a chat about how his affairs were to be looked after from now on. Might even â he censored the thought, which persisted - might even pay a visit to Sabrina. Reginald dressed carefully. He chose one of his best Harvie and Hudson shirts, white with a faint blue stripe, a dark red patterned silk tie, a Christmas present from Mary, and dark red socks.
It was ten years since heâd travelled regularly to London, and his best business suit - navy blue, pin-striped, double-breasted - was tighter than he remembered. Despite the warmth of the August day he wore a waistcoat to obscure the ample curve of his belly. He chose a good pair of black shoes, dusted them with a corner of the blanket, and slipped them on to his elegant small feet. Then he stood up
He was born in 1940, during the Blitz; desperate times. What sort of a world are we bringing him into? Grace used to ask. What if Hitler
wins?
And Roy would say, Now now, girl, you know that canât happen.
After his birth - and he
was
a big baby: nine pounds, three ounces - Grace had to have a few stitches, and stayed in hospital for three weeks. They named their son Frederick, after her father, knowing it would please him, and Albert, after his.
âFrederick Albert Southgate,â Grace said, gazing at the childrolled up tightly in a shawl and lying on her bed. âHeâd better be prime minister when he grows up, with a name like that!â
Outside feeding and visiting times their child took his place in a room with all the other babies, two rows of them in identical cots. No matter how much they yelled, feeding was strictly regulated. No point in tiring yourself out, feeding him all hours of the day, the starched sister told Grace. You feed him every four hours and heâll soon learn whatâs what. He did too. By the time she came out he was feeding at six, ten, two, six, ten: regular as a mathematical progression.
Roy was back with his Company by then. They wrote to each other as often as possible, and she would describe the baby, how he smiled and waggled his arms about, how greedily he fed. Roy would imagine him sucking at her breast and wondered whether it was wrong to find this idea exciting. Then, when little Freddie was just over three months old, came the news. Grace had slept late one morning, exhausted by broken nights, and woken up to find him dead in his cot beside her. They gave Roy forty-eight hoursâ compassionate leave, and he and Grace and her parents had buried the baby and wept together.
âI should have taken him to the country!â she said, over and over again. âIt was the raids that killed him, Iâm sure of it! Night after night, having to get him out of his warm cot and go underground to a stuffy air â raid shelter - that canât have been good for a tiny baby.â
âAnd where else could you have gone?â Roy had said, wearily, guiltily. âTo my Mum in Folkestone? Thatâd been just as bad.â
After that they had decided: no more babies till the war was over. Hitler had taken one child from them: he wasnât going to have any more. Grace spent the war in Purley, grieving over her one small death in the midst of so many others, and never forgot Frederick Albert.
Where was I? thought Roy drowsily. Oh yes, sixty ⦠But instead of counting further, he fell asleep thinking of his little lost son, rather than of the grown-up man who was also hisson, and whom he had also nearly lost. The thought of Frederick and Grace together brought some hint of comfort; the thought of Alan was no comfort at all.
A couple of weeks later, Reginald was preparing to go up to London to see the family solicitor. Maryâs will was to be read and her estate distributed - what there was of it. In the afternoon he had an appointment with his trustees to discuss new ways of investing his money and her bits and bobs - the odd shares, if she had any left. High time he had a chat about how his affairs were to be looked after from now on. Might even â he censored the thought, which persisted - might even pay a visit to Sabrina. Reginald dressed carefully. He chose one of his best Harvie and Hudson shirts, white with a faint blue stripe, a dark red patterned silk tie, a Christmas present from Mary, and dark red socks.
It was ten years since heâd travelled regularly to London, and his best business suit - navy blue, pin-striped, double-breasted - was tighter than he remembered. Despite the warmth of the August day he wore a waistcoat to obscure the ample curve of his belly. He chose a good pair of black shoes, dusted them with a corner of the blanket, and slipped them on to his elegant small feet. Then he stood up
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