Every Day Is Mother's Day by Hilary Mantel

road. It’s ten o’clock.”

    The alarm shrilled. Sylvia’s fingers groped for it. The noise continued to reverberate in Colin’s head. He screwed his eyes shut.
    He was distressed by his lack of control over his own dreams. It seemed monstrous that your own brain was capable, in the hours before dawn, of such divisive folly. He had dreamed so vividly of Isabel that he was afraid her spectre and after-image would parade about the bedroom for Sylvia to see. He had never seen her naked, but he imagined her long white limbs.
    “Colin,” Sylvia said. Her voice was cautious, exploratory; the first limb of Monday morning reaching out to touch him in the dark. “Colin, seven o’clock.”
    “Mm.”
    Sylvia sighed. She put her head back on the pillow and her rollers dug into her skull. She was going to the doctor’s that morning to get the result of her pregnancy test. She was sure it would be positive. She was as regular as clockwork, she thought, you could set your watch by her menstrual flow. Furtively she slid a hand down over her blue nylon belly. I’ll have to get myself a couple of patterns, she thought, and get the machine out, before the school holidays start. Sewing’s all right but it makes a mess in the house. “Colin?”
    “Yes, all right.” He massaged his closed eyelids with his fingers, sat up, and swung his feet out of bed. “Christ, it’s dark,” he said. “Why do we always get up in the dark? Year in, year out.”
    Sylvia did not bother to say that life was arranged that way. Their morning routine did not include expostulation. A grunt, a twitch, sufficed for anything out of the ordinary. I’ll get the kettle on grunt a boiled egg grunt the milk in grunt the fire on grunt and the children out of bed, and
    “Why is it so bloody dark?” Colin bellowed. “Why is life so lousy and uncomfortable?”
    Sylvia felt unable to rise to the occasion. She did no more than glance at him out of the corner of her eye. It was the first time in their married life that he had asked such a question, and she could not think of a reason. She went into the bathroom, threw up neatly into the toilet bowl, pushed down the handle, and wiped her eyes, which were misty from the effort. She poured disinfectant into the lavatory, flushed it again, and rinsed out her mouth, scooping up the water in her hands. She was shivering when she got back into the bedroom, but Colin didn’t notice. She reached for her dressing-gown. That makes sure of it, she thought. I’ll put off telling him. I think I’d better.
    Colin ate his egg in customary silence. His sense of grievance seemed to have subsided. He grunted once when he could not find his tie, then found it screwed up in the pocket of his jacket.
    “I should take your overcoat,” Sylvia said.
    “I’m late.”
    “Suzanne, run and fetch your dad’s overcoat.”
    “I’m late too,” Suzanne said. Her mouth was full of cornflakes. “That’s all you use me for, running up and down stairs. I bet I go upstairs ten times a day, getting things for you.”
    “Twenty,” Alistair said. “A hundred times. A billion.”
    “Why don’t you do it?” Suzanne said to her mother. “You’re lazy, that’s why. You’re old.”
    “Christ,” Colin said. “I’ll bloody do without.”
    He looked back at his children from the kitchen doorway, without hope. “I’ll be late, love,” he said to Sylvia. “Not very late. I just thought I’d pop over to Florence.”
    “All right.”
    “Sylvia.”
    She turned from the toast she was buttering for Alistair; slowly, as if she resented the extra effort.
    “You look a bit peaky.”
    “I’m all right.”
    “About six o’clock then. Don’t worry if it’s a bit later.”
    “I’ll have your tea ready,” she said, and turned absently back.
    The front door clicked behind him. He stood on the doorstep for a moment. The relief…the relief of being out of the house; the urge to confess was becoming almost unbearable. He took a deep