Holiday by Stanley Middleton

that could break the barrier between them, deepen mutual trust, confess interdependence, but if it existed, he did not know where, could not even begin to find it, unless this, this proximity, the silent negativeness of action encouraged its life. It did not do for him. He waited, undecided, inadequate.
    ‘What’s up, then, Meg?’ The colloquial approach masked uncertainty.
    She shook her head, but it was a sign of revival.
    ‘This won’t do, y’know. Can’t have his nibs upset.’ He pointed at her womb.
    Now she smiled, tentatively, with real bravery.
    ‘Come on, then.’ He put both arms around her, and her head, her wild hair, lay under his cheek. ‘Let’s hear all about it.’
    ‘I felt so awful. So low. I thought I’d die.’
    She offered this diffidently enough to be believed.
    ‘I get so tired. And bored. I can’t sit down for a minute without my legs, and arms jumping on me. Jim-jams. And I feel like iron, stiff and heavy as lead. It’s all so long and so pointless. And I don’t have anybody to talk to, and you’re cooped up there with the work. Even at mealtimes, I can tell you’re thinking about it.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘Why should you be? It’s my fault. I ought to go out more but I’m so tired. It’s such a fag.’
    ‘I’ve neglected you,’ Fisher said. That seemed adequate.
    ‘No.’ A sharp word. ‘It’s silly to say that. You’ve got your work to do.’ She patted her stomach. ‘I’ve got mine.’ She straightened herself. ‘I feel better now. Honestly.’
    She stood up, walked round the end of the bed, pulled the curtains to complete darkness, tugged the light-cord above, behind him, and squared up to the mirror.
    ‘I look a sight,’ she said, touching the ends of her hair comically with her palms. Then she brushed, two-handedly furious until she was satisfied, when she turned, tugged her smock and with a cocksure air said, ‘Let’s go downstairs.’
    He took her arm, and she allowed it.
    ‘You must tell me what’s wrong,’ he said.
    ‘Nothing, really.’
    ‘Come on, now. Were you frightened? About the baby?’
    ‘No, no. I wasn’t.’ She began to walk him towards the door. ‘A bit edgy. Like anybody else, but nothing out of the way.’ Her voice laughed now. ‘I just get very tired, and it all seems too much. It’s silly. I’ll be glad when it’s over.’
    ‘And I neglect you.’ He made the effort.
    ‘I don’t think so. You can’t sit at home all day holding my hand.’
    ‘I can talk to you at mealtimes. Go shopping with you.’
    ‘Suppose you could.’ She looked over. ‘Wouldn’t be you, though.’
    Now they stood at the top of the stairs, where she disengaged herself, easily, charmingly from his grasp to walk down. He noticed she kept her hand, well-manicured, on the banister to help balance, but she had recovered, broken away from him, refortified herself with herself. He followed in frustration and relief. The status quo, unsatisfactory or not, could be put up with.
    ‘I’ll make you a cup of coffee,’ he said, loudly assertive.
    ‘No. I’d like lemon and barley, please.’
    ‘It’s cold, Meg. Haven’t you noticed?’
    ‘I’ve got my baby to keep me warm.’
    ‘I shall have to improve on my performance,’ he said, bringing the drinks in. ‘I can’t have you doing your nut.’
    She smiled, held a hand out for him to hold, but said,
    ‘Don’t make a thing of it, there’s a good boy.’
    There, he blamed himself for his failure, though he knew she did not. He had done his bit, that exactly described it, but it did nothing to prevent him toying with the fairy story, juggling fictitious consequences into lively impossibility. Now, at the seaside, in a bright bedroom, having made his mind up which pair of shoes to pull on for the day’s pleasure, he recalled his own wry decision at the time to do better even though better was not there to be done.
    Perhaps he’d be in her company tomorrow.
    Her father could not be sure; she could