that. He had done nothing different, and it couldn’t have been any great skill or expertise on her part. She had whispered to him that he was the only man apart from Russell.Before Russell there had been no one and for a long time now Russell had scarcely touched her. She was married and she had a child, but still she was nearly as innocent as Martin would have had her be.
She slept beside him that night. At eleven she phoned Russell and told him she would be staying the night with Annabel because of the fog. Martin heard the murmur of a man’s voice answering her truculently. It was only the second time in his life he had been in bed all night with a woman. On an impulse he told her so and she put her arms round him, holding him close to hejr.
In the morning he looked once more at that copy of the
Post
with its cover photograph of the path from the railway bridge to Nassington Road and, on the inside, the paragraph about Russell Brown. It seemed a hundred years since he had first read it, had underlined that emotive name and inserted, after a feverish scanning of the phone book, the number of her house in Fortis Green Lane. He put the paper on top of the neat pile of tabloids on the floor of the kitchen cupboard and the
Daily Telegraph
on the pile of broadsheets. Later, walking up the hill with Francesca-she refused to let him drive her-he called into the newsagents and cancelled the
Post.
Why had he ever bothered to take a local paper? Only, surely, because of knowing Tim Sage.
Martin didn’t expect to see Francesca again that weekend, he didn’t even really mind that, but he had somehow taken it for granted that now they would meet every evening. He was very taken aback when she phoned him on Monday morning to say she wouldn’t be able to see him that night, Lindsay had a bad cold, and perhaps they could see each other in a week’s time. He was obliged to wait, phoning her every day, very aware of that other life she led with a husband and a little child, yet scarcely able to believe in its reality.
Nothing could have brought that reality more forcefully home to him than Lindsay herself. On the first Saturday afternoonRussell went off to football and she was able to get away she brought Lindsay with her.
“Oh, Martin, I’m so sorry. I had to bring her. If I hadn’t I couldn’t have come myself.”
She was a beautiful little girl, anyone would have thought that. She was dark like her mother but otherwise not much like her, their beauty being of two very distinct kinds. Francesca had a high colour and fine pointed features, hair that waved along its length and curled at it tips, and her eyes were brown. Lindsay’s eyes were bright blue, her skin almost olive, her mouth like the bud of a red flower, a camellia or azalea perhaps from her mother’s shop. Because her straight, almost black hair was precociously long, she looked older than she was. To Martin it seemed for a moment as if the face beside Francesca’s smiling apologetic face was that of an aggressive adolescent. And then Francesca was stripping off coat and woolly scarf and it was a baby that emerged, a walking doll not three feet high.
Lindsay ran about examining and handling the Swedish crystal. Martin’s heart was in his mouth, but he scolded himself inwardly for turning so young into an old bachelor. If he was like this now how would he be when he had children of his own, when he and Francesca had children of their own? Lindsay began turning all his books out of the bookcase and throwing them on the floor. It surprised Martin that Francesca kissed him in front of Lindsay and let him hold her hand and sat with her head on his shoulder. It surprised and slightly embarrassed him too, for Lindsay had so far only uttered one sentence, though that frequently and in a calm conversational tone.
“I want to see my daddy.”
Martin looked at Francesca to see how she took this, but even when Lindsay had repeated it at least ten times Francesca only
She slept beside him that night. At eleven she phoned Russell and told him she would be staying the night with Annabel because of the fog. Martin heard the murmur of a man’s voice answering her truculently. It was only the second time in his life he had been in bed all night with a woman. On an impulse he told her so and she put her arms round him, holding him close to hejr.
In the morning he looked once more at that copy of the
Post
with its cover photograph of the path from the railway bridge to Nassington Road and, on the inside, the paragraph about Russell Brown. It seemed a hundred years since he had first read it, had underlined that emotive name and inserted, after a feverish scanning of the phone book, the number of her house in Fortis Green Lane. He put the paper on top of the neat pile of tabloids on the floor of the kitchen cupboard and the
Daily Telegraph
on the pile of broadsheets. Later, walking up the hill with Francesca-she refused to let him drive her-he called into the newsagents and cancelled the
Post.
Why had he ever bothered to take a local paper? Only, surely, because of knowing Tim Sage.
Martin didn’t expect to see Francesca again that weekend, he didn’t even really mind that, but he had somehow taken it for granted that now they would meet every evening. He was very taken aback when she phoned him on Monday morning to say she wouldn’t be able to see him that night, Lindsay had a bad cold, and perhaps they could see each other in a week’s time. He was obliged to wait, phoning her every day, very aware of that other life she led with a husband and a little child, yet scarcely able to believe in its reality.
Nothing could have brought that reality more forcefully home to him than Lindsay herself. On the first Saturday afternoonRussell went off to football and she was able to get away she brought Lindsay with her.
“Oh, Martin, I’m so sorry. I had to bring her. If I hadn’t I couldn’t have come myself.”
She was a beautiful little girl, anyone would have thought that. She was dark like her mother but otherwise not much like her, their beauty being of two very distinct kinds. Francesca had a high colour and fine pointed features, hair that waved along its length and curled at it tips, and her eyes were brown. Lindsay’s eyes were bright blue, her skin almost olive, her mouth like the bud of a red flower, a camellia or azalea perhaps from her mother’s shop. Because her straight, almost black hair was precociously long, she looked older than she was. To Martin it seemed for a moment as if the face beside Francesca’s smiling apologetic face was that of an aggressive adolescent. And then Francesca was stripping off coat and woolly scarf and it was a baby that emerged, a walking doll not three feet high.
Lindsay ran about examining and handling the Swedish crystal. Martin’s heart was in his mouth, but he scolded himself inwardly for turning so young into an old bachelor. If he was like this now how would he be when he had children of his own, when he and Francesca had children of their own? Lindsay began turning all his books out of the bookcase and throwing them on the floor. It surprised Martin that Francesca kissed him in front of Lindsay and let him hold her hand and sat with her head on his shoulder. It surprised and slightly embarrassed him too, for Lindsay had so far only uttered one sentence, though that frequently and in a calm conversational tone.
“I want to see my daddy.”
Martin looked at Francesca to see how she took this, but even when Lindsay had repeated it at least ten times Francesca only
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