When Will There Be Good News? by Kate Atkinson Page B

hospital afterwards. Walking into the sixberth maternity ward he had taken a blow to the heart when he caught sight of her with the baby cradled in her arms. She was propped up on pillows with her wild hair loose about her shoulders, looking for all the world like a madonna -this vision spoiled only by the interloper, Mr Arty-Farty photographer, lying next to her on the bed gazing adoringly at the baby.
    'Well, look at this -the unholy family,' Jackson said (because he couldn't help himself -the story of his life where shooting off his mouth to his women was concerned).
    'Go away, Jackson,' Julia said placidly. 'You know this isn't a good idea.' Mr Arty-Farty, a little more pro-active, said, 'Get out of here or I'll deck you.'
    'Fat chance of that, you big pansy,' Jackson said (because he couldn't help himself). The guy was pampered and unfit, Jackson liked to think that he could have taken him out with one punch.
    'The better part of valour is discretion, Jackson,' Julia said, a warning note creeping into her voice. Trust Julia to be quoting at a time like this. She put her little finger in the baby's mouth and smiled down at him . A world apart. Jackson had never seen her so happy and he might have turned on his heel and left, out of deference to Julia's new-found redemption, but Mr Arty-Farty (his name was actually Jonathan Carr) said, 'There's nothing for you here, Brodie,' as if he owned this nativity scene and Jackson felt himself go so beyond reason that he would have beaten the guy up right there on the floor of the ward, with nursing mothers and newborn babies for an audience, ifJulia's baby (his baby) hadn't started crying and shamed him into retreat. Jackson had the grace to be mortified by this memory.
    And now the two of them, soft southerners to the core, were living in his homeland, his heartland, while every day he walked a step further away. And Julia living a country life as a country wife beggared belief. He could believe in a billion angels dancing on a pinhead more readily than he could believe in Julia cooking on an Aga. Yes, OK, the Dales weren't part of his heritage of dirt and industrial decay, but they were within the boundaries of God's own county, which was also Jackson's own county, flowing in the stream of his blood, laid down in the limestone of his bones even though neither ofhis parents was born here . W as it in his son's DNA, carried now in Jackson's pocket? The blueprint of his child. A chain of molecules, a chain of evidence. There would be traces of his sister in that single hair. Niamh, killed so long ago now that she existed more as a story than a person, a tale to be told, My sister was murdered whe n she was eighteen.
    He took his BlackBerry out and put it on the table in front of him. He was half expecting a text message. Arrived safely. As none came, he texted, 'Miss you,Jx'. That passed a minute or two. He left the phone out so that he could see if he received a reply.
    The old woman opposite sighed and closed her eyes as ifthe book she was reading had quite worn her out . T he woman in red -neither lady nor librarian but a good old-fashioned tart (rather like Julia) could have been the same age as his strolling woman. Where was she now? Still walking up hill and down dale? The suit took out a battered-looking packet ofcheese and onion crisps from his briefcase and in a rather reluctant act of camaraderie silently offered them around.
    The women refused but Jackson took a handful. He was starving and his chances of getting to the buffet car were minimal given the crush in the carriages . L fever thou gavest meat or drink, the fire shall never make thee shrink. If meat or drink thou ne'er gavst nane, the fire will burn thee to the bare bane. That damned dirge. Had the suit bought his way into heaven with a packet of cheese and onion crisps? Jackson should have insisted that the old woman took his North Face jacket otherwise he might find himself shivering his way through the fires