Sunrises And Other Stories

By Paul Marriner

Love, grief, hope, sorrow and joy - the consequences of living that help us to learn and confront truths.

This is a collection of stories where impressionable boys and lovers, fathers and mothers, priests, con-men and angels come alive; stories of people and moments to care for and recognise. Told with compassion and care, these are tales of living and dying from an author who hopes you will bring them to life by knowing the people within.

The collection is linked by characters and events. At their core is ‘Sunrises’, in which Anthony grieves following the death of his daughter and struggles to know where to turn for his own peace and truth.

‘Sunrises’ is supported by stories depicting critical episodes from Anthony’s life and the lives of those around him; how he is shaped by the choices and actions of others and how they influence his present and future.

Love, grief, hope, sorrow and joy - bringing truth to a life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Marriner
• Release date: Oct 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992964818

Paul Marriner

Paul grew up in a west London suburb and now lives in Berkshire with his wife. He has two grown up children from whom he has learnt far more than he ever taught. He is passionate about music, sport and, most of all, writing, on which he now concentrates full-time. Paul has written five novels and a collection of stories; his primary literary ambition is that you enjoy reading them while he is hard at work on his next novel.

Book preview

The Park Keeper

1967. Our park keeper had only one arm. He wore a grey uniform with a small enamelled badge on the left lapel, showing the council’s oak tree and star emblem. The badge’s enamel was bright; the design was clear and detailed. It looked a badge of authority and one worth wearing. Like other park keepers where we lived, he wore a stiff peaked cap with another oak tree and star as a centrepiece. Unlike other keepers, he had only one arm. The empty left sleeve of his grey tunic was folded with a sharp crease and pinned to the top pocket; from a distance he appeared to reach for a pen that wasn’t there. No-one was brave enough to ask how the arm was lost but the uniform and his military bearing led us to invent tales of German snipers and dive-bombing Stukas. The Enola Gay had razed Hiroshima twenty-two years earlier and though a life-time to us seven year olds, it was no more than a generation past. We saw old soldiers in the streets (from both wars) and our grandparents had tales to tell, but told them rarely - except Pete’s Gran. She lived with him and often repeated the story of the night the bombs hit her brother’s house and left him and his family in pieces – literally, as she found the next morning. The story scared us but we couldn’t help pestering to hear when round Pete’s for tea. His Gran always obliged, standing with her back to the open fire and lifting her floral patterned cotton dress to warm the backs of her legs. She sucked on false teeth as she spoke and rocked from side to side to ease the arthritis in her hip.

The bomb that took Pete’s Granny’s brother was probably intended for the glassworks - the industrial complex at the end of the railway, half a mile from our tiny High Street. Even now the glassworks was a bomb site - a jagged playground of broken bricks, concrete, twisted metal gantries and, of course, broken glass. After the war, any buildings still standing were demolished and the rubble bull-dozed into little pyramids, piled haphazardly around the site. The grown-ups complained about the delay in rebuilding but I was too young and busy to care; a brand new park had been built over the remains of the old town dairy (another stray bomb or perhaps ‘Jerry’ didn’t like Friesians). Soon after our new park was finished they built a coffee processing plant close by. The smell of roasting coffee was a novelty at first, but soon commonplace and we relied on visitors to our town to notice.

Every Sunday at 09:00 (before church services) the air raid sirens outside the Town Hall were tested, though perhaps more as a consequence of the Cold War. We never worried they would sound for real and I don’t know what we would have done if they did; I suppose our parents and teachers had some idea but it was never shared.

Our park keeper was not tall but walked with a straight back and if, as we suspected, he had been an officer, he bore his new duties with dignity and no hint of resentment. He sat on a chair just inside his small green hut, leaving it twice an hour to check on those leafy corners of the park hidden from the hut’s view. The job came with a long stick with a metal point at the end for stabbing discarded Sherbet-Dab tubes, Jamboree bags and cigarette packets. The stick doubled as a walking cane when patrolling the grounds, clicking on the pathways in time to the clacking of his highly polished shoes. Whilst I can picture his military stride, pressed trousers and tight jacket, I can’t bring to mind his face or recall any of his features except the thin grey moustache; his eyes were in darkness beneath the cap pulled low over his brow.

With a lack of originality we called him ‘One-arm bandit’, which soon shortened to ‘Bandit’ (some of the older boys even called to his face). Any irony in the nick-name was lost.

The weather was good and no-one spoke of skin cancer or sun factors. The days passed playing football, testing how high the swings could reach, trying to spin the roundabout off its mount and wondering why Little Stevie’s big brother spent so much time with Dopey Dave’s even bigger sister behind the shed. The shed was the gardener’s domain: Fat Bill. We assumed Bandit held authority over Fat Bill, even though Bandit was the one most often boiling a kettle and brewing tea for them both in his little hut, a precisely coordinated task with only one arm. Fat Bill dug or planted near to Bandit’s hut mid-morning and mid-afternoon, keen not to miss the kettle’s whistle, and they’d sit together for twenty minutes or so, listening to the crackling AM transistor radio. Bandit brought it from home every day and fiddled relentlessly for better reception, making sure to avoid the soon to be extinct Radio Caroline. Their routine was appreciated and planned around; we climbed the out of bounds horse-chestnut at these times.

Fat Bill soon discovered the summer’s first den and reported it to Bandit, who instructed Fat Bill in its demolition. We found other diversions. The fading sign near the swings forbade ball games but made a perfect target for the tatty old leather football Little Stevie brought; in this we recognised the irony, compounded by Bandit’s officious confiscation of the ball and his assertion the park wasn’t ‘just for fun.’

Bandit returned the ball next day when Little Stevie stood in the hut’s doorway and pretended to cry, claiming his dad would beat him if he didn’t bring it home, which wasn’t far from the truth. Little Stevie’s tears were so real not only did Bandit return the ball, he gave him a biscuit, a sticky lemon custard cream a class above the dull tack we crunched at home. Little Stevie didn’t enjoy but scoffed anyway. The rest of us looked on, faking expressions of forlorn to mask our envy. We stood in a huddle while Bandit stood tall, to us, and ramrod straight in the dark hut. He put the packet of biscuits on the table, next to a tiny photograph in a heavy frame. A young woman and two small children posed formally in black and white and though they didn’t smile there was peace in their eyes. Bandit studied the photo for a few seconds, pulled his cap down further and fished in a pocket for a small leather purse. He gave Little Stevie a shilling to buy sweets from the newsagent and another shilling for a pack of five Woodbine, quietly emphasising he expected change. We all went, taking less care than we should on the new zebra crossing, so excited to have money to spend I don’t think anybody remembered to say thanks.

We ate the Blackjacks, Fruit Salads and Fireman’s Hose on the way back, apart from Lily who saved hers until the swings and nibbled them selectively. Little Stevie and I interrupted Bandit and Fat Bill’s morning tea to hand over the cigarettes and give the change, greater than Bandit expected, but he said little, being distracted by the radio; news of the decision to pull the army out of Malaysia and Singapore was discouraging - Bandit agreed with the Yanks for once.

The next morning we loitered round the hut and, sure enough, Bandit passed Little Stevie a shilling, this time asking him to buy a newspaper and suggesting he might like to buy sweets again. Again, we all went and even though a ha’penny wasn’t much change, Bandit was appreciative and a routine established. Being careful not to spend it all, we saved a penny or ha’penny to hand back with the newspaper and Bandit always gave a stern, ‘Thank you,’ often followed by some small chastisement for standing on the swings, or the rubbish left under the bench, or spinning the roundabout too fast for the little ones. We dropped our heads in mock shame and promised to follow the rules on the tatty piece of paper next to the biscuits and photograph. Once or twice, at first, someone sniggered. Bandit silenced them with a quiet word and asked them to leave the hut and being an outsider was the worst punishment.

The dry summer moved into August. The grass turned brown and Bandit spent tea breaks listening patiently as Fat Bill complained about the scuffed earth where the older boys set up goals for football. We hung around by the swings and witch’s-hat; Little Stevie’s big brother span it so fast our tiny bodies would fly horizontal as we clung tight to the middle bar with no fear. Even when Little Stevie let go and flew yards before landing and bouncing just short of the roundabout, we laughed before checking he was okay, but Bandit was angry. For the first time, we heard him shout as he left his hut, struggling to contain his short, precise stride until it became a trot, unbalanced with one arm. Only his concern for Little Stevie prevented him from shouting further anger. The rest of the morning we played Ting Tang Tommy, organised by Bandit. Little Stevie won, being the last one found.

And then Little Stevie was dead. We were on the new crossing and I think Little Stevie was just behind me, clutching Bandit’s shilling as we ran to the shop. Maybe this time we didn’t look properly, or took the road for granted, or perhaps the Morris Minor that hit him was just going too fast. I don’t know. It could have been any of us but was Little Stevie. I didn’t see the impact. I didn’t see any blood. I can’t picture where he landed or what he looked like, laying there. The one thing I can remember is the pale, shaking face of the driver, standing by her car, screaming.

The first day after the accident we realised Little Stevie wasn’t there but I don’t think we understood he’d never be there again.

No-one wore a watch, but we knew the routine and by mid-morning we were wondering how to ask Bandit for the shilling. They voted me for the task, being the smallest, with a knack for pleading eyes. Bunched together, we edged towards the hut. Bandit stood in the doorway and, now I think of it, I did see his face clearly once – when he was crying and handing me the money.

We crossed the road more carefully going back; I held the change tight. In the park, the others went straight to the witch’s-hat but I needed to return a penny.

The hut’s door was closed. I knocked quietly, then louder. No response. I tip-toed to look through the window. Bandit sat in his chair, head slumped, looking down into the photo that usually stood on the hut’s table. The picture lay in his lap, dark with blood; blood that seeped from the blackness beneath his peaked cap, soaked his legs and dripped to the floor, almost covering the officer’s pistol that lay there.

Christine

Anthony began studying architecture at Birmingham in September 1980. After A Levels he worked on the building sites near home for two years, labouring and digging until being trusted with laying a straight brick wall. He left the sites in the summer and spent two weeks at a caravan park on the Isle of Wight with seven mates. The Isle Of Wight was all the holiday they planned: good friends (only one serious argument), cheap beer from the on-site club, free disco nights, enough sun to encourage towels on the pebble beach (if not much factor thirty), and a group of girls from Hereford with shared vacation aspirations who were more mature (experienced) in ways that mattered (to twenty year old lads). Anthony stored good memories of that holiday but it marked an ending. Although unspoken, there was the feeling they wouldn’t be together again for a long time; four were already in full time work or apprenticeships, two on the dole and one at college. Two of them had taken A Levels and only Anthony was going on to university. He thought his dad was pleased and was sure of his mum, but suspected his dad more proud he could pay his way following two hard years on the sites.

The Police topped the album charts with Zenyatta Mondatta and Margaret Thatcher was just getting into her stride when Anthony started at Birmingham. He was not a political man and suspected his optimism might be considered naïve by those with a more cynical knowledge, but he had seen and been part of the difference rebuilding made to his home town. Though it took thirty or so years to bring it back from the war he liked that physicality. The politicians talked policy and ideas and morals and economic models, little of which was material. But the shopping centre that finally replaced the glassworks and gave people jobs was real; the coffee processing plant might not always smell good but brought work; the new leisure centre that replaced the bombed out bathworks was not beautiful but gave opportunity, even if not all realised it was for them to take. Politics dominated the decisions to fund and build these places but the structures and spaces themselves made the difference - structures and spaces like his childhood park. And there was comforting authority in details like the Park Keeper’s hut; it was more than just a box-shed and it made a difference. Anthony wanted to learn how to make a difference.

In the autumn of 1980 he moved into halls of residence. He liked the university’s (literal) red-brick design and the expansion from the sixties through to today that was tangible. He admired the clock tower, not because it was the tallest in Europe (though it was), but because the proportions were perfect, the materials appropriate and the clock itself an expression of art and science - a constant reminder of that most precious resource: time - a resource he determined to use wisely; he just needed to figure out what could be meant by wise.

He felt comfortable and at home in the main campus buildings but not in halls. He was older than most other freshers, having worked two years after A Levels, but those two years could have been twenty, such was the gap he felt. The building sites had been an education of their own with a different curriculum and a very real set of unwritten rules; they had to be learnt quickly and with no formal help. University life set a different challenge; his peers here were a different species.

Fresher’s Week passed okay. The halls were full of nervous excitement and he enjoyed the energy and optimism and sense of liberation, even while waiting for it to abate as lectures and libraries took hold. They did, but didn’t bring any kindred spirits and he felt the outsider. To begin with he thought he imagined the difference and perhaps it was not the two years on the sites but his perception. So he took part in as many events as possible and blagged as many party invites as was polite. But connections weren’t made and he found himself drifting to the edges until bumping (literally) into Trudy and sending her vodka and tonic crashing to the floor of the Students’ Union bar, four weeks into the first term. Trudy: tall, loud, laughing, sometimes angry, often drunk, quick to judge, quicker to forgive, smart, grounded and, so it turned out, enthusiastic and passionate. Although two years younger, she was never shy in the bedroom, rarely the same twice and not afraid to be herself. Anthony was no beginner but either Trudy had led a more liberated life or read much pornography in sixth form. She teased he was her experiment and a case study for her psychology degree and he laughed though he wasn’t sure she joked.

Trudy was a distraction from study but Anthony soon learnt to separate work-time from Trudy-time; she was a counter-balance and he was never guilty and laughed a lot. Over the following weeks Trudy’s laughter eased to more gentle chuckles which Anthony took to be a good sign, a sign they were relaxing into the next phase of the relationship. Sadly, he didn’t know Trudy, as she told him afterwards. Trudy chuckling gently was Trudy bored and Trudy bored was Trudy gone. But before she went she offered two pieces of advice:

1) Sex is a conversation, not a debate.

2) Join the rowing club.

Both were valid and given warmly, with no criticism, and they parted as friends. Anthony thought about her words and took the second to heart straight away. Two years on building sites had added muscle to his tall frame and he thought rowing might suit him.

The first piece of advice needed a different opportunity but one not to be rushed.

He still often met Trudy around the campus and there was never animosity; everyone, he concluded, both men and women, should have a Trudy in their lives at some stage.

The rowing club proved an inspired suggestion; a place where his height, strength and obsessive nature were well placed and valued. Although an absolute novice with dubious technique, they welcomed him. And he met Leslie there. Leslie was very different from Trudy. Anthony enjoyed learning about her and appreciating her compassion. They talked long and easily, shared comfortable silences and soon realised they were soul mates of a sibling, rather than lustful kind (though they did sleep together a couple of times). They helped each other through the months and years that came.

It was also at the rowing club that Otto burst into his life and taught him how to be an oarsman, team-mate and occasional house-mate.

Trudy still dipped in and out, usually when in need of a loan or a hot meal or a friend at which to rage. Anthony didn’t mind. He welcomed her intrusions; the melodrama and emotional crisis were often an amusing distraction or even a lesson and he was glad to help when able. He owed her after the kindness (and lust) she had shown in those early days, though Leslie was not so convinced of Trudy’s motives or needs.

Anthony’s university days progressed and he found himself half way through his third year, living in a bed-sit a short bus ride from the main campus. He was on the final stretch and desperate to pull for the finishing line when one of his house-mates knocked on his bedroom door and shouted his mum had rung the communal phone the previous night. He hadn’t spoken to his mother for weeks, not because of any rift, simply laziness, so he rang her that evening to be told his grandmother was dead.

Anthony hadn’t seen Granny Harkson since Christmas and couldn’t claim a close relationship. It was sad but had been expected ever since the cancer diagnosis a year earlier. She had been a widow since 1942 when his grandfather arrived in Singapore just two months before the surrender and never came home. A trip to Singapore had long been her ambition and Anthony even offered to take her, perhaps knowing it unlikely to happen. At the funeral he wondered if she was disappointed with him for not fulfilling the promise, but afterwards, back at the house and over cheese sandwiches and sherry, his mother gave him an envelope containing five hundred pounds, saying, ‘Gran didn’t have much but wanted to leave you a little and said you should use it to finish university.’

Back in Birmingham, Anthony turned the wad of ten pound notes over and over in his hand until deciding what he needed most, at that moment, was a good meal. Not more beans on toast, Pot-Noodles or an Indian take-away; he wanted a decent cut of meat from a proper restaurant with a nice glass of red.

Friday night; smart end of town - a small row of shops including two wine bars, a Chinese restaurant, ice cream parlour and Angelo’s Steak House. Anthony invited Otto to join him, but Otto was still giving rowing his all and wouldn’t miss a session, though he was tempted by the promise of steak paid for by another.

Anthony waited alone at the door and the maître d’ showed him to a table in the corner, leaving him a menu. He studied the choices more than necessary and was grateful when the waitress came over a few minutes later to take his order, grateful not just because he was less conspicuous ordering but because the waitress was Christine. She wore a plain white, well-pressed blouse, plain black skirt (just above the knee) and plain black shoes with little heel. Her long brunette hair was tied plainly back in a ponytail, but plain she was not. She smiled naturally, had dark brown eyes, almost too much eye shadow and clear skin. She took his order, suggested a vegetable choice and tried to sell an extra side dish but didn’t press when it was refused, even though the manager would nag her later. The steak was tender (despite being ordered well done) and he ate slowly while surreptitiously watching Christine work her tables. He looked forward to her taking his order for pudding but she didn’t. A different waiter brought the dessert trolley, disappointing Anthony until he saw her take up position in a far corner, sitting on a stool and pulling a guitar from its stand. Anthony made two cups of coffee last the next forty minutes as he watched her play and listened to the mix of classical guitar and flamenco music he didn’t understand. She concentrated hard, with enthusiasm in her movement and flashes of deep satisfaction after certain passages, as if having played them as well as she ever had; occasionally there were honest smiles, perhaps of relief at completing difficult pieces.

Anthony couldn’t say if she was good or not, but could say there was hypnotic attraction in her slight frame swaying in time to the music and cradling the guitar gently but with purpose. The music was loud enough to fill the restaurant but not to overpower conversation and Anthony wanted to shout at diners who ignored her. He hoped she might also sing, but she didn’t and then he was glad as it added an air of mystery (though he couldn’t say why). He noticed she wore no rings, wondered about her age (he thought no more than twenty), where she came from and why she played here and not in a concert hall with a crowd of thousands - at which point he conceded he might be smitten – to use an old fashioned term which his Gran would have recognised.

He paid the bill as she finished playing, left a larger tip than usual and, outside, said thank you out loud to Granny Harkson.

Three days later he went back to Angelo’s Steak House. It interrupted his studies but Granny Harkson’s legacy left plenty of cash for more steaks and, surely, good sustenance would keep him fit for the examination trials to come; surely.

She served him again and, he thought, gave a glimpse of recognition as he repeated his sirloin order, this time with the extra side dish. This evening she didn’t play the guitar and he was initially disappointed, wanting the excuse to watch her, but saw the chance for conversation by asking why she wasn’t performing. It was easy chatting and, with no conscious effort, he found out she was eighteen, worked part-time in the restaurant because her father knew the owner (whose name wasn’t Angelo, by the way), hoped the guitar would be her escape route and her name was Christine.

A week later, on a performance night, Anthony went back for another sirloin. Afterwards he hung around to tell her how good he thought she was, without fawning, and to find out which nights she was free: Thursdays.

They spent the next few weeks getting to know each other (mainly on Thursdays) and occasionally sharing a late night meal (on other nights) after the restaurant closed and the owner invited him; Anthony suspected he was being vetted. He made sure (on Thursdays) Christine was home by eleven and they only made love in his digs when his house-mates were out and the sheets clean (all the motivation he needed to visit the launderette). Christine’s family welcomed him cautiously. Christine revealed her father’s concern he was five years older, but her mother countered with his maturity and near degree status. She had two older sisters: Natalie (by three years) and Sarah (by a little over one), and Anthony made a conscious decision not to seek favour with either; it could be misinterpreted too easily.

Spring was passing and Anthony had to make determined efforts not to let his excitement at the blossoming relationship with Christine detract from study. He introduced her to Leslie, who approved, and Trudy, who offered to give her bedroom lessons, which Anthony refused; they were learning just fine together, sometimes with touching innocence, sometimes outright naivety but always with open passion, lust and humour. Christine continued working and performing at the restaurant and even tried self-penned songs, though not convinced by Anthony’s praise, and to be honest her singing never matched her guitar playing.

Anthony sat and held Christine’s hand. The hospital bed was tall and Anthony had to reach over and up, making it uncomfortable, but he didn’t complain. Christine’s eyes were ringed dark and her cheeks flushed, though the rest of her pale. The hospital gown fit badly, hanging from her slender frame, and the bed sheets were dishevelled. They sat in silence, sometimes looking to each other and finding comfort not in any shared wisdom but in shared confusion and fear. It was Sunday afternoon and the ward busy with nurses taking observations and visitors struggling for conversation pieces. Christine had been taken into A and E just after dawn, nine or ten hours ago; Anthony had been there just less than two. Though they could go home they were reluctant to leave the warmth and safety (if not comfort) of the ward. The Sister was finishing the discharge papers and the doctor sympathetic and calm, making sure Christine understood she needn’t stay longer and she should make an appointment to see her GP in the next few days to arrange a follow up appointment. Anthony nodded as the doctor spoke, pretending to understand, and he did understand the words and the facts but not how he – how they – had come to this.

Christine spoke. ‘You shouldn’t be here. You should be at the flat. Studying. I didn’t mean for Leslie to call you. Sorry. I just wanted …. I needed …. to get here. Mum and dad are away, and I didn’t want anyone else to know. I’m sorry. You should go.’ Christine looked at the door to the ward where Leslie stood, shoulders hunched in concern.

‘Stop saying sorry,’ Anthony said.

‘I asked Leslie not to tell you. I did ask her.’

‘It’s good she did. I should have known. How didn’t I?’ Anthony asked himself, not Christine.

He hadn’t seen her in four or five weeks, since they’d argued.

Sunday mornings were Anthony’s favourite: sitting in bed, surrounded by books, flicking and leafing through, making preparations for his finals, just weeks away. Christine came over, missing Mass and bringing newspapers and cold toast from home - a two bus journey. They made love without hesitation and sat in comfortable near-silence, Anthony studying and Christine practising quietly on her guitar - until Trudy started shouting for Anthony. A house-mate must have let her in and now she banged bedroom doors to find him. Christine pulled one of Anthony’s shirts around her shoulders and tugged on a pair of knickers as Anthony pulled on a pair of jogging pants and shrugged his shoulders in apology. He opened the door and Trudy burst through. Christine put the guitar in its case and hugged it to her chest for protection, such was Trudy’s anxious energy. Christine had met Trudy a couple of times before and was wary and a little scared of her.

Trudy threw herself at Anthony and pushed her head hard into his shoulder. Christine sat on the bed and backed up to the headboard, trying to work out if the noise coming from Trudy was sobbing or a form of laughing bark. It was sobbing. Christine put on jeans and a sweatshirt over Anthony’s shirt and left them to make tea, braving the kitchen. By the time the tea had brewed in the pot Anthony was down to help. Christine’s first concern was for her guitar, left alone in Anthony’s room with Trudy but Anthony said she was calming down though she had asked him not to tell Christine the cause of her upset. Christine nodded and shrugged with exaggerated lack of concern, confident of finding out later. Anthony led her back upstairs where Trudy was resetting her make-up and they drank with little conversation but with Anthony checking his watch more often than necessary. They finished the tea and he nodded to Trudy then spoke to Christine. ‘We’re popping out for a couple of hours. Do you want to wait here?’

Christine looked round the small room, realised there might be a look of mild disdain on her face and forced her best open smile. ‘No, it’s okay. I’ll make my way home. You two go on. I’ll give you a ring later. If anyone ever bothers answering the phone here.’ She picked up her guitar and pecked Anthony on the cheek.

‘Thanks.’ Trudy touched Christine’s arm lightly and Christine wondered why the thanks as Trudy continued, ‘You’ve a good one here. He will go a long way, and deserves to. Don’t get in his way, will you?’ With just a touch of pleading in her voice she touched Christine’s arm again, leaving the younger girl to wonder more.

The next day, being Monday, Christine should have worked, cleaning the kitchens, but not this Monday. This Monday she rang in sick and took the buses to Anthony’s. Although she had rung him the night before, Trudy had still been with him and it was clear he didn’t want to, or couldn’t, talk, so she was none the wiser. She knocked on the front door (he hadn’t given her a key yet) and waited before knocking longer and more loudly until heard. Up in his room she waited again, without asking, and watched him fidget until he could no longer contain himself and explained Trudy wouldn’t want him telling this, but told her anyway, concisely.

Trudy had fallen pregnant and didn’t want the baby. It wasn’t in her plans. It wasn’t in the father’s plans, or wouldn’t be, if he knew. She had the money to pay for an abortion but didn’t want to go alone. That’s where they went yesterday. End of story.

Christine had many questions but didn’t know which were most relevant. Trudy’s pregnancy wasn’t a surprise but to say so would be considered judgmental and her Catholic upbringing made impartiality almost impossible - hypocritical considering her own recent transgressions with Anthony, a personal guilt she had yet to confess. She wanted to know why Trudy asked Anthony to go with her to the clinic but that might culminate in the question of fatherhood. Anthony? Perhaps better not to know? Perhaps better to just acknowledge Anthony as a good guy and Trudy needed a good guy for support, or should she read more into Trudy’s comments the previous evening? They had preyed on her mind all night - a sleepless night. Christine remained silent rather than ask the wrong question.

‘And Trudy spent the night here,’ Anthony answered another of Christine’s unspoken questions. ‘I slept in the armchair. My back’s killing me.’ He forced a laugh, so did Christine.

More silence.

‘Trudy was in a bad way afterwards. Not that I could help much.’

Silence.

‘Puts me right off getting pregnant.’ He tried a joke. ‘I better wear two condoms in future.’ He tried another and immediately regretted such bad taste.

Christine nodded with half a smile but still said nothing.

Anthony was compelled to continue. ‘Being pregnant might have ruined Trudy’s relationship and I guess she wanted this one to go somewhere.’

‘Would it ruin ours?’ asked Christine.

Silence. Only for a second but a second too long before. ‘No, of course not. We’re different.’

More silence. Broken by Christine. ‘What did Trudy mean last night? When she said something about not getting in the way? Your way?’

‘I’ve no idea. She’s been …. odd …. lately.’

Anthony regretted a few weeks ago mentioning to Trudy he was considering applying for an internship with a company in Boston when his finals were over; he had hoped Trudy might offer some advice as he didn’t know how Christine might take the idea. He wanted to ask Christine now but couldn’t with Trudy’s comments so fresh.

Christine filled the silence. ‘Anyway, it’s not too late. I can still make work. Monday’s can be busy, those kitchens won’t clean themselves. I’ll call you tomorrow evening.’ She pecked him on the cheek and left him nodding as if he understood.

At the bus stop Christine tried to slow her breathing and thought of what she had said but more of what she hadn’t; her period was late. They were using protection, which meant she already carried guilt on two counts, but whatever, she was over a week late - make that guilty on three counts. It was hard to be a teenage Catholic girl.

She didn’t ring Anthony on Tuesday or Wednesday. When he knocked at her door on Thursday her oldest sister, Natalie, explained she felt poorly and would see him on the Friday. She didn’t. They had spoken on the phone once or twice since but it had been stilted and she wanted to tell him why and he wanted to ask, but neither did and she ended every conversation with instructions he should go back to his books and focus on his finals. It was convenient for him to believe that was the truth.

Until a Sunday four weeks later when Leslie knocked on his door and swore at him for not having a phone extension to his room, before telling him Christine’s news. The surprise at the mention of pregnancy was swamped by the shock of the word that followed. Miscarriage.

Christine’s Catholic teaching meant she should be guilty for so many things and needed to be seeking forgiveness, but the truth was, more than guilty she was sad - desperately, painfully sad and didn’t want to be forgiven for that, and there was anger that it might be punishment for her sins with Anthony. Anthony. Who knew so little of her Catholic pain. But it wouldn’t help either of them for him to understand. He didn’t need to understand more to suffer the loss more. He felt enough. She saw it in his face as he sat next to her hospital bed.

Anthony squeezed her hand. Christine forced the briefest of smiles before muttering, ‘We would have kept Sam, wouldn’t we? He was ours.’