Sextet (67 page)

So she did not regret her past actions; she did not for one instant believe in, or wish for, any future for herself and Rowland. Certainly not; yet still there was that sense, that perturbing sense of her own wrongdoing. Rowland McGuire now mourned his single state and mourned his childlessness; this boy, she saw, was not solely her possession.

And so, later that night, when her son was in bed and asleep, a dreaming Jippy watched her pace her room, then, with reluctance, breaking off then recommencing, begin to write a letter. Jippy watched her pen move across the paper; he watched the black ink flow. Words, words, words. It was late, very late, before she finished the letter.

Did she send it? Jippy saw her carry it as far as the front door of her house; he watched her hesitate. Then his air thermals lifted him away, to a house in London, a house overlooking a Hawksmoor church, the spire of which could be seen from its main bedroom. Rowland McGuire did not sleep, he saw; watching him, Jippy felt he might act, or he might not act. He might receive the letter, or, not receiving it, be told its contents in some other fashion, on some other occasion. In his dreamings, Jippy, who was soft-hearted and given to optimism, bestowed on this scholarly woman and this solitary man, a wish for a benign resolution. He stayed to see Rowland McGuire open his shutters to the morning and pick up the telephone—then he moved on for the last of his visitations.

High summer still and he found himself in—ah yes, a hospital. There, his Lindsay, his dear Lindsay, and his good Colin, were watching on a black and white ultrasound screen, for the small fist, the foetal shape of their unborn baby.

The ultrasound operator, a young woman used to the emotionalities of these moments, kept her eyes on the screen as she moved her magical device across Lindsay’s bared stomach. Lindsay, as she never stopped telling everyone, was very large, was hugely pregnant, was carrying about a giant of a baby. This baby, limbering up for birth, gave her permanent and acute indigestion. He or she never appeared to sleep, but was ceaselessly and exhaustingly active. He or she liked to calm down a little in the evenings, and wait for the moment when Lindsay hauled herself into bed with Colin. Then, just when they were curved together like two spoons, in a state of the most peaceful contentment, this baby would remind them of its presence. It would punch, kick, roll, somersault, perform uterine headstands. This baby was a wrestler, a boxer, a gymnast; this baby was a Judo black belt, and it was working on its foetal karate.

Both Colin and Lindsay, needless to say, were immensely proud of these feats. They would complain, and they did complain, but they did so while exchanging glances of marital and parental complicity. Both were clear that their baby was unique; no other baby in the history of the world had ever manifested such prowess, such interesting characteristics. Colin, desperate for sleep, drugged with exhaustion, could still roll over at three in the morning and, with an expression of wonderment, rest his face or his hands against his wife’s stomach, so that he could feel the miracle of these kickings and strugglings.

Now, holding Lindsay’s hand very tightly, Colin fixed his eyes on the screen. Science took him on an odyssey into the interior of the womb—and he found it was the strangest of journeys. He had expected this interior world to resemble the diagrams in the pregnancy textbooks he now consulted twenty times a day. But this world, he found, resembled none of the maps and sketches in those textbooks. What he saw resembled a canyon, a moonscape, or some deep trench under the ocean. He could see shapes that might have been rivers, rocks, or chasms, but none of these shapes was fixed; there was constant flux and movement; there were blips, as the operator, frowning, made some adjustment. Here, somewhere, floating in that mysterious amniotic sac, was their child, their fully formed child, whose small heartbeats he could feel at night when he touched Lindsay.

He found tears had come to his eyes, for what he was seeing was so ordinary and so miraculous. Ah, dear God, let this child be well, he thought; let this child be whole and unharmed and born safely. Let Lindsay and me know how best to care for, console, guide and protect it from now onwards.

The screen gave one of its blips; the landscape, or seascape, reformed. His wife gave a low cry, and the operator a nod of satisfaction. Colin saw his child. He could see the curve of his spine, the outline of his skull, and a tiny clenched hand; this child flexed its fingers.

‘Goodness me,’ said the operator. ‘I think—just one second…’

Colin’s heart stopped; Lindsay’s face drained of colour.

‘No, no, don’t worry,’ said the woman. ‘Everything’s fine; everything’s normal. It’s just that I thought…one moment.’ She gave a bright professional smile. ‘Have to adjust. This is a bit tricky…Ah yes.
There
. The cunning little…’ She blushed. ‘Sorry. Congratulations. There are two of them.’

‘
Two
?’ said Lindsay.

‘
Twins
?’ she and Colin said in unison.

‘Absolutely. No doubt about it. Look…’ She pointed. ‘There’s one, and there’s the other. Shall I tell you the sex?’

‘No,’ said Lindsay.

‘Yes,’ said Colin.

‘You’re right. Yes, yes, yes, tell us.’

‘A boy. And—wait a second…A girl.’

‘Oh, God, God,
God
. Darling, you’re so clever…’

‘I don’t
believe
it. I
told
that doctor. I
knew
I couldn’t be this big with just one in there. Oh, Colin…’

‘The girl’s the smaller—as is usually the way,’ the operator continued, frowning at the screen. ‘She has a powerful kick though—look at that. And she’s been hiding herself away behind her brother. They do that sometimes. Well now, Mrs Lascelles, are we excited?
Isn’t
that a lovely surprise? I—Mrs Lascelles, is your husband all right? He looks rather pale…’

Colin heard these words from a great distance. They were small fuzzy words, receding from him fast. The room, beginning to tilt, was not recognizing the usual rules of the universe. Intent on not disgracing himself, he sat down on a small hard chair, and stared at the wall. He was a father now—no more tears, he told himself, and certainly no faintings.

He looked at the joy in the room. He could sense a cluster, a
preponderance
of angels. He wanted to embrace Lindsay and the operator who had been the harbinger here. He wanted to cry aloud, to voice some great, thankful cry of hope, promise and jubilation. He sprang to his feet and embraced his wife, who was struggling to sit up and weeping.

The operator, with a quiet tact, left them alone together. Colin, holding his wife in his arms, seeing her tears, rested his hands over the tautness and stretch of his wife’s stomach. Feeling his karate babies kick out, he knew beyond question, knew without a second’s doubt, that grace existed, and grace had been bestowed on them.

Their silent watcher, Jippy, cocooned in his dreamings, knew this too. He watched a little longer and a little longer, until he was sure these babies were safely born. They were. He found he could relinquish his dreamings now. Recalling his spell, that orange and those two eggs, he sighed. His powers were greater than he had realized, he thought; in the future, he would have to be more careful. He yawned; then, reassured to have seen the good, forgetting the bad, he let his dreamings go.

He closed his clairvoyant eyes. Hearing his lover make some small sound, he clasped his hand, then lay down and fell asleep beside him.

THE END

Sally Beauman was born in Devon, England, and is a graduate of Cambridge University. She began her career as a critic and writer for
New York
magazine and continued to write for leading periodicals in the US and the UK after returning to England. In 1970, she became the first recipient of the Catherine Pakenham Award for journalism, and at the age of twenty-four, was appointed editor of
Queen
magazine. Beauman has written for the
New Yorker
,
the Sunday Times,
and
Telegraph Magazine
, where she was arts editor.

Her novels, which include the
New York Times
–bestselling sensation
Destiny
, have been translated into over twenty languages and are bestsellers worldwide. In addition to her works of fiction, Beauman has published two nonfiction books based on the history and work of the Royal Shakespeare Company:
The Royal Shakespeare Company’s Centenary Production of Henry V
(edited by Beauman, with a foreword by His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, 1976), and
The Royal Shakespeare Company: A History of Ten Decades
(1982).

Sally Beauman is married to the actor Alan Howard. They divide their time between London and a remote island in the Hebrides. They have one son and two grandchildren.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1997 by Sally Beauman

Cover design by Angela Goddard

978-1-4804-4477-5

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com