‘All right,’ he says softly.
‘It seems to me, that out of all this pain you’ve put people through, including yourself, a very good thing can come’ – she glances up the stairs – ‘for all three of you. The end of this chapter and the start of the next is that you become a father, knowing far better than those who’ve never seen the suffering you have, just how precious this child is, even before it’s arrived! And that, William, seems a bit of a gift, don’t you think?’
He nods.
‘So.’ Betty’s hands rub together, sending a gentle rasp into the room. ‘I’m off out for a couple of hours. I won’t be back till teatime. I’ll get fish and chips and you can stay the night if you like.’
She lifts the tray and takes it to the kitchen. ‘This’ll be cold, but help yourself to anything.’ She comes back into the living room, unhooks her coat from the peg and slides it on in one swift, easy movement. She gives him a wave and closes the door behind her.
He sits, until the click-clack of Betty’s rapid footsteps has faded. He takes off his shoes, puts them by the front door and then climbs the stairs. He’s sure Gloria overheard him talking to Betty, so she might be waiting for him, but there’s a stillness to the house that makes him think she’s fallen back to sleep. If so, he won’t wake her. He’ll lie down beside her, next to the living flesh and bloodness of her miracle body, and when she opens her eyes, he’ll make her another cup of tea and sit down on the bed with her. He’ll ask her forgiveness, he’ll make sure she knows how much he loves her, and then he’ll ask.
Because the thought of it, the wonder of it, is hurtling through his veins, making him want to laugh, to dance, to sing.
‘Gloria,’ he’ll say, and he’ll be smiling, ‘when are we going to meet our baby?’
Acknowledgements
Fairy Godmother: a female character in some fairy stories who has magical powers and brings good fortune to the hero or heroine.
I have two: Susan Armstrong, my ferociously effective and consistently kind, calm agent. Signing with her changed my life overnight. The other is Louisa Joyner at Faber, the editor every writer would love to have; whip-smart, intuitive and passionate. Thanks also to the wider team at C&W: Matilda Ayris, Kate Burton, Jake Smith-Bosanquet, Alexander Cochran and Katie Greenstreet, and at Faber: Pete Adlington, Hannah Marshall, Libby Marshall, Josephine Salverda and Josh Smith. Without exception, they have been enthusiastic and brilliant at their jobs. To Claire Gatzen, surely the most eagle-eyed of copy-editors.
To my writing teachers, starting with my English teacher at John Willmott Comprehensive, Lynne Jung, who told me I could be a writer. To Sally Cline, the late W. G. Sebald, Andrew Motion, Paul Magrs, Miche?le Roberts and the class of 2001 at UEA.
To those who were gracious and helpful when they didn’t need to be: Rachel Calder, Catherine Clarke, Anna Whitelock, Mary Nathan, Max Porter, Martin Wroe, Miranda Doyle, Jill Dawson and Isobel Abulhoul. To Kate Ahl and Andrew Hewitt, my intelligent, insightful first readers. To Gillian Stern, gifted editor and encourager. To Aki Schilz at TLC, Julia Forster, and the Bridport Prize.
From the dignified, dedicated world of undertaking, thanks to Billy Doggart, who coordinated the extraordinary volunteer effort at Aberfan, and fellow embalmer Peter Gaunt; two heroes who entrusted their stories to me right at the beginning. Thanks to James Skeates, for the window on to the inner life of an embalmer, and to Matthew King for letting me watch him at work. To Adrian Haler, for answering many questions about embalming in the 1960s （any mistakes are mine）。 To Huw Lewis, author of To Hear the Skylark’s Song and child of Aberfan. To Tom Davies, reporter at the disaster and author of The Reporter’s Tale, and to photographer Andrew Whittuck.
Thanks to Mark Tinkler, Alastair Roberts and Jonathan Hellyer Jones; all generous with their chorister stories. To Helen Robbins and Millie Cant for advice on all things musical, and to Tim Boniface, whom I watched at work with another unconventional choir. To Derek Rice from the Tate, for information on London galleries in the 1960s.
To Arun Midha, Barbara and Chris Matthews, my Swansea advisers. To Adrian Rees for a decisive conversation about the title. To Willie Williams and David Keleel, for the dream writer’s retreat and without whom none of this would have been possible. To Jacki Parris, whose spare room was my study for a season and whose friendship has been for all seasons. To Miriam Ware for her wisdom.
Thanks to Carol Holliday and Steve Shaw, Julia and Martin Evans, for so many conversations and much laughter about life and the mysteries of the human condition. To festival companions Lesley Thompson and Kate Grunstein. To my Thursday morning writers and Friday lunchtime readers. To Isobel Maddison and the Lucy Cavendish community, and Cathy Moore and Cambridge Literary Festival friends; my nourishment over many years.