Congratulations

Congratulations

November 1967

A DEEP AND

sad thought settles in Bridie’s mind as the doctor begins congratulating her.

It is already too late

.

‘Twelve years of marriage, but you got there in the end,’ the doctor says, as though this is the result of perseverance and hope and not an accident of fate.

‘Congratulations, Mrs Bennett. A hearty well done.’ He shakes her by the hand. ‘You stuck at it. And now here we have this happy conclusion.’ He smiles a ruddy smile at her. ‘Fortitude!’ he says, as though the word has just occurred to him. As though Bridie is relieved, not devastated. She twists her locket between her fingers, twirling it back and forth and wondering what is wrong with her heart.

He hands her pieces of paper and makes her an appointment with the midwife.

She feels so guilty for how she feels that she attends Thursday Prayers on her lunch break, forgetting she was meant to collect Alistair’s books. So, she returns to the library

in the evening, the bright lights of the humanities wing contrasting with the darkness of the night outside.

P.299.H66.C85 is the last book she is looking for. Why must it all be so obscure, this world? Even looking for books is a coded mission – could they not just be alphabetical? She gets on to her knees and is met with P.299.H66.C, but there is no 85. She stands up, a rush of blood to her head. She rounds the corner of the shelves. She will have missed the train home now. She will have to walk. She keeps running her finger along the spines. The backs of all these authors, waiting to be tickled by a stranger into opening.

The grey metal stacks don’t suit the room. With its old wooden floor and high ceiling, air heavy with all the knowledge that has risen up and then, finding the intricate lead windows closed, has had nowhere to ascend to, so hangs about, making the room feel dusty.

There it is. She pulls the book off the shelf .

And then there is a cough.

He is summertime, Eddie. Even now, in the coldest, most despairing months of winter. Wrapped up in a giant blue scarf so thick around his neck that he looks like a tiny turtle emerging from a sky-blue shell.

His face illuminates upon seeing her. And she feels guilty and protective of it. This is mine

, her heart says. I want it

, says her greed. And the longing, accompanied with the knowledge that he cannot be hers, is what makes the first tear fall.

There is to be strictly no talking in the humanities room. Eddie steps towards her and, for a moment, her instincts

dance against each other. He takes the books from her hands and tips his head as if to say follow me

. And she does, to the large tables in the centre of the room. It is not a busy time. Night surrounds the library. Only one or two students are studying, books open, pens a-scribbling.

Bridie sits and sniffs, holding her index fingers beneath her eyes.

Eddie sits opposite and pulls a folded piece of paper and a pencil from his top pocket. He writes for a moment and then slides the paper over to Bridie. In the silence of the library, even the sound of the paper sliding across the table seems loud. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Eddie has written to ask her,

Are you all right?

Bridie has managed to stop the tears now. She sniffs hard, tries to steady herself. Eddie slides the pencil across the table. As she picks it up, she looks at him. His eyes. She drinks it in, how he looks at her. This longing, this warmth, this comfort. It is all the sweeter because she knows it will change. It has to change. And it does change as she writes in shaking hand the two words and slides the paper back to him,

I’m pregnant.

Somewhere in his busy schedule of conferences and meetings and extramarital affairs, Alistair found the time to take Bridie to dinner. To buy her the nice wine. To run his foot up the inside of her calf under the table. And her fury at his numerous infidelities, which had turned to tiredness, and had eventually become a grey numbness, dissipated at his touch. There he was, his attention undivided – he worked hard to

make her laugh, he stroked his moustache when ordering, which he only did when he was nervous. He refilled her glass, he listened when she spoke, he touched her hand across the table. They were out across the city, somewhere, all the other women waiting for him to return a phone call, waiting for his thoughts, his answer, his body, but she had him. She. Bridie. Who was two sizes too big for the dress she was wearing, which was making her breasts swell out the top of the neckline, and being so exposed had made her self-conscious when they arrived at the restaurant, but now that she was three glasses of wine in, it made her feel alluring.

He was hers again for an evening. There was nowhere else he wanted to be. There was no checking of his watch. There was no evident purpose to the meal: it was not her birthday, nor their anniversary, nor Valentine’s Day. It made her feel chosen. Special.

He smelled the same, as he lay on top of her. The expensive aftershave and his smell. Alistair’s. Not sweet or sour, just the smell of his skin.

If a child should come from a night, it was a good one.

The next morning, he stroked her hair, lying naked on his side, and he smiled when she opened her eyes. ‘I forgot to say last night,’ he said, ‘I’ve been offered a post in Vienna for the summer school.’

And she tried to swallow. ‘How long?’

‘Just six weeks. You’ll have the house to yourself. That’ll be nice.’

‘But—’

‘Don’t make me feel bad,’ he said, the tension making

his jaw pulse. ‘It’s a great opportunity. Professor Ghio is running it.’

It was over. The attention, the warmth, the charm. Bridie rolled on to her side, gathered her dressing gown and wrapped it tightly around herself.

‘I need to start working on the plenary,’ he said, more to himself than to Bridie. She stood, slipped her slippers on, and, feeling heavy, went downstairs to make toast.