Three Rings

Three Rings

February 1968, Edgbaston

T HE TELEPHONE IN

the hallway is ringing.

‘Leave it,’ Alistair calls. ‘It’s just my brother giving me three rings for his flight back from Portugal.’

Except it does not end at the third ring. The telephone continues to four, five, six. Alistair is up and out of his armchair, newspaper dropped to his feet.

From the kitchen, where she stands observing potatoes boiling alive and eating the cheese intended for dinner because she simply cannot eat enough salty things right now, Bridie can hear, ‘Yes, no, of course, it’s not an imposition at all, I’m glad you called. Yes, I do, that is … fantastic … Thank you. And the salary? Mm-mm I see, well …’ and then he must turn away from the hallway door because she can’t hear the rest.

Eventually, just as the steam from the potatoes is beginning to make her face sweat, Alistair appears in the kitchen doorway looking flushed and elated. ‘I only went and fucking got it!’

He got it. What? The plenary paper? It can’t be that – he

wouldn’t be so excited, and it seems even too big a reaction to relate to the edited volume he is proofing at the moment. It can’t be. Oh God.

He swoops towards Bridie, presses his body against hers, leaving a gap for the emerging bump, takes her hand in his and makes them dance, arms rising up and down like they are doing the tango. ‘Cambridge, here we come!’ he sings at her, and when he lets go, he says, ‘You won’t believe the salary, Bridie, it’s absurd!’

And he disappears into the living room. She can hear clinking as he gets out the champagne glasses and one of the bottles of champagne he saves for when he is celebrating himself.

She manages to masquerade her tears as happy ones. The potatoes overboil and they do not eat them.