Asta's Book Read Online Free Page B

It’s his child too and his fault it exists.
    Of course I don’t suppose the letter will ever reach him. He will have moved on somewhere else in search of money or a loan or something to do with motor cars. Anyway, I didn’t call him ‘my dearest husband’ or anything like that. I believe in honesty. I wrote ‘Dear Rasmus’ and ended it ‘your Asta’ more to be polite than anything else.
    July 26th, 1905
    Today I went out for a long walk. I took it slowly, carrying my great burden before me, and walked for many miles, returning by way of Ritson Road and Dalston Lane. I wanted to have a look at the Lutheran church, though it is German, not Scandinavian, and then I made a little detour to see the house where Hansine’s friend lives.
    If only Rasmus had taken such a house for us! It’s not grand, it couldn’t be in this part of London, but it’s big, on four floors, and you can see it’s seen better days. There are steps up to the front door which has two big pillars holding up a portico, nice railings along the front of a real front garden and lots of trees around. Navarino Road isn’t wide like Lavender Grove but narrow and shady and that always gives a better look to a street.
    I was standing there looking at it, thinking the rent couldn’t be more than £10 more than the £36 a year Rasmus pays for Lavender Grove, when a woman came out with a little girl. She was dressed very showily with a big feathery hat, but I had eyes only for the baby. That was all she was, though she could walk. She was so pretty and fair and dainty, like a fairy. I swear my baby moved when I was thinking this, put out a hand perhaps to greet this other child from inside there.
    Fanciful nonsense, I know that. But it cheered me up and saw me safely home, like the great awkward ship that I am, rocking and swaying into harbour. Mogens and Knud were outside on the pavement playing with the hoops I bought them out of the money my dear generous husband sent us. If I don’t need to pay a doctor when my daughter comes I shall spend some more and buy little Knud a spinning top. The boy next door has one so why shouldn’t my boy?
    As I entered the house a strong pain took hold of me and doubled me up. For a little while I thought, this is it. I didn’t want Hansine fussing, starting to get water boiling and hanging sheets over my bedroom door, so I went upstairs to take my hat off and stayed there in my bedroom, not sitting but standing and holding on to the bedpost. Another pain came but fainter than the first. I stood there, watching the boys and thinking how Knud too would be starting school in September and not knowing whether I was glad or sorry.
    Then it came to me that I’d have my daughter by that time. She would be more than a month old and I should be glad to have the boys out of the way. Perhaps she’d be born tonight, I thought. But though I stood there and finally sat down on the bed with my hands pressed to the great heavy lump, there were no more pains and I realized the same thing had happened as when I was expecting Mads. These are false pains some women have hours or even days before a real labour begins. Probably there is a scientific name for them but I don’t know what it is. Last year, in February, I had them on the Wednesday and Mads was born on the Friday. Poor little boy, I didn’t want him and I didn’t know how much I loved him till after he was dead.
    Suppose this one, my daughter, suppose she … But no, I won’t write it. I won’t even think it. Or will writing it down be a kind of insurance and make sure it can’t happen? I don’t believe in things like that. I’m not superstitious and I don’t believe in God. I won’t give him a capital letter, I’ll cross that out, it’s ridiculous honouring something you don’t believe in. He’s just god, a god I know doesn’t exist. I think I first knew that when I had a baby coming out of the wrong place that I thought was going to split me into two bits. I