Blue Skies Read Online Free Page B

took to sniffing round the doors and moaning ecstatically. I became nervous and imagined germs and rats breeding out there: I saw the rats pouring forth in a seething stream to bite the sun-brown babies in their prams.
    In the pink pages I found a refuse-disposal firm. They agreed to come and solve my problem, even though I wasn’t an industrial unit—more a health hazard. Two men worked all day with shovels removing layer after layer. The further down they went, the more compacted and unpleasant it became. As I sneaked an occasional look, it seemed to me like the geological layers that are exposed in a cliff by erosion: thousands of years squashed into a one-inch stratum. Finally they scraped the remains of the wedding presents up from the concrete floor and drove the lot away in a truck. The pink-and-grey vinyl-finish radiogram with gold-plated knobs and luminous station-finder dial lay on the floor beside the driver. I was glad it had found a good home. For twenty dollars I had bought peace of mind and a sense of virtue. I just hoped nobody would find out.

    I might have saved myself some embarrassment if I’d had them call on a Thursday. Thursdays I was out. Thursdays always started bright, and they always started early. Bright and early, there I’d be, pushing the pram up the road, round the corner and down the next road but one.
    The pram squeaked, and my brain squeaked along with it, keeping time. It squeaked with the effort of wondering what to say to Mother-in-law waiting round the next bend. You couldn’t just dump a baby and run. She wasn’t that kind of person.
    The truth is, I didn’t talk much to anybody. But Mother-in-law I did talk to. There she would be, in bed in her lovingly crocheted pink bed-jacket, preparing for a standard Thursday-morning chat.
    Her bedroom was at the front of the house; large windows faced the street, draped and discreet for no purpose. There were pink-painted peeling French windows at the side, opening onto a gloomy concrete verandah. This in turn led down by some steps at the opposite end, onto the front lawn. The lawn was badly drained and boggy—a very imperfect lawn. I thought of bringing my demented neighbour round to look at it, by way of reassurance.
    Down the street we would go, shattering the early morning daze, making little puffs of dust as we kept carefully to the sides of the road. Safety first. Dust rose to settle all over the teak-veneer coffee tables in all the houses down the road. The sunny hum of early morning hoovers filled our ears.
    A big daring swerve took us to the middle of the road, ready for the big run-up needed to carry us over the swampy lawn without getting stuck. We bumped backwards up the steps, front pram wheels spinning noisily in mid air. A final hearty shove across the concrete verandah and we were at the peeling pink doors. They were open.
    â€˜Good morning, dear.’ There she was, sitting up in bed, surrounded by litter and all the props of a poor sleeper, sipping milkless, sugarless tea from a thermos flask. I crossed the room and sat on the bed.
    â€˜Good morning.’
    â€˜How is James? He said he would call in to see me on his way home last night, but he didn’t. I expect he’ll telephone me today. Or call in this evening.’
    James is her son: the youngest, the nearest to home, the one I’m married to. James hadn’t come home last night.
    â€˜Oh he’s fine. But tired, you know. He’s really busy at the moment. I’m sure he’ll phone today.’
    â€˜Well, my dear, you mustn’t let him work too hard.’
    Here followed various health warnings and gloomy predictions as to what might happen if James worked too hard.
    Next, Angelica. Angelica is James’s daughter, the baby, and her grand-daughter. ‘How is Angelica? Oh, do bring her in. I long to see her.’
    An Angelica-sized space was cleared and she was carried in from the pram and placed face