Fragments by Morgan Gallagher Read Free Book Online

the bolognaise sauce she was
working on with such speed it slopped out onto the cooker.
    ‘Now look what
she’s made me do!’ Alma took the saucepan off the ring and washed
down the cooker top before putting it back on and continuing the
frantic swirling.
    James had
smiled a smile of consolation and comfort, picked up Catherine and
taken her upstairs. Twenty minutes later, with her tummy rubbed and
her legs bicycled up and down, she’d finally managed to get rid of
the thing that was hurting her, and had stopped crying. James had
cleaned her up and was just about to put the new nappy on, when
Alma had arrived to comment on the smell, and to state that dinner
was on the table. James thanked his wife and carried Catherine back
down the stairs. He placed her in the little Moses basket his
mother had given them, and watched her look around as he ate his
spaghetti.
    ‘I wish you
wouldn’t keep looking at her like that, she’ll get spoiled. She has
to learn she’s not the centre of the Universe.’
    James smiled
and carried on eating, carried on gazing at his beloved
Catherine.
    *
    The shrieks
were ear piercing. James felt his nerve begin to break. He’d been
pacing the living room for over an hour, despite Alma’s promises
that it wouldn’t go on for more than ten minutes. So far he’d kept
to his side of the bargain: not to interfere, not to intrude on her
authority as the mother. But the feeling of his skin searing off
his body, and fear knotting up his stomach, was becoming impossible
to ignore. Every one of Catherine’s screams and wails was killing
him. He could feel his heart jumping in response. He gave in to his
instincts and went upstairs.
    Alma was
sitting outside the nursery, reading her Women’s Weekly .
She’d put her chair in front of the door, barring the way. She
looked up at him as he emerged onto the landing. Her eyes rolled
and the magazine was put down with a huff.
    ‘Oh for
goodness sake, James! She’s perfectly all right!’
    ‘She doesn’t
sound all right.’ He’d had to raise his voice to be heard above the
cries.
    ‘She is warm,
well fed, safe and comfortable. I double filled her bottle to get
her through the night and her nappy is dry. There is nothing wrong
with her.’
    ‘She’s lonely!’
His voice raised until it was almost matching Alma’s
extortions.
    ‘She’s in a
TEMPER. You don’t propose to raise a spoilt brat, do you?’
    ‘She’s six
months old, how can she be spoiled?’
    ‘Easily, with
you around. Always picking her up, cuddling her, telling her what a
good girl she is. Always rushing to her for the slightest whimper.
You’ve caused this!’
    James stared at
his wife. The schism that existed in their world had never seemed
so great, so profound.
    ‘How can you
bear to hear her in pain like this?’
    ‘She is not in
pain. She’s in a temper, and heaven knows, if we don’t control it
now, we’ll have worse to come.’ Alma seemed not to hear the pain in
James’s voice. ‘She has to learn to sleep, and this is how she’ll
do it. Not by being mollycoddled by you.’
    Alma picked the
magazine back up and purposely stared at the pages. James had been
dismissed. Short of physically pushing her out of the chair to get
to the nursery, there was nothing he could do. He stormed back down
the stairs, pulled his coat off the hook, and left.
    ‘Another night
at the pub whilst I do the hard work.’ Alma spoke out loud, as if
addressing the baby through the door.
    ‘Now see what
you have done...’
    *
    James opened
the door at 6.13. ‘I’m home!’
    Alma smiled her
greeting, and her thanks, as she placed the dinner out on the
table.
    ‘Smells good!’
said James, as he hung up his coat. ‘I’ll just wash my hands.’ He
ducked into the down stairs toilet that Alma had had installed
under the stairs. She was immensely pleased with this civilised addition to the house. James would have
preferred... well, quite a lot of things, actually, but it was
keeping Alma