New World in the Morning by Stephen Benatar Read Free Book Online

more insistent than the one I’d experienced a month or two earlier…and of course was still experiencing. In February, in my pyjamas, I had climbed out of my bedroom window, which overlooked the back garden of my grandmother’s house, and stood there on the sill for fully twenty minutes, trying to find the courage to jump off.
    It had remained for sometime afterwards: that insistent ache in the pit of my stomach.
    I suppose that for a boy of thirteen I was being remarkably immature. I could hardly imagine Matt, who frequently gave the impression of being almost a man (and who, I had noticed only that evening, was already—and disconcertingly—filling out his jeans), I could hardly imagine Matt ever fantasizing that he was the son of Alan Shearer or David Duchovny or…who were those others he had chosen? Well anyway, if he did, then all this was going to change—change dramatically. Move over, David Duchovny! Here comes Samson Groves.
    I looked at my watch with its illuminated dial.
    Two-fifty-three.
    Very carefully I got up—went downstairs to the sitting room—did half an hour of vigorous exercising. Then ran a bath. Several times I started to sing in it; had to check my song abruptly. Washed my hair. In fact I’d washed it less than nineteen hours previously but I felt like total immersion. Total cleanliness. Baptism.
    Mens sana in corpore sano .
    Likewise, although again they scarcely needed it, I trimmed my toenails, looked for any cuticle I should remove, looked for any hair visible in either ear or nostril. Rebrushed my teeth. Was almost going to shave but decided this was maybe overdoing it. Anointed myself in Cool Water.
    It was ten-past-four when I went back to bed. This time I knew I’d sleep. Still marvellously happy, of course, but physically and mentally relaxed. Not that I worried about not sleeping. Sleep didn’t seem important. Tiredness was nothing but a state of mind.
    And, as if to confirm this, I was awake again by half-past-eight and feeling great. Sunlight buttered the edges of the curtains and I stretched and lay in blissful comfort, thoroughly conscious of my sense of well-being, drinking it in along with a dozen more tangible things: usually unnoticed details of the flowered wallpaper; the reproduction Pissarro above our mantelpiece, the faience candlesticks, the gilded and becherubbed mirror which I’d also brought home from the shop; my own bunched biceps as I stretched again, the well-shaped contour of my arms when I straightened them once more, the light gold sheen from wrist to elbow. I turned my head and let my right hand fall across the pillow above Junie’s hair. She stirred and my fingers gently intruded into the short, thick, silvery mass. It was time for her to wake.
    â€œI love you, Junie Moon…” I put my arms about her and she burrowed into me, all warm and sleepy. I kissed her eyelids and her nose and cheeks and she made small noises of contentment. When I entered her she still wasn’t properly awake but made the same agreeable squeaks, wore the same beatific smile. This time I counted up to three hundred and thirty-eight. By the following Sunday, I determined, the score would have increased to at least a couple of thousand. I felt utterly confident. It had happened before but now the difference was, it would be permanent. And now I wasn’t doing it simply for Junie and myself. I had the feeling that Moira would appreciate it more than Junie did—I mean, appreciate it more consistently, more wholeheartedly. Yet in any case…one thing was sure…both of them would benefit. I’d be doing it for the three of us.
    I went and washed, then returned for my bathrobe. “Darling, stay there,” I said. “I’ll bring you breakfast.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œGot it all planned. One of a thousand small decisions I made during the night. From now on I intend to pamper you.”
    â€œBut