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

you already do.”
    â€œNo, I’ve looked after you, protected you, but I don’t believe I’ve pampered you. You’re very precious to me, Junie Moon.”
    â€œYou, too.”
    It was a good—it was the right—beginning to a day. Any day.
    â€œWhat were the other small decisions?” she asked. “All nine hundred and ninety-nine of them.”
    â€œMainly to do with loving you more and taking better care of you.”
    â€œAll right, then, I approve. But I’m sorry if it means you had a sleepless night.”
    â€œDon’t be. I’m not.”
    I fetched The Observer from the doormat.
    â€œBetter watch out,” she said. “You’ll make me even more dependent.”
    â€œBetter watch out, had I?”
    Perhaps she didn’t realize I was joking. “I only meant…you mustn’t spoil me too much. What would happen if you ever dropped dead?”
    I laughed and went down to the kitchen. Susie uncurled from her basket and stretched and came forward to greet me. I fell to my knees and put my arms about her neck; gave her the sort of fussing she’d received on my return from work. “Did you sleep well, Susie? Did you dream you were chasing bunnies…or that you were lapping up beer and wolfing down crisps? If you tell me your dreams I’ll interpret them.” She loved being spoken to like that; in my mind I slightly adapted the couplet by John Masefield: “He who gives a dog a treat hears joy bells ring in heaven’s street.” I wished that Moira could have seen us—briefly pretended she could. The quarry tiles were cold and hard against my knees but such minor discomforts were well worth it for the sake of seeing Susie’s expression: subtly different, yet not definably so, from her look of the previous evening. It was a pity, I felt, dogs couldn’t purr.
    Moira was still strongly with me as I washed my hands and carried out a recce of the fridge and larder. I began to sing. Although over the years, obviously, I had given Junie breakfast in bed on many occasions, I had never before done a cooked breakfast—and I was glad of that: the chance to be doing something for her for the first time. It would be good, in fact, if every day could hold some first-time experience. That or some new thought, insight, item of knowledge. This, then, was a further resolution to add to my list.
    And perhaps it should also be committed to paper, that list—expanded on, made tangible. Yes…and thinking about it…why not a journal? Lists were dry but a diary could be lively and entertaining, creative too, a place in which to formulate and grow, be curious and open-minded. Suddenly I felt I should never have laughed at that man who claimed he’d been utilized to score a melody for Mozart; nor at the woman who said she’d many times met Freddie Mercury…but only after his death. There were melodies by Mozart now lining up for me. Meetings with Freddie Mercury. With Audrey Hepburn; Princess Di; Princess Grace. John F Kennedy.
    But first I had to concentrate on breakfast.
    I prepared two trays, one for Matt as well as Junie; went into the garden, barefoot, to pick a tulip to lay on each. I fried eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes—poured orange juice—decided to take this main part upstairs before starting on the toast and coffee.
    It occurred to me what tune I was humming: an old one from Annie Get Your Gun . When we were in our teens I had used to serenade Junie with it.
    â€œThe girl that I marry
    Will have to be
    As soft and as pink as a nurseree;
    Stead of flittin’
    She’ll be sittin’
    Next to me
    And she’ll purr like a kittin…”
    I smiled. I remembered her saying, “Yes, I like the idea of being a doll you can carry!”
    And I had carried her—all round the house, all round the garden, all round her parents’ house. Even, once, out in the town. In retrospect,