On Loving Josiah by Olivia Fane Read Free Book Online Page B

the mother was holding out her new-born baby at arm’s length.
    ‘Take him Gibson! Take him!’ she was saying, but Gibson couldn’t move for fear.
    One of the nurses said, ‘I’ll take him’, and put out her arms.
    ‘You certainly won’t!’ exclaimed Eve. ‘Michael, you’re the godfather , you take him.’
    ‘No, sir, you certainly won’t take him!’ said the ward sister, picking up the empty mug from the bedside locker and smelling inside it. You’ve been drinking! Let me smell your breath!’
    Dr Fothering kept his mouth tight shut and looked defiant. The sister found the bottle of Polish vodka, three-quarters empty by now, and said to him, ‘Get out of here! And never, ever come back!’
    ‘But he’s the godfather!’ cried Eve, indignantly.
    ‘He’s also Eve’s psychiatrist’, said Roger Bolt, triumphantly.
    Everyone looked at Dr Fothering.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Roger. ‘I thought you were in Hull nowadays.’ Trained social worker that he was, it wasn’t beyond his powers of observation to notice that the man before him was desperate , caught, humiliated. The thrill of schadenfreude made him positively shiver, and the realization – O heavenly realization! – that the baby belonged to none other than this arrogant arsehole was like a meal to savour for days, if not weeks. Godfather, my foot! The man was no more than a pathetic, sex-obsessed upstart, who probably had sex with Eve in the name of therapy.
    And trained psychiatrist that he was, and drunk though he was, it was not beyond Dr Fothering to apprehend the exact moment Roger Bolt made his ridiculous assumption. Yet he was sufficiently drunk to say this, and aggressively, too: ‘I know what you’re thinking , Bolt, and it’s obscene of you to think it.’
    Two nurses and the ward sister stood to attention, antennae positively swinging. Even as Dr Fothering spat out the word ‘obscene’ they knew that whatever it was the man was purported to have done, he had done it; and a quick inspection of the scene before themconfirmed them in their worse suspicions. That large, mute hulk with the filthy hands had never been this woman’s lover, and had been no more than an obliging front for all manner of immoral behaviour. Oh yes, that psychiatrist was a villain of the first order, incapable of coming to terms with his crimes. Only guilt could have reduced him to this hunched, haunted spectre of a man, his eyes raging, bloodshot.
    ‘What is it I’m thinking of, Dr Fothering? I don’t know that I catch your meaning.’ As Roger Bolt spoke he smiled at the ward sister, and the two nurses smiled at each other.
    But the glorious Eve would have none of it. ‘Then you’re rather more obtuse than I thought you were, Bolt. And you’re a meddler. But you’re not meddling here. Sister, could you show him out? He’s not welcome. He’ll dry up my milk.’
    Then they all made as if to go, Dr Fothering too, until Eve took hold of his hand and said, ‘No, Michael, not you! You stay here with us! You’re Josiah’s godfather!’
    Dr Fothering sat back down on the bed, defeated, bent double. Eve took his hand in hers.
    ‘Don’t take any notice of them,’ she said, kindly.
    ‘There’ll be an inquiry,’ mumbled Dr Fothering.
    ‘Let them inquire all they like! Nosey Parkers. If the worst comes to the worst, you can move in with us.’
    Dr Fothering looked at her. Utterly ravishing, and quite, quite mad.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘I’d like that.’

Chapter Three
    ROGER BOLT was a man who held his head high among our nation’s foot-soldiers, whose shoulders bore many a burden and whose mind shunned chaos. He had a beard, which he clipped twice a day, and a trouser-press in his bedroom. He’d deserted his wife and children five years ago when he’d taken up the post in Cambridge: or at least, they had refused to follow him there, for everyone in Darlington knew that everyone in Cambridge was stuck-up, and stories were rife of