The Poet's Wife by Rebecca Stonehill Read Free Book Online Page B

knows such things. In the weeks following the birth of our son, Eduardo comments that it was probably due to the manly kicks he gave whilst still wrapped up inside me. I say not a word, but this is certainly not the case. One can say many things about my darling Juan, but he should be the last of our children to be giving great kicks, manly or otherwise.
    Delicate as an orchid, Juan is the spitting image of his father. He wails at the slightest provocation, suffers chronically from asthma and is allergic to a multitude of things, from dust to dogs. But for all this, he is the most sweet-natured child imaginable.
    I am busier than ever dealing with the ups and downs and caprices of four children. Of course it is no surprise that Joaquín’s appearance is something of an anomaly, for as he grows his entire countenance turns darker. But the dissimilarities between the other children only help to assimilate Joaquín smoothly into our brood.
    Eduardo continues his work at the law firm, devoid of enthusiasm. He has little choice, considering the pace at which our family is growing. Nevertheless, not once have I heard him admit he practises law. ‘Poet,’ he utters, his bottom lip quivering with pride. ‘ Granadino Musings , 1920, Brocches Publishing House.’
    Amidst the whirlwind of feeding, bathing, dressing, changing, mopping up and generally raising children, I never cease hoping I shall receive a visit from my friends on the other side of the valley, but as the months pass, I have to acknowledge it is becoming less likely. Any spare time I find, I spend in the kitchen stirring my pot of fig flesh and fortune with a wooden spoon, humming happily as the breeze carries the aroma out of the open kitchen windows.
    In September our family begins to make preparations for Isabel’s fourth birthday. Eduardo suggests a quiet family tea-party in the courtyard beside her orange tree. Señor and Señora Torres, however, are calling for a far more ostentatious affair in one of the city’s finest tea-houses, modelled on a French patisserie with balloons, tartlets and cousins one and all. Frankly, it is dreadfully pretentious but just the kind of place that my parents-in-law adore. The notion fills Eduardo with horror as no doubt it shall involve the presence of Miguel. Ever since the fateful day on which his brother handed the sleeping Joaquín into our arms, Eduardo has managed to avoid his brother entirely. Miguel’s eyes have never fallen upon his son and Eduardo tries to avoid the impending tea-party in every conceivable manner.
    ‘I’m certain I have signs of influenza,’ he tells me one morning, clutching one hand to his forehead whilst looking fit as a fiddle. ‘See how pale Isabel is!’ he gasps the following day.
    ‘Eduardo,’ I say firmly. ‘We have to go to this party.’
    ‘But…why don’t we all go to the coast to celebrate? I’m sure the sea air would do us some…good?’ He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to one side. I know that look so well and it makes me smile, for it helps me imagine my husband as a young boy.
    I hug him. ‘Edu, it shall be fine, honestly. We need only spend an hour or two at Café Royal and then we can come home again. Miguel may not even come. I am sure he has no desire to be there.’
    Eduardo snorts. ‘What kind of nonsensical family tradition is it anyway, to cart the entire Torres clan to some pompous patisserie for a child’s fourth birthday just so we all eat far too much and feel sick?’
    I laugh and smooth a curl away from Edu’s eyes. ‘Really, it shan’t be so terrible. And think how much Isabel shall adore it.’ He grimaces, looking more like a sulky schoolboy than ever and my heart fills with love for him.
    The day soon arrives and the six of us set off down the hillside from Carmen de las Estrellas towards the city, the children jumping from one long-fingered shadow of a cypress tree to another as the distant church bells chime. At Café Royal, waiters in