To Have and to Hold by Deborah Moggach Read Free Book Online Page A

‘She’d be that age by now.’
    Viv nodded.
    Ann said: ‘I still think of her, every day.’
    â€˜So do I.’
    â€˜Even though she was hardly there. Hardly born.’
    They sat in silence. Viv smoked the rest of her cigarette. They had seldom spoken about Ann’s stillborn child, and there seemed even less to say now. After that birth, three years ago, there had still been hopes of another. Viv gazed down at her potatoes; they lay in their string bag like a clutch of eggs. She dropped her cigarette and ground it out with her foot.
    â€˜Just emptiness,’ said Ann.
    Viv put her arm around Ann, who sat there stiffly.
    Then Ann said: ‘He could still have one, of course.’
    Viv nodded. There was another silence. A man passed,wheeling a sack of peat. An assistant passed, holding a bunch of keys. They watched a woman stroll by, carrying a fern in a pot.
    â€˜If only it was that easy,’ said Viv.
    â€˜What?’
    Viv pointed. ‘Buy a baby and take it home.’
    Ann’s voice rose: ‘Ready potted.’
    Suddenly they both started to laugh hysterically. They sat there side by side, shaking and hiccuping, gasping for breath. Viv felt her sister lean against her at last, her shoulders jerking; the tears started to run down their faces.
    The garden centre was closing. Above the glass roof the sky had darkened. Customers averted their eyes from the sight of two women, sitting together and now weeping.
    The church bells were ringing for the early evening service. Ollie sat on the settee, reading the
Sunday Times
Colour Magazine. Ken furtively glanced at the clock: six. He willed Ann to hurry up. He felt a kind of queasy loneliness. At first he thought it was the result of all that drink but at last, with surprise, he identified the feeling as homesickness. He hadn’t felt it so strongly for years. There was something about this place that unsettled him and made him long for his own safe lounge. He stood at the bookshelves, leafing through the
Portable Orwell
. Despite Viv’s preconceptions he had actually read some Orwell and had always admired the passion of the man. At least Ollie had stopped talking.
    Daisy wandered in and said: ‘I can whistle now.’
    â€˜Can you?’ He closed the book. ‘Show me.’
    She whistled.
    â€˜Excellent,’ he said.
    â€˜Can you whistle?’
    â€˜Of course.’ He whistled ‘Hills of the North Rejoice’, a tune that never failed to stir him.
    â€˜What’s that?’ she asked.
    â€˜A hymn.’
    â€˜What’s a hymn?’
    He stared. ‘You don’t know?’ He looked at Ollie, who wasbusy reading. He turned back to Daisy. ‘You don’t know any hymns?’
    She shook her head.
    Ann unwrapped her plant and put it on the windowsill. Ken was sitting in the armchair reading the
Sunday Express.
From behind the page he asked: ‘What’s it called?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The plant.’
    â€˜I don’t know.’ She looked at the label. ‘Can’t pronounce it.’ She threw away the cellophane. ‘I just liked it.’
    He turned a page. Then he said: ‘They don’t know any hymns.’
    â€˜Who don’t?’
    â€˜Your nieces. Isn’t that sad?’
    She looked at him. ‘But you’re an atheist.’
    â€˜Agnostic actually.’ He turned another page. ‘I still think it’s sad.’
    She nodded, and turned back to look at the plant. It had little buds coming. She couldn’t think of anything to do. It was becoming familiar, this feeling of panic. Nine o’clock in the evening and there was nothing in the world which seemed worth the effort. The only way to quell the panic was to tell herself: it’s Sunday evening, that’s why.
    She wanted to ask Ken if he felt the same. But then she realized: if he did, it wouldn’t make any difference. And that gave her the greatest fear of