The Fifth Child Part 1

Lessing, Doris May.

The Fifth Child.

About the Author.

H ARRIET AND DAVID met each other at an office party neither had particularly wanted to go to, and both knew at once that this was what they had been waiting for. Someone conservative, old-fas.h.i.+oned, not to say obsolescent; timid, hard to please: this is what other people called them, but there was no end to the unaffectionate adjectives they earned. They defended a stubbornly held view of themselves, which was that they were ordinary and in the right of it, should not be criticised for emotional fastidiousness, abstemiousness, just because these were unfas.h.i.+onable qualities.

At this famous office party, about two hundred people crammed into a long, ornate, and solemn room, for three hundred and thirty-four days of the year a boardroom. Three a.s.sociated firms, all to do with putting up buildings, were having their end-of-year party. It was noisy. The pounding rhythm of a small band shook walls and floor. Most people were dancing, packed close because of lack of s.p.a.ce, couples bobbing up and down or revolving in one spot as if they were on invisible turntables. The women were dressed up, dramatic, bizarre, full of colour: Look at me! Look at me! Some of the men demanded as much attention. Around the walls were pressed a few non-dancers, and among these were Harriet and David, standing by themselves, holding gla.s.ses-observers. Both had reflected that the faces of the dancers, women more than men, but men, too, could just as well have been distorted in screams and grimaces of pain as in enjoyment. There was a forced hecticity to the scene ... but these thoughts, like so many others, they had not expected to share with anyone else.

From across the room-if one saw her at all among so many eye-demanding people-Harriet was a pastel blur. As in an Impressionist picture, or a trick photograph, she seemed a girl merged with her surroundings. She stood near a great vase of dried gra.s.ses and leaves and her dress was something flowery. The focussing eye then saw curly dark hair, which was unfas.h.i.+onable ... blue eyes, soft but thoughtful ... lips rather too firmly closed. In fact, all her features were strong and good, and she was solidly built. A healthy young woman, but perhaps more at home in a garden?

David had been standing just where he was for an hour drinking judiciously, his serious grey-blue eyes taking their time over this person, that couple, watching how people engaged and separated, ricochetting off each other. To Harriet he did not have the look of someone solidly planted: he seemed almost to hover, balancing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. A slight young man-he looked younger than he was-he had a round, candid face and soft brown hair girls longed to run their fingers through, but then that contemplative gaze of his made itself felt and they desisted. He made them feel uncomfortable. Not Harriet. She knew his look of watchful apartness mirrored her own. She judged his humorous air to be an effort. He was making similar mental comments about her: she seemed to dislike these occasions as much as he did. Both had found out who the other was. Harriet was in the sales department of a firm that designed and supplied building materials; David was an architect.

So what was it about these two that made them freaks and oddb.a.l.l.s? It was their att.i.tude to s.e.x! This was the sixties! David had had one long and difficult affair with a girl he was reluctantly in love with: she was what he did not want in a girl. They joked about the attraction between opposites. She joked that he thought of reforming her: "I do believe you imagine you are going to put the clock back, starting with me!" Since they had parted, unhappily enough, she had slept-so David reckoned-with everyone in Sissons Blend & Co. With the girls, too, he wouldn't be surprised. She was here tonight, in a scarlet dress with black lace, a witty travesty of a flamenco dress. From this concoction her head startlingly emerged. It was pure nineteen-twenties, for her black hair was sleeked down into a spike on her neck at the back, with two glossy black spikes over her ears, and a black lock on her forehead. She sent frantic waves and kisses to David from across the room where she circled with her partner, and he smiled matily back: no hard feelings. As for Harriet, she was a virgin. "A virgin now," her girl friends might shriek; "are you crazy?" She had not thought of herself as a virgin, if this meant a physiological condition to be defended, but rather as something like a present wrapped up in layers of deliciously pretty paper, to be given, with discretion, to the right person. Her own sisters laughed at her. The girls working in the office looked studiedly humorous when she insisted, "I am sorry, I don't like all this sleeping around, it's not for me." She knew she was discussed as an always interesting subject, and usually unkindly. With the same chilly contempt that good women of her grandmother's generation might have used, saying, "She is quite immoral you know," or, "She's no better than she ought to be," or, "She hasn't got a moral to her name"; then (her mother's generation), "She's man-mad," or, "She's a nympho"-so did the enlightened girls of now say to each other, "It must be something in her childhood that's made her like this. Poor thing."

And indeed she had sometimes felt herself unfortunate or deficient in some way, because the men with whom she went out for a meal or to the cinema would take her refusal as much as evidence of a pathological outlook as an ungenerous one. She had gone about with a girl friend, younger than the others, for a time, but then this one had become "like all the others," as Harriet despairingly defined her, defining herself as a misfit. She spent many evenings alone, and went home often at weekends to her mother. Who said, "Well, you're old-fas.h.i.+oned, that's all. And a lot of girls would like to be, if they got the chance."

These two eccentrics, Harriet and David, set off from their respective corners towards each other at the same moment: this was to be important to them as the famous office party became part of their story. "Yes, at exactly the same time ..." They had to push past people already squeezed against walls; they held their gla.s.ses high above their heads to keep them out of the way of the dancers. And so they arrived together at last, smiling-but perhaps a trifle anxiously-and he took her hand and they squeezed their way out of this room into the next, which had the buffet and was as full of noisy people, and through that into a corridor, spa.r.s.ely populated with embracing couples, and then pushed open the first door whose handle yielded to them. It was an office that had a desk and hard chairs, and, as well, a sofa. Silence ... well, almost. They sighed. They set down their gla.s.ses. They sat facing each other, so they might look as much as they wished, and then began to talk. They talked as if talk were what had been denied to them both, as if they were starving for talk. And they went on sitting there, close, talking, until the noise began to lessen in the rooms across the corridor, and then they went quietly out and to his flat, which was near. There they lay on his bed holding hands and talked, and sometimes kissed, and then slept. Almost at once she moved into his flat, for she had been able to afford only a room in a big communal flat. They had already decided to marry in the spring. Why wait? They were made for each other.

Harriet was the oldest of three daughters. It was not until she left home, at eighteen, that she knew how much she owed to her childhood, for many of her friends had divorced parents, led advent.i.tious and haphazard lives, and tended to be, as it is put, disturbed. Harriet was not disturbed, and had always known what she wanted. She had done well enough at school, and went to an arts college where she became a graphic designer, which seemed an agreeable way of spending her time until she married. The question whether to be, or not to be, a career woman had never bothered her, though she was prepared to discuss it: she did not like to appear more eccentric than she had to be. Her mother was a contented woman who had everything she could reasonably want; so it appeared to her and to her daughters. Harriet's parents had taken it for granted that family life was the basis for a happy one.

David's background was a quite different matter. His parents had divorced when he was seven. He joked, far too often, that he had two sets of parents: he had been one of the children with a room in two homes, and everybody considerate about psychological problems. There had been no nastiness or spite, if plenty of discomfort, even unhappiness-that is, for the children. His mother's second husband, David's other father, was an academic, an historian, and there was a large shabby house in Oxford. David liked this man, Frederick Burke, who was kind, if remote, like his mother, who was kind and remote. His room in this house had been his home-was, in his imagination, his real home now, though soon, with Harriet, he would create another, an extension and amplification of it. This home of his was a large bedroom at the back of the house overlooking a neglected garden; a shabby room, full of his boyhood, and rather chilly, in the English manner. His real father married one of his kind: she was a noisy, kind, competent woman, with the cynical good humour of the rich. James Lovatt was a boat builder, and when David did consent to visit, his place could easily be a bunk on a yacht, or a room ("This is your room, David!") in a villa in the South of France or the West Indies. But he preferred his old room in Oxford. He had grown up with a fierce private demand on his future: for his own children it would all be different. He knew what he wanted, and the kind of woman he needed. If Harriet had seen her future in the old way, that a man would hand her the keys of her kingdom, and there she would find everything her nature demanded, and this as her birthright, which she had-at first unknowingly, but then very determinedly-been travelling towards, refusing all muddles and dramas, then he saw his future as something he must aim for and protect. His wife must be like him in this: that she knew where happiness lay and how to keep it. He was thirty when he met Harriet, and he had been working in the dogged disciplined manner of an ambitious man: but what he was working for was a home.

Not possible to find the kind of house they wanted, for the life they wanted, in London. Anyway, they were not sure London was what they needed-no, it wasn't, they would prefer a smallish town with an atmosphere of its own. Weekends were spent looking around towns within commuting distance of London, and they soon found a large Victorian house in an overgrown garden. Perfect! But for a young couple it was absurd, a three-storeyed house, with an attic, full of rooms, corridors, landings.... Full of s.p.a.ce for children, in fact.

But they meant to have a lot of children. Both, somewhat defiantly, because of the enormity of their demands on the future, announced they "would not mind" a lot of children. "Even four, or five ..." "Or six," said David. "Or six!" said Harriet, laughing to the point of tears from relief. They had laughed and rolled about the bed and kissed and were exuberant because this, the place where both had expected and even been prepared to accept rebuff or a compromise, had turned out to be no danger at all. But while Harriet could say to David, David to Harriet, "Six children at least," they could not say this to anyone else. Even with David's quite decent salary, and Harriet's, the mortgage of this house would be beyond them. But they would manage somehow. She would work for two years, commute with David daily to London, and then ...

On the afternoon the house became theirs, they stood hand in hand in the little porch, birds singing all around them in the garden where boughs were still black and glistening with the chilly rain of early spring. They unlocked their front door, their hearts thudding with happiness, and stood in a very large room, facing capacious stairs. Some previous owner had seen a home as they did. Walls had been pulled down to make this a room that accommodated nearly all the ground floor. One half of it was a kitchen, marked off from the rest by no more than a low wall that would have books on it, the other half with plenty of s.p.a.ce for settees, chairs, all the sprawl and comfort of a family room. They went gently, softly, hardly breathing, smiling and looking at each other and smiling even more because both had tears in their eyes-they went across the bare boards that soon would have rugs on them, and then slowly up the stairs where old-fas.h.i.+oned bra.s.s rods waited for a carpet. On the landing, they turned to marvel at the great room that would be the heart of their kingdom. They went on up. The first floor had one large bedroom-theirs; and opening off it a smallish room, which would be for each new baby. There were four other decent rooms on this floor. Up still generous but narrower stairs, and there were four more rooms whose windows, like the rooms below, showed trees, gardens, lawns-all the perspectives of pleasant suburbia. And above this floor was an enormous attic, just right for the children when they had got to the age for secret magical games.

They slowly descended the stairs, one flight, two, pa.s.sing rooms, and rooms, which they were imagining full of children, relatives, guests, and came again into their bedroom. A large bed had been left in it. It had been specially made, that bed, for the couple they had bought the house from. To take it away, so said the agent, would have meant dismantling it, and anyway the owners of the bed were going to live abroad. There Harriet and David lay down side by side, and looked at their room. They were quiet, awed by what they were taking on. Shadows from a lilac tree, a wet sun behind it, seemed to be enticingly sketching on the expanses of the ceiling the years they would live in this house. They turned their heads towards the windows where the top of the old lilac showed its vigorous buds, soon to burst into flower. Then they looked at each other. Tears ran down their cheeks. They made love, there, on their bed. Harriet almost cried out, "No, stop! What are we doing?" For had they not decided to put off having children for two years? But she was overwhelmed by his purpose-yes, that was it, he was making love with a deliberate, concentrated intensity, looking into her eyes, that made her accept him, his taking possession of the future in her. She did not have contraceptives with her. (Both of course distrusted the Pill.) She was at the height of her fertility. But they made love, with this solemn deliberation. Once. Twice. Later, when the room was dark, they made love again.

"Well," said Harriet, in a little voice, for she was frightened and determined not to show it, "Well, that's done it, I'm sure."

He laughed. A loud, reckless, unscrupulous laugh, quite unlike modest, humorous, judicious David. Now the room was quite dark, it looked vast, like a black cave that had no end. A branch sc.r.a.ped across a wall somewhere close. There was a smell of cold rainy earth and s.e.x. David lay smiling to himself, and when he felt her look, he turned his head slightly and his smile included her. But on his terms; his eyes gleamed with thoughts she could not guess at. She felt she did not know him.... "David," she said quickly, to break the spell, but his arm tightened around her, and he gripped her upper arm with a hand she had not believed could be so strong, insistent. This grip said, Be quiet.

They lay there together while ordinariness slowly came back, and then they were able to turn to each other and kiss with small rea.s.suring daytime kisses. They got up and dressed in the cold dark: the electricity wasn't on yet. Quietly they went down the stairs of their house where they had so thoroughly taken possession, and into their great family room, and let themselves out into the garden that was mysterious and hidden from them, not yet theirs.

"Well?" said Harriet humorously as they got into his car to return to London. "And how are we going to pay for it all if I am pregnant?"

Quite so: how were they? Harriet indeed became pregnant on that rainy evening in their bedroom. They had many bad moments, thinking of the slenderness of their resources, and of their own frailty. For at such times, when material support is not enough, it is as if we are being judged: Harriet and David seemed to themselves meagre and inadequate, with nothing to hold on to but stubborn beliefs other people had always judged as wrong-headed.

David had never taken money from his well-off father and stepmother, who had paid for his education, but that was all. (And for his sister Deborah's education; but she had preferred her father's way of life as he had preferred his mother's, and so they had not often met, and the differences between brother and sister seemed to him summed up in this-that she had chosen the life of the rich.) He did not now want to ask for money. His English parents-which was how he thought of his mother and her husband-had little money, being unambitious academics.

One afternoon, these four-David and Harriet, David's mother, Molly, with Frederick-stood in the family room by the stairs and surveyed the new kingdom. There was by now a very large table, which would easily accommodate fifteen or twenty people, at the kitchen end; there were a couple of vast sofas, and some commodious armchairs bought second-hand at a local auction. David and Harriet stood together, feeling themselves even more preposterously eccentric, and much too young, faced with these two elderly people who judged them. Molly and Frederick were large and untidy, with a great deal of grey hair, wearing comfortable clothes that complacently despised fas.h.i.+on. They looked like benevolent haystacks, but were not looking at each other in a way David knew well.

"All right, then," he said humorously, unable to bear the strain, "you can say it." And he put his arm around Harriet, who was pale and strained because of morning sickness and because she had spent a week scrubbing floors and was.h.i.+ng windows.

"Are you going to run a hotel?" enquired Frederick reasonably, determined not to make a judgement.

"How many children are you intending to have?" asked Molly, with the short laugh that means there is no point in protesting.

"A lot," said David softly.

"Yes," said Harriet. "Yes." She did not realise, as David did, how annoyed these two parents were. Aiming, like all their kind, at an appearance of unconformity, they were in fact the essence of convention, and disliked any manifestation of the spirit of exaggeration, of excess. This house was that.

"Come on, well give you dinner, if there is a decent hotel," said David's mother.

Over that meal, other subjects were discussed until, over coffee, Molly observed, "You do realise that you are going to have to ask your father for help?"

David seemed to wince and suffer, but he had to face it: what mattered was the house and the life that would be lived in it. A life that-both parents knew because of his look of determined intention, which they judged full of the smugness of youth-was going to annul, absolve, cancel out all the deficiencies of their life, Molly's and Frederick's; and of James's and Jessica's life, too.

As they separated in the dark car-park of the hotel, Frederick said, "As far as I am concerned, you are both rather mad. Well, wrong-headed, then."

"Yes," said Molly. "You haven't really thought it out. Children ... no one who hasn't had them knows what work they make."

Here David laughed, making a point-and an old one, which Molly recognised, and faced, with a conscious laugh. "You are not maternal," said David. "It's not your nature. But Harriet is."

"Very well," said Molly, "it's your life."

She telephoned James, her first husband, who was on a yacht near the Isle of Wight. This conversation ended with "I think you should come and see for yourself."

"Very well, I will," said he, agreeing as much to what had not been said as to what had: his difficulty in keeping up with his wife's unspoken languages was the main reason he had been pleased to leave her.

Soon after this conversation, David and Harriet again stood with David's parents-the other pair-in contemplation of the house. This time they were outside it. Jessica stood in the middle of a lawn still covered with the woody debris of the winter and a windy spring, and critically surveyed the house. To her it was gloomy and detestable, like England. She was the same age as Molly and looked twenty years younger, being lean and brown and seeming to glisten with sun oil even when her skin was without it. Her hair was yellow and short and s.h.i.+ny and her clothes bright. She dug the heels of her jade-green shoes in the lawn and looked at her husband, James.

He had already been over the house and now he said, as David had expected, "It's a good investment."

"Yes," said David.

"It's not overpriced. I suppose that's because it's too big for most people. I take it the surveyor's report was all right?"

"Yes," said David.

"In that case I shall a.s.sume responsibility for the mortgage. How long is it going to take to pay off?"

"Thirty years," said David.

"I'll be dead by then, I expect. Well, I didn't give you much in the way of a wedding present."

"You'll have to do the same by Deborah," said Jessica.

"We have already done much more for Deborah than for David," said James. "Anyway, we can afford it."

She laughed, and shrugged: it was mostly her money. This ease with money characterised their life together, which David had sampled and rejected fiercely, preferring the parsimony of the Oxford house-though he had never used that word aloud. Flashy and too easy, that was the life of the rich; but now he was going to be beholden to it.

"And how many kids are you planning, if one may ask?" enquired Jessica, looking like a parakeet perched on that damp lawn.

"A lot," said David.

"A lot," said Harriet.

"Rather you than me, then," said Jessica, and with that David's other parents left the garden, and then England, with relief.

Now entered on to this scene Dorothy, Harriet's mother. It occurred to neither Harriet nor David to think, or say, "Oh G.o.d, how awful, having one's mother around all the time," for if family life was what they had chosen, then it followed that Dorothy should come indefinitely to help Harriet, while insisting that she had a life of her own to which she must return. She was a widow, and this life of hers was mostly visiting her daughters. The family house was sold, and she had a small flat, not very nice, but she was not one to complain. When she had taken in the size and potential of the new house, she was more silent than usual for some days. She had not found it easy bringing up three girls. Her husband had been an industrial chemist, not badly paid, but there never had been much money. She knew the cost, in every way, of a family, even a small one.

She attempted some remarks on these lines one evening at supper. David, Harriet, Dorothy. David had just come home late: the train was delayed. Commuting was not going to be much fun, was going to be the worst of it, for everyone, but particularly of course David, for it would take nearly two hours twice a day to get to and from work. This would be one of his contributions to the dream.

The kitchen was already near what it ought to be: the great table, with heavy wooden chairs around it-only four now, but more stood in a row along the wall, waiting for guests and still unborn people. There was a big stove, an Aga, and an old-fas.h.i.+oned dresser with cups and mugs on hooks. Jugs were full of flowers from the garden where summer had revealed a plenitude of roses and lilies. They were eating a traditional English pudding, made by Dorothy; outside, the autumn was establis.h.i.+ng itself in flying leaves that sometimes. .h.i.t the windowpanes with small thuds and bangs, and in the sound of a rising wind. But the curtains were drawn, warm thick flowered curtains.

"You know," said Dorothy, "I've been thinking about you two." David put down his spoon to listen as he would never have done for his unworldly mother, or his worldly father. "I don't believe you two ought to rush into everything-no, let me have my say. Harriet is only twenty-four-not twenty-five yet. You are only just thirty, David. You two go on as if you believe if you don't grab everything, then you'll lose it. Well, that's the impression I get, listening to you talk."

David and Harriet were listening: their eyes did meet, frowning, thoughtful. Dorothy, this large, wholesome, homely woman, with her decisive manner, her considered ways, was not to be ignored; they recognised what was due to her.

"I do feel that," said Harriet.

"Yes, girl, I know. You were talking yesterday of having another baby straight away. You'll regret it, in my view."

"Everything could very well be taken away," said David, stubborn. The enormity of this, something that came from his depths, as both women knew, was not lessened by the News, which was blasting from the radio. Bad news from everywhere: nothing to what the News would soon become, but threatening enough.

"Think about it," said Dorothy. "I wish you would. Sometimes you two scare me. I don't really know why."

Harriet said fiercely, "Perhaps we ought to have been born into another country. Do you realise that having six children, in another part of the world, it would be normal, nothing shocking about it-they aren't made to feel criminals."

"It's we who are abnormal, here in Europe," said David.

"I don't know about that," said Dorothy, as stubborn as either of them. "But if you were having six-or eight, or ten-no, I know what you are thinking, Harriet, I know you, don't I?-and if you were in another part of the world, like Egypt or India or somewhere, then half of them would die and they wouldn't be educated, either. You want things both ways. The aristocracy-yes, they can have children like rabbits, and expect to, but they have the money for it. And poor people can have children, and half of them die, and expect to. But people like us, in the middle, we have to be careful about the children we have so we can look after them. It seems to me you haven't thought it out ... no, I'll go and make the coffee, you two go and sit down."

David and Harriet went through the wide gap in the wall that marked off the kitchen to the sofa in the living-room, where they sat holding hands, a slight, stubborn, rather perturbed young man, and an enormous, flushed, clumsily moving woman. Harriet was eight months pregnant, and it had not been an easy pregnancy. Nothing seriously wrong, but she had been sick a lot, slept badly from indigestion, and was disappointed with herself. They were wondering why it was that people always criticised them. Dorothy brought coffee, set it down, said, "I'll do the was.h.i.+ng-up-no, you just sit there." And went back to the sink.

"But it is what I feel," said Harriet, distressed.

"Yes."

"We should have children while we can," said Harriet.

Dorothy said, from the sink, "At the beginning of the last war, people were saying it was irresponsible to have children, but we had them, didn't we?" She laughed.

"There you are, then," said David.

"And we kept them," said Dorothy.

"Well, here I am certainly," said Harriet.

The first baby, Luke, was born in the big bed attended mostly by the midwife, with Dr. Brett there, too. David and Dorothy held Harriet's hands. It goes without saying that the doctor had wanted Harriet in hospital. She had been adamant; was disapproved of-by him.

It was a windy cold night, just after Christmas. The room was warm and wonderful. David wept. Dorothy wept. Harriet laughed and wept. The midwife and the doctor had a little air of festivity and triumph. They all drank champagne, and poured some on little Luke's head. It was 1966.

Luke was an easy baby. He slept most peaceably in the little room off the big bedroom, and was contentedly breast-fed. Happiness! When David went off to catch his train to London in the mornings, Harriet was sitting up in bed feeding the baby, and drinking the tea David had brought her. When he bent to kiss her goodbye, and stroked Luke's head, it was with a fierce possessiveness that Harriet liked and understood, for it was not herself being possessed, or the baby, but happiness. Hers and his.

That Easter was the first of the family parties. Rooms had been adequately if sketchily furnished, and they were filled with Harriet's two sisters, Sarah and Angela, and their husbands and their children; with Dorothy, in her element; and briefly by Molly and Frederick, who allowed that they were enjoying themselves but family life on this scale was not for them.

Connoisseurs of the English scene will by now have realised that on that powerful, if nowhere registered, yardstick, the English cla.s.s system, Harriet scaled rather lower than David. Within five seconds of any of the Lovatts or the Burkes meeting any of the Walkers, the fact had been noted but not commented on-verbally, at least. The Walkers were not surprised that Frederick and Molly said they would be there for only two days; nor that they changed their minds when James Lovatt appeared. Like many husbands and wives forced to separate by incompatibility, Molly and James enjoyed meeting when they knew they must shortly part. In fact, they all enjoyed themselves, agreeing that the house was made for it. Around the great family table, where so many chairs could be comfortably accommodated, people sat through long pleasant meals, or found their way there between meals to drink coffee and tea, and to talk. And laugh ... Listening to the laughter, the voices, the talk, the sounds of children playing, Harriet and David in their bedroom, or perhaps descending from the landing, would reach for each other's hand, and smile, and breathe happiness. No one knew, not even Dorothy-certainly not Dorothy-that Harriet was pregnant again. Luke was three months old. They had not meant for Harriet to be pregnant-not for another year. But so it was. "There's something progenitive about this room, I swear it," said David, laughing. They felt agreeably guilty. They lay in their bed, listening to Luke make his baby noises next door, and decided not to say a word until after everyone had gone.

When Dorothy was told, she was again rather silent, and then said, "Well, you'll need me, won't you?"

They did. This pregnancy, like the other, was normal, but Harriet was uncomfortable and sick, and thought to herself that while she had not changed her mind at all about six (or eight or ten) children, she would be jolly sure there was a good interval between this one and the next.

For the rest of the year, Dorothy was pleasantly around the house, helped look after Luke and to make curtains for the rooms on the third floor.

That Christmas, Harriet was again enormous, in her eighth month, and she laughed at herself for her size and unwieldiness. The house was full. All the people who were here for Easter came again. It was acknowledged that Harriet and David had a gift for this kind of thing. A cousin of Harriet's with three children came, too, for she had heard of the wonderful Easter party that had gone on for a week. A colleague of David's came with his wife. This Christmas was ten days long, and one feast followed another. Luke was in his pram downstairs and everyone fussed over him, and the older children carried him around like a doll. Briefly, too, came David's sister Deborah, a cool attractive girl who could easily have been Jessica's daughter and not Molly's. She was not married, though she had had what she described as near misses. In general style she was so far removed from the people in the house, all basic British-as they defined themselves relative to her-that these differences became a running joke. She had always lived the life of the rich, had found the shabby high-mindedness of her mother's house irritating, hated people being crammed together, but conceded that she found this party interesting.

There were twelve adults and ten children. Neighbours, invited, did appear, but the sense of family togetherness was strong and excluded them. And Harriet and David exulted that they, their obstinacy, what everyone had criticised and laughed at, had succeeded in this miracle: they were able to unite all these so different people, and make them enjoy each other.

The second child, Helen, was born, like Luke, in the family bed, with all the same people there, and again champagne anointed the baby's head, and everyone wept. Luke was evicted from the baby's room into the next one down the corridor, and Helen took his place.

Though Harriet was tired-indeed, worn out-the Easter party took place. Dorothy was against it. "You are tired, girl," she said. "You are bone tired." Then, seeing Harriet's face. "Well, all right, but you aren't to do anything, mind."

The two sisters and Dorothy made themselves responsible for the shopping and the cooking, the hard work.

Downstairs among all the people-for the house was again full-were the two little creatures, Helen and Luke, all wispy fair hair and blue eyes and pink cheeks. Luke was staggering about, aided by everyone, and Helen was in her pram.

That summer-it was 1968-the house was full to the attic, nearly all family. The house was so convenient for London: people travelled up with David for the day and came back with him. There was good walking country twenty minutes' drive away.

People came and went, said they were coming for a couple of days and stayed a week. And how was all this paid for? Well, of course everyone contributed; and, of course, not enough, but people knew David's father was rich. Without that mortgage being paid for, none of this could have happened. Money was always tight. Economies were made: a vast hotel-size freezer bought second-hand was stocked with summer fruit and vegetables. Dorothy and Sarah and Angela bottled fruit and jam and chutneys. They baked bread and the whole house smelled of new bread. This was happiness, in the old style.

There was a cloud, though. Sarah and her husband, William, were unhappily married, and quarrelled, and made up, but she was pregnant with her fourth, and a divorce was not possible.

Christmas, just as wonderful a festival, came and went. Then Easter ... sometimes they all had to wonder where everybody was fitting themselves in.

The cloud on family happiness that was Sarah and William's discord disappeared, for it was absorbed in worse. Sarah's new baby was Down's syndrome, and there was no question of them separating. Dorothy remarked sometimes that it was a pity there wasn't two of her, Sarah needed her as much, and more, than Harriet. And indeed she did take off on visits to her Sarah, who was afflicted, while Harriet was not.

Jane was born in 1970, when Helen was two. Much too fast, scolded Dorothy, what was the hurry?

Helen moved into Luke's room, and Luke moved one room along. Jane made her contented noises in the baby's room, and the two little children came into the big family bed and cuddled and played games, or they visited Dorothy in her bed and played there.

Happiness. A happy family. The Lovatts were a happy family. It was what they had chosen and what they deserved. Often, when David and Harriet lay face to face, it seemed that doors in their b.r.e.a.s.t.s flew open, and what poured out was an intensity of relief, of thankfulness, that still astonished them both: patience for what seemed now such a very long time had not been easy, after all. It had been hard preserving their belief in themselves when the spirit of the times, the greedy and selfish sixties, had been so ready to condemn them, to isolate, to diminish their best selves. And look, they had been right to insist on guarding that stubborn individuality of theirs, which had chosen, and so obstinately, the best-this.

Outside this fortunate place, their family, beat and battered the storms of the world. The easy good times had utterly gone. David's firm had been struck, and he had not been given the promotion he expected; but others had lost their jobs and he was lucky. Sarah's husband was out of work. Sarah joked dolefully that she and William attracted all the ill luck in the clan.

Harriet said to David, privately, that she did not believe it was bad luck: Sarah and William's unhappiness, their quarrelling, had probably attracted the mongol child-yes, yes, of course she knew one shouldn't call them mongol. But the little girl did look a bit like Genghis Khan, didn't she? A baby Genghis Khan with her squashed little face and her slitty eyes? David disliked this trait of Harriet's, a fatalism that seemed so at odds with the rest of her. He said he thought this was silly hysterical thinking: Harriet sulked and they had to make up.