way beyond it.
‘Nearly home,’ he muttered, ‘but who can I now trust? And yet . . . this tree . . . a hawthorn . . . a benign, friendly sort of tree . . . perhaps I could, just for the briefest of moments . . . just lay my stave down, and my portersac and sit . . . yes, rest my back . . . so I can think what to do . . . just for a second or two . . .’
Bedwyn Stort sat down, closed his eyes and knew no more.
6
R EALITY
W hatever hopes and dreams Katherine and Jack had about their coming baby, they were shattered by the reality of what they faced as the sun began to rise in the first hours of Judith’s life.
Her crying was like no other sound either had ever known. It cut through their ears, their heads, their hearts and their bodies. It was like the threat of a red-hot knife: utterly demanding of immediate attention.
It seemed to be worse for Katherine than for Jack, weak as she still was.
She held Judith, she tried the breast, she petted her, she whispered to her, but still the crying came, wave after wave, never stopping, and an absolute demand for attention and help. Wah wah wah wah wah wah . . .
‘I don’t know what she wants . . .’
Worse, she was so clearly in distress, her cries so filled with pain, that even had Katherine been suffering the hot knife herself, she would have preferred to find out what was wrong and deal with it.
For Jack it was only slightly less painful to hear. He had to attend to sorting things out, getting help, keeping them warm, and those demands softened a little the need to see to Judith.
Wah wah wah wah wah wah . . .
‘Jack . . . I don’t know what’s wrong . . .’
Worse still, as Judith cried in her arms she curled up, she grew red and hot, her mouth, so beautiful at birth, grew ugly with pain.
‘Can’t you . . .’ began Jack, as filled with horror and panic as she was.
Can’t you what !?
He had no idea.
A window opened up in the house, then the conservatory doors.
Astonishingly Judith stopped crying, turned her mouth to Katherine’s breast and, for the first time, began suckling.
Katherine gazed down at her, all panic gone, and whispered, ‘Ooohh’ and smiled.
Tears came to Jack’s eyes.
‘You’re a softie after all,’ said Katherine, reaching a hand to him, her mood switching from utter despair to total elation.
‘I think they’ve heard us up at the house . . . they’re about to have the shock of their lives . . .’
Moments later Katherine’s adoptive grandparents, Margaret and Arthur Foale, appeared. They looked the part: in their late seventies, grey-haired, a little stiff, dishevelled with sleep.
Margaret came first, drawn by the baby’s cry.
Arthur was close behind, holding a hockey stick because whatever was going on might be dangerous. Travellers maybe, trespassers certainly, these days one never knew . . .
They peered timidly across the henge, which Arthur had formed by clever felling of existing trees and some planting of others decades before.
As Jack turned towards them their eyes widened in alarm and Arthur’s grip on the stick tightened.
They had last seen Jack two years before and did not recognize him. He was bigger now and powerful-looking in a hulky, looming way.
His sudden broad smile was their only clue, but it was the best.
‘J . . . Jack!?’ whispered Margaret.
‘Katherine!?’ said Arthur.
‘Hello,’ said Jack, moving to Katherine’s side where she sat on the ground, the baby still suckling.
‘ Katherine! ’ cried Margaret, rushing forward and kneeling in front of her.
‘It happened last night . . . we . . .’
‘There wasn’t time,’ said Jack.
‘But . . .’ began Margaret, panic in her voice.
‘It’s fine,’ said Katherine. ‘I just . . . we just . . .’
‘Oh Katherine,’ whispered Margaret putting her wrinkled arms around her and the baby.
Arthur, true to his upbringing and the moment, reached out a hand and shook Jack’s rather formally.
‘Well done!’ he
‘Nearly home,’ he muttered, ‘but who can I now trust? And yet . . . this tree . . . a hawthorn . . . a benign, friendly sort of tree . . . perhaps I could, just for the briefest of moments . . . just lay my stave down, and my portersac and sit . . . yes, rest my back . . . so I can think what to do . . . just for a second or two . . .’
Bedwyn Stort sat down, closed his eyes and knew no more.
6
R EALITY
W hatever hopes and dreams Katherine and Jack had about their coming baby, they were shattered by the reality of what they faced as the sun began to rise in the first hours of Judith’s life.
Her crying was like no other sound either had ever known. It cut through their ears, their heads, their hearts and their bodies. It was like the threat of a red-hot knife: utterly demanding of immediate attention.
It seemed to be worse for Katherine than for Jack, weak as she still was.
She held Judith, she tried the breast, she petted her, she whispered to her, but still the crying came, wave after wave, never stopping, and an absolute demand for attention and help. Wah wah wah wah wah wah . . .
‘I don’t know what she wants . . .’
Worse, she was so clearly in distress, her cries so filled with pain, that even had Katherine been suffering the hot knife herself, she would have preferred to find out what was wrong and deal with it.
For Jack it was only slightly less painful to hear. He had to attend to sorting things out, getting help, keeping them warm, and those demands softened a little the need to see to Judith.
Wah wah wah wah wah wah . . .
‘Jack . . . I don’t know what’s wrong . . .’
Worse still, as Judith cried in her arms she curled up, she grew red and hot, her mouth, so beautiful at birth, grew ugly with pain.
‘Can’t you . . .’ began Jack, as filled with horror and panic as she was.
Can’t you what !?
He had no idea.
A window opened up in the house, then the conservatory doors.
Astonishingly Judith stopped crying, turned her mouth to Katherine’s breast and, for the first time, began suckling.
Katherine gazed down at her, all panic gone, and whispered, ‘Ooohh’ and smiled.
Tears came to Jack’s eyes.
‘You’re a softie after all,’ said Katherine, reaching a hand to him, her mood switching from utter despair to total elation.
‘I think they’ve heard us up at the house . . . they’re about to have the shock of their lives . . .’
Moments later Katherine’s adoptive grandparents, Margaret and Arthur Foale, appeared. They looked the part: in their late seventies, grey-haired, a little stiff, dishevelled with sleep.
Margaret came first, drawn by the baby’s cry.
Arthur was close behind, holding a hockey stick because whatever was going on might be dangerous. Travellers maybe, trespassers certainly, these days one never knew . . .
They peered timidly across the henge, which Arthur had formed by clever felling of existing trees and some planting of others decades before.
As Jack turned towards them their eyes widened in alarm and Arthur’s grip on the stick tightened.
They had last seen Jack two years before and did not recognize him. He was bigger now and powerful-looking in a hulky, looming way.
His sudden broad smile was their only clue, but it was the best.
‘J . . . Jack!?’ whispered Margaret.
‘Katherine!?’ said Arthur.
‘Hello,’ said Jack, moving to Katherine’s side where she sat on the ground, the baby still suckling.
‘ Katherine! ’ cried Margaret, rushing forward and kneeling in front of her.
‘It happened last night . . . we . . .’
‘There wasn’t time,’ said Jack.
‘But . . .’ began Margaret, panic in her voice.
‘It’s fine,’ said Katherine. ‘I just . . . we just . . .’
‘Oh Katherine,’ whispered Margaret putting her wrinkled arms around her and the baby.
Arthur, true to his upbringing and the moment, reached out a hand and shook Jack’s rather formally.
‘Well done!’ he
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