Read The Fifth Child for Free Online

education for Luke and Helen,” said Harriet, again sounding over-irritable.
    Insisted Molly: “We put David down for his schools when he was born. And Deborah, too.”
    “Well,” said Deborah, “why am I any better for my posh schools than Harriet—or anyone else?”
    “It’s a point,” said James, who had paid for the posh schools.
    “Not much of a point,” said Molly.
    William sighed, clowning it: “Deprived all the rest of us are. Poor William. Poor Sarah. Poor Bridget. Poor Harriet. Tell me, Molly, if I had been to posh schools would I get a decent job now?”
    “That isn’t the point,” said Molly.
    “She means you’d be happier unemployed or in a filthy job well educated than badly educated,” said Sarah.
    “I’m sorry,” said Molly. “Public education is awful. It’s getting worse. Harriet and David have got four children to educate. With more to come, apparently. How do you know James will be able to help you? Anything can happen in the world.”
    “Anything does, all the time,” said William bitterly, but laughed to soften it.
    Harriet moved distressfully in her chair, took Paul off her breast with a skill at concealing herself they all noted and admired, and said, “I don’t want to have this conversation. It’s a lovely morning.…”
    “I’ll help you, of course, within limits,” said James.
    “Oh, James …” said Harriet, “thank you … thank you.… Oh dear … why don’t we go up to the woods? … We could take a picnic lunch.”
    The morning had slid past. It was midday. Sun struck the edges of the jolly red curtains, making them an intense orange, sending orange lozenges to glow on the table among cups, saucers, a bowl of fruit. The children had come down from the top of the house and were in the garden. The adults went to watch them from the windows. The garden continued neglected; there was never time for it. The lawn was patchily lush, and toys lay about. Birds sang in the shrubs, ignoring the children.Little Jane, set down by Dorothy, staggered out to join the others. A group of children played noisily together, but she was too young, and strayed in and out of the game, in the private world of a two-year-old. They skilfully accommodated their game to her. The week before, Easter Sunday, this garden had had painted eggs hidden everywhere in it. A wonderful day, the children bringing in magical eggs from everywhere that Harriet and Dorothy and Bridget, the schoolgirl, had sat up half the night to decorate.
    Harriet and David were together at the window, the baby in her arms. He put his arm around her. They exchanged a quick look, half guilty because of the irrepressible smiles on their faces, which they felt were probably going to exasperate the others.
    “You two are incorrigible,” said William. “They are hopeless,” he said to the others. “Well, who’s complaining? I’m not! Why don’t we all go for that picnic?”
    The house party filled five cars, children wedged in or on the adults’ laps.
    Summer was the same: two months of it, and again the family came and went, and came again. The schoolgirl was there all the time, poor Bridget, clinging fast to this miracle of a family. Rather, in fact, as Harriet and David did. Both more than once—seeing the girl’s face, reverential, even awed, always on the watch as if she feared to miss some revelation of goodness or grace the moment she allowed her attention to lapse—saw themselves. Even uneasily saw themselves. It was too much … excessive.… Surely they should be saying to her, “Look here, Bridget, don’t expect so much. Life isn’t like that!” But life is like that, if you choose right: so why should they feel she couldn’t have what they had so plentifully?
    Even before the crowd gathered before the Christmas of 1973, Harriet was pregnant again. To her utter dismay, and David’s. How could it have happened? They had been careful, particularlyso because of their determination not to