The Lover's Children novel Chapter 17

JAMES

Later, when it’s quiet, I talk with Richard. “I wonder if we might have a problem? Or a problem coming at least.”

“Perhaps… You’re not doubting his intentions or motives?”

“No, not at all. He genuinely wanted Mitch, the baby, the life that goes with all of that. But it's hard being a parent, even when you’re cut out for it. And Klempner’s lived a life of almost ceaseless work and activity. Even if you don’t like what he was doing, it was his work. His purpose.”

Richard smiles slightly. “I agree. You don’t want a man like that getting bored. I considered this myself, when you told me he was coming back from Brazil.”

“The devil finds work…”

“Exactly. It’s been several months now. When he first returned, he was still convalescing from imprisonment and extended starvation. James, he’s recovered. And he has far too much energy to risk him having to look for an outlet. Klempner’s… What? Mid to late fifties? He’s not ready for carpet slippers and the Labrador by the fire.”

“So, what do we do about him?”

*****

KLEMPNER

At the front of the church, Ryan, wearing his morning suit, shifts from one foot to the other. He stands by another man, enough like him that it’s obvious they’re brothers.

On the second row back, James sits by Michael, Cara sitting between them, theoretically at least. So far as I can see, she’s made a grab for Michael’s buttonhole and is pulling off the petals. Georgie, sitting to the other side of James, wears her usual starched misery expression.

Music strikes up, the organ reverberating from stone arches. Every head turns as Kirstie makes her way down the aisle, accompanied by, I assume, her father. Ryan twists around. His mouth opens and his eyes widen, then he breaks into a beaming smile.

Mitch, holding a blanket-swaddled Vicky in one arm, is teary. The other grips my fingers. “Oh, doesn't she look beautiful.”

“She does, yes. But you’ve seen her like that before. You must have fitted her for the dress a dozen times. ”

“Yes, but that was different, It was just a fitting. Oh…” She raises fingers to her lips. “Here’s Jenny coming into view behind her…”

“Shush!” From behind us, a dark-haired Mediterranean type scowls at us.

Mitch subsides, but her eyes are glassy as our elder daughter walks slowly into view, also wearing cream, a bunch of white flowers in her hand. Beth, in matching dress, walks with her. I suppose the bridesmaids are not supposed to outshine the bride, but…

… You do look beautiful…

So like your mother…

As they parade by, close too…

Ah… Mitch…

… I see the butterflies flitting through the lace…

Vicky burbles, hiccups and her eyes open. A whimper, then a wail. Mitch jiggles her up and down. “Damn, I hoped she'd sleep through…” The wail grows louder. Mitch starts to rise.

“Give her to me. You enjoy the wedding.”

Outside, holding my daughter, the air is fresh. Vicky is still crying.

Should have brought her bottle…

I try jiggling her, the way Mitch did, with no noticeable effect. I bounce her a little harder, then remember Mitch telling me she couldn’t support her own head yet, and the threats of hellfire and doom raining down on me if I forgot.

So how do you stop them crying?

Some sort of Off switch?

From indoors the sound of a second wail. After a few seconds, James appears, Cara toddling by his side, howling, red-faced, and rubbing at her eyes. The moment they step outdoors, she stops crying. Her face creases up into a smile and she breaks into a run…

… Or tries to, pulling up short against the reins she’s wearing.

James looks a little sheepish. “Weddings aren’t truly occasions for small children.”

“No…” Over Vicky’s howls, I’m losing the power of hearing. “Do you eventually go deaf to this racket?”

“Nope.” He flashes brows. “Nature carefully constructed babies so that when they start bawling, you can’t ignore the noise.”

“How do you stop them?” I jiggle Vicky again. “I came out here so Mitch could watch the wedding. I’m beginning to regret it.”

“Here…” He passes me the reins and Cara charges forward… “Let me. I’ve had more practice at this.” He takes his turn at baby-jiggling. Within seconds, Vicky falls silent, then falls asleep. “See how it’s done?”

“I’d not realised you’re a practitioner in the Black Arts, James.”

He snorts a laugh. “Won’t work on that one though.” He nods down to where Cara is straining against her harness. “She’s old enough that she wants to explore.”

“She can’t, can she.” I lift and James’ baby daughter hangs, her feet a couple of inches from the ground. Kicking and throwing her fists, such as they are, she screams. Another few seconds and she falls silent, looking up to cast the evil eye at me.