The Lover's Children

Chapter 67 – April’s Tears #18

MICHAEL

The clatter of James in the kitchen drifts up the stairs. Peeling myself from the embrace of my lovely

wife…

…my lovely pregnant wife…

… I tug on jeans and a working shirt. “Think you could spare me an hour or so today? I could use an

extra pair of hands in the garden for a while.”

Charlotte yawns and stretches. “Sure, no problem. When do you wa…” Her words cut short at a sound

from downstairs. A scream. A child’s scream.

Cara.

It’s not a happy squeal, but a real shriek of rage and fear. “No! No!… Noooo.”

Pelting down, I take the stairs three steps at a time, Charlotte right behind me. Mitch bursts from the

lounge, Klempner behind her, reaching under his jacket for something.

Bear charges down the hall, overtaking all of us. Scruffy skitters behind him.

Cara’s howls are coming from the kitchen. “No! No! Nunky Jammy… No…”

James?

Not under any conceivable circumstances would James harm a child. Or even punish her hard enough

to produce this howling, horrified reaction.

I burst into the kitchen, the door bouncing back on its hinges. James is squatting down by the hob,

Cara hurling herself hysterically at him, little fists banging his arms and chest as he tries to calm her

down.

“Bear! No!” Klempner’s urgent command brings the huge dog skidding to a halt, just shy of impacting

James. “What the hell’s going on?”

James looks up from where he is fruitlessly trying to calm our distraught daughter. “Just a

misunderstanding. Shhh, Cara, it’s alright. Shhh… It’s alright. I wasn’t hurting any of your chikkies.”

Cara wails, bawls, then pointing up to the work counter, bursts into tears. “Dada… Chikkies… Nunky

Jammy… Chikkies…”

On the hob, a frying pan, hot enough to smoke, contains two eggs, popping and sizzling, cooked all but

solid. On the counter, a third egg lies smashed, the contents trickling down to the floor.

Cara, scarlet-faced, streaming tears, totters towards me, waving one short arm up to the hob. I sweep

her up into my arms and she buries her face into my chest. “Shhh… Cara. Everything’s alright. There’s

no little chickens inside the eggs. Uncle Jamie hasn’t hurt the chikkies.”

She sobs, wiping grubby hands over her eyes. “No chikkies?”

“No. No chikkies. Let him show you. See for yourself.”

Gently, I pass her to James, who angles her toward the pan and its congealed contents. His voice is

very soft. “See? No chikkies, Cara. I was just cooking eggs for breakfast.”

She sobs and sniffles as he rocks her quiet. “You see? They have to be special eggs for the chikkies to

grow in. These are just ordinary eggs. Now why don’t you go with Mommie and Granny and have your

breakfast. Like you usually do. If you like, I’ll do some more ordinary eggs and you can have dippy

toast.”

Still rubbing fists into teary eyes, Cara nods as he passes her to Charlotte. Mitch makes a show and a

fuss of sitting her at the table.

Klempner is already in his place, his expression semi-amused. “Catastrophe averted?” Despite the

amusement, his knife lies on the tabletop and he’s slotting something into a holster under his jacket.

“Averted.” I shake my head. “It never occurred to me to think a toddler wouldn’t know the difference.” Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

James set a boiled egg and toast in front of the little girl. Mitch slices the top off the egg while Charlotte

slices the toast into strips. Chomping happily, Cara dunks into the yolk, as usual getting more down her

front and chin than into her mouth.

James produces coffee and teapots. “I’d no idea what she was so upset about. I thought she was trying

to tell me she didn’t want an egg for breakfast. Then, when she saw me crack one into the pan, she

went berserk.”

“She thought you were cooking her babies,” I point out. “She was defending them.”

Klempner huffs. “She couldn’t actually have done much damage.”

James muses, then smiles. “Just like her mother. Doing what she sees as the right thing, regardless of

the odds.”

Richard and Beth appear at the door. “Have we missed something?”

*****

JAMES

Breakfast…

My extended, if slightly eccentric family gathers around the table…

Noise and chatter.

What will we all be doing?

Plans…

Happenings…

Mitch and Beth exchanging notes on clothes: for adults, for infants, for toddlers…

Charlotte attacking her customary gargantuan meal with her customary gusto…

I consider her plate…

Bacon, eggs, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms…

Pregnant…

Scooping mixed berries into a bowl, I set it by her with the yoghurt pot. Mouth full, she flashes

eyebrows and a smile at me.

Klempner…

Poached eggs… Three…

His daily habit, grown almost a holy ritual by now.

Michael crunches on toast, swilling it down with orange juice. “Mitch, Larry, I was thinking. Where

you're living, by the stables. It was originally meant to be my office…”

Mitch’s face falls. “I know. I’m sorry. We've been imposing on your hospitality too long.”

“No…” Michael waves agitated hands… “That’s not what I meant at all. You haven't imposed at all. And

that's not what I was going to say. The thing is, it's not suitable for you now. Or not for too much longer

anyway. It was fine when you first came here with just you in there. But with you and Larry together.

And a baby too. Vicky will grow up fast. A one-bedroomed apartment won’t work for you for much

longer…”

Klempner pauses halfway into scooping up an egg. “What’s in your mind?”

“I was thinking that there’s no reason it has to stay a one-bedroomed apartment. There’s plenty of

space to the rear to extend. You could have as big a home as you wanted there. If we fence it off you

can have a garden.There’s mature trees growing already. We just need to clear the bramble thickets.”

Mitch’s face lights up. “We could have a swing for Vicky and somewhere for her to play with Bear

and…”

Klempner takes one look at Mitch’s face. “Done! Let me know how much cash you need and when.”

“Great. Have a think about what you’d like, I’m sure James will produce some sketches for you. Draw

up the plans…?” He casts a questioning eye my way…

“Of course. It’s probably easier if you clear the ground first. Then we can all see what we have to work

with.”

“That’s settled then. Larry, what are you like with a chain saw and a brush-cutter?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never used a brush-cutter. How hard can it be?”

It dawns on me that my Jade-Eyes is not eating. “Charlotte? Are you alright?”

She leans forward, mouth puckered, arms folded over her belly. “Um… Not sure. Just feeling a bit off.”

Mitch slides a hand over her arm… “In what way, off?”

“A bit crampy. Um… you know. Sort of, down below.”

Mitch frowns. “Go to bed for an hour or so. I’ll bring you some tea.”

“I’m supposed to be…”

“You’re not supposed to be anything. Go lie down.”

“But…”

I cut in. “Charlotte, do as your mother says. Michael take her upstairs.”

But he’s already standing. “Come on, Babe. Let’s get you to bed for a couple of hours. Later on, we’ll

go for a stroll around the lake, loosen you up a bit.”

Mitch and Michael accompany Charlotte. Beth joins them. I consider the remains of Charlotte’s half-

eaten breakfast. Bear, more or less at eye level with the tabletop, groans appreciation. Scruffy backs it

up with twitch-tailed applause.

“It could be morning sickness,” comments Richard. “She had some of that with Cara.”

I scrape the plate between the dog bowls. “She had a few queasy weeks, but it didn’t come with

cramp.” Scruffy muscles his way past Bear, making a grab for the larger bowl.

*****

From upstairs, a cry: Charlotte.

I’ve heard Charlotte’s cries often enough. I’m the cause of many of them. But this is nothing like the

sounds she makes during those delicious moments of sexual torment. This sound is stomach-churning,

sick with anguish.

For a heartbeat, the sound freezes me. Then, I set off at a run, charging upstairs, taking the steps two

at a time.

The horrible scream has died. Instead, Charlotte’s sobs rattle from the bedroom, a hacking, choking

sound.

The door of the en-suite stands open. She’s sitting on the floor by the lavatory, shaking and sobbing.

“Charlotte?”

Through great heaving sobs, she can’t speak. Instead, raising a tear-streaked face to mine, she points

into the lavatory bowl.

There in the water, blood swirls around what, if I didn’t know better, I would take to be a blood clot. I

don’t need to look closer…

The bedroom door slams open behind me, Michael charging in, Klempner right behind him. Both skid

to a halt at the bathroom door.

What do I say? I nod Michael to the small bloody tragedy bobbing in the water. He looks, inhales. His

eyes squeeze closed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” Charlotte chokes the words out from between the sobs…

Michael crouches beside her, takes her in his arms. “Babe, it’s not your fault. It happens. It just does.

All the time.”

“I lost your baby. Our baby.” Racked with weeping, she raises swollen eyes. “It was your baby and you

wanted it so much and I lost it.”

“Yeah, but sometimes, well, shit happens...” Michael’s eyes are glossy. “… And if there was something

wrong, then it’s better it happened now rather than later on.” Lifting her, he carries Charlotte to the bed,

then sitting on the edge, rocks her in his arms. “You know, there was another one between me and Ben

that never made it. My Mom lost it after only a few weeks.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“What did she do?”

“Well, I wasn’t there to ask…” His attempt at humour draws a pale smile from Charlotte… “… but from

what Dad told me, much much later, they tried again and I was the result. And that’s what we’ll do.

Okay?”

“Okay.” But despite her agreement, Charlotte still streams tears, she buries her face into his chest.

Silently, Klempner moves beside me. “Anything I can do?” he murmurs.

“I don’t think so. We’ll just leave them alone for a while, I think.”

*****

PAT

You do look after yourself. That’s good to see. In the market, I watch what you load into your bag:

apples, greens, carrots, a cauliflower, some sort of fresh fish.

You walk with a swing, stepping out, making the most of the sunshine. Such lovely posture you have.

Upright. A straight spine. A true dancer’s body. And the sun brings out the best in your hair: glossy,

black as a raven’s wing, swaying with you as you move.

You’re just perfect.

Another stall, piled with produce. You pause, checking over the strawberries…

Not those. They’re overripe.

They’ll be off by tomorrow…

… but move on.

At the next stand, celery.

Yes, celery’s very good for you. Loaded with antioxidants.

You point out a nice head, fresh and green, looking just-picked. The stall-holder chats to you as he

bags it up, gives you a wink…

He trying to hit on you?

But you’re merely polite as you smile and take your change.

Then, as he passes you the bag, he fumbles and it drops to the ground.

Snatching up the bag, dirty from the mud, I brush it down a bit before I pass it to you. “He should be

more careful. It’s probably damaged. You should ask for a different one.”

You smile at me. “Thanks.”