Not long ago, I came across a woman strolling along the lane with her eighteen-month-old daughter, adrift like a ghost among the citys hum, her attention caught in webs unseen. Had I not called out to her, she would have simply floated past, as if I were invisible. When her eyes finally found mine, a flicker of delight surfacedquickly replaced by an odd, hollow indifference, like morning mist over a grey river. Curious, I inquired, gently, and she unraveled for me the whole strange tapestry of her home life.
Theyd been wed for lovea shining springtime romance full of hesitant laughter, secret glances, and moonlit walks on pebbled High Street. Afterwards, her husband doted on her, carrying her as if she weighed nothing at all, the two of them seeking peace even as the world insisted on twisting their paths apart. But when their daughter Harriet was born, everything turned dizzyingly upside down.
He had thought himself the proud, modern father, but reality proved pricklier. He worked from an upstairs room in their tidy London terrace, but found Harriets gentle wails and playful shrieks ever in his ears, needling his concentration. Most of the childcare fell onto his wifes weary shoulders, though every so often he endured a scolding for not pulling his weight.
More and more, the awareness of her maternity leaveand the dwindling flow of pounds into their householdset his teeth on edge. He wielded this fact like a ledger, pushing every last bit of parental care onto his wife. Eventually, he insisted she return to work and made plans for the grandparents to mind young Harriet, brushing off protests about their age and frailty. Bank statements became his nightly reading; he rejected every explanation, convinced only more money could repair the growing cracks. He explored every nursery, every crèche in the phonebook, not out of concern but so he could avert having to feed or bathe his own child.
From then on, he took over the grocery shopping, doling out coins sparingly, weary of what he called her extravagancesthe soft cheese, fresh fruit, a packet of biscuits, all now luxuries forbidden. Feeling strangled by his thrift and coldness, the womanmy friend Rachelfled the house more often, leading Harriet like a little duckling through the citys parks and playgrounds, both of them catching snippets of sunlight beyond their stoic walls.
Despairing, Rachel asked me what she ought to do, but my tongue twisted and gave her nothing but vague comforts. Divorce? Unthinkablefor even now, tangled in this peculiar English love, she was bound to Patrick. She could not bear the thought of shredding their family, especially with Harriet toddling towards her own childhood. Nor could she stand the relentless drip-drip of blame about their empty pursenot her failing at all.
So, as we parted at the corner of a softly gaslit street, I told her what people always do in dreams: Be brave, Itll all come right, Every cloud has a silver lining, hoping against hope that, in the dream, things would somehow reset themselves by morning.
