Читать книгу The Three of U.S.: A New Life in New York - Peter Godwin - Страница 35

I am still wondering how to tell the office about my pregnancy when Peter raises the issue of telling our respective parents. I know we must, but I am still apprehensive. His, I know, will be thrilled. Having spent their entire adult lives in the Third World, nothing seems to faze them and considering they are both now in their seventies they remain amazingly flexible in attitude.

I’m not worried about my father either – he is the most amiable, patient person I know and, after thirty years of trying to interest inner-city comprehensive kids in Shakespeare, he is resolutely unshockable. It’s my mother who’s the problem. My mother is a vicar’s daughter and a former marriage guidance counsellor who is doing her best to reconcile herself to the fact that both her daughters now live with men to whom they are not married.

‘Go on,’ says Peter, pushing the phone across the dining table. ‘Just do it, I’m sure she’ll be over the moon.’ It is 9.15 a.m. and we have just finished breakfast, so given the five-hour time difference I think they will have finished lunch in Yorkshire.

‘I’ll just tidy the breakfast stuff up first,’ I say brightly, though our caffè lattes and warm blueberry muffins arrived in a bag from Barocco, one of a score of delis within 500 yards which deliver our breakfast, so there is nothing to wash up.

‘Go on, stop playing for time,’ he admonishes, hauling the New York Times onto the sofa and beginning to weed out the numerous sections we never read.

‘Hello?’ My mother answers the phone. She sounds suspicious, a tone which I’ve noticed has increased since she took over management of the local Neighbourhood Watch and now receives long recorded messages from the police about local burglaries, which she diligently transcribes by hand on her blue Basildon Bond pad and distributes to the neighbours.

‘Hello, it’s me,’ I say.

‘Hello!’ she cries. ‘Hang on, and I’ll just tell your father to go and listen on the extension upstairs.’ A good start; at least I’ve caught them together.

‘I’ve got some news,’ I begin awkwardly.

‘Oh yes?’

‘You’re going to be grandparents.’

There is a pause and a sharp intake of breath.

‘Oh,’ says my mother. And then, with a small tinge of hope, ‘I mean, well, I have one question for you. Does this mean you are finally going to get married?’

‘No,’ I reply slowly. ‘I don’t think we are. No.’ I hope this sounds firm.

‘How will you look after it?’ she asks, sounding mildly incredulous.

‘Mum, I’m thirty-six.’

‘Congratulations, duckie,’ my father’s voice booms down the extension, valiantly trying to drown out my mother’s apparent shock.

‘I’m trembling,’ my mother says, dramatically. ‘Oh dear, I had no idea. I need to sit down …’

‘I’m going to be a grandfather!’ Dad says excitedly.

My mother interrupts him. ‘Oh dear,’ she laments again, and I can hear her struggling to say something encouraging. ‘Oh dear,’ she repeats quietly, ‘I think I need a brandy.’