‘Don’t speak like that in front of Catherine, she can hear you.’ Acutely aware of his wife’s moods, his own words were muted and light, with an attempt at humour. He smiled down at three week old Catherine, and rubbed her belly with a light tickle. ‘Oh don’t do that, she doesn’t want a poo-ey hand touching her. Haven’t you finished?’ James had indeed finished changing the nappy. Poor Catherine had seemed a little constipated, and had squealed and cried and turned bright red as she howled. He’d come home from work to be greeted by the shrieks from the pram in the outer porch whilst Alma had been finishing making dinner in the kitchen. Alma liked dinner to be on the table in front of him as he walked in the door at 6.15. The screeching from Catherine had been matched by the icy silence from Alma, as he entered at 5.55. Prior to his daughter’s birth, he’d have hung around at the train station until he could walk in the door at the correct moment. Now, his desire to hold his daughter in his arms, lift her up and cuddle her, and have that bit more time with her before she was sentenced to the bedroom at 7.15, over rode other considerations.
