Post by Mary-Anne on May 4, 2015 4:12:57 GMT 7
This is part of a short story (not the beginning or the end, somewhere early on though probably) ... any comments would be useful -- is it interesting?
They didn’t phone – the police that is – they came to the door. The peculiar thing was, I was reading that book, Microfractures in Plate Welds, the very same book I was reading the day Maurice was born. Of course, it was totally out of date. In fact, that’s precisely why I was reading it. Ellie’d announced that she’d plans for the lounge.
‘Let’s spruce it up,’ she’d said, ‘we’ll feel better if it looks nicer.’
Different is what she meant. As if, in some way, we could become different people just by changing the colour scheme. She asked me to go through the bookcase, see if anything could go to Oxfam and I’d picked this one out. I starting leafing through it and then I got engrossed in the grainy cross-cut black and white photos with the white arrows indicating the positions of the micro fractures, for anyone who mightn’t recognise them.
It was as if I was back in the waiting room, waiting for Dr. Trent to tell me something that he seemed positively reluctant about.
‘Mr. Smith … George ...’ he said, and his eyes kept sliding off to the right or left or onto the floor. He squared his shoulders then. ‘Look, the baby’s fine, a boy, and your wife is …. well, the birth went smoothly, nothing untoward at all. But – how would you say it – ah, she’s a bit upset.’
‘Upset about what?’ I asked.
‘The baby is a lively little thing, perfect in every way …’ Trent stopped there, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
‘Spit it out,’ I said.
‘George, the baby has a crop of black hair, some babies do, y’know, have hair.’
‘Black? I said, thinking of my English rose Ellie, and my own straw-colouring.
‘ … and his skin’s dark too. Maybe a few generations back you had a relation who was from India or Africa?’
‘No.’
‘Or Ellie?’
‘Not that I’ve ever heard about.’
‘Ah,’ Trent said, as if the matter was now dealt with, ‘well, come and meet the little fellah.’ I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. My mouth kept opening and closing like I was a mad mime artist of something. Finally, I pushed the words out.
‘Could it be a mix-up – the wrong baby, that sort of thing?’
Trent shook his head. ‘No – neither mother or baby has left that room.’
In my head, I was rifling through just where we were 9 months ago, what we were doing. What Ellie was doing.
‘Look,’ said Trent, ‘you’ve a fine son. These things happen and … he’ll probably get paler as he grows up.’
I remembered something then, about genetics. It wasn’t really my subject – I’d only ever been interested in engineering, right from I was old enough to talk. But I did do science at school and that included basic biology.
‘What colour are his eyes?’ I asked.
‘Ah,’ Trent replied, looking into my pale blue eyes, registering their colour and thinking of Ellie’s equally blue eyes. ‘The baby’s eyes are blue.’ Relief! ‘But,’ Trent said, ‘all babies are born with blue eyes. Their eye colour can change when they’re a few weeks old.’
‘Well his won’t.’
‘Look, George, that theory about it being impossible for blue-eyes parents to have a brown-eyed child … a lot of people believe that but it isn’t actually true. Genetics are a lot more complex than people think. Eye colour isn’t just a matter of the recessive and xxxx genes, it also depends on the production of pigment in the eye. It is possible for a blue eyed man and a blue eyed woman to produce a baby with brown eyes. A lot of people have leapt to silly conclusions because they don’t understand genetics properly.’
It’s the same with welds really. It’s not just a matter of welding two plates together using molten metal as glue.
They didn’t phone – the police that is – they came to the door. The peculiar thing was, I was reading that book, Microfractures in Plate Welds, the very same book I was reading the day Maurice was born. Of course, it was totally out of date. In fact, that’s precisely why I was reading it. Ellie’d announced that she’d plans for the lounge.
‘Let’s spruce it up,’ she’d said, ‘we’ll feel better if it looks nicer.’
Different is what she meant. As if, in some way, we could become different people just by changing the colour scheme. She asked me to go through the bookcase, see if anything could go to Oxfam and I’d picked this one out. I starting leafing through it and then I got engrossed in the grainy cross-cut black and white photos with the white arrows indicating the positions of the micro fractures, for anyone who mightn’t recognise them.
It was as if I was back in the waiting room, waiting for Dr. Trent to tell me something that he seemed positively reluctant about.
‘Mr. Smith … George ...’ he said, and his eyes kept sliding off to the right or left or onto the floor. He squared his shoulders then. ‘Look, the baby’s fine, a boy, and your wife is …. well, the birth went smoothly, nothing untoward at all. But – how would you say it – ah, she’s a bit upset.’
‘Upset about what?’ I asked.
‘The baby is a lively little thing, perfect in every way …’ Trent stopped there, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
‘Spit it out,’ I said.
‘George, the baby has a crop of black hair, some babies do, y’know, have hair.’
‘Black? I said, thinking of my English rose Ellie, and my own straw-colouring.
‘ … and his skin’s dark too. Maybe a few generations back you had a relation who was from India or Africa?’
‘No.’
‘Or Ellie?’
‘Not that I’ve ever heard about.’
‘Ah,’ Trent said, as if the matter was now dealt with, ‘well, come and meet the little fellah.’ I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. My mouth kept opening and closing like I was a mad mime artist of something. Finally, I pushed the words out.
‘Could it be a mix-up – the wrong baby, that sort of thing?’
Trent shook his head. ‘No – neither mother or baby has left that room.’
In my head, I was rifling through just where we were 9 months ago, what we were doing. What Ellie was doing.
‘Look,’ said Trent, ‘you’ve a fine son. These things happen and … he’ll probably get paler as he grows up.’
I remembered something then, about genetics. It wasn’t really my subject – I’d only ever been interested in engineering, right from I was old enough to talk. But I did do science at school and that included basic biology.
‘What colour are his eyes?’ I asked.
‘Ah,’ Trent replied, looking into my pale blue eyes, registering their colour and thinking of Ellie’s equally blue eyes. ‘The baby’s eyes are blue.’ Relief! ‘But,’ Trent said, ‘all babies are born with blue eyes. Their eye colour can change when they’re a few weeks old.’
‘Well his won’t.’
‘Look, George, that theory about it being impossible for blue-eyes parents to have a brown-eyed child … a lot of people believe that but it isn’t actually true. Genetics are a lot more complex than people think. Eye colour isn’t just a matter of the recessive and xxxx genes, it also depends on the production of pigment in the eye. It is possible for a blue eyed man and a blue eyed woman to produce a baby with brown eyes. A lot of people have leapt to silly conclusions because they don’t understand genetics properly.’
It’s the same with welds really. It’s not just a matter of welding two plates together using molten metal as glue.
