68. Wreck Of The Hesperus

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Poison penmen sneak, have no nerve to speak
Make up lies then they leak 'm out
Behind a pseudonym, the rottenness in them
Reaching out trying to touch me


'She doesn't really... do very much, does she?' Minnie says, behind me.

'What?' I ask, not listening to her. I put my hands on the window ledge and try to push myself up, leaning forward, pressing my nose against the glass in an effort to see a little more of the street below.

'She's just... there,' Minnie continues. 'Sleeps, cries, feeds, sleeps, cries...'

'She's four days old. What do you expect her to do? Magic tricks? Dance the can-can?'

I still can't see anything. I give up with a short sigh and turn away from the window. Minnie leans with her arms folded on the baby's cot at the side of the hospital bed. The baby's sleeping. I will strangle her if she wakes her up. She was crying all morning. She'd only finally drifted off to sleep just before Minnie arrived.

Minnie twists her mouth and straightens up, stepping away from the cot. 'When are you going to give the poor mite a name?'

'I don't know. George and I can't agree on one. Everything I like, he doesn't, and vice versa.'

There's a burst of noise from the street below. Laughter. The small crowd laughing at something terribly witty or amusing.

'Why don't you flip a coin for it then? Whoever wins picks the name.'

I stare at her, aghast. 'Are you kidding? What if George won?!'

I return to the window, pressing myself against the glass, trying to see him, but I'm no more successful than I was a minute ago. I put my foot on a black painted water pipe which runs the length of the skirting board, testing if it will take my weight so I can get another few inches higher.

'What are you doing?' Minnie asks, alarmed. 'That old bag will murder you if you break that.'

'I won't break it,' I say, but as I'm speaking the pipe moves under my foot. I step down off it, unwilling to risk it. 'It's George,' I tell Minnie. 'He's down there. I want to know what he's doing.'

Minnie joins me at the window. George is at the front of the hospital, standing on the steps up to the door. He's just out of my view, although occasionally I see the flap of his jacket, or a shoe, or the top of his head if he moves forward. There are lots of press camping outside, photographers mostly, a few journalists. George has been there for at least five minutes, chatting with them. They're calling out questions, laughing at his jokes and quips, while they continually snap his picture.

'So?' Minnie says, trying to peer with me. 'He just talking to them.'

'Well, that's it, isn't it? He hates the media at the best of times. Why is he suddenly so enamoured with them today? What are they asking him?'

Minnie pauses, then she turns away from the window. 'He's just doing his doting father lark,' she says, her voice sounding odd. 'You know, proud new dad.'

I frown. 'There's still something... odd about it. Did they photograph you, when you arrived?'

'They tried to,' she sniffs. 'But I stuck two fingers up at them and told them if they take my picture, my manager will want to speak to them.'

'Your manager?'

'Yeah. Albie.'

'What? Who's Albie?!'

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