Arthur Collins had never liked his son in law. Of his three children, his only daughter Anne was his favourite. She was beautiful, witty, and had always been wise beyond her years, so what she saw in a great scouse pillock like Bill Stone was beyond him. To say that the man was limited would be a gross understatement; he was a weak, willowy, dull, average man who Arthur thought from their first meeting would go on to marry an average woman, have several average children, and live out his average days in an average brick box in an average little town.
‘Some other bloke with film star looks will come along and sweep Annie off her feet soon.’
Eve Collins was herself of humble stock and did not share her husband’s opinion.
‘My mother didn’t like you, if you’ll recall.’
Arthur snorted. ‘Soon changed her tune when she saw my bank book though, didn’t she? Poe-faced cow.’
‘That’s my mother you’re talking about!’
‘She deserved worse ‘n’ all! The only time that miserable excuse for a woman ever smiled was when she found tuppence in the gutter.’
‘Daddy left us destitute!’
‘Right old plonker he was. It’s a shame they’re not here now; imagine if they met old Billy Boy. Cor, they’d probably throw out the red carpet for him!’
Any hope Arthur had of his little girl finding a more suitable companion was dashed three months later when she announced her engagement.
‘Like him or not, Arthur, Bill’s done right by our Anne, and they’re giving us a grandchild; probably the first of many.’
Arthur directed his exasperation at the ceiling. ‘I just hope to God they don’t turn out like him. Bet you two quid they will. I’ll be bouncing pudgy little civil servants on me knee!’
Arthur collapsed in a heap, laughing hysterically at the Sunday paper comic strip image of bald cherubs in reasonably-priced suits that had just popped into his head.
‘Please, God,’ he said when he had recovered, ‘let ‘em turn out sparky.’
At two o’clock in the morning on the seventeenth of April, 1970, Samantha Elizabeth Stone was born. Other baby girls on the ward burst out into the world like grand dames taking to the stage to perform the lead in Carmen – sharp, bright and passionately wailing. Samantha was the grey and quivering understudy, yanked through the curtain with a hook well before she was ready. Bill beamed down at her.
‘You’d think she was the new messiah, the way you’re gawping at her,’ said Arthur later on in the ward.
‘Don’t you take no notice of him, Bill. She’s a lovely little thing.’
‘Thank you, Evelyn.’
The child grimaced, turning up her nose so that it almost blended in with her forehead, but made no sound.
‘Here, darling, I think she might be ready for a feed.’ Bill passed Samantha back to Anne, who took her reluctantly.
‘It’s so odd, the way she just lays there.’
Bill laughed out loud. ‘She’s two hours old, Anne, what did you expect, a Happy Birthday to me?’
‘A simple cry would suffice. She’s just so…still.’
Bill put Anne’s worrying down to first timer nerves, but the situation worsened as the baby grew.
‘Here Bill, take her.’ Anne handed Samantha over to him with an expression of distaste Bill didn’t care for.
‘It’s been six months, Anne; surely we’re past this now.’
‘I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with her.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake.’
‘Why doesn’t she cry?’
Bill had often wondered that himself, but didn’t want to indulge his wife’s lunacy.
‘Perhaps she’s just a very contented child.’
‘Or perhaps there’s something wrong! The only thing separating her from a corpse is those thirsty little eyes.’
Bill shot his wife a worried glance and put the baby back in her cot. ‘Thirsty?’ He felt Anne’s forehead. ‘We’re going to see the doctor.’
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