2002 - Wake up (25 page)

Our son needs to wake and when he does I’ll scoop him up before he becomes conscious of his empty stomach, and I’ll carry him through to his sleeping mother. She’ll wake even as we approach the bedroom, already be heaving herself up on to her elbows by the time we reach the bed; be groping for the feeding pillow, and the muslin with which she covers her spare, leaking breast. By then John Junior’s hunger will be making itself known to him, but the sight of his mother will counteract this signal, and he’ll smile at her as she sleepily greets him—“Hello, gorgeous,”—as I pass him to her. His smile will engulf her nipple. He will guzzle milk from Lily’s full breast.

This morning he needed to wake, but couldn’t. He began to flail as if drowning in sleep. Our son could do with some help. I leaned over him and whispered, “My darling, calm yourself. The day awaits, a life awaits you, this world is yours for the taking.” I kissed his forehead. “Wake up, my beamish boy. Wake up.”

He is me. John Junior is my clone. Four hundred thousand pounds, he cost us. Worth every penny, I think. Ironic, isn’t it? I couldn’t reproduce, but I reproduced myself. If that’s not creative, I don’t know what is.

We want a girl next. It’s Lily’s turn, I suppose. A brother and a sister, like Mummy and Dad. Though me, I wouldn’t mind another Melody. I think she deserves it. We’ll see. We’re just a bit short of cash right now. But I’m not worried. We’ve got Euro snacks. Crisper chips. We’ve got Edible Plant Vaccines. Something’s coming up and we’re going to make real money, and then we can do what we want.

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