 | | at a party back in the sixties; something quivered in the air between them, and, for good or bad, Nell began. Spirit made flesh, flesh of their flesh, love of their loveand fortunately, and no thanks to the pair of them, it was, in the end, for good.
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| | But that was back in the sixties, the age of innocence. What a time that was! When everyone wanted everything, and thought they could have it, and what's more had a
right
to it. Marriage, and freedom within it. Sex without babies. Revolution without poverty. Careers without selfishness. Art without effort. Knowledge without learning by rote. Dinner, in other words, and no dishes to clean up afterward. "Why don't we do it in the road?" they cried. Why not?
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| | Ah, but they were good days! When the Beatles filled the airwaves and if you looked down you discovered you had a flowered plastic carrier bag in your hand and not a plain brown one, and that the shoes on your feet were suddenly green or pink, and not the brown or black your forebears had been wearing for centuries. When a girl took a pill in the morning to prepare her for whatever safe sexual adventures the day might bring, and a youth lit a cigarette without a thought of cancer, and took a girl to bed without fear of worse. When the cream flowed thick into
bouef en daube
and no one had heard of a low-fat/low-protein diet, and no one dreamed of showing starving babies on TV, and you could have your cake and eat it too.
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| | Those years when the world lurched out of earnestness and into frivolity were fun indeed for Clifford and Helen, but not, when it came to it, for little Nell. Angels of gravity and resolution need to stand around the newborn's crib, the more so if the latter happens to be draped in brilliant psychedelic satin, not sensible white, washable, ironable cotton.
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But love, in that novel, certainly had something going for it. Nell, the child of love, was goodno matter how bad her parents, the lovers, were.
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And I had a word or so to say about abortion:
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| | Abortion is sometimes necessary, sometimes not, always sad. It is to the woman as war is to the mana living sacrifice in a cause justified or not justified, as the observer may decide. It is the making of hard decisionsthat this one must die that that one can live in honour and decency and comfort. Women have no leaders, of course; a woman's conscience must be her General. There are no stirring songs to make the task of killing easier, no victory marches and medals handed around afterwards, merely a sense of loss.
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And I was prepared in that novel to give practical advice as well. Never have your baby on Christmas Day, I said, and meant it.
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| | Christmas is not a good time to have a baby. The nurses drink too much sherry and spend their time singing carols; the young doctors kiss them under the mistletoe; senior surgeons dress up as Father Christmas. Helen gave birth to Nell unattended, in a private ward, where she lay alone. Had she been in the ordinary public ward at least one of the other patients would have been there to help; as it was, her red light glowed in the nurses' station hour after hour, and no one noticed.
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