The Last Weekend Read Online Free PDF

at me. We were passing a tower block of straw bales in an empty field.
‘Because she’s a woman and most of your cases are young men.’
‘That’s not the reason.’
The dotted white lines crawled beneath us. Badingley could take hours with the sand lorry in front of us. There was no getting round it.
‘Because of the baby,’ I said.
‘She couldn’t be left there. The boyfriend’s too much of a risk.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Magda needs support, till she sorts herself out. But good short-term carers are hard to find. It made me think.’
‘Think what?’ I said, walking straight into it.
‘That fostering’s an option for us. Or adoption. I’m sure they’d fast-track us. If that’s what we wanted.’
What I wanted was for Em to fast-track us past the sodding sand lorry. But there was a Land Rover with a flashing light ahead of it, and ahead of the Land Rover was a combine harvester — red, rusty, a relic of the agricultural revolution – taking up most of the road.
If I’d been honest, I’d have said it wasn’t Em’s job to take in waifs and strays, let alone the progeny of rapes. That I got enough of kids at school. That I liked the silence of the house, the vacancy of the rooms. That to me silence and vacancy signified potential, not failure.
‘It’s a big step,’ I said.
‘I knew you’d say that.’
‘Well, it is. How could we cope with a baby when we’re both working? We don’t even know this Magda.’
‘You’re missing the point.’
‘How am I?’
‘I’m not suggesting we foster Magda’s baby.’
‘What then?’
‘I was talking about fostering in general. But even the thought of it seems to send you into a panic.’
Had I been so obvious?
‘Having our own kid is different from taking on someone else’s,’ I said.
‘But what if it comes to that?’ she said. ‘If you don’t want children, I ought to know.’
‘Of course I want them, if you want them.’
‘But do you want them for yourself? I sometimes wonder how committed you are. I’d like you to think about that, Ian.’
I stared at the tailgate of the sand lorry, as sand grains fell useless on the road.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll think about it. But this weekend’s meant to be a break. If Ollie and Daisy start asking questions …’
‘I won’t say a thing.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
We squeezed hands, closing the discussion. I’d been let off. This time.
Out in the sticks, with all four windows down, the heat seemed different — syrupy, poppied, medicinal. I turned to stroke Rufus, who was still panting heavily in the back. It was early afternoon now, the sun high in the sky.
‘How far now?’ Em said.
‘Ten miles maybe. Not that we’ll ever get there,’ I said, nodding at the vehicles ahead.
As soon as I said it, though, the combine and Land Rover pulled over into a lay-by and the sand lorry miraculously turned off. 1.27. The first bit of luck all day. With Ollie’s emailed directions to guide us we made good progress — until we reached a pink pub with a thatched roof and (as instructed) turned right, right and right, which brought us to the same pink pub again.
‘One of those rights must be a left,’ Em said, pulling up in the pub car park.
‘Or a straight on,’ I said.
Rufus began to bark, thinking we’d arrived. We got out to stretch our legs and give him some air.
Outside the pub an old man was sitting on a bench, a stick beside him, his face purple as heather, and a handkerchief knotted on his head. When I asked him the way to Badingley he said he’d never heard of it.
Em suggested we enquire at the bar, but I was for pressing on and grabbed the driver’s seat before she could. After a sequence of experiments with lefts, rights and straight-ons wefound ourselves by a peculiar flint house called the Hexagon. If we turned left there – so Ollie’s emailed directions said – we would arrive in Badingley directly.
So it proved. We were at Badingley in no time. And remained in no time till we