The Birth of a Grandfather by May Sarton

Author:May Sarton
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504017978
Publisher: Open Road Media

CHAPTER FIVE

“Don’t be surprised,” Betsy said, suddenly anxious, as she and Tom neared the house on that Sunday morning, just in time for the ritual glass of sherry before the ritual Sunday dinner, “if Pa doesn’t say a word about the baby, will you?”

Tom laughed. “I don’t care,” he said, “if you don’t.” They were in a daze of happiness, had taken a long way round so as to walk arm in arm, stopping to admire other peoples’ gardens (for Betsy’s sake) and other peoples’ houses (for Tom’s, for he talked about building one day and wanted to know what was going on). Tom carried a large green paper comet of daffodils. It had been his idea; he had thought of it as they were lying in bed after a luxurious Sunday breakfast on a tray.

“Your father must be very upset about Bill Waterford,” Tom had said, “I think we should take some flowers.”

“Flowers? For Pa?” Betsy sat up straight with surprise and looked back at him, her eyebrows lifted.

“Why not?”

“You’re so lavish, darling. I shall never get used to it.” The Wyeths sent flowers when people died or were terribly ill in the hospital. The Dorgans sent flowers whenever they felt like it, and what was wrong with that?

As they pushed open the door and Betsy called out “Here we are!” he stood with the daffodils in his hands and knew that in spite of everything he was intruding upon a strange tribe, and that he would never, never be one of them.

“Put these in water,” he said stiffly to Betsy, as the family converged upon them.

“Flowers!” Frances shouted in her excitable social voice, “how lovely—I couldn’t bear to pick any this morning, but the drawing room does look sad—how sweet of you, Tom. How you do spoil us!”

Frances and Betsy disappeared into the kitchen with the flowers, and Tom found himself alone with his father-in-law.

“Well, let’s have a glass of sherry,” Sprig led the way into the drawing room.

“We brought the flowers, Sir, because”—Tom swallowed, feeling suddenly the enormity of this simple gesture in the present context—“to express our feelings about Bill Waterford. It’s hard news. I’m sorry,” he said.

“Nice of you, Tom; we appreciate it,” Sprig said, his face absolutely rigid.

He poured out the sherry and handed Tom his glass, then gave him a quick desperate look. “We can expect a little Dorgan, I hear.” He raised his glass, but avoided Tom’s eyes. And before there was time to answer, Sprig asked, “How are things at the bank?”

The hurdle, Tom thought, has been very neatly taken. In fact, now that it was done, Sprig visibly relaxed, loosened his collar a little and actually looked at Tom.

“I sometimes wonder,” Tom answered “whether they teach simple arithmetic any more in the schools—we have the damnedest time straightening out these perfectly intelligent women’s accounts.”

“Well”—and Sprig smiled his rare amused smile—“I dare say they teach it, but you can’t force a horse to water or a woman to make a simple addition.

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