it or not. If you choose to buy it then you will have made a commitment to the book. In fact you will have involved yourself in the book’s fundamental dilemmas.’
His face glowed as he explained this to her. His green eyes shone and he seemed excited. Sammy Jo handed him the three books and said, ‘All right, I’ll have them. I’ll read the …’ she paused. ‘Why are all these names so hard to pronounce?’
He took the books and put them into a bag. ‘Say the word “start”.’
Sammy Jo repeated after him, ‘Start.’
‘Then take out the first letter t so it’s “sart”.’
She copied him: ‘Sart.’
‘Then say the word “rough”.’
She smiled. ‘Rough.’
‘But forget about the “ugh” part and just say “ro”. Then altogether it’s “Sartre”. Obviously that’s the simple English pronunciation, but people will know who you mean.’
Sammy Jo said the name out loud to him a few times and then handed him some of her child benefit money. She said, ‘I’m going to start the Sartre on the bus home. I hope I enjoy it.’
He finished wrapping up her books and handed them over to her. ‘That’s entirely up to you.’
She grinned. ‘That’s a joke, right?’
When Sammy Jo got home she changed and fed the baby and then made herself a sandwich and sat down on the sofa to start Chapter Two of The Age of Reason. Her main thoughts about its central character, Mathieu, were that she was glad that he wasn’t looking after her baby. He didn’t seem responsible enough. When the telephone rang she told the man on the line these thoughts. She said, ‘Ideas are all right, but ideas can’t guide your life, it isn’t practical or realistic.’
He laughed. ‘So what do you think should be man’s main motivation? The acquisition of food? Making cups of tea?’
She raised her eyebrows – fully cognizant of his cynicism – and stared out of the window. ‘I wasn’t saying that. I’m not quite so stupid. All I mean is that people can’t afford to be so self-indulgent, so luxurious. You have to get on with things. My life would be in a fine mess if I suddenly decided that I wanted to be free, that I couldn’t be bothered to look after my young baby any more because she gets in the way of my freedom and independence.’
The man sounded irritated. ‘No, you’re trivializing the issue. You decided to have the baby, you made that decision freely many months ago. You could have aborted the child had you felt otherwise. The character Mathieu isn’t entirely unhindered in his decisions about whether he wants Marcelle’s baby … that’s silly, what I mean to say is that obviously he doesn’t want a baby but he has other considerations to take into account; Marcelle’s feelings, money, the illegality of abortions …’
Sammy Jo sighed, ‘Men are bastards. Really it’s her problem. He just worries about it to make himself feel good. He’s a shit.’
He interrupted her. ‘The character doesn’t matter, Sammy Jo. It’s his thoughts and actions that are our concern, not whether you happen to like him or not.’
Sammy Jo snorted. ‘If I don’t like the character how can I read and enjoy the book?’
His voice was sharp. ‘That’s stupid. Behave rationally. Since when do you have to like a character in order to be able to understand and sympathize with his dilemmas? You can’t go through life saying, “Oh, she doesn’t sound very nice so I’m not interested in her.” That’s ridiculous. Those sorts of comments are unworthy of you. You should think beyond your own standpoint. If you can’t do that, then a whole dimension is lost to you. Have you got a proper pad of paper now?’
Sammy Jo shrugged and didn’t answer, like a petulant schoolgirl. The voice said, ‘Sammy Jo, answer me.’
She hung up and stared at the telephone for several seconds, waiting for it to ring. It didn’t. She stared at it for a full five minutes, then began to feel stupid. She walked over to Charlie, who was sleeping in her crib, warm and cosy, smelling of milk. Out in the garden a small grey cat was scratching its claws on the thin trunk of a small apple tree. She felt frustrated. She thought, ‘What right does he have to manipulate me like this? He’s imposing on me. He’s a bully. It’s wrong for strangers to interfere like this, to impose like this, to telephone you when they want, to build up a relationship that depends solely on their goodwill …’
She scratched her head and said musingly to Charlie’s tiny body, which, disguised by layers of soft blankets, just rose and fell with the repetitive lull of sleepy breathing, ‘Charlie, people are strange. This man is strange. I suppose I should tell Jason really, but I know he’ll just get upset. I could telephone Lucy Cosbie … but do I really need to? This situation is quite different from before, altogether different. No one is threatening me. I don’t know.’
She went and sat down on the sofa and picked up her book again. She read until five and then went into the kitchen and started to prepare dinner. Jason came in while she was frying some courgettes and cutting mushrooms. He pecked her on the cheek and said, ‘Do I guess from this that Charlie will be enjoying ratatouille-flavoured milk this evening?’
She smiled broadly. ‘You’re welcome to enjoy ratatouille-flavoured milk yourself this evening if you prefer, so long as there’s enough to go around. I don’t know how well garlic and tomatoes translate into a calcium drink, though.’
He shook his head. ‘I think I’ll skip that one, if you don’t mind, Sammy Jo.’
The telephone rang. Jason immediately moved away from her as though to go and answer it. Sammy Jo grabbed hold of his arm and said hurriedly, ‘Jason, I know who that is. It’s for me. My mother said she’d ring this evening.’ She pushed past him as she spoke. ‘I’ll get it. Stir the vegetables, all right?’
He nodded. She picked up the telephone. ‘Hi, Mum. Jason’s home now so I can’t really talk for long.’
The man said, ‘I want you to think about this question very carefully, Sammy Jo. Write it down.’
Sammy Jo picked up a pen and copied down his question with great care on the pizza pad, which was now greatly diminished in size. Then they both said goodbye.
As she put down the telephone receiver she caught sight of her three new books slung carelessly on to the sofa, The Age of Reason open face downwards towards the middle of the text, like a ballerina clumsily doing the splits and unable to rise from that position. Quickly she picked them up and walked over to Charlie’s cot. Picking Charlie up she slid the books under the cot’s small mattress, then carried Charlie into the kitchen. Jason was stirring the courgettes and mushrooms around in the frying pan, staring at the wall in front of him in a tired, unfocused way. He seemed ill at ease. Sammy Jo offered Charlie’s sleepy body to him and said, ‘Give me the wooden spoon in exchange for the baby. You can change her if you like.’
He smiled. ‘What into? A well trained corgi?’
She frowned. ‘Don’t avoid the inevitable, Jason, she feels pretty wet to me.’
He sighed and took hold of Charlie’s tiny body, then carried her into the sitting room. Sammy Jo opened a tin of tomatoes while he lay the baby down on her changing mat
