Free Black Bread White Beer by Niven Govinden Page B

and of Sam’s one-man effort to force out all that is pestilent and unsavoury. These debates are set to continue until a baby is held securely in a grandfather’s arms – until the next issue comes along needing to be worried about.
    In the three weeks since the news, both Liz and Sam appeared to have undergone two contradictory procedures: they are invigorated, and yet they look older – old – as if something in Claud’s teasing question ‘are you ready to be grandparents?’ has triggered conflict within their bodies.
    Their molecular structure has been waiting all this time for an alarm call, and now that it has been triggered, their physiognomy has accelerated them into their third age. His eyes are bright, but the face appears more deeply lined; tufts of hair sprouting from ears and eyebrows look unrulier than before. The hairline itself has further receded, making the sharp side parting look as though it springs as far back as his crown, and the skin across hands and elbows appears looser, although the efforts of the tanning bed do their best to cover it. Most obvious of all is the slackening in his posture, from the curve in his lower back, making his belly protrude, to the newly risen hunch at the base of his neck.
    Dad to Grandad in twenty-one days. It is irreversible. Now they have committed so wholeheartedly, their middle-age can only be viewed as past. Grandparents without a grandchild. He and Claud are still capable of any transformation, but Sam, and by extension Liz, Ma and Puppa too, will remain this old, waiting for a child’s birth to power them.
    Only the secondary development, this new-found energy, will save them; a deep-rooted motor that has given them purpose, battling the ravages of cellular decay. They cannot be protected from heartache, grief for something so small they cannot even put a fitting name to it. But this rediscovered energy will rally them into positive thinking, pushing them back into the thrust of harebrained schemessuch as the opposing of the asylum tribunal centre. Amal hopes that he and Claud can be swept up in the whirlwind. They need these arms around them.

    When female company arrives it is not in the numbers they were hoping for. There is only one of them. Amal fiddles with the flyer, glad that he still has it in his hand, hoping that Liz does not register the disappointment on both his and Sam’s faces. She is carrying a tray loaded with food, and though she is concentrating on not spilling anything, the flickering in her eyes registers their dissatisfaction, that she is only second billing to the main show in spite of her careful clothing choices, dark jeans and a short white shirt folded at the sleeves, and light make-up. He thinks of how Ma would feel if she were treated the same way and his ears burn with uncensored shame. He only realizes now how Claud is the centre of the house. Everything else is periphery.
    â€˜I was going to set things up in the dining room, but since there’s just the three of us, there’s no point, really. We can just eat off our laps.’
    Panic casts across Sam’s face, sharply nipped in the bud by his wife. Familiarity with his impulses. Revenge.
    â€˜She’s lying down upstairs. Had a rough night, she said. And I think she was still feeling nauseous from the car.’
    â€˜Been tearing down the B roads have you, Amal? Not looking after my daughter?’
    â€˜Quite the opposite, Sam. It’s why it’s taken us so long to get down here.’
    â€˜It’s nothing to do with speed, Samuel. Her body’s all over the place. The smell of a freshly laundered cotton towel could make her feel sick just as much as a car journey. Remember how I was when I was carrying her?’
    Lunch is the deli counter’s finest decanted into bowls and layered on plates. Aside from the baguette still warm from the oven everything is cold: slices of ham and cheese, boiled eggs, leaf and