Free Dick Francis's Gamble by Felix Francis

hadn’t eaten anything all day in preparation for a high-calorie encounter with her cooking and, by now, I was really hungry.
    I went up to the guest bedroom and changed out of my suit and into jeans and sweatshirt. I tossed my mobile onto the bed. As always, the closeness to Cleeve Hill, and the phone-signal shadow it produced, rendered the thing useless. But at least I’d have a rest from its constant ringing.
    When I came down, my mother was standing by the stove starting supper with saucepans already steaming on the hob.
    â€œHelp yourself to a glass of wine,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ve already got one.”
    I went over to the antique sideboard that had once sat in the dining room of the big house and helped myself to a glass of Merlot from the open bottle.
    â€œHow is Claudia?” my mother asked.
    â€œFine, thank you,” I said. “She sends her love.”
    â€œShe should have come with you.”
    Yes, I thought, she should have. There had been a time when we couldn’t bear to be apart from each other even for a single night, but now that longing had seemingly evaporated. Perhaps that is what happens after six years.
    â€œHigh time you made an honest woman out of her,” my mother said. “Time you were married and raising children.”
    Was it?
    In spite of what had happened to my parents, I’d always believed that someday I would marry and have a family. A few years ago, I’d even discussed the prospect with Claudia but she had dismissed the notion, saying that marriage was for boring people and that children were troublesome and not for artists like her who were busy pushing the boundaries of existence and imagination. I wondered if she still felt the same way. There had certainly been no recent hints about rings on the finger or brooding over other people’s babies, but, if there were, would I still have welcomed them?
    â€œBut you and Dad are hardly a great advertisement for marriage,” I said, possibly unwisely.
    â€œNonsense,” she said, turning around to face me. “We were married for thirty years and brought you into the world. I would call that a success.”
    â€œBut you got divorced,” I said in disbelief. “And you fought all the time.”
    â€œWell, maybe we did,” she said, turning back to her pans. “But it was still a success. And I don’t regret it.” I was amazed. She must be getting soft in her old age. “No,” she went on, “I don’t regret it for a second because otherwise you wouldn’t exist.”
    What could I say? Nothing. So I didn’t.
    She turned back to face me once more. “And now I want some grandchildren.”
    Ah, I thought. There had to be a reason somewhere.
    And I was an only child.
    â€œYou should have had more children yourself, then,” I said with a laugh. “Not good to put all your eggs in one basket.”
    She stood very still, and I thought she was going to cry.
    I placed my glass down on the kitchen table, stepped forward and put my arm around her shoulder.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” she said, reaching for a tissue and dabbing her eyes. “You never knew.”
    â€œKnew what?” I asked.
    â€œNothing. Forget it.”
    It clearly wasn’t nothing if it reduced her to tears all these years later.
    â€œCome on, Mum,” I said. “Something’s obviously troubling you. Tell me.”
    She sighed. “We wanted more children. We wanted lots. You were the first, although you were quite a long time coming as we’d been married for nearly eight years by then. I was so happy you were a boy.” She smiled at me and stroked my cheek. “But something had gone wrong with my insides, and we couldn’t have any more.”
    It was me who was almost crying now. I had always so wanted brothers and