Letter

Dear dad,

I have a few minutes to fill you in on the latest news. I am now 30, well now 30 and a 1/2 weeks pregnant. I have to say that biology is taxing, if not a bit disconcerting at times. The thought that, well, romance - you know - can result in this explosion of growth. I have gained too many pounds, I think, but my OB days it's all on schedule. Just from two little cells… But getting down to the wire in about two months.

There does come a point though that any mum just needs a good night's sleep. This little baby has become quite the night owl, so my sleep has been rather interesting, interrupted too often. I never heard you or my mum talk about such things. Was I being a "problem" foetus inside mum? Jumping jacks? I mean, did I drive Eleanor up the wall at times? This one (boy or girl we don't know, we decided to not know from an ultrasound) has been very active, as I said. Not much sleep with the odd pokes and kicks.

The weather has finally turned with some warm temperatures and little rain. The flower blossoms are popping out all over and it feels so good to be outside with only a light cardi or jacket.

Martin and I (he says 'hello') took a nice walk up to Lobbers Point the other night and the sunset was marvelous. The whole sky turned orange and pink, and even the ground and grass glowed like a pale pink rose. I wish you could have seen it.

Louisa paused her typing, wondering what to write next. Telling her dad, who was in prison, about weather seemed both kind and cruel. But she recalled reading a history book based on the letters written to and from soldiers and their replies from the trenches of WWI.

One lad had written a reply to his mum and Louisa had written about it for a school essay so she knew the passage by heart.

"Dear mum, you likely think it odd to tell me of the flowers blooming in the back garden, but they gladden my heart for the landscape looking across No Man's Land must be a fair approximation of the Moon, minus the blasted and jagged trees and all the rest of the debris of this too long battle. I wonder how the fields of Flanders can ever recover? Thank you for telling me again that Spring is here. Only the slackening of rain, somewhat less mud and the odd clump of new grass would have told me otherwise."

Louisa had been to that Flanders on a Uni trip - part of European History studies - and the sight of small mounds of rusty artillery projectiles pulled from the fields by farmers' plows had left a lasting impression. So much death and injury, and such a waste! Millions of dead in the end for a redrawn map.

Louisa added more details about the flowers and heather, and wrote about her most artistic students who had drawn stick-figure horses scatted over a large grassy field, part of an art project, to decorate the canteen wall.

She sighed, trying to create a word picture for her dad. After telling her dad more about green grass and scrub, she went on with,

I plan on visiting you soon. Work had been busy with a review from the school authorities. Nothing untoward but the poor man, the reviewer, had a breakdown. It was quite sad. Martin says the man had been showing such obvious signs of distress and strain that it was no wonder he broke down.

Much like Jonathan Crozier, Louisa thought as she rubbed her hands together. She got up from the kitchen table, waddled to Martin's surgery and saw him typing on his computer.

He looked up at her footsteps. "Hello," he said to her.

She went to him, but he snapped his PC cover closed before she might see what he was working on. Secret, okay. "I'm writing to my dad."

"Yes. Good."

"You think we can go up and visit?" She cradled her large football-sized belly. "Soon, I think."

Martin shook his head. "Louisa... I fail to see... how a visit from me could… enhance..." He stopped when he saw her lips quivering. "But, I mean, if you wish, then yes, I would be able to drive you there."

"This Saturday?" she asked.

Martin stared at the wall calendar. "I would cancel patient visits for that morning."

She put her arm over his shoulders and kissed his temple. "It is a long drive."

He nodded. "Almost three hours each way." He shut up before adding his pain at an all-day trip just for a thirty-minute visit with an incarcerated person. "We would have to start the drive early, so..."

Louisa smiled. "I'll have to reserve a time, with the prison."

Martin sighed. "Perhaps 1 PM." Going to HM Cardiff Prison was a chore. He stared at Louisa's belly but he was definitely not about to let his wife drive all that way and back and alone. "I'll shift my patients."

Louisa ruffled his hair. "Thank you, Martin."

He nodded. "Yes."

"We could have lunch, after. There's that nice restaurant near there. The one on the city east side? We ate there before."

Martin thought back. The place was all potted palms and polished wood, but the fish was good. "Fine," Martin snapped.

Louisa returned to her typing with a smile.

I'll bring you more magazines, she typed in the electronic message portal. The system allowed families and their family members to communicate and without the expense of stamps and the security concerns of physical mail. Any actual parcels would be carefully examined and screened. Magazines were simple to take there, a quick X-ray and gloved hands flipping through them.

The prison building was large, gray and grim, but the visitor center was brightly lit and painted and the furniture was actually cushioned.

Magazines – she'd have to choose them carefully. There were guidelines; nothing violent in print. Anything to break up the monotony.

Are you still working in the woodshop? She turned her head to peer at the bookshelf where Martin's cookbooks were supported by a simple bookend made from recycled wood.

I'm looking at the bookend you made. It's here in our kitchen.

Dad was always good with his hands, and night have made good at it as a trade, but for circumstances; most of the bad ones due to his own mistakes and crime associates. She bit down on a small sob, trying to suppress the sound.

She loved her dad, she really did. Tears leaked from her eyes, dripped down her nose and spattered onto her computer keyboard. But bloody hell, she hated what he had done, from the lying to the stealing (even taking the village Lifeboat Fund!) and then smuggling explosives into the country.

In the other room Martin heard Louisa make a small choking sound, so he followed it. He saw his wife cradling her head in her hands at the table. "Um, are you okay?"

Louisa shook her head side to side.

Martin knew that his wife was emotional. Being pregnant made her even more so. He stood in the doorway, hands at his sides, back ramrod straight, and took a small quiet breath.

Louisa could tell that Martin has standing very close. She could tell from the sound of his breath, a slight scrape of his old-fashioned shoe leather, and yes, the scent of his bland underarm deodorant. She did not turn to look at him, though, she needed this small moment of aloneness. A few seconds of being miserable. Sometimes she just needed to be sad.

"Louisa?" Martin asked.

She shook her head; no answer could be given. Her head drooped, and heart ached, until the flood came.

Only then did Martin feel it was safe, or best, to approach her. Her beautiful long hair draped down, hiding her face and as he knelt by her the dam broke, and her entire body began to shake in paroxysms of sorrow.