Thicker Than Soup (31 page)
Authors: Kathryn Joyce
There. She'd said it. The letter was blunt but there wasn't an easy way to say to a man, “You are the father of my twelve year old son and by the way I'm dying of HIV!” If John acknowledged Sammy and things went well, she'd tell him why it was important that Sammy met his father. So little was understood about HIV and even here in England it punched a full factor of ten on the scale of fear. She hadn't told anyone about her status yet, other than her mother. Not even Diane knew. Her viral count was still low and the drugs were helping. Looking at John's letter, she bit the skin at the side of her fingernail. Sammy would need his father one day. What choice did she have? She could arrange for John to see her doctor or one of the counsellors at the Trust, who'd help him understand she wasn't dangerous to anyone.
And, she was more frightened than he could ever be.
One step at a time.
Bath.
Thursday
Dear Sally
Thank you for the photograph of Sammy. He's a fine boy, and looks quite tall. And familiar. I admit that I saw another picture of him some years ago and know that there can be little doubt about who his father is.
In my last letter I told you that I'd traced my parents. In fact, I found my aunt. My parents have both passed on and so I can never know them. This is not how I would like it to be for my (our!) son.
You said in an earlier letter that you have been ill. How are you? Diane told me you are unclear as to the nature of the illness but are getting treatment in London, which I hope is helpful.
Sammy is a cook already? I look forward to coming to lunch on 1
st
July.
Yours truly,
John
His son was cooking! John recalled something that Sally had once given him; a quote by an American columnist who wrote under the unlikely name of âMiss Manners'. It had amused him and he'd kept it the back of the cookery book where, like a pressed flower, it still lay.
“There are three possible parts to a date, of which at least two must be offered: entertainment, food, and affection. It is customary to begin a series of dates with a great deal of entertainment, a moderate amount of food, and the merest suggestion of affection. As the amount of affection increases, the entertainment can be reduced proportionately. When the affection is the entertainment, we no longer call it dating. Under no circumstances can the food be omitted.”
John was going to see his son. It wasn't a date, but the ingredients were there.
For comments, help, and perseverance, I thank;
My husband, David Lankester, for unwavering support, encouragement, common sense, and staying for the whole journey.
Lorraine Trendall-Moore, for suggesting I write a book in the first place, and dreaming up ideas â some useable.
Katherine Wiit, for diligent feedback and constancy.
Ros Hudson, for suggesting I should re-write the first chapter.
Vivien Turner, for an enthusiastic response and speedy editing - twice.
Penelope Wacks, for great feedback, particularly around the first chapters.
Carol Dilks, for encouragement and suggestions about the first chapters.
Steven Henson, for reading and honesty.
Gemma Joyce, for support.
Angela Partridge, for a thorough proofread and enthusiasm.
Maria Amjad, for ensuring authenticity of all things Pakistani.
Susan Fletcher, for motivating me to keep going.
Jackie Spurrier, for great ideas about cover design.
Rebecca Smith, for a thorough polish.
Ralph Ticehurst, for the Soup.
Amy Cooke at Matador Publishing, for not complaining when I finally re-wrote the first chapters.
Paul and Jane Eastwood, for valuable feedback on book covers.
Friends in Pakistan who, in their different ways, contributed to the novel, including Fareed, Shafquat, Sultana, Hector, Kiran, Sam, Asher, Nazir, Arif, Khalida, Ghazala, Saima, and many more.
And to the authors of the many books I found interesting, useful and illuminating, particularly;
Khushwant Singh,
Train to Pakistan.
Geraldine Brooks,
Nine Parts of Desire
.
Louisa T Brown,
Dancing Girls of Lahor.
Abraham Verghese,
My Own Country. A Doctor's Story.
Oswald Wynd,
The Ginger Tree.
