By Nia Wyn
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Additional resources for Blue Sky July
He calls from there, to say he misses seeing me across the newsroom. He says it suddenly feels real, having a baby, now we’re apart. In his lunch break today, Alex went to the Morgan Arcade and bought a smiling man in circus clothes who swings in a basket under a striped balloon. The weather’s humid, close, like a calm before a storm. When I’m buying the paper and an orange ice pop, Sam in the corner shop says: “It’s gonna break. ” I’ve not been feeling well of late, just tired and thirsty, which the doctor calls “quite normal,” and Alex puts down to the heat wave.
When Alex first came to The Moorings he said it was like meeting the family in the yogurt advert, all grown up. Summers have passed here with little ado, writing poems on the wide cream windowsill of my room looking out at the summerhouse, or looking back from the summerhouse at The Moorings, knee-deep in flowers. William hitting a ball against the garage door, Mum lazing on the terrace with Carol in Rive Gauche and yellow bikinis, dad mowing the lawns as the sun passed over, turning the French windows into glitter.
He never does. Two other children are waiting; one has a bowleg, the other has Down’s. ” These appointments are grueling affairs. I’m here almost daily, watching the portage teacher try to interest him, the physio roll him over and the speech therapist battle to coax out a word. ” In Market Road, I write my journal and trawl the World Wide Web as far as the borderline clinics in Mexico, where only the desperate go. The neurologist won’t reduce the drugs—I tell her I have a hunch he’d do better without them.
Blue Sky July by Nia Wyn