I sat by the head of the bed and wiped her brow with a water-wet handkerchief. I wiped it to soothe, to erase, wiped slowly, sadly, as I willed my child to remain exactly where he was.

My wife wept and explained, argued, told the truth, lied and apologized while the spasms wracked her and I held her head above the basin.

"The doctor will come," I said, "the doctor will come. He's coming now." I manufactured that damn doctor in my mind. I built his car and gave him road. I turned on his headlights and drew him towards me. Sweat ran from my forehead and caught in the creases of my eyes and coursed down my cheeks in imitation of the tears I could never easily shed.

There were sounds locked tightly in my throat, sounds barely human, steel springs of misery which once released would have filled the room, speared the walls, and lacerated the smooth white skin of my bride and wife. I screwed them down with a lock nut and pierced the shaft with a cotter pin. I wiped.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why?"

Phoebe was stunned by the question.

"Why?"

"No good," she said. "Can't have children."

I soaked the handkerchief and wrung it out. I sponged her arms. "Doctor's coming," I said.

"Can't do it," she said and gripped my hand as another spasm wrenched her womb.

"Can't do what, my darling?"

"Can't fly. Can't do it. Can't poetry."

"We will," I said.

"Did you want a baby?" she asked, very clearly. She raised herself up and stared at me in surprise. I straightened the sheet. I tucked it in.

"Yes," I said, and began to wash the perspiration from her clumsy hands, wiping each finger, one at a time.

"Why?"

I could not look at her. She forced my chin up with her hand so she could see my face.

"I love you," I said. I dragged the words up from the dangerous part of my throat, dragged it out and slammed the door shut behind it.

"Don't cry," she said.

"I'm not crying."

She sat up and held me. I put my arms around her and embraced her so hard she gasped for air. And I would give anything, now, to repeat that clean moment in the middle of such muddy pain.

Phoebe was astonished. She had not understood me. She had never thought me fatherly. She had not imagined me with children. They seemed trivial, beneath me.

"How could we fly? How could I write?"

"You will," I said. "You will do both. You will have the child. I promise you."

Now Phoebe, even in her remorse and pain, was not without calculation.

"Do you really promise?" she said.

"Yes."

"Promise you won't stop me, ever."

"Have the child", I begged, "and, God help me, the aeroplane is yours."

"Will you write it down," she said, before the next spasm struck her and the bile she brought up changed from green to yellow.

"Yes," I said. "I'll write it down."

She knew me better than I knew myself and I do not blame her for it.

"Better not die then," she said, and smiled.

In any case, neither of us counted on Charles who was stubbornly clinging on, holding out against the raging seas that threatened to sweep him from his foetus world. He would not let go. Years later his wife would use the story against him and say it was this that had made him stubborn, that he would not go when he was not wanted, etc. However I fancy that Charles was always like it, from his very beginning, when he was a slippery pink thing without a proper face. So while we all made decisions, thinking it up to God, or the doctor, my willpower or Phoebe's connivance, it was none of our doing at all, and it was Charles who fought and won the battle against the cloudy liquid the actress bought in Carlton.

Dr Henderson was a small broad man with a shiny ruddy face and thin ginger hair. He answered the door with a vase of lilacs in his hand.

Horace did not notice the vase. He noticed the doctor's tie. It was an Old Scotch Collegians tie and he was so desperate that he, quite literally, grasped it in his desperate hands and hailed his fellow Old Scotch Collegian as a long-lost friend.

"What year?" asked the poet, softening his vowels in accordance with the social requirements of such a tie.

It did not occur to the doctor that the dishevelled tramp on his doorstep might be claiming membership of a particular elite, but rather that he had lost his mind, knew not where he was or what year he was in.

"1921," he answered, looking down his nose to where the warty hand grasped his old school tie.

The poet thought this a great joke. Far too great a joke. He released the tie and slapped his thighs. "Ha, ha," he said, "damn good.1921."

The doctor smoothed his tie with one hand, holding his vase of flowers at some distance where it would be safe from the enthusiasms of the stranger. "July 1921/' he said. "And half-past eight at night."

"I was there in 1915," Horace said.

"You're a returned soldier," the doctor said, imagining a different "there".

"No. An Old Scotch Collegian."

"I see," said Dr Henderson, looking at him with suspicion. "And what can I do for you?"

Horace was so pleased to claim some fellowship with the doctor that all his fears immediately evaporated and he felt ridiculously safe. He told the whole sad story to the doctor who never, all the while, ceased to hold his vase of flowers at arm's length. The effect of the story was slightly spoiled by the laughter he used to punctuate his sentences. This was unfortunate, for it gave the impression that he thought the whole thing was some prank or rag whereas the laughter was produced by relief that he had not, after all, fallen into the power of a hostile stranger.

The doctor did not believe a word he said. He could smell alcohol on his breath and he judged him drunk. Therefore he began to shut the door, stepping back quickly, withdrawing the vase as a tortoise will bring its head back into its shell.

Horace placed his muddy shoe inside the door and would not let it shut.

The doctor stamped on Horace's toe. But Horace seemed insensible to pain. He left it there. The doctor stamped again. But the only effect the stamping seemed to have was to stop Horace's nervous laughter. Horace thought the doctor totally insane.

He left his foot there to be stamped on while he made a speech. It was a bit flowery, a tendency that he had in any case, but which he was inclined to exaggerate whenever he wished to establish himself as a person of substance.

"Sir," he said, "you are behaving foolishly. My name is Horace Dunlop. My father," he lied, "is Sir Edward Dunlop. I am a lawyer. And should you decide not to honour your Hippocratic oath and come to the assistance of this poor woman, I will sue you. I will sue you for neglect, for malpractice and if the poor woman dies I will see you charged for murder. I will sue you for such a sum that you will lose this house, if you own it. You will lose your automobile (and I'm sure you have a good one). The Australian Medical Association will debar you. It causes me great pain, sir, to make such threats against an Old Scotch Collegian who I would have imagined to be both charitable and a Christian, but by God, I will have you sued for every penny you have and every penny you can borrow and you will spend the rest of your life working to repay the loans you will have to undertake to cover the debt you are on the brink of incurring."

Half-way through this extraordinary speech the doctor ceased stamping on Horace's foot and so, given confidence by this reprieve, he finished his speech fortissimo, giving it all the splendour proper to the nineteenth-century novels that had inspired it and Molly, sitting in the car outside, was able to hear the true story of her daughter's poisoning.

The door opened. The doctor stood there with the vase still stretched before him. It was a Dalton vase in the art nouveau style. He smashed it at the poet's feet and made him jump.