conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for a story with the title 'The Child in Time'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Child in Time
  It was this little confrontation rather than the crash that preoccupied him as he turned the car down the Darkes' bumpy avenue. He felt guilty of a betrayal. Here was a pale man in a white silk shirt with his bottles of champagne, here were the gypsies at the gate. For years he had convinced himself he belonged at heart with the rootless, that having money was a merry accident, that he could be back on the road any day with all his stuff in one bag. But time had fixed him in his place. He had become the sort who casts about for a policeman at the sight of the scruffy poor. He was on the other side now. If not, why had he tried to pretend they were not there? Why not accept that he was outnumbered and look them in the eye as he might have once, and hand over some of the merrily accidental cash? He had stopped the car and was following an overgrown footpath to the wicket gate. The patchouli had jolted him. It was the scent of a dreamily self-destructive girl he had known in Kandihar, of chaotic shared flats in west London, of an open-air concert in Montana. He had been shaken by the commonplace of irreversible time. He had once felt light on the ground. He used to think his life was an open-ended adventure, he used to give things away, it amused him when the unexpected happened, benevolent coincidences used to bear him along. When had all that stopped? When, for example, had he started to think that the things he owned were really his, inalienably his? He could not remember.
  He stopped in the gloomy tunnel of summer shrubs, set down his overnight case and the champagne, and prepared to meet his friends. His hands glowed white in the obscurity. He covered his eyes with them. He was so unhealthily stuffed up with his recent past, like a man with a cold. If he could only live in the present he might breathe freely. But I don't like the present, he thought, and picked up his things. As he straightened, he saw a silhouetted figure against the sky, framed by overhanging roses. Thelma had been watching him.
  He failed to sound lighthearted as he said, "Years." In compensation he showed her the bottles, which were already cold, and suggested they open one immediately — the last thing he felt like doing.
  They sat beneath a pear tree at a rusting wrought-iron table which stood in a patch of unmown grass, surrounded by giant poppies, snapdragons, and what Stephen thought were lupins until he heard Thelma call them delphiniums.
  She set down two glasses by the ice bucket and poured. "Charles is in the woods somewhere. You'll have to go and find him later."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' Elsewhere, an innovation was the large sign in his father's hand by the wall phone listing the doctor's emergency numbers and those of a few private ambulance companies.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Stephen's mother had begun her convalescence in February. She was allowed out of bed for the afternoons and early evenings. As soon as it was warmer, she would be permitted to walk the four hundred yards to the post office. She had lost fifteen pounds during her illness, and most of the sight in one eye. Knitting, reading, or watching television gave her pains in her good eye, so the radio and conversation were her main pleasures now. Like many women of her generation, she did not like to mention discomfort. When his father had to spend half a day away from home visiting his sister, who was also ill, Stephen was asked if he would come and keep his mother company. He was happy to oblige. He liked seeing his parents singly; it was easier to break the habitual patterns, he felt less limited in his role as son. And there was the possibility of resuming the conversation they had begun in the kitchen half a year before.
  He was surprised to be met at the front door by her, to see her once more in everyday clothes instead of the bedjacket in shocking pink. Losing weight had tightened her facial skin, giving her a superficially youthful appearance which was heightened by a rakish eye patch. After they had embraced fleetingly, and while he was complimenting her on her progress and making a cumbersome pirate joke, she led the way into the living room.
  She apologized for a chaos there visible only to herself. One reason why she was keen to regain her strength, she said, was because she wanted to start putting the house to rights. Though not a single object seemed out of place, Stephen said it was surely a good sign she felt that way. It was also an indication of just how enfeebled she was that after only ritual protest, she permitted him to make them a pot of tea in her own kitchen. But she called out instructions through the open hatch, and while he was not looking pulled out the nest of coffee tables and arranged them to receive the tray and their cups. In the kitchen Stephen waited for the kettle to boil and examined the contents of an array of pill bottles. The iridescent intensity of the reds and yellows suggested powerful technology, deep intervention in the system. Elsewhere, an innovation was the large sign in his father's hand by the wall phone listing the doctor's emergency numbers and those of a few private ambulance companies.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But she was alone. She was drawing breath and shouting again, this time wildly, as though in exhilaration, and when she had no more air in her lungs, it did not matter, the shout had to go on, and on. The contraction lifted her off her back and twisted her onto her side. The sheet was still gathered up to her waist and had knotted itself round her. He felt the bed frame tremble with her effort. There was a final click at the back of her throat and she was drawing breath again, tossing her head as she did so. When she looked at him, past him, her eyes were bright, wide with purpose. The brief despair had gone. She was back in control. He thought she was about to speak, but the grip on his arm was tightening again and she was away. Her lips shivered as they stretched tighter over her teeth and from deep in her chest came a strangled groan, a bottled-up, gurgling sound of colossal, straining effort. Then it tapered away, and she let her head fall back against the pillows.
  She took deep breaths and spoke in a surprisingly normal voice. "I need a cold drink, a glass of water." He was about to stand when she restrained him. "But I don't want you to go away. I think it might be coming."
  Julie was not yet ready to push. She was recovering her strength. He slid his hand round to the face, found the mouth, and used his little finger to clear it of mucus. There was no breath. He moved his fingers down, below the lip of Julie's taut skin, to find the hidden shoulder. He could feel the cord there, thick and robust, a pulsing creature wound twice in a noose about the neck. He worked his forefinger round and pulled cautiously. The cord came easily, copiously, and as he lifted it clear of the head Julie gave birth — he saw in an instant how active and generous the verb was — she summoned her will and her physical strength and gave. With a creaking, waxy sound the child slid into his hands. He saw only the long back, powerful and slippery, with grooved, muscular spine. The cord, still beating, hung across the shoulder and tangled round a foot. He was only the catcher, not the home, and his one thought was to return the child to its mother. As he was lifting it across they heard a snuffling sound and a single lucid cry. It lay face down with an ear towards its mother's heart. They drew the covers over it. Because the hot-water bottles were too heavy and hot, Stephen climbed into bed beside Julie and they kept the baby warm between them. The breathing was settling into a rhythm, and a warmer color, a bloom of deep pink, was suffusing its skin.
  It was only then that they began to exclaim and celebrate, and kiss and nuzzle the waxy head which smelled like a freshly baked bun. For minutes they were beyond forming sentences and could only make noises of triumph and wonder, and say each other's names aloud. Anchored by its cord, the baby lay with its head resting between its closed fists. It was a beautiful child. Its eyes were open, looking towards the mountain of Julie's breast. Beyond the bed was the window, through which they could see the moon sinking into a gap in the pines. Directly above the moon was a planet. It was Mars, Julie said. It was a reminder of a harsh world. For now, however, they were immune, it was before the beginning of time, and they lay watching planet and moon descend through a sky that was turning blue.
  They did not know how much later it was when they heard the midwife's car stop outside the cottage. They heard the slam of its door and the tick of hard shoes on the brick path.