The Water Children

by Anne Berry

  Nor did he confide to his parents that on the nights when Sean returned to his wife and baby, bizarre sounds in the flat made him start awake. Oh, not the whistling taps, they were a constant, a crackling radio that never tuned in. He was fast becoming immune to them. No, what made him wake with a start were the creeping footsteps outside his bedroom door. Indistinct conversations reaching him through the wall separating his and Naomi’s room. He did not say, Mother, I am frightened by what I have witnessed and heard. The time when nightmares could be scotched in a moment in her arms was long dead.

  ‘Owen, Owen, what’s the matter? It was a bad dream, that’s all. I’m here now. Mummy’s here. Nothing can hurt you now.’ He remembered how she would climb into his bed, and coat his shaking body with the heat of her own. Her kettle-drum heartbeat was strong enough for the two of them. The smooth flow of her breaths made him tranquil. But now all he sees in her brown eyes is the loathsome image of himself.

  Meanwhile, the underground kingdom is steadily becoming more intoxicating to him. He is discovering that the incessant beat of those endless disco numbers stirs the blood as effectively as tribal drums are purported to. In this mole’s tunnel there is a razzle-dazzle, an alchemy, which makes the over-ground world seem dull by comparison. Goods, that Owen suspects will look cheap and tasteless dragged up into the glare of the sun, are transformed down here into something rich and glorious. Colours are subtly altered as well, as if enhanced by the pink glow of a theatrical lighting gel.

  In fact his new environment is not unlike a buried theatre, subtly lit to obscure defects and exaggerate good features. It entertains and diverts with the entrance and exits of lively street cameos; illegal immigrants escaping the steaming kitchens; working girls more comfortable browsing in the half-light; hapless tourists drawn like moths to the motley bazaar; teenagers smelling of sex and exuding restless energy as they scuttle about. Words uttered in the market take on a value they can never achieve in the busy city. Far above Big Ben chimes out the hours, governments rise and fall, and all the while the exhaust-belching traffic-dragon writhes and slumps, slumps and writhes. Up there, Owen contemplates a sky full of shitting pigeons and streaking aeroplanes, where the hot polluted air dulls emotion. But in the market the basest feelings metamorphose, bread and water change into ambrosia.

  As removed from her sleepwalking incarnation as Dr Jekyll was from Mr Hyde, the wide-awake Naomi draws him into the aureate orbit of her affections. Throughout the day she pulls him close, pets him, rests her head on his shoulder, kisses him on both cheeks, on his lips, on his brow. She links arms with him, runs a finger over his open palm, holds his hand, as if all this is the most natural behaviour in the world. He reacts as only an untouchable can, with desperate gratitude. One morning, Enrico waylays Owen as he returns to the stall with tea and rolls.

  ‘So you like it here now?’ he says, one arm impeding his progress.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Owen’s eyes are already scanning for Naomi.

  With the pad of a thumb Enrico rubs a small mole on his cheek thoughtfully. ‘And your manager,’ he continues smiling, ‘Naomi, your manager, you are good friends with her now – flatmates, hmm?’ She has seen them. She smiles, beckoning Owen over, patting her stomach as if to demonstrate how ravenous she is.

  ‘That’s right. I’m staying temporarily. Enrico, we’re friends, just friends. That’s all,’ he says with emphasis. Enrico nods, accepting this. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ Still his arm obstructs Owen.

  ‘You need to take care. The market can be a funny place. It attracts all sorts.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I will,’ he retorts a touch impatiently. Again his eyes vacillate. The short man covered in Elvis tattoos is back, fingering the hanging rows of belts. Naomi giggles over his head. ‘The teas are getting cold.’ He attempts to extricate himself but Enrico moves again to block him. ‘Enrico!’ he complains. He comes closer until the plastic cups are almost crushed between them. Owen feels their steam rising against his chest, and smells spices, garlic and just the hint of a vinegary, animal scent. He is level with his tassel beard, with the knotted purple beads.

  ‘Sean is mixing with bad people.’ His voice is low. Owen looks up and their eyes hold for a moment.

  ‘I know. I’ve tried to tell him but it’s no good.’

  Enrico shakes his head. The plaited orange tail arcs distractingly. Owen can feel his breath on his face. ‘I’d keep your distance from them, if I were you.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’ Enrico shrugs and stands aside. He has only voiced his own growing concerns, and his sense of impotence. He has failed to warn Sean off Blue, the notorious thug who haunts the market. Enrico has not been back to the flat since Owen’s first night there. They had words and Sean told him that he was not welcome any more. He suspects, though, that it will only be a matter of time before the brash Italian breaks the embargo. But far from improving Sean and Naomi’s relationship, over the last few days it seems more strained than usual. So far what he has observed of them has been both passionate and volatile. But now he senses a darker element to their affair, something more malignant than erotic.

  It is with this in mind that he chooses to take a leisurely stroll to the corner shop in the evening, to give the two of them an hour alone together, bridge making. July, and it is still unbearably hot, with temperatures in the mid thirties. The sky, mottled with blotches of shell-pink and rose red, dulls in the teal gleam of the Thames. The images of the buildings ripple on the moving water. Height becomes width. On the way home, weighed down with his groceries, he dodges commuters hurrying to Waterloo Station. Scooters and bikes have become a common sight, zipping along the London roads, dodging traffic. The wind whips up twists of litter. Exhaust fumes, soot and the many odours of the river percolate through the dusty air.

  Being on the third and topmost floor, he is out of breath by the time he reaches the front door. As he fumbles for his key, raised voices reach him. Hesitantly he lets himself in, and sets his bags of shopping down in the narrow hallway. He takes a moment to stretch and ease his throbbing fingers, letting the blood re-circulate where the plastic handles of the carrier bags have dug into them. Through the screen of the beaded curtain the argument suddenly becomes more strident.

  ‘I want to keep it.’

  ‘We’ve already talked about this, Naomi. If you think I’m stupid enough to pay for Enrico’s bastard, you’d better think again.’ Sean’s pitch is rusty with controlled rage, then the two sounding together like a clash of cymbals.

  ‘I told you, I never slept with him. He’s just a friend. But you’re so paranoid, you distort it all in your head. Perhaps if you didn’t drink so much—’

  ‘All right, Naomi, you go ahead. You have this brat. But I’m nobody’s fool. You won’t get a penny out of me.’

  There is a shriek followed by a crash, then strangled words. ‘What is the difference between my baby and Catherine’s? You . . . tell . . . me that, Sean!’

  ‘No. It’s not the same. She’s my wife.’

  ‘Oh, and I’m what? Your whore? Is that what you mean to say, Sean?’

  ‘No, of course not. But I told you, I’m not supporting a child that isn’t mine. Go to him, why don’t you. Perhaps he’ll be more sympathetic. Though somehow I doubt it.’ Then a cry of frustration from Naomi. ‘Look, it’s not my fault you’re pregnant. I told you that I was happy to deal with that side of things, but you said you’d take care of it – so take care of it . . . or clear off !’ His accent has become more entrenched with his rising ire.

  ‘So you’re happy to fuck me, but not to deal with the consequences. Why’s that, Sean? Am I so different from your sainted wife who, let’s face it, can’t be that hot, or why would you come sniffing round me?’

  ‘Shut up! Don’t talk about Catherine like that.’ This last is delivered in a vicious hiss. But Owen can still discern every word lifting to him on the nip of the consonants. ‘I’m not debating this any more. If you don’t take care of it,
I want you out of this flat. And I don’t want you working at the market any more either. Not on my stall, anyway. Of course, I can’t speak for your Italian lover boy.’

  ‘You can’t throw me out of my own home.’ The passion is gone from her timbre now, only a frosty vitriol remains.

  ‘Have you forgotten who pays the rent, my darlin’? Who pays the bills?’

  Then the sounds of a struggle. Something drops on the floor. Sean swears.

  Owen pushes through the curtain and sees them both standing in the middle of the room squaring up to one another like a pair of prize fighters. A chair lies on its side, and there are pieces of a broken china cup on the floor before the fireplace. The record rack has been knocked over, and records have fallen out and partially slipped their colourful sleeves. Cushions too are strewn about, and the sheepskin rug is rucked up in a corner of the room, exposing bare floorboards.

  ‘Naomi! Sean! Stop this!’ he begs, but neither of them pay him any heed. She has her back to him, but Sean’s normally passive face is puce. In that second his hand sings through the air, striking her face such a blow that she stumbles backwards. One leg buckles under her, and for a moment she looks like a wild animal that has been darted with some powerful sedative. She starts to over-balance, then rallies and regains her footing. ‘What have you done, Sean?’ Owen steps to assist her. But she forestalls him with a raised hand. Then in two quick strides she is at her lover, lashing out, her ragged nails raking his cheek.

  ‘I despise you!’ She hawks the words out, bunches her own cheeks then arrows a gob of spit into one of his eyes. He flinches back a pace. For a brief instant there is a hush, then the rasp of Naomi’s panting breaths. She is flushed with exertion and fury, her eyes shrunk to jewelled dots. Owen gropes the air, trying to crank up his voice from the shaft it has sunk in. Sean’s mouth gapes open. One hand gingerly probes his cheek where bright beads of crimson blood are threading together. He exhales a breath slowly from his lungs, lowers his hand disbelievingly and stares at the red smears.

  ‘See to it, Naomi.’ This, a low monotone that trembles from his lips. For long seconds their eyes hold. Then he glances briefly at Owen, his Adam’s apple working as he swallows. The expression he wears is one of profound regret. The next moment, he storms out of the flat, sending the bead curtain swinging, slamming the door behind him. For a shocked second Owen stares after him, unable to believe what he has seen and heard. Turning slowly, his gaze rests on Naomi and he is jogged into speech.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asks, hesitantly touching her arm. Without looking round she shakes her head. ‘Sit down. I’ll make some tea.’ She sinks down, her face now impassive. Glancing at her as he prepares the tea, he sees that she is focusing on the Bob Dylan poster pinned to the wall next to the one of Hendrix. ‘The Free Wheelin’’ Bob and his girlfriend, pictured walking down a road in Greenwich Village, New York, a VW camper van in the background. He spoons extra sugar into her tea. It is really too warm for hot drinks. But then, sweet tea is recommended for trauma, he knows. He recollects making it for his parents the night the moon dropped out of the sky. He sits beside her, hands her the mug of tea, waits, hoping that she will speak first. ‘I’m sorry,’ he dredges up eventually. ‘I’m sorry about the . . . the baby.’ She clasps the mug close to her face. Little curls of steam veil her face. ‘What are you going to do?’ She volunteers nothing, hunched on the settee, her beguiling eyes still on the poster.

  A woman would probably have known what to say, but he is hampered by embarrassment. He pats her back awkwardly, tries to make the gesture more sympathetic than hearty. Although he has experienced a tragedy, the physical brutality he has just witnessed is entirely alien to him. Unwittingly he is becoming embroiled in circumstances that are ugly, and far too real for comfort. It makes him want to run, and if this is cowardly then perhaps he is a coward. But he is also decent, and walking out on Naomi in this crisis seems a desertion so callous as to be unthinkable.

  Finally she sets down her mug on the occasional table and turns to him. The cardinal-red impression of Sean’s hand on her cheek is clear as print on a page now. She does not wait for him to make a move towards her, but impetuously winds her arms about his waist, and burrows deep. The sensation recaptures the memory of Sarah’s last embrace, jarring so agonizingly that it is as though he has been winded. Naomi feels matchstick thin, breakable. He touches her cropped hair, smoothes it. Then his hands meet behind her back, move up and down, feeling the separate nodules of her pronounced spine. Her natural hair colour is growing out fast. Her roots are black as a witch’s hat.

  ‘Shall I get you something to eat?’ he offers.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she mumbles into his stomach.

  Her features pastry cut into him. The elfin chin, the straight nose, the warmth of her lips. He imagines what it would be like if he was not wearing his shirt. Would it be similar to Sarah’s face pressing into the mould of his flesh? Would he feel her butterfly-wing eyelashes brush against his skin?

  ‘What about your parents? Might they help?’ he asks quietly. ‘Your mother?’

  ‘My mother’s dead,’ she mumbles. Her breath seems to pass through the cotton, to burn his skin.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She shrugs. ‘Your father?’

  ‘No.’ He closes his eyes and pauses to summon courage. ‘Enrico?’ Will she spit and claw him like an angry cat? But no, all the choler in her seems to have died. She gives a dry, wistful laugh, and he reopens his eyes. Then she replies as he expected. ‘No, not him.’ They both know that in the real world, if married men do not want to be burdened with illegitimate babies, neither do the irresponsible, pleasure-seeking Lotharios. Owen cannot see an alternative to a termination of the pregnancy. But he has the sense to stand back, to let her make her own decision.

  ‘Don’t leave me, Owen,’ Naomi says in an eerie echo of Sarah’s last plea to him. And so they sit like this in the feverish heat, as the light ebbs away and the room is infused with darkness. Finally he pours her a brandy (Sean has left his customary bottle) and helps her to bed. ‘Stay with me for a while? Stay with me, Owen, until I fall asleep?’ she requests. He nods and sits on the bedside. Her fingers worry incessantly at the satin trim of the blanket. A chunk of light from the corridor weighs in through the open door. She wars with sleep. At last her tense body slackens, a rhythm is imposed on her flighty breathing, and her eyelids droop, flutter, close. He gets up, goes to the lounge and rings Sean. Catherine answers.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, is that Catherine?’

  ‘Yes, who is this?’

  ‘It’s Owen. I work the stall with your husband. Is he at home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I have a brief word? It’s nothing important. Just business.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ A pause. He hears the thin, distant wail of the baby.

  Next, Sean’s voice. ‘Owen?’

  ‘Yes. Look, I need to take a few days off, to be with Naomi.’

  ‘Fine.’ Another pause. He wonders if Sean will offer to accompany her to the doctor, if he will see her through her ordeal. Surely this is the very least he owes her. Then, not much more than a whisper, ‘If she needs money, tell her, tell her I’ll pay.’

  ‘Okay.’ Suddenly the baby’s crying is much louder, as if Catherine has brought her into the room. ‘I’ll ring when . . . when it’s . . . it’s over.’

  In the morning he accompanies her to the family planning clinic. He remains in the waiting room while she is examined. Half an hour passes. For much of it he studies his shoes, brown leather loafers that could do with a polish. The doctor judges her to be eight weeks pregnant. The abortion is carried out a couple of days later. Owen waits for her to be wheeled back to the hospital ward. Standing by her bed, he takes her hand in his. It is feather light and clammy, and the sight of her uneven nails makes the breath stutter at the back of his throat. Her eyelids flicker, stick, in that manner he has grown so accustomed to, and spring open. Her hand slips fr
om his and moves beneath the sheet. Then her eyes widen as if in surprise. When he leans close, her cracked lips crawl in unsteady speech.

  ‘It . . . it doesn’t matter.’ She repeats it. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She is still woozy from the anaesthetic. She neither looks at him, nor seems to know him. It doesn’t matter, she has said. But it does. It matters more than Owen will ever know. Again, he is not sure what to expect, but he braces himself for a couple of rough weeks. The first few days he insists on staying with her, leaving Sean to cope by himself. She lies curled up in bed staring at a spot on the wall, only stirring very occasionally to visit the bathroom. He brings her cups of tea and coffee, a bowl of soup, bread and butter, a boiled egg. It isn’t the most appetizing of fare, but he seems to remember his mother arriving with a tray bearing just this sort of food when he was ill. In any case, she doesn’t eat anything. His attempts at conversation are stonewalled, so that he soon gives up. An unfamiliar, heavy, muddy odour lingers throughout the flat. He tries not to speculate as to its origins, though deep down he suspects it is blood.

  On the second day he pulls the spoon-back armchair up to a lounge window, for her to sit in. He lines it with cushions like a luxurious throne. Without discussion he takes her hand and leads her to it. She goes with him and reclines into them. Somehow or other she has found her way to his wardrobe. She is dressed in one of his shirts, green and far too big for her. ‘Why not sit here and watch the world go by? Perhaps tomorrow you’ll feel well enough to go for a stroll in the park, get some fresh air, put the roses back into your cheeks,’ he persuades, his hand resting on her shoulder. She gives a small shrug of resignation.