Simon walks back to the car. He is not thinking about anything deeper than his immediate actions. He takes off his jeans and sweater and puts on his wetsuit and helmet. He takes his emergency food pack and water bottle out of the car. He locks the door and stands beside it for a moment. It is a white Datsun, a car he loves. He shines his torch on its rain-beaded surface, feeling absurdly fond, almost as if it is the last bit of his material life he is going to see. But he cannot be thinking that, of course, for if he was he would never go underground, and certainly not now, on his own, deliberately into danger.
The baby sleeps. Nadia has moved the carry-cot round in front of the sofa and put the hood down so that she can see Paula’s face more clearly. Her mouth is slightly open and a trail of clear dribble has made a wet patch on the sheet under her cheek. In the bottom of the carry-cot is a folded changing bag and mat, which Nadia has unrolled and discovered to contain some clean clothes, disposable nappies and baby wipes. The nappies have an edging of pink and yellow bunnies. Nadia sniffs one of them; it has a clean, comforting, hygienic smell. She touches Paula’s cheek with her fingertip. The skin is so soft she can hardly feel anything at all, but the baby stirs and makes a little whinnying sound.
Nadia decides to play a game. In the game this is her own house and her own baby. Not Paula – she can’t bear male diminutives for girls – but … she will choose a name she might give a girl child if ever she was to have one: Sophia. But that is too grand for the little scrap in the carry-cot; it would certainly be shortened to Sophie. But ‘Sophia’ is beautiful for a woman. Wisdom, it means, and it makes Nadia think of powerful women and also, for some reason, of long necks and sapphires.
During the five-month pregnancy, Nadia and Simon discussed names. Simon disliked Sophie – too much like sofa, too comfortable – but had half accepted Sophia. He’d preferred something flowery like Rosie or Lily. It had been a wonderful squabble while it lasted. That grief has emerged in Nadia’s mind again and become tangled with her anger. Will Simon have a say in naming Celia’s child? Will it have one of their names? The fire has gone out. Inside her now is coldness, a deep well of icy water, thoughts nudge and circle like dark fish. But she concentrates on the surface, on the flash and glitter of dragonfly reflections: the game of let’s-pretend.
Nadia goes into the kitchen and looks in the refrigerator. She takes a slice of ham and butters bread. She slices a tomato and spoons mayonnaise from a jar. There is only ready-ground pepper, like dust in its plastic pot. Put peppercorns on the list, she thinks. In the supermarket there are special trolleys for tiny babies too young to sit up. Little wire-mesh eye-level cots on top of the groceries. Sophie can go in one of these tomorrow, and if she times it properly, between feeds, she will sleep all the way round or she will watch the bright packages and bottles flicking past her on the shelves. And if Sophie cries, other mothers will meet her eyes with sympathy, knowing just how it feels, trying to shop with a baby.
She puts the bottle on to warm, for surely Sophie will wake soon. She sits down in front of her and eats a mouthful of the sandwich, but something has happened to her appetite. The food tastes like pretend food, a plastic picnic. She finishes the drink. It is good, sweet and unfamiliar. She’d like more, it’s relaxing, a way to unwind. No one could blame a mother for having a drink in her own home at the end of a tiring day. No, wait a minute, this isn’t her home. She would never have such dreadful wallpaper. She is a single mother and this is her mother’s house and she is staying until she gets herself sorted out. That’s it. She unlocks and opens the heavy door into the bar. The grandfather – her father?, no, he is just some man, it doesn’t matter – is serving someone. When he’s finished, he grins. ‘How do,’ he says amicably. He is a hefty, upright man, white-moustached. He wears a maroon cravat tucked into the collar of his shirt.
‘I’m afraid I spilt my drink,’ she says.
‘Like a refill? What’s your poison?’
‘I had port and lemon.’
‘Same again? I’ll give you a double. How’s the nipper?’
‘Sound asleep.’ Nadia looks round the bar. It is full of people, standing at the bar with pints of beer, or sitting at the flimsy tables eating chicken or scampi or chips from baskets.
‘Glad to hear it. Anything else? Crisps? Nuts?’ says the man, handing her a brimming glass.
Nadia shakes her head. ‘No thanks.’ She takes her glass and goes back to Sophie. She swigs the drink and then she leans down and picks up the sleeping baby. She cradles her in her arms and sits back on the sofa to examine her. She isn’t the prettiest of babies. She has a longish face, pale. There is a tiny red birthmark on her forehead and a scattering of spots on her cheeks. Patches of her fluffy hair have worn away. One of her cheeks is imprinted with a crumple from the sheet. She is still so new. She has little whorls of hair growing on her temples, and fine down on her ears. Lanugo, Nadia recalls. Robin was covered in this, she remembers. There was a day when she held him in her arms, light scrap. She had not spoken but Sue had known what she was feeling, had looked away, had hugged her fiercely when she left, tears in her own eyes. Nadia has forgotten that newborn downiness until now, studying the face of her own baby girl. She runs her finger wonderingly over the eyebrows, two perfect, invisible lines of colourless hairs like the stitches of a skilful embroiderer. The baby screws up her eyes. She is dressed in a pink sleep-suit with a lamb appliquéd on the front, underneath which is embroidered Mummy’s pet. Not Nadia’s choice for Sophie, of course, but a grandparent’s gift. It doesn’t suit her. Too pretty-pretty for the stern little face.
Nadia picks up one of Sophie’s hands. She has very long fingers, limp in sleep, with translucent nails. They are artistic hands, more artistic than Nadia’s own, which are square and capable. She turns the palm over and looks at the little lines etched so clearly: life, head, heart, fate, all there already, written clear. The fingers curl in Nadia’s palm. Such a perfect thing. The baby wriggles. Her sleep-suit is too short in the legs, taut against the minute feet. Nadia can see the shape of the toes straining against it. She kisses Sophie’s head, noticing under the fluff a little yellow crust on her scalp. ‘Cradle-cap,’ she murmurs, recognising this from one of Sue’s children. What is it Sue rubs on? Something or other, she will have to ask.
A trail of dribble runs from the baby’s mouth and then she wakes, squirms, pulls a few experimental faces – surprise, outrage, disapproval – and then the decision is made, her bottom lip turns down and she begins to cry. It is a high, musical sound. Nadia hushes her, rocks her in her arms, but it is no good. Sophie becomes more upset, her mouth opens into a square, and she is like a pair of bellows, all breath and crying and the effort of crying, her little arms and legs waving in time with her cries. Nadia looks into her mouth at the furled tongue, the serrated surfaces of the gums where the teeth will be. She puts her finger in Sophie’s mouth and the baby sucks for a moment, looking feverishly up at Nadia, gasping between futile sucks. And then she spits the finger out disgustedly and begins to yell more loudly. ‘All right, Sophie,’ Nadia says, ‘let’s go and get your bottle.’ She carries the baby into the kitchen. She does not seem to like being cradled but struggles to be upright. Nadia holds her up against her shoulder and she stops crying for a moment, her tummy gurgles and she belches. ‘Good girl,’ Nadia murmurs, ‘nasty wind.’
The bottle is far too hot. She has left it too long and the water in the pan is nearly boiling. She splashes it on her wrist and is scalded by a thin stream of white formula. ‘Oooh,’ she says, ‘silly Mum.’ She turns on the cold tap and holds the bottle under it. Sophie waits for a moment, her attention caught by the sound of the running water, and then begins to cry again. Nadia jiggles her and pats her back. She turns the tap on harder and the water runs brown. It is from the peat that stains the reservoir water, from the water running down from the hills. Sophie’s crying is becoming increasingly piercing. Nadia finds herself losing her composure already. Well, it’s been a hard day, she
reminds herself; looking after a colicky baby is no joke. She carries Sophie through into the sitting room again and has another swig of her drink. She squirts some of the milk into her own mouth but it is still hot enough to sting her tongue. She begins to sing the song that is Sophie’s favourite and she is quiet for a moment, listening.
‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word,
Papa’s gonna buy you a mocking bird,
And if that mocking bird don’t sing,
Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring,
and if that diamond ring turns to brass … then what?’
Nadia has forgotten and Sophie has lost interest anyway and her desperate wailing is making her mother desperate. ‘I’m drunk,’ she says. ‘Naughty Mum.’ She embarrasses herself, the way she is talking to Sophie like some parody of a mother, but it is the way of talking that comes naturally while she’s holding the baby. She sits down on the sofa and tries to cradle her in her arms but Sophie will not relax, she claws at Nadia’s front, nuzzles her face against her breasts, making little animal noises. Of course, Sophie is a breastfed baby. What has got into Nadia tonight? Breast is best. Nadia would never dream of bottle-feeding, not if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
‘All right, Sophie,’ she says. She lifts up the pink top. The baby waves her limbs frantically, recognising the action. Nadia rests her on her lap while she reaches back to unfasten her bra. Her breasts loll heavily down. One of Sophie’s hands, icy cold and sharp as a little claw, clutches a handful of her flesh. It can’t do any harm, can it? It might soothe the baby. She looks at the door. It is locked. No reason for the man to come through. The curtains are drawn. She lifts Sophie towards her left breast, and she butts her head against it, her neck powerful, her mouth open, searching for the nipple. Nadia has to pinch her nipple between her finger and thumb and introduce it into Sophie’s mouth. Just until the bottle cools, she promises, and then Sophie latches on with an expert flick of her baby tongue and Nadia gasps at the sudden sensation, feels as if her hair is standing on end. It is as if she is being pulled inside-out, all of her streaming from the end of her nipple into the voracious child. There is a sparkling tingle deep in her breast, a feeling of flow, as if she is really lactating. The baby seems happy enough. There are tight fizzy strings inside Nadia which reach inside her with each powerful suck, right into the pit of her belly, startling, unexpected, sensual, even sexual tugs. She closes her eyes, becoming accustomed to the shocking power of the baby’s suck. Only till the bottle cools, she thinks weakly. There are a few moments while Sophie is quiet, except for her snuffling breath. Her face is as serious as a businesswoman’s; her hands flex and relax in rhythm with her suck, one of them opening and closing on Nadia’s finger. Then after a few moments she stops and relaxes, her lower lip flutters and she almost lets the nipple slip from her mouth. Her mouth is wet and a trickle runs from it before she latches back on again. When Nadia sees the trickle, startled tears come into her eyes and she wails. Sophie opens her eyes and looks up at her sharply, for it is not a motherly sound. Nadia wails because the trickle that runs from Sophie’s mouth is bluish white. She dips her fingers in it and tastes a slight sweetness. It is real milk.
Simon knows the way, would know the way in utter darkness, but there is the beam from his lamp, a shrill bugle of light, illuminating the glistening passages. He breathes in the smell of inner earth, a mossy, mushroomy dankness. It is the first time he has been here entirely alone. The rope drop down the short pot was easy, routine, something he has done a hundred times, has taught others to do. Then the squeeze through the muddy slot, one shoulder first with his head, and the rest of his body slithering through the tight rictus of rock into a comfortable, walkable passage. It is faster alone, no waiting. The darkness seems more intense, crowding up behind him, an odd experience. He was afraid of the dark as a child. But it was never really dark then. There was always the line of light under the door, or the leak round the curtain edges. There was always the knowledge of light downstairs, only a panicky dash away. The darkness he was afraid of then was only a partial blotting of the light. Temporary. But here it is really dark. For ever.
He is testing himself. That is it. He has no intention of going far. Of going into danger. Here it is safe. Under the sheltering rock and the thickly padded heather and peat above. Where safer? He is taking no risks. The corridor slopes downwards, but gently, imperceptibly in parts, a safe floor. Here, when the cave was first explored, were found the skulls of dogs and sheep and, incongruously, a tortoise-shell. It is dry in this corridor, the walls are fluted. There is a floor of dog’s-tooth spar, and long stalactites hang down like vegetable roots. There is talk of lighting this stretch of cave, fixing a permanent ladder down the entrance pot, making it a show cave, a tourist attraction. It would be ideal – easy, comfortable, quite spectacular – especially when flooded with light to make an exciting mineral glitter of the formations. Simon hates the thought of the echoing clamour and litter of sightseers. Tourists – in his own kingdom. But it would only be the entrance, after all, the gateway. They would not penetrate the depths.
He reaches the end of the easy stretch, a boulder floor which is harder going, an unsteady scramble over the huge jammed surfaces. There are bats here; the rocks are thick and slippery with guano; the smell is sweetish and cloying. He flicks the beam of his torch upwards into the scoop above him, and senses rather than sees movement, as if the surface of the rock itself is ruffling and shuffling.
This junction is where the system ended for a long time. It took the shifting of a boulder, a laborious job, to find the entrance to the branched passage above. He climbs. He knows the crevices in the rock, the ledges, with his eyes closed. At the top he perches, listening to his own breathing. There is blackness behind him. He has never minded the darkness before – but before there have always been companions. The blackness seems a solid thing. Not an absence of light, but a thing in itself. Is light just an absence of dark? The darkness itself is now his companion. Surely he is not afraid? He grins at the foolishness, a small lonely grin, buried beneath tons of rock and moor. He turns and makes his way along the low passage; Hesitation Way, this has been christened, for there are so many choices to be made. It is like a child’s maze of dead ends and culs-de-sac. But Simon knows the way.
The passage he chooses is the one that looks the least promising. It is narrow and dank, with a low uneven roof. It is still walkable, just, bent almost double, in an excruciating monkey-shamble. He pauses after a time, wincing with the strain in his back and calves. He rests, his hands braced against his thighs. This part is a sheer bloody slog. It is a miserable passage, a long downward-sloping tube that leads into the lower cave system. The walls are muddy and there are strange wet growths. Water trickles down the walls and soon he is following the path of a small stream. This is no surprise, there is usually a trickle here, and with all the rain it’s only surprising that it isn’t worse. He is not worried about the water. Lower down, the system opens out into a keyhole-shaped corridor, a huge channel, which he estimates will contain the flow, will more than contain it, with a narrow slot above, narrow enough to straddle, high enough never to be flooded at the top. There is only the short duck at the end of this that is a worry. But he will stop there. He should stop now. He might just as well. Why press on with this slog only to turn round and come back? His neck aches with the effort of holding his head, heavy with helmet and lamp, at such an awkward angle. Occasionally his boots slither on the wet rock.
One day he will bring his child down here, introduce him to the kingdom which is his father’s, and can be his own. Or her own. But somehow he imagines a son. He imagines him at about eleven years old, like the first-years at school, a strong boy, long-legged, bright-eyed. An adventurer. He experiences a ridiculous swell of pride at the thought, warmth at the trust between them. A girl would be delicious too, of course, his daughter. He would be just as proud. It is just that the child of his imagination is a boy. The first child.
That other world is going on up there, like another dimension of reality, all that buzzing crucial life balanced on the thin crust of this ball. The thought of the buildings clinging to the thin surface skin of the earth, the tall impudent constructions stretching their tops into the sky, straining at their foundations, makes him feel a momentary panic. What if they were to topple like trees, their foundations ripped from the earth like roots? He jerks his head too swiftly at the thought, and bangs his helmet on a sharp projection on the roof. The crack is sharp enough to jar his teeth. It stops the wild train of his thoughts. He pauses and listens. It is the solid silence he loves. Not utter silence of course, for there are the workings of the earth just like the workings of any machine. There is the trickle of the stream and the louder rush of the river he is approaching. There is the sound of dripping, the sound of his own breath and, when he moves, the echo of his own progress.
Limestone and Clay Page 10