CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When his first child was a few weeks old they found it on three different nights lying crossways and uncovered in its cradle, even though the cradle stood immediately next to the mother’s bed. The father therefore resolved to stay awake during the third night and to pay close attention to his child. He persisted a long while, staying awake until after midnight. Nothing happened to the child, because he had been keeping a watchful eye on it. But then his eyes began to close a little.
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
AUGUST 13TH
FOUR WEEKS AND THREE DAYS OLD
6 P.M.
“Have you been up here all day?” said Patrick. He was standing in the doorway surveying the scene in the bedroom, the messy little nest Lauren had made for herself. Wrinkling his nose and frowning, arms folded.
“I went down. To get food,” said Lauren. She was cross-legged in the middle of the bed, feeding Morgan while Riley kicked his legs in the Moses basket. “Why do you ask?”
She felt defensive, but even Lauren could see that the situation was extreme. She’d buried herself like a worm at the centre of this vortex of items: dirty nappies in bags, baby clothes, wipes, food packets, mugs, bedding, DVDs, toys. Strewn didn’t cover it adequately; it was as if a small tornado had passed through. But, the babies were clean, fed, happy. Wasn’t that the only important thing?
“You can’t stay in bed all day, Lauren. It’s not healthy.” Patrick uncrossed his arms and put his fists on his hips.
“It’s comfier in here,” she said, trying not to whine. “I can feed them both at once, without worrying if someone will look in the window and see me naked.”
Patrick looked sceptical. “You could still do that downstairs. Just draw the curtains.”
“I could,” said Lauren, “but I like them open. I like the light.”
Baby Morgan dropped off the breast, exposing Lauren’s large nipple. It pointed downwards, a long pink teat, wet and sucked out of shape. Patrick shifted his eyes away, to Riley, lying in the Moses basket, curling his fingers into balls and shrieking intermittently. The shrieks were alarmingly loud, but it was a happy sound.
“Why is he doing that?” said Patrick. He came further into the room and knelt next to the basket, drawing his face close to the baby’s. As she watched, they took each other in, father and son inspecting each other slowly and carefully. The two had matching frowns. Then Riley screwed his eyes shut and shrieked again, flapping his hands onto Patrick’s head and grabbing a handful of hair.
Patrick shouted, “Ow, get off me,” and tried to dig his great finger into the baby’s fist to make it release. “Why won’t he let go?”
Laughter bubbled up in Lauren and she tried not to let it out. The extrication took a while, but Patrick finally pulled his head away, leaving long strands of gold behind in Riley’s hand.
“The little blighter,” said Patrick. “That really hurt.”
Lauren thought of the labour pains. Her smile died on her face.
“Did it.”
She watched Patrick rubbing at his head through his curls, throwing aggrieved glances in the direction of the tiny baby, who shrieked, happily. She said, “You know, he wasn’t doing it on purpose.”
“Hmm,” said Patrick. “I guess.”
“They can make fists at this age, but they can’t release them at will. It’s a developmental thing.”
He didn’t seem convinced, just grimaced doubtfully, as if he thought she was making it up.
“You could try reading one of those books I bought,” she said, nodding to the pile of jauntily titled baby bibles placed on the recessed shelf, Post-it notes sticking out marking particularly good bits she wanted him to read. The Truly Happy Baby, Why Love Matters, The Baby Owner’s Manual. She’d even bought The Expectant Dad’s Handbook, but she’d never even seen him pick it up.
“Ha, yeah,” said Patrick, rolling his eyes. Lauren felt something opening up between them. Something unfixable, like cracking glass. He sat on the edge of the bed and took one of Morgan’s feet in his palm.
“This one likes me, though. Don’t you?” He lifted Morgan from Lauren’s arms and held him close, wrapping him in his own. For a brief moment she felt something like pride. He would be a good daddy. He just needed a bit of guidance. “What’s for tea?” said Patrick. He was still looking at Morgan, so it took Lauren a second to register that he was talking to her.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lauren. “What do you fancy? Chinese?”
His dissatisfied face made her think again of Riley’s. “We can’t live on take-out, Lauren.”
Riley shrieked, loud enough to make them both wince and turn towards him. Then Patrick turned back towards Lauren and shook his head. “Chinese,” he said, and, “Jesus,” under his breath. He stood up and went downstairs, taking Morgan with him. From within her nest she heard him cross the kitchen, open the fridge, whisper an expletive.
He marched back to the foot of the stairs and shouted up, “There’s absolutely nothing in, Lauren.”
Lauren did not move, or speak. She lay on the bed, face towards the window. The sky was purplish in places, streaked with clouds. The decimated ski village was in shadow. Riley had fallen asleep. The house thrummed with Patrick’s rage, which had whipped up from nothing when he realised how pathetic she was; how she had failed. She ought to be able to shop, to go downstairs, to make the dinner. Other people managed; Cindy managed. Tears slipped down Lauren’s cheek, wetting the pillow.
Patrick came thundering upstairs. The baby, a startled expression on his face, was still gripped in his left arm. “You should have called me, I would have dropped in to the shops on my way home.”
“I would have called,” she said, not looking at him, “but I thought you’d be cross with me.”
“I wouldn’t, why would you think that?”
He was almost yelling now.
“I think it because you keep saying I need to get out, get to the shops. I didn’t do it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly, darling.”
That phrase again. She no longer felt sorry, only annoyed.
“I know you’re having a tough time,” he said, “but the only reason I keep on at you to go out is because it will make things easier for you, in the long run. You need to get back to normal. Stop hiding inside—it’s not healthy for you, or for the boys.”
“The food delivery is due tomorrow afternoon. I must have ordered badly last time, we don’t usually run out so soon. I’ve made sure there’s enough to see us through.”
“It’s not the shopping; that’s not the point. You need to get yourself out of the house. What are you doing all day, anyway?”
Morgan, as if to demonstrate, opened his mouth and began to cry. Such a sad, mournful sound, almost enough to make everyone around him cry as well, in empathy. I hurt, Mummy, I’m frightened, help me.
That’s your fault, Patrick, thought Lauren. It was the harsh, unfamiliar deep voice, and the tense atmosphere. She held her arms out to take him from his father.
Patrick passed the baby to her. He must have noticed that Lauren’s eyes were red, her face wet with tears.
“You’re upset again,” he said, matter-of-fact.
She nodded, sniffed. He passed a tissue from the box. She wiped the baby’s face, and then her own.
“You really need to go outside,” said Patrick.
I need to stay here, thought Lauren, where we are safe.
“When was the last time you went out?”
“I don’t know.”
She did know. She hadn’t left the house since she was pregnant. She’d told him once or twice that she’d been out for a walk while he was at work, but she’d been lying. She hadn’t dared put the boys in the car yet. Pregnant Lauren had forced herself to watch an online video of a crash-test baby dummy being slammed against a windscreen in slow-motion and the image would not leave her.
“You used to walk, every day,” said Patrick, apparently stru
ggling not to sound accusatory, failing. “You said it kept you sane.”
Before Lauren went freelance, she’d worked as a product designer at a manufacturing firm. The long hours and stress of the office environment meant that, for a long time, she wasn’t looking after herself properly. Then her mother died suddenly, and instead of taking a break, she worked even harder to keep her mind occupied. The depression, when it finally hit, floored her completely. Some days she hadn’t been able to lift her head from the pillow, and just the thought of having to get out of bed made her cry herself back into an exhausted sleep. It had taken a lot to drag herself out of that pit. A lot of antidepressants, a lot of therapy. She’d left the medication behind, now, despite everyone telling her she shouldn’t, and she self-medicated with fresh air, good food and exercise. It worked, for her. Each time she stepped out of the door and started to walk, she could feel the darkness lift, as if a layer of it were being physically removed from her body.
After her recovery, she didn’t want to return to the office that had made her so ill. It was three years now, since she’d decided to go it alone with her garden fountain business. Patrick had been worried that she might get lonely, working on her own all day. Lauren hadn’t shared his concern for a single moment; the flexibility and the solitude suited her. She’d loved working from home out of her little studio, building up her client base of garden centres and private projects. Being her own boss meant that she had total artistic freedom, but it also meant she could take off into the countryside whenever she wished, which was almost every single day. It wasn’t only about the exercise; the valleys, woods and rivers often provided inspiration for her flow-form fountain sculptures. She would take her sketchbook just in case she saw a useful natural shape or a leaf formation that she might copy in clay, cast and reproduce in concrete. Patrick was completely right about the daily walks. Her old life had been punctuated by them, enhanced by them, restored by them. But things were different now. All the things were different. For thirty-one days, her boots had stood unused on the shoe rack by the back door.
“I think I might wait a week or two more, before I take them out. They’re so little, and they might get too hot in this weather.”
Patrick sighed.
The worst of the heat had passed, leaving scorched, parched earth and an indefinite hosepipe ban. There’d been no rain yet, but the last few days a fresh breeze had been blowing up the valleys. Really, the weather was perfect, like living in the Mediterranean. So inviting. But no, she shouldn’t go out. Just in case.
“Tomorrow,” said Patrick, decisive. “Promise me. You just need to take them for a stroll, somewhere where there’s shade. Breathe a bit of fresh air. It’ll do you the world of good.”
And despite his irritatingly parental tone, she found herself considering it. It would be lovely to walk under the sky again, breathe the air, see what the birds were up to. There was an ache in her, a need to surround herself with nature, bigger in this moment than the fear that kept her inside the house.
“The girls from antenatal, they keep asking me to meet them in the Bishop Valley Park. They’re going there tomorrow, actually.”
“Perfect, then that’s settled.”
Later they ate Chinese food in bed, and she thought perhaps she did love him, that it could be just as good as before. But when the meal was finished he yawned, kissed her on the head, picked up his earplugs and went through to the spare room, leaving her to a night of snatched half-hours of sleep.
The babies were still more active at night than in the day. Six weeks, she had read, was the magic time when they could tell night from day, developmentally. Sometimes babies slept through the night from six weeks; perhaps hers would do it. She envisaged an unbroken night of sleep, but far from craving it, the idea made her anxious. Those precious hours were hers alone, safe in the locked box of the bedroom, just Lauren and the two miraculous boys she’d created from within her body, who belonged to her, who were part of her and through whose veins her own blood flowed. When the time came for them to sleep through the night, something would be given: the gift of rejuvenating sleep, essential to life. But like every bargain, something would also be taken: it would be another of those inevitable steps away from her and into themselves. Let it go on, she thought, this beautiful torture, the time of the sleepless nights. For as long as it will.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Nickert is a small grey person that lives in the water and has a great desire for human children. If they have not yet been baptised, he will steal them, leaving his own children in their place.
Kuhn/Schwartz
AUGUST 14TH
FOUR WEEKS AND FOUR DAYS OLD
MORNING
Lauren and the babies fell asleep for the third or fourth time (she lost count) at about 6:30 a.m., just as Patrick was getting in the shower. She woke again at 8 a.m. to find a note pushed under the bedroom door.
Don’t forget to go outside today
There was a smiley face and a couple of little hearts, which made her roll her eyes, but she found that she liked it. And, there was a PS:
Can you pick up some tagliatelle? It wasn’t on the order. I’ll cook later.
She felt sour about the pasta. He was only asking her to get it to make sure she went out, if only to the shop at the top of the road. Lauren opened the bedroom window and the soft late-summer air filled the room. Already the sun was hot, and the day had only just got started. She would go outside. But not because he said so. She would go, to prove to herself that there was nothing to be afraid of.
As she gathered up the things she would need in order to leave the house, she kept changing her mind. A feeling of dread descended and she decided she couldn’t do it. Then, she stepped into the garden in her bare feet and was overcome. The light and the warmth gave her strength. Patrick was right—going outside was the answer; staying inside made her mad.
Shower—quickly because Riley was crying. Get dry, get moisturised, dressed in shorts and T-shirt. Sun cream. Change babies’ wet nappies. Feed babies. Change babies’ dirty nappies and clothes, since the stuff had gone everywhere. Two car seats, get them strapped in. Double stroller, folded. Changing bag, nappies, nappy bags, wipes, four changes of clothes. Pacifier for Riley, just in case. Mobile phone, handbag, purse, boots, car keys. Bottle of water. Muslins for mopping up sick.
She managed to pick everything up and hefted the boys and the luggage down the road to where her car was parked, so that her arms ached by the time she got there. She battled with the seat belts in the back of the old three-door Ford, heaved the stroller into the boot, slammed it. Got in, shut the door, put the keys in the ignition and realised she was hungry. Starving. She’d missed breakfast, and now it was lunchtime. The front door was probably sixty yards away. She could just nip back and grab something quickly. She opened the car door to step out.
A jolt, a flash of black something in the bushes. She stared at the spot, feeling adrenaline rushing through her, thinking of the woman hiding, watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake. No one there, just a blackbird. Her eyes searched the undergrowth, every shadow morphing into clumps of hair, black rags, then back again to branches, leaves, nettles and shadows.
I can’t leave them, even for a second.
Lauren struggled to unbuckle both car seats and lugged them back up the street to the house, listing in her head the reasons she need not be afraid. I need not be afraid because: there’s nothing to be scared of; I’m jumping at shadows; it’s always worse when I haven’t slept well; everything is fine; I’m just nervous because it’s the first time I’ve been out; I’m fretting about the driving, but I need to get it done, get back on the road, or I’ll be stuck forever, a prisoner in my own house.
Keys mined from the handbag where she had sunk them, she went into the house and put the babies, both sleeping, on the couch in their car seats. In the kitchen there wasn’t much to be had in the way of sustenance: an elderly banana, alone in the fruit bowl. An almost
empty pack of rye crackers from the cupboard. When she found herself deliberating over a can of tuna, she shook her head, Ridiculous. Anyway, it didn’t matter: she was going to a cafe, so she could get something there.
As she struggled back towards the car with a heavy car seat hooked over each arm she hesitated, then stopped opposite the place she’d thought the woman had stood. Another flicker of black made her jump. But no, nothing, it was that blackbird.
* * *
Down in the valley she parked the car by the old millpond and clipped the brightly coloured car seats into the stroller frame. She positioned Morgan above, facing her and Riley below, facing forward. She briefly worried that Riley might feel snubbed somehow but he was asleep, after all, and she could swap them round on the way back so that it was fair. Changing bag, handbag, phone, wallet, keys. She laced up her boots and set off along the river, feeling immediately better. She thought of it as her river, she’d walked the path so many times. In the old life she would regularly go all the way to the New Riverby reservoir, five miles out—she’d even driven over there and hiked the circumference of the lake on the morning of the day she went into labour. Hugely pregnant and sweating in the heat, halfway around Lauren had stopped to rest on a bench. The view was so familiar to her that she almost didn’t notice the triangular thing, sticking up in the middle of the lake like a skeletal hand, pointing. What was it? At first, she thought it might have been the mast of a sunken boat. As she stared, shading her eyes with one hand, another walker approached.
“That’s the old Selverton Church spire,” said the man, “from the drowned village.” He’d nodded and smiled, pleased to be able to pass on a bit of local knowledge. Then he’d gone on his way, leaving Lauren to wonder about what he’d said, about what remnants of village life had been preserved under the water, what else might be revealed should the drought go on much longer.
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