Her Living Image

by Jane Rogers

  She opened her eyes. It was dark. The belly was gone. She was all right, she was awake. Alan sighed and turned over, and she curled herself around his curved back, and waited for a more friendly sleep to claim her.

  Part Three

  Five years later

  Chapter 15

  Early in January Caro and Bryony drove to Heathrow to meet Clare, who was returning from a year in the States. It was a Friday and bitterly cold. The heating in Clare’s car was not working; Caro sat in the passenger seat wrapped in a blanket, and Bryony drove in a Balaclava, enormous army surplus gloves and two coats.

  Bryony had picked Caro up from work. It was dark, and had been since mid-afternoon.

  “It’ll snow.” Caro peered up to the black sky.

  “No. It’s too cold.”

  “Did you check if the flight was on time?”

  “Of course. God, I can hear your teeth chattering.”

  “It’s that building. I hate it. They keep the temperature so high you can’t adjust when you come out, and everyone gets ill. I’m going to start doing some outside work again next week, thank God.”

  “The new park?”

  “No – oh no. Everything’s seized up while the ground’s frozen – there won’t be much happening there till spring now. No, I’m going to fill in for Jim on the Canal project.”

  Bryony nodded.

  “Did you have a nice day?”

  “Mmm. I gave in my notice.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yup.”

  There was a silence, broken at last by Caro.

  “When did you decide?”

  “Not until this morning. I was pretty sure I would, but I just needed something to give me an extra push.”

  “What did?”

  “Well – when I was at the camp on Saturday night, we were talking about dreams.” Bryony had spent the weekend at the Women’s Peace Camp at Greenham Common. “It seemed as if quite a lot of people had had the same dream – or a similar one, at least – there were similar elements in all of them. About after the bomb had dropped – you know, people running about and screaming, great fires and heaps of rubble – looking frantically for children and friends – obvious things, really. I was thinking about it yesterday, I suppose – and then I had a dream last night. It’s not – I don’t know. I mean, I probably dreamt it because I’d been hearing all their dreams and thinking about them. I don’t think it’s some great subconscious warning or anything.”

  Caro nodded. “Was your dream the same?”

  “No – no. It was like – almost as if I was trying to answer them, in my mind. I was sitting in a large cinema, with a lot of other people, and there was an American guy talking about the effects of nuclear war. He sounded terribly smarmy and reasuring – you know, a real politician’s voice. Telling us all how we would have to adapt in various minor ways to changing circumstances, but that basically our lives would carry on very much as normal – and it was weird, I was wanting them all to believe him, and him to be telling the truth. I kept saying to them all in my mind, ‘You see? It’ll be all right. There’s nothing to panic about. It’s under control.’ He said, naturally there would be some changes amongst plant and animal life, but species would adapt to suit the changes in climate and atmosphere and so on. The film was black at first then it turned a sort of brownish colour, getting lighter but still weird colours, browny yellow, till we could see it was water, a river or something, and its bank. And there were some birds swimming – floating down towards the camera, they were brown. They were ducks – ordinary mallard ducks. But they didn’t have any heads.”

  After a silence Caro said, “Is that it?”

  “Yes, I woke up.”

  “Headless ducks.”

  “Yup, maybe I was half awake. But it’s a fairly strange thing to invent.”

  “Yes.”

  “So there we are. There I am.”

  “What d’you think will happen?”

  “I don’t know. Even if they evict us, or break up the camp – or deliver the fucking things – it’ll go on. A group of women will go on protesting. That’s why it’s taken me so long, I think. Because I’ll be doing it for the rest of my life now. I mean, it’s not like waving a banner at a demo on Sunday afternoon and going back to work on Monday. It’s the most important thing –that’s what we’re saying by being here. The most important thing is to stop them building, storing and using these weapons.”

  “Was it good at the weekend?”

  Bryony laughed. “It was filthy. It was bloody freezing, with a wind like a knife. The sheeting – you know, the polythene – sounded like whips cracking when the wind got into it. It was bloody horrible. I’m going to get a thermal bodystocking before I go back.”

  “I’ll buy you one. I’m glad you’re going.”

  “Why?”

  “Because – it’s good. It’s what you should do.”

  “You could come too.”

  “It’s not – it’s not my sort of thing. I’ve got my park to do, anyway.”

  “Your park won’t be worth having when the bomb’s dropped.” Bryony spoke with the contemptuous sharpness which had so alienated Caro at the beginning. She recognized it now as a mark of Bryony’s own conviction, rather than an attack upon herself. “You can buy me a bodystocking if you like,” Bryony went on after a pause. “Considering your salary.”

  One of the customs officers decided to do a thorough job on Clare’s luggage. She folded her arms and leant back against the rail, watching while he tipped out and examined the contents of her sponge bag, and spread her socks, knickers, T-shirts and jeans across the counter. Everything looked worn and grubby. She tried to remember if she had brought anything illegal. He picked garments up and turned them over with his fingertips, gingerly, as if they were disgusting. What an awful job. For a moment Clare felt like telling him not to bother, just chuck the whole lot away. They were old. She needed new ones.

  Glancing up as someone walked out, she recognized Caro waiting out there. It gave her a jolt. She was really here then. Back in England. At last the officer finished. He confiscated two apples that she had in her handbag, and warned her about penalties for importing plant and vegetable matter. She stuffed everything back into her bags, and made for the door.

  After the huggings and kisses they stood back.

  “Are you all right?” Bryony asked. “You look like death.”

  “I’m tired. Incredibly tired. You, on the contrary, both look disgustingly healthy.” They did. Bryony’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright and excited. Caro’s face was paler, but still fresh and absurdly youthful. Clare noticed that her hair had been cropped shorter than before, so that it was almost like fur on her head.

  “And how’s Sue?”

  “All right,” said Bryony shortly.

  “I think she’s working tonight,” Caro explained. “We don’t see much of her really. She spends a lot of time at Jack’s now – most weekends. The kids are around more than she is.”

  Clare nodded. Sue had met Jack before Clare left England. He was large and boring. Clare wondered whether Sue would move out.

  “Let’s go then,” said Caro and picked up the big carpet bag. She moved away in front of them. Her face hasn’t changed since I met her, Clare thought, as she and Bryony followed. The only thing that’s changed in ten years is the way she moves. Caro’s stride was long and loose and graceful. Clare remembered how she had seemed at first to be constrained in all her movements – and jerky, almost as if her stammer manifested itself through her body as well. It might have been the accident. But no – she’s more confident, that’s all, Clare thought. She herself felt old and stiff and unspeakably weary.

  Next morning Clare knocked at Caro’s door at eight.

  “What are you doing? I thought you would sleep for hours.”

  “I can’t. It’s lunch time in New York. Are you awake?”

  “Well, I am now. Have you had breakfast and everything?”
>
  “Yes. Can we go for a walk? Why don’t you show me this wondrous park of yours?”

  “It’s not mine.” Caro sat up in bed. “If it was mine it would be wondrous. As it is, it’s a mess. Nothing’s been planted yet, anyway. It’s all bald.”

  “Never mind. The rest of the earth isn’t exactly verdant at the moment, is it? I need some exercise.” Clare stood in the doorway, as if unsure whether to come in or go out. “I’ll make you a cup of tea then,” she said, and went back downstairs.

  It was difficult to talk. There was the solid wall of a year apart standing between them, with not a loose brick in sight. Clare had been an erratic correspondent, and several of Caro’s neat, carefully written letters had been delivered to addresses Clare had moved on from. They had covered the easy areas of quick gossip last night, and now they both felt constrained. They walked down the street in silence, each sharply aware of the other’s presence, of the cold, of the greyness of the street and the claustrophobically low cloud. As they turned the corner, the first flakes of snow fell. Clare pulled her fur coat more tightly around her (it came frum a jumble sale and lacked any conventional form of fastening) and complained.

  “But you had something like two feet of snow in New York, you said!” laughed Caro.

  “Their snow is warmer than ours.”

  “It’s because you’re tired. You should have stayed in bed.”

  Clare shook her head. “I’m full of cramp and junk food. I need to move around and get some fresh air inside me.”

  “Didn’t you sleep at all?”

  “No. Bryony’s looking good.”

  “Yes, she is. I think she’s much happier now.”

  “Like a nun who’s had the call.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “She’s found her mission in life.”

  “I – I suppose so. Isn’t that good?” Caro was surprised by Clare’s cynicism. There was no reply.

  “Do you know where you are?” Caro asked suddenly.

  “Of course I do. We’ve only been out five minutes.” Clare looked up, and realized that the terraced rows either side of the road had disappeared. Ahead, through a high wire-mesh fence, the landscape looked blitzed.

  “Sweet Jesus, it’s the end of the world! It’s so near –”

  “Yes! Yes!” Caro started dancing on the spot beside her. “Come with me. The canal’s over that-a-way, but if we head over towards the old brickworks –” She unlocked a huge padlock which fastened the gates.

  “Has that gone too?” asked Clare.

  “Yup. There’s a bit of a hill so you’ll get more of a view –”

  “But there’s nothing,” Clare repeated in amazement, as she followed Caro over the raw uneven ground, and looked back at the truncated ends of the streets they were leaving behind them.

  “It was all empty. Derelict. You know it was. I think they had a bit of juggling to do, moving people out of the odd house in rows they demolished, and into the empty spots in ones they’re keeping – like filling decaying teeth – but most of it was just rotting where it stood. All the factories were derelict. Look, you can see St Thomas’s over on the other side now –” They were climbing a fairly steep mound. Gradually the shape of the cleared area began to emerge distinctly.

  “The park’s at its widest point here,” Caro said, stretching her arms to demonstrate. “But it follows the line of the canal right through, gradually getting narrower towards the east. To the west it gets narrow quickly, then there’s a big bulge where the river runs in, at Tandown Primary School, then it ends fairly sharply.”

  “It looks huge,” marvelled Clare, revolving slowly on the spot to take in the empty landscape.

  “Twenty-eight hectares, not big really – except in so far as it’s in a totally built-up area.”

  “And completely horrible,” Clare continued. “It’s like the Russian steppes. There’s not a single tree. Anything less like a rural retreat –”

  “Clare – use your imagination! This’ll be wooded eventually. They’ll grass it this September – and down there –” she pointed to a wide area of churned up ground, where frozen water stood in ruts “– the adventure playground, with swings and slide and all that stuff, but a nice climbing frame and fort too. Over there the leisure centre/sports fields thing. My poor little blind garden, what’s left of it, just up over here, near the top gate – and –” she turned in the opposite direction “– down by the river, in the old primary school building, which is in fairly good nick, they’re setting up a field study centre, and strips of land for school gardens. They’ve done the lake – you can see. We planted some trees along the canal in the autumn – as soon as it unfreezes we’ll be putting more in, it’ll be an avenue. . . .”

  Clare was nodding and smiling in a half amused, half indulgent manner.

  “I know why you do this now, Caro my sweet.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s like being God, isn’t it? ‘Lo, and let there be – water!’” Clare stretched out one regal hand across the whitening wasteland. “‘Yea, and let there be also a shady spot, with trees; and let there be small yellow flowers, with crimson centres. Let there be grassy slopes with swings on, and litter bins clearly labelled.’”

  Caro shrugged and ran down the hill. At the bottom she turned, her face serious. Clare walked down slowly to meet her.

  “It is power – yes.”

  “You take it so seriously,” laughed Clare.

  “Yes, I do. Look Clare – look what was here; fil–filthy mean little houses not far enough apart for the wind to blow between them; derelict factories with slates slipping off them and armies of rats – not a blade of grass in sight. And people, leftover people like – like grubs that’ve been kept in the dark. Now there’ll be grass and water and light. The kids from the houses up there –” she waved her arm in the direction of home – “will come and play on the grass – the old people from the council place will come pottering down and sit on the benches by the flowerbeds. Women will bring little kids to the adventure playground and talk to each other instead of screaming over the walls of their backyards – oh, piss off!”

  Clare’s smile was wide and ironical. She patted Caro on the shoulder. “You’ll change the world, my love.”

  “Yes,” said Caro. “I will. Starting with a blind garden and lots of trees in Millside.”

  “What will you do when kids root it all up and carve obscenities on the trees?”

  Councillor Bellamy had asked the same question, Carolyn recalled. They had held a site meeting on Thursday and he had turned up instead of the committee chairman they were expecting. He was the new leader of the Council. He was a broad-chested, powerfully built man, with manners like a bulldozer.

  “What happens when kids start breaking in here, eh? What’s your security like?”

  “It – it’s not a prison,” she replied.

  “I’ll tell you something, young lady, and I’ll tell you straight. If it’d been down to me, this park would never’ve been sited here. It’s a mess – the whole area’s a mess. You mark my words – within twelve months of it opening, it’ll be a wreck.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head irritably, as if she was stupid.

  “Wrong area for a park. Waste of money, here. They won’t appreciate it. A prison’d be more useful, if you want my opinion.”

  Ron had winked at her and steered Bellamy away, down towards the foundations of the leisure centre.

  The answers Caro wished she had given him were still boiling and bubbling inside her.

  “P–plant again. When they see the trees come back – and come back again – they’ll stop eventually. They haven’t lived near anything worth preserving before.” She turned round slowly on the spot, critically examining the contours of the park’s three little hills (like molehills, Clare told herself) against the grey sky.

  “It’s not wonderful – I know that – there’s hundreds of things wrong. I would have done it differ
ently – OK, you know about the blind garden. But the point is, at least it’s here – it’s a start. No matter how badly designed it is, it’s a thousand times better than what was here before. And I’ve salvaged some of the blind garden, and I’ve got the tree planting. And next time I’ll have more – and more – till I finally do have the power to do something big, make something big.”

  They walked on across the cleared area in silence. Snow was settling thickly on the raw earth, now, and on the blacker areas which had already been topsoiled. When they reached the canal Caro turned right to walk along it. On the opposite side the canal’s former contents, removed by dredger, made a barricade of frozen mud and rubbish six feet high. Bicycle frames, pram wheels, parts of cars, and nameless slimy objects protruded from the frozen mud like the jumbled contents of a newly excavated grave. Clare stopped and folded her arms, facing it.

  “Caro, this is wonderful. This makes me glad I flew three thousand miles to see it. Millside’s answer to Guggenheim. All the galleries of New York do not contain its equal –”

  Caro linked her elbow through Clare’s arm and turned her homewards.

  “Shut up. Tell me what you’ve been doing, while I’ve been moving mountains.”

  “Oh – exercising my cynicism on the American Women’s Movement; falling hopelessly in love; visiting my mother; failing to see my son. That sort of thing.”

  The summary did not invite closer questioning. Caro nodded, consciously slowing herself down to Clare’s pace. Clare was more brittle and self-contained than Caro could remember ever having seen her. They walked on home in silence.