Fen

by Daisy Johnson

  Her race was last. She rounded her toes over the edge, swung her arms. She barely saw the others diving off, knew, even then, what she would do – a sort of answer to the badger-haired man in the kitchen, or a sort of question to the calculations that amounted from her age against her mother’s. Or maybe just to do something, just to do anything. Like those older girls in the changing room who said studiously: I only ever date to fill the time.

  She was thinking on it hard enough she came near the back though any other time she would have won and any other time she would have cared on losing. She pulled herself out, felt the water coming off in a sheet and moved her head up. Her mother was there, staring at her.

  There’s a party, Kitty said to her, moving her eyes over the ridge of her shoulder at the boy. I’ll see you at home.

  She expected her mother to argue. Where’s your towel? she said instead.

  In the changing room Kitty drew out dressing, talked enough that a sock took ten minutes and most everybody was gone by the time she was ready. Took a book to the toilet and sat with her feet resting on the bin. Sat till the lights were turned off.

  When she went out he was there. Sat on a bench, hands hanging down, looking at her. It was easy to hunker down and fill that space between his knees with her body like she knew what she was doing.

  Was there something other than hair and eye colour that you got from your parents? The shape of his face inclining down her, over her stomach, down her. Was there something more than a way of thinking and walking, a certain accent and easily angering, the type of tea she had, the amount of sugar? Was there repetition also in events, so that things swung round twice and you barely noticed them until, years later, you heard your story spoken through someone else’s mouth?

  The feel of someone other than her down there was surprising. Not knowing it was his tongue until she felt his hands higher up. Wondering, not having time to feel any horror at the thought, if this was how it was for her mother; on the floor of a changing room still slick from the showers, still half in clothes, still half out of any realisation of being there. As if somehow her growing from that moment had grown the moment into her so she could never have been anywhere, other than there. And then the terrible thought that her mother must know what was happening; the cord which trailed through events, spanning time zones, spanning both ways, must be pulling tight.

  He was coming back up her body.

  You got a condom?

  No, she said.

  He shrugged. S’okay.

  The unlit pool was dark enough you could not tell ground from water and she heard him going in before she’d felt her way to the edge of it. There was an ache at the base of her, a pressing in.

  Come on, he said from somewhere.

  She bent her knees, fell forwards, closed her eyes. Held her breath for as long as she could, moving her arms beneath the water, frogging her legs out to either side. Waiting for the heated beat in her chest and then pressing her toes flat to the floor and shrugging up.

  His slipstream passed under her, fingers leaving a stream of their own across her calves. Then gone. She swam on. He moved under again a moment later, willowing up this time so she felt the entirety of him against her, seal-like, hands making their own way.

  I think this is how my mum lost it, she said before she could stop herself, unnerved by how he felt: made more of water than anything else.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, then: In a pool?

  Yeah. Maybe.

  She told you?

  No.

  His hands were working beneath the water, strict with purpose, his breath very even.

  She lived on a canal boat for a bit.

  Cool.

  It was cold and mouldy and she wouldn’t do it again if you paid her, she said. Then she had me.

  He didn’t say anything.

  There were slugs, she said.

  The side of the pool against her back was cold, sudden and hard: she grated the skin off and opened her mouth in pain long enough for him to slide a finger in. She thought then, catching it accidently or on purpose between her teeth, that he must be able to see her. That only she was mole-blind in the dark and grasping. He put his hands beneath her thighs and lifted her. She was more than half out of the water, skin rough with cold, his mouth on her, a growing pressure in his hands.

  You ready? he said, sliding her down.

  She pushed him with both hands, one on his head to better force him, felt him dip beneath the water and, as he did, she rose above him, grasped backwards. His hand held onto her leg for a moment and then was gone. She pulled herself out; the breath as he swam away from her, whistling disappointment or goodbye.

  She walked home along the dark road, tracing through the pattern of what would have happened, of what could have happened: the press of him against her, his breathing giving nothing away and nothing away till there was nothing to give. The imaginings of what her mother had done: the canal boat frozen hard to the riverbank, the baby growing and growing: her. She pictured him: the badger-haired man, darkening backwards till he was young, too young to have a baby though there it was, swelling beneath his hands.

  Ahead there is a red seed of light, sharp enough to cut through to her. She is uncertain what it is.

  1999

  Some days they were on the roof till dark, sat in stolen deckchairs, talking about where they would go when they got the motor working. Finn trooped to town for Cornettos, Isabel raised her top to show the white strain of stomach to the weak glazed sun, watched the kohl eyes of swans on the opposite bank, the low skim of willows.

  They would take the canal boat to Africa, watch its nose dip-diving sea waves, be unrecognisable by the time they got there, wood-brown skin, hair salted white. Always, in Isabel’s imaginings, the baby was with them, a sea cub, a traveller forming a lingo all its own. There wasn’t room on the boat for more than a few books but they’d swap them at docks and the baby would puzzle them out, quote them, grow a language only they understood. They would not need anyone else. The baby would be expert at slitting fish so the skeletons fell out fully formed; understand the seasons from a finger to the knuckle in the river; know the tunnels whales took.

  Then there were nights she woke and felt the thrum of cold beating through the base of the Marie Cardona. Finn curled close for warmth, one hand held against the moonrise of her stomach. In those moments he was barely more than a baby himself: quiet sleeper, breathing content, smooth skinned. She lay there, tallying up what he’d left behind.

  Some days she woke to him gone. Stoked the fire. Sat in front of it until it chugged enough heat to bring her body back to her. She would not go up to see if she could sight him. He could leave if he wanted, would come back if he needed.

  Later there would be the sound of someone on the towpath, the extension of his body as he came down the green-painted steps towards her, grin saying he knew she’d been waiting.

  Where you been?

  He wouldn’t answer; only flexed his fingers onto the globe of her stomach, murmured words Isabel could not hear, as if he and the foetus had some secret they were growing.

  Get off, you. She’d nudge him off balance with the ball of her foot, laugh as he fell, extravagantly.

  She would and must forgive him anything because he was there. Waking her some days with the lighting of the fire, scrambling eggs in the one burnt pan they had, filling the silence. Once he came back with a bagful of books. Once, when she said she was craving meat, they ate chicken for a week, and though the sell-by dates told her where he was getting them, she said nothing.

  She tried to think of them both sprung fully formed from the walls of the boat: but she sometimes thought of Finn at school. Pitched in with a group of boys. Clever, front of class, arm raised lazily as if offering a favour. Pitching out quotes he’d spent all night learning. He could get marks better than most without much trying. But he did try.

  She’d not noticed him much until after the baby was inside her
and then she watched him reading, saying phrases out loud to impress her; eating enough for two at lunch and then running it off like a terrier round the field.

  She knew what he wanted, though he only ever asked without knowing: the rise of his penis against her leg as he slept, possessive pronouns he used without consideration, his coming there at all. Some days she saw how careful he was, how little he touched her, how he turned away when she undressed or joked forcibly about masturbation or girls at school.

  The first time they talked about baby names he said he thought it wouldn’t be human when it came and they should take that into consideration.

  What? she said, cupping her stomach. What the fuck does that mean?

  Finn said he imagined instead, thinking on it, a tiger cub or baby bird or half something and half something else.

  Half what and half what? She was more suspicious and aggressive than she meant, as if she thought his words had some sort of power to bring it on. He shrugged, tried her out on homemade beasts for a while until he ran out of animals to mix: horse and squirrel, hamster and eagle, wolf and whale.

  She knew what he was saying – that, though they never had, he could not imagine her having sex with anyone other than him. Her not telling him who the foetus’s father was only proved to him she never had. She could never be certain how badly he thought these things, how seriously he imagined her that way; virginally surprised on waking to find a swollen stomach, the kick of hoof or paw against her hand.

  When winter came she watched their imaginings pick up force, saw how they ballooned up to fill the low-roofed cabin. The baby was coming a fox, mudded brown to start and then reddening out like a firecracker. Wild enough to give them the slip at ports and come home just at the hour of leaving. Kind enough to come with presents tied beneath its chest, swinging round its neck: Moroccan candle-holders, long sticks of incense, bags of spice, live chickens to supply everyday omelettes. Clever enough to sit up with them on quiet sea evenings and debate the spans of evolution, snout narrowing in thought, claw-sharpened fingers tapping.

  They would fish on their journey; that’s how they would fill their days. Or no, he said, rather they would hunt whales, beach the great bodies onto stony shores, strip their insides, oil the boat with blubber to keep out the cold, make coats from the tough skin, use everything there was and sell nothing, only chip bowls from teeth; make whale soup, whale stews, use tail fins as kitchen shelves.

  When she got up to wee she found sheets of frost in the shower, mould climbing further and further up the corners, slugs gathering everywhere in silent conference.

  Some days that winter they could barely stand the sight of one another. Stalking round till one or the other gave cause for beginning and then it could be dark before they stopped. She did it with her hands, breaking bowls and cups, tearing pages from books. He said words quiet enough she couldn’t hear until she grew still and then he said them again, repeating them syllable for syllable, slow enough she saw the awful ends of the sentences progressing towards her.

  By night they were both sorry. She on the sofa, glueing crockery back together. He could not say it to her, only told the foetus he would never say anything like that again. They both knew she would break the plates along their glued lines the next week and he would say the same lines over, word for word.

  And it was that winter she realised the danger of the imaginings, but let them come anyway. Said nothing to dissuade him when he first spoke of the children they would have to keep the fox child company. Human children that would come with the tides and have gills as well as lungs, webs between their toes and fingers. The fox child was the clever one but the babies they had together were water from birth, happier swimming alongside than driving the boat, happiest looking up at the sun through the surface. They would spend most of their time missing them.

  Sometimes she woke believing it. The cold hard enough to imagine it sea-sung, the smell of them in the same bed like salt, the feel of him well known. Sometimes she woke thinking she had just missed the sound of a fox barking; an easy step from that to believing them older and the sounds of river water really one of their water babies, touching wet pads down on wood. He must, she thought, feel the sudden belief sleep-strung through her. His hands knew anyway.

  He picked up a pattern like they were old and still good at it, used his tongue on her like it knew its way.

  What’s the problem? he said, skidding away across the bed when she stopped him, his back to the wall, not looking at her. What’s the problem? You can’t get pregnant right now, can you?

  Later, outside, there was snow on the fields and on the towpath and the river was iced into concrete lines. He flapped the deckchairs to unstiffen them and they sat looking out over the grey and eating their burnt scrambled eggs.

  Looking at him Isabel imagined him older, waking up ten years later on his sofa and knowing how many children he had and the shape of his wife when she slept. This was what he would become. How much coffee did he drink at the weekends, how many glasses of wine did he allow himself? He ran, sometimes, through the park. He made a good carbonara and did not burn eggs.

  She could not stop thinking of the traffic lights, of riding a bike tall enough for your legs to trail, of riding a hill too fast to stop even if you wanted to. At the base of the hill you see the lights turning red.

  HOW TO FUCK A MAN YOU DON’T KNOW

  NINE.

  It has been a month since you broke up with Lou. You buy a car so you can drive to and from your parents’ house. They have moved from the fens. The room that might have been yours is only a tidy spare. Your mother does not ask you to empty the dishwasher any more because you are only a guest.

  Those late-night, early-morning drives after and before work are filled with the sound of the shipping news: that broad, flat voice narrating wind direction and speed. You are happy to know what will come, what to prepare for. Sometimes you are so busy listening to warnings of storms at sea you miss the weather reports that should really matter to you; get caught in those flash floods that kill cars and cattle, spend hours sat in traffic.

  When you get there, tired enough to sleep on your feet like a horse, your mother sits you down, tells you that everybody does Internet dating these days, that she understands you are happy alone but you are too nice for it. You never told her about Lou and now, after the event, it is too late to do so. You wish you’d texted her when you first slept with him; told her it was all right, you were having sex and you thought she’d want to know.

  Eight.

  When you meet someone else you tell yourself it was inevitable, that what you do now is beyond you.

  You meet the new one in the pub that you have taken to going to on your own. You enjoy being there, reading and drinking until it gets too busy and you look odd: in your work clothes, a little drunk, red with embarrassment. You see the pregnant girl behind the bar watching you. You wonder if she remembers you meeting Lou there. She must, you think, see people like you all the time.

  You used to catch the train, go dancing with your friends. In the city there are clubs where groups of men are not allowed in until women arrive and where the women get in free. You danced in the middle of crowds with your eyes closed, someone else’s hands on your hips and back, fingers tangled tight in your hair. Sometimes you’d see their mouths moving; spelling out the digits of phone numbers or wording compliments you pick only stray letters from in the noise.

  This is different. His name is Scott. He says he is an actor. He stands at your elbow and starts talking about Iraq and the Booker shortlist. At the time you think this makes him knowing and intellectual. He reads the newspaper, anyway, or listens to Radio 4.

  The first time it happens is in the toilet of the pub. When you are done he cleans himself with wet wipes; offers to drive you home though he is drunk enough his eyes focus on spaces beyond your head. He says he is staying in the Travelodge out on the A10; makes a joke about pushing twin beds together. You thank him, give him
your number, wait until he is gone and then walk home.

  You imagine the drunken crash he is causing on the A-road. It is dark and no one will notice now, but in the morning the road will be strewn with broken bottles of milk, cars burnt to their ribcages, a rotting tractor.

  When you go down to the kitchen the next day Lou is listening to the radio in his boxers. You make him tea, toast and scrambled eggs. Arrange to go out for dinner that night to the seafood restaurant you cannot afford but like. Dress nice, put on make-up, carry condoms in your bag. When you feel your phone vibrating between the starter and main you go to the toilet and read the text message from the other one. It feels good in a way you dissect that night, not sleeping. Sort of like masturbating in public or breaking wine glasses.

  * * *

  Seven.

  You are too guilty to say it but it is true. You are bored of Lou, of easy sex; cigarettes, innuendoes, snuggling, spooning, blow jobs, homemade spaghetti bolognese, hangovers, obligatory texting.

  You understand now you will have to leave him though you think you are too tired to do it. Again and again you tell yourself you are selfish beyond belief, that if only you left he would find a woman with space enough inside her for a couple of babies, a Land Rover and a golden retriever.

  You remind yourself of the night you met, when you held your breath for such a long time he thought you’d drowned. You have been practising in the bath and each time you hold your breath for less time. This in itself seems to mean something awful.