THREE
Snow is falling. Only four days until Christmas. Perhaps it’s Jesus inside me. I’ll call him Noel. I turn onto my side because I don’t like the pulsing feeling of the baby pressing on my aorta. I learned that in biology. Aorta. The main vessel to carry oxygenated blood from the heart. Perhaps I was away on the day we were taught the facts of life. I’m not sure if this means that I’m good at reproduction, because I’m doing it, or I’m bad because I’m doing it. He’s kicking. I pull up my sweater and see the taut, almost see-through skin on my belly dancing, rippling from baby. I love him.
Snow is collecting on the windowpanes. It’s dark outside. I am standing up now, elbows leaning on the sill, nose fogging the glass, eyes in a spin as the fat icy chips fall to the ground, hypnotising me. The baby is dizzy too, because I stood up quickly, and punches my belly. It hurts.
Then the knock on my door. Two raps. I’ll wait a moment before answering, to make sure she’s gone. Or it could be him. Yes, it’s Friday, bridge night, so she’ll be out. I open the door and see the tray on the landing carpet. It’s chops again, and mash and carrots and just a drizzle of gravy, as if I got the scrapings from the meat tray.
‘Dinner, Noel,’ I say, trying out the name. I carry the tray into my room and we sit on my bed and I feed myself chops. It’s tricky because there’s no room on my knee to balance the tray so I put it on the bed and lean over, hoping I won’t spill any down my sweater. But I do. Gravy on Noel and, as I wipe it off, he kicks again.
I’ve been in this room for nearly three months. They put a television in here for me, which was a nice thought, and I have my books. Mother brings me flowers once a week, usually on a Friday, and if I’m lucky and good, I’ll get a walk around the garden. Mother and Father don’t know it, but when they both go out I slip downstairs and steal some treats. Last week I pocketed an entire box of Milk Tray and fed myself soft, lint-covered chocolates with a glint in one eye and fear keeping watch in the other.
Of course, I’ve considered climbing out of the window and dropping into the front garden to run away, but that would hurt Noel and, besides, where would I go?
In two weeks I’ll have a baby. It seems as if my future ends there, as if my life beyond that point hasn’t been written yet. I don’t know what babies are like. I’ve never held one before. Mother gave me a book about giving birth and a scant collection of old-fashioned baby clothes from a charity shop. They smell musty and faintly of sick.
Breathing is important, it says in the book, so sometimes I practise that. There’s a whole chapter on pain relief but I doubt I’ll get more than an aspirin. I’m giving birth at home. Mother will be beside me, annoying my forehead with a wet flannel, and Father will pace the landing, desperate not to see his howling daughter with her legs spread. I don’t really want to do it, but honestly, do I have any choice?
I put the empty tray back on the landing and rearrange the pillows on my bed. Getting comfortable is nearly impossible. I settle down to watch some television and Noel starts kicking again, as if he wants to get out now.
‘Was it the chops, chickie?’ I say and give him a good rubbing, which seems to settle him. I will be a good mother, even though I’m only fifteen.
FOUR
Robert dropped onto the calico-covered sofa. He let his head fall back onto the soft cushion as he covered his eyes with his hands. He wanted to moan but didn’t. Instead, a memory tumbled uninvited into his head.
‘I’m sure of only two things, Robert. Your paranoia and my stupidity.’ Jenna had then stumbled, found her car keys and slammed the front door. Her car had revved off into the night.
Now, still contained in his mind, Robert let out a tormented noise that left his body from somewhere deep within his soul; a desperate growl followed by a barrage of verbal abuse aimed at his wife. None of it was real.
‘You’re having me on, right?’ He shocked himself with his calmness. A perk of his job. He stared at Erin with a disbelieving expression before allowing his head to drop back onto the cushion again. He could see that his wife was serious.
‘We shouldn’t be teaching her to run away from her problems. ’ Erin swallowed so hard that Robert noticed the lump in her throat.
Slowly, he stretched out his tall body and stood up. He wasn’t dressed yet, wearing only boxers beneath a robe that hung open at the waist. His hair, thick and dark and usually encouraged into a style that was intended not to look like a style, formed unruly tufts above his forehead. The rest was clipped neatly and brushed his collar.
Robert scoured his face with his palms, pulling the skin under his eyes taut, massaging his temples. He hadn’t slept well for several days, mostly because of the Bowman case. Ripping two innocent children from their mother was getting to him.
‘But she’s starting tomorrow. What the hell are you thinking of?’ Robert stood next to his wife. He looked down at the crown of her head and while part of him wanted to slide his fingers through her fine hair, the welling anger made him want to pick her up and lock her in a cupboard until Ruby had graduated from Greywood College.
‘I’ve paid the bloody fees and she’s got the uniform.’ Robert prowled around Erin, his slow paces more threatening than words.
She had first whispered her intentions to him at six that morning. He thought it was a dream as Erin’s sleep-stained lips teased him awake, bribing him into consciousness with words that would cripple their daughter when she was told.
‘Ruby’s not going to Greywood,’ Erin had said. ‘I can’t allow it.’
A bad dream, that was all. Robert slept on but two hours later the words returned, ricocheting around his head. This time he knew they were for real. He was awake. Erin was leaning over him, the T-shirt in which she slept crawling up her waist, her warm skin smelling of sleep.
‘I can’t let her run away from her problems.’
‘I don’t see we have much choice,’ Robert replied, stretching, still confident, despite his half-conscious state, that he would be able to talk Erin round.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ she said. ‘I’m going to tell Ruby later.’ She looked away, so Robert couldn’t read her heavy eyes.
But Robert wasn’t able to change Erin’s mind and his demands for convincing reasons for her sudden about-turn weren’t effective either. All she offered were flimsy moral motives, that running away just wasn’t right.
Since they’d met six months previously, Robert had become painfully aware of the misery Ruby suffered at school. It had begun as simple name-calling, jeering and playground pranks but quickly progressed to unkind phone calls and stolen property. Complaints to the head of the school were dismissed as an overreaction by Ruby, already labelled as one of their more unusual students because of her exceptional musical talent, or half-heartedly investigated but then dropped when Ruby refused to name individuals.
Robert went into the kitchen and poured himself a strong coffee. He stared back at his wife through the double doors. She was standing on the rug, arms dangling by her sides, like a lone sapling on a small island. She slowly raised her bowed head and made eye contact with him. Her mouth opened but closed again and her shoulders dropped several inches before she slumped down on the rug and sobbed.
Robert had never wanted her more. He returned to the living room, put his mug on the table beside her and cradled her narrow back in his arms. He scooped her up and half carried, half dragged her to the sofa. Stroking her hair, he saw the agony on her face.
‘I won’t allow you to do this,’ he said. ‘
Let
her run away from it all. Wouldn’t you want to, if it was you?’ He wanted to shove Erin away for what she was doing but at the same time needed to engulf her, make it all better by gently kissing her neck, sliding his hands over her small body, by carrying her back to their bed. Instead, he did nothing.
‘Yes, I
would
run away. That’s why I won’t allow Ruby to.’ Erin stretched her baggy T-shirt sleeve and smeared it across her wet cheeks. ‘It doesn’t pay in the long run. Believe me, I know.’
For a moment, Robert sensed that she was speaking from experience, but if Erin had endured similar torment at school, then surely she wouldn’t be insisting that Ruby suffer it too. He didn’t understand.
‘Reconsider,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t tell her yet.You might feel different later.’
‘I won’t.’ Erin stood up. ‘I’ve decided. Ruby can’t possibly go to Greywood College.’
During the moment that Erin hesitated in front of Robert, almost as if she wanted him to force her to change her mind, Robert lost sight of a tiny part of his new wife. The little figure that stood stiffly, with its back to him, draped in his old T-shirt, legs slightly apart, wasn’t completely the person he remembered marrying eight weeks ago. Feeling cheated, Robert ignored Erin’s defiant stance and went to dress.
The ball was a bullet, non-returnable. It skimmed Den’s glasses, causing him to drop his racquet and rub the bridge of his nose. He squinted, examining the lenses.
‘Take them off then,’ Robert snapped. He served again. It ricocheted violently. He volleyed and took a shot in the shoulder. Removing another ball from his pocket, he did the same again, then again and again until he had run out of balls and strength. Den retreated to the edge of the court and wiped his glasses on his shirt, trying to focus on his friend’s unusual behaviour.
‘Anger management?’ Den suggested when Robert finally ceased fire. ‘Or perhaps you didn’t get it last night. Either way, pal, count me out if you’re going to play like that again.’
Robert took off his sports shirt and wiped it across his sweating face and neck. Taking it out on the squash ball hadn’t helped. He cursed silently for having spent the last forty-five minutes soloing, hammering back his own shots as if Den wasn’t there. He usually valued their time together at the weekend.
‘I’ll buy you a beer and you can tell me about it.’ Den gathered up his belongings and opened the court door for Robert, who was putting his shirt back on. ‘That’s if it’s safe to be with you.’
Robert walked out of the court, expressionless, his jaw clenched as tightly as his fist round his racquet and his dark eyes unblinking, unfocused.
In the locker room Robert didn’t speak. He dropped his belongings onto the bench before stepping into a scalding shower. He knew that Den was watching him, trying to understand his behaviour, but to tell him, to explain what Erin was doing, would give the situation even more reality and that he couldn’t stomach.
Robert hadn’t seen Ruby before he left home. He’d grabbed his sports bag and keys and gone out earlier than was necessary to get to his regular Sunday morning squash session with Den. He drove badly, narrowly missing several joggers and a red light and ended up parked in a bus stop, pondering his wife’s strange behaviour until it was time to go to the club.
As the engine hummed and the radio babbled quietly, Robert imagined Ruby’s young face, warm and puckered from sleep, her pink flowery nightdress faded from the wash. She’d pad barefoot into the kitchen, drink juice from the carton and pour herself a bowl of chocolate cereal, which she would eat in front of the television. She’d pull her legs up underneath her, her thick black hair bunched in a messy ponytail, her eyes ringed with the experimental make-up she hadn’t bothered to remove the night before. She’d channel-hop, think about her future, beginning tomorrow, then smile as a warm, safe feeling – the first in years – began to seep through her entire soul.
Then her mother would tell her she wasn’t going to Greywood College after all and she must return to her old school the next day, the school at which she had suffered so much torment. Ruby would stop, spoon of cereal midway to her mouth, perhaps smile at the joke and say, ‘Nice one, Mum,’ but then she’d notice the serious expression on her mother’s face, the worry lines creeping out from her eyes, around her mouth, and wonder if it was indeed a joke. When Erin said it again, Ruby would put down her cereal and walk up to her mother and say, ‘Mum?’ in a voice that didn’t quite belong to her. She would snort, half defiance, half disbelief, and then it would begin. The screaming.
‘Ruby’s not going to Greywood,’ Robert yelled out of the shower to Den. Robert was covered in soap when the shower curtain was snapped open.
‘You said what?’ Den was drying his ears. Robert rinsed and covered himself with a towel.
‘Greywood’s off.’ Robert whipped a smile over his strained face. The two men dressed in silence, Den knowing better than to press further until they both had a drink beside them. Ten minutes later they took a table in the club bar.
‘Ruby get cold feet?’ Den glanced around, nodded to a couple of people. That was the thing with Den; his full attention was scarce. Robert needed someone he could really talk to. Talk
with
.
‘We decided that running away was cowardly. We’re going to see her head teacher again. See if we can’t get some ass kicked.’ Robert took half a pint in three gulps.
‘You won’t.’ Den scanned the room again. A couple of attractive young women, early twenties, skimmed past, their short skirts at nose level. ‘You get that?’ Den breathed in deeply. ‘Beautiful.’
‘Erin will. She’ll kick ass.’ Robert quickly ran his hands over his tired face but it was enough for Den. He saw.
‘What you really mean is that
Erin
has said Ruby can’t go to her new school.’ It was an easy puzzle to solve. They had been close since law school, knew every nuance. ‘What’s she afraid of? You’re paying the bloody fees.’
Robert sighed. He had to continue. ‘We’re not so sure about a private education. We don’t want her to turn out, you know, superior.’ He clapped his hands together, like a visible punctuation mark, and downed his pint. ‘Another?’
But Den was already standing. He collected the glasses and walked to the bar.
On the other hand, Robert thought, could he bear it if Ruby turned out inferior?