“My
God,”
she said, or grunted, or groaned, and then suddenly sat up, or scrambled out of bed and went doubled up out of the room, fast, escaping from the pain.
He had stopped putting his hand on her stomach, in the old companionable way, for what he felt there was beyond what he could manage with. It was not possible that such a tiny creature could be showing such fearful strength; and yet it did. And nothing he said seemed to reach Harriet, who, he felt, was possessed, had gone right away from him, in this battle with the foetus, which he could not share.
He might wake to watch her pacing the room in the dark, hour after hour. When she at last lay down, regulating her breathing, she would start up again, with an exclamation, and,
knowing he was awake, would go downstairs to the big family room where she could stride up and down, groaning, swearing, weeping, without being observed.
As the Easter holiday approached and the two older women made remarks about getting the house ready, Harriet said, “They can’t come. They can’t possibly come.”
“They’ll expect it,” said Dorothy.
“We can manage,” said Alice.
“No,” said Harriet.
Wails and protests from the children, and Harriet did not soften. This made Dorothy even more disapproving. Here she was, with Alice, two capable women, doing all the work, and the least Harriet could do …
“You’re sure you don’t want them to come?” asked David, who had been begged by the children to make her change her mind.
“Oh, do what you like,” Harriet said.
But when Easter came, Harriet was proved right: it was not a success. Her strained, abstracted face as she sat there at her table, stiffly upright, braced for the next jolt, or jab, stopped conversation, spoiled the fun, the good times. “What have you got in there?” asked William, jocular but uneasy, seeing Harriet’s stomach convulse. “A wrestler?”
“God only knows,” said Harriet, and she was bitter, not joking. “How am I going to get through to July?” she demanded, in a low appalled voice. “I can’t! I simply can’t do it!”
They all—David, too—judged that she was simply exhausted because this baby was coming too soon. She must be humoured. Alone in her ordeal—and she had to be, she knew that, and did not blame her family for not accepting what she was being slowly forced to accept—she became silent, morose, suspicious of them all and their thoughts about her. The only thing that helped was to keep moving.
If a dose of some sedative kept the enemy—so she now thought
of this savage thing inside her—quiet for an hour, then she made the most of the time, and slept, grabbing sleep to her, holding it, drinking it, before she leaped out of bed as it woke with a heave and a stretch that made her feel sick. She would clean the kitchen, the living-room, the stairs, wash windows, scrub cupboards, her whole body energetically denying the pain. She insisted that her mother and Alice let her work, and when they said there was no need to scrub the kitchen again, she said, “For the kitchen no, for me yes.” By breakfast time she might have already worked for three or four hours, and looked hagridden. She took David to the station, and the two older children to school, then parked the car somewhere and walked. She almost ran through streets she hardly saw, hour after hour, until she understood she was causing comment. Then she took to driving a short way out of the town, where she walked along the country lanes, fast, sometimes running. People in passing cars would turn, amazed, to see this hurrying driven woman, white-faced, hair flying, open-mouthed, panting, arms clenched across her front. If they stopped to offer help, she shook her head and ran on.
Time passed. It did pass, though she was held in an order of time different from those around her—and not the pregnant woman’s time either, which is slow, a calendar of the growth of the hidden being. Her time was endurance, containing pain. Phantoms and chimeras inhabited her brain. She would think, When the scientists make experiments, welding two kinds of animal together, of different sizes, then I suppose this is what the poor mother feels. She imagined pathetic botched creatures, horribly real to her, the products of a Great Dane or a borzoi with a little spaniel; a lion and a dog; a great cart horse and a little donkey; a tiger and a goat. Sometimes she believed hooves were cutting her tender inside flesh, sometimes claws.
In the afternoon, she collected the children from school, and, later, David from the station. She walked around the kitchen
as suppers were eaten, encouraged the children to watch television, and then went up to the third floor where she hastened up and down the corridor.
The family could hear her swift heavy steps, up there, and did not let their eyes meet.
Time passed. It did pass. The seventh month was better, and this was because of the amount of drugs she took. Appalled at the distance that had grown up between her and her husband, between her and the children, her mother, Alice, she now planned her day for one thing: that she would seem to be normal between the hours of four, when Helen and Luke ended school, until eight or nine, when they went to bed. The drugs did not seem to be affecting her much: she was willing them to leave her alone and to reach the baby, the foetus—this creature with whom she was locked in a struggle to survive. And for those hours it was quiet, or if it showed signs of coming awake, and fighting her, she took another dose.
Oh how eager everyone was to welcome her back into the family, normal, herself: they ignored, because she wanted them to, her tenseness, her tiredness.
David would put his arms around her and say, “Oh, Harriet, you
are
all right?”
Two months to go
.
“Yes, yes, I am. Really.” And she silently addressed the being crouching in her womb: “Now you shut up or I’ll take another pill.” It seemed to her that it listened and understood.
A scene in the kitchen: family supper. Harriet and David commanded the head and foot of the table. Luke and Helen sat together on one side. Alice held little Paul, who could never get enough cuddling: he got so little from his mother. Jane sat near Dorothy’s place, who was at the stove, ladle in her hand. Harriet looked at her mother, a large healthy woman in her fifties, with her bush of iron-grey curls, and her pink fresh face,
and her large blue eyes “like lollipops”—a family joke—and thought, I’m as strong as she is. I’ll survive. And she smiled at Alice, thin, wiry, tough, energetic, and thought again, These elderly women, look at them, they’ve survived everything.
Dorothy was filling their plates with vegetable soup. She sat down, at leisure, with her own plate. Bread was passed around, a big basket of it.
Happiness had returned and sat at the table with them—and Harriet’s hand, unseen below the level of the table-top, was held over the enemy:
You be quiet
.
“A story,” said Luke. “A story, Daddy.”
On days when there was school tomorrow, the children had supper early and went up to bed. But on Fridays and Saturdays they ate with the grown-ups and a story was told during the meal.
Here, enclosed in the hospitable kitchen, it was warm and steamy with the smell of soup. Outside was a blustering night. May. The curtains were not drawn. A branch stretched across the window: a spring branch, full of pristine blossom, pale in the twilight, but the air that beat on the panes had been blasted down south from some iceberg or snow-field. Harriet was spooning in soup, and broke hunks of bread into it. Her appetite was enormous, insatiable—so bad she was ashamed and raided the fridge when no one could see her. She would interrupt her nocturnal peregrinations to stuff into herself anything she could find to eat. She even had secret caches like an alcoholic’s hoards, only it was food: chocolate, bread, pies.
David began, “Two children, a boy and a girl, set off one day to have an adventure in the forest. They went a long way into the forest. It was hot outside, but under the trees it was cool. They saw a deer lying down, resting. Birds flitted about and sang to them.”
David stopped to eat soup. Helen and Luke sat with their
eyes on his face, motionless. Jane listened, too, but differently. Four years old: she looked to see how they took in the story, and copied them, fixing her eyes on her father.
“Do the birds sing to us?” enquired Luke doubtfully, frowning. He had a strong, severe face; and, as always, he demanded the truth. “When we are in the garden and the birds sing, are they singing to us?”
“Of course not, silly,” said Helen. “It was a magic forest.”
“Of course they sing to you,” said Dorothy firmly.
The children, first hunger appeased, sat with their spoons in their hands, wide eyes on their father. Harriet’s heart oppressed her: it was their open trustfulness, their helplessness. The television was on: a professionally cool voice was telling about some murders in a London suburb. She lumbered over to turn it off, plodded back, served herself more soup, piled in the bread.… She listened to David’s voice, tonight the storyteller’s voice, so often heard in the kitchen, hers, Dorothy’s—
“When the children got hungry, they found a bush covered with chocolate sweets. Then they found a pool made of orange juice. They were sleepy. They lay under a bush near the friendly deer. When they woke up, they said thank you to the deer and went on.
“Suddenly the little girl found she was alone. She and her brother had lost each other. She wanted to go home. She did not know which way to walk. She was looking for another friendly deer, or a sparrow, or any bird, to tell her where she was and show her the way out of the forest. She wandered about for a long time, and then she was thirsty again. She bent over a pool wondering if it would be orange juice, but it was water, clear pure forest water, and it tasted of plants and stones. She drank, from her hands.” Here the two older children reached for their glasses and drank. Jane interlaced her fingers to form a cup.
“She sat there by the pool. Soon it would be dark. She bent
over the pool to see if there was a fish who could tell her the way out of the forest, but she saw something she didn’t expect. It was a girl’s face, and she was looking straight up at her. It was a face she had never seen in her whole life. This strange girl was smiling, but it was a nasty smile, not friendly, and the little girl thought this other girl was going to reach up out of the water and pull her down into it …”
A heavy, shocked, indrawn breath from Dorothy, who felt this was too frightening at bedtime.
But the children sat frozen with attention. Little Paul, grizzling on Alice’s lap, earned from Helen “Be quiet, shut
up.”
“Phyllis—that was the little girl’s name—had never seen such frightening eyes.”
“Is that Phyllis in my nursery school?” asked Jane.
“No,” said Luke.
“No,” said Helen.
David had stopped. Apparently for inspiration. He was frowning, had an abstracted look, as if he had a headache. As for Harriet, she was wanting to cry out, “Stop—stop it! You are talking about me—this is what you are feeling about me!” She could not believe that David did not see it.
“What happened then?” asked Luke. “What happened exactly?”
“Wait,” said David. “Wait, my soup …” He ate.
“I know what happened,” said Dorothy firmly. “Phyllis decided to leave that nasty pool
at once
. She ran fast along a path until she bumped into her brother. He was looking for her. They held each other’s hands and they ran out of the forest and they ran safely home.”
“That was it, exactly,” said David. He was smiling ruefully, but looked bemused.
“And that was what really really happened, Daddy?” demanded Luke, anxious.
“Absolutely,” said David.
“Who was that girl in the pool, who was she?” demanded Helen, looking from her father to her mother.
“Oh just a magic girl,” said David casually. “I have no idea. She just materialised.”
“What’s materialised?” asked Luke, saying the word with difficulty.
“It’s bedtime,” said Dorothy.
“But what is materialised?” Luke insisted.
“We haven’t had any pudding!” cried Jane.
“There’s no pudding, there’s fruit,” said Dorothy.
“What is materialised, Daddy?” Luke anxiously persisted.
“It is when something that wasn’t there suddenly is there.”
“But why, why is it?” wailed Helen, distressed.
Dorothy said, “Upstairs, children.”
Helen took an apple, Luke another, and Jane lifted some bread off her mother’s plate with a quick, conscious, mischievous smile. She had not been upset by the story.
The three children went noisily up the stairs, and baby Paul looked after them, excluded, his face puckering, ready to cry.
Alice swiftly got up with him and went after the children, saying, “No one told me stories when I was little!” It was hard to tell whether this was a complaint or, “and I’m better for it.”
Suddenly, Luke appeared on the landing. “Is everyone coming for the summer holidays?”
David glanced worriedly at Harriet—then away. Dorothy looked steadily at her daughter.
“Yes,” said Harriet weakly. “Of course.”
Luke called up the stairs, “She said, Of course’!”
Dorothy said, “You will have just had this baby.”
“It’s up to you and Alice,” said Harriet. “If you feel you can’t cope, then you must say so.”
“It seems to me that I cope,” said Dorothy, dry.
“Yes, I know,” said David quickly. “You’re marvellous.”
“And you don’t know what you would have done—”
“Don’t,” said David. And to Harriet: “Much better that we put things off, and have them all at Christmas.”
“The children will be so disappointed,” said Harriet.
This did not sound like her old insistence: it was flat and indifferent. Her husband and her mother examined her curiously—so Harriet felt their inspection of her, detached, unkind. She said grimly, “Well, perhaps this baby will be born early. Surely it must.” She laughed painfully, and then suddenly she got up, exclaiming, “I
must
move, I have to!” and began her dogged, painful hour-after-hour walk back and forth, up and down.