Her Living Image (22 page)

“I’m cooking, what does it look like?”

“All right. You’ve been gone so long I thought someone had run off with you.”

“Alan – don’t stand there. Look, Annie’s just weed.”

“Oh –” he tutted with annoyance, and lifted his feet one after the other. “Can’t you wipe it up?”

“I can’t leave these eggs now.”

“Where’s the floorcloth?”

“Under the sink.” You’ve been living here as long as I have, she thought.

Alan wiped up, leaving the dirty floorcloth in the dishrack, and looked over her shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Soufflé.”

“Why’s it taking so long?”

“It’s not. I just keep getting interrupted.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Well, what do you want to do about the kids? They’d better eat before us, hadn’t they? This’ll take an hour to cook.”

“I suppose so. I didn’t think it would be a major operation –couldn’t we just rustle up something quickly?”

“There isn’t anything, Alan. The fridge is nearly empty.”

“OK. What shall I do then? Feed the kids? I can’t leave Mike and Sarah for too long –”

“No. Tell the kids to wash their hands and come in here when the programme’s ended. I’ll give them some cheese on toast. You go back out. It’s all
right.”

“Right then.” He went to the cupboard. “I’m just getting a refill. What would you like?”

“Um – nothing yet, thanks, I’ll wait a bit.”

The soufflé was in the oven, potatoes boiling with mint, salad chopped and ready, dressing mixed. She had thought they could have fruit for dessert but the bananas looked a bit black
and sorry, and there were only two (bruised) peaches left. She decided to make a fruit salad, and sat peeling and chopping as the children ate their tea. Chris described to her in painstaking
detail the story of the cartoon they’d been watching. She smiled at him. He had a quizzical, earnest little face, whose lines moved easily into unhappiness. But he’s not unhappy, she
told herself, just serious. He loved being read to, and having things explained. He was overjoyed when Alan showed him his plans, and told him what the different symbols meant, so that the lines on
the paper became a living world of houses, roads and trees. He leant right across the table now, to push Annie’s spoon back to her, and Carolyn put down the apple she was peeling to stroke
the hollow in the back of his neck. It was still hardly wider than her finger. The backs of their necks are so vulnerable, she thought. Frail but strong, like the stems of flowers. There
weren’t really any flowers in the garden that would look good on the table. The sweet williams wouldn’t be out for a few days. What about those little pink things on the hedge? The bees
think they’re marvellous. Yes, and you’ll have a tableful of bees if you don’t watch out. I should buy some flowers, really. But Alan says he doesn’t like them. . . . Annie
threw her spoon away again, it landed on the floor this time. Carolyn wiped their hands and faces.

“Right – now you can watch telly again for ten minutes while I lay the table – or you can go out and see Daddy and his friends if you want.”

She set the table and checked the soufflé. It seemed all right. Just time to put Annie to bed before they ate. Alan reappeared holding a child’s hand in each of his.

“Shouldn’t these two be heading for bed?”

“Annie’s going in a minute. Chris can stay up till we’ve eaten, can’t he?”

“Well, I’ll take her if you want to go out and have a drink.”

“I – I –” She rather dreaded it. “No thanks, Alan, I’ll do it, because I need to keep an eye on the soufflé anyway. It won’t be long
now.”

He shrugged. He was looking at her oddly, she thought.

“What’s the matter? Have I spilt something – ?”

“That skirt makes you look dumpy. Middle-aged. It’s all bulky round the waist.” She looked down at her skirt. He’d never said anything about it before.
“It’s all right,” he said quickly. “It just doesn’t suit you very well, that’s all. Have a drink this time? I’ll leave a gin and tonic on the side here,
OK?” He went out quickly. She knew he was embarrassed because he’d criticized her.

She took Annie up and put her to bed, then went to their bedroom to change herself. Her blouse had a splash of egg on it anyway. She put on the black and white dress, hesitating a moment as
she looked at herself and thought, it’s too smart. She had nothing in-between. She combed her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t got many clothes she liked at the
moment. It was so impossible taking Annie shopping, it was easier not to bother. The dress really wasn’t right, though – Remembering the soufflé, she hurried downstairs. It was
dark brown at the back, nearest the gas flames – not exactly burnt, but very crusty. She turned the oven off and went to call them.

A wave of tiredness swept over her once they were served. There were a few minutes of silence as everyone concentrated on their food. The soufflé was hard on top and quite runny
underneath, but they said it was delicious. The belt on her dress was too tight.

As if he had read her thoughts, the man turned to her with his glass raised. “Congratulations – Alan tells us you’re expecting an addition to the tribe.”

She laughed and nodded, embarrassed. Funny, she had forgotten about it all afternoon, even to putting this dress on. She remembered from last time how quickly it got too tight. Good God, how
long have I had it? she asked herself. Did I really have it before I was expecting Annie?

Alan had noticed the change of dress and was irritated by it. The dress didn’t suit her, it was too stiff and smart, it looked as if she was trying too hard. Her clothes never seemed to
be quite right. And why had she changed just to please him, anyway? If she liked her skirt, why hadn’t she stuck to it?

“Do you look forward to having a baby again?” asked the woman intently, “or do you prefer them when they’re older? It’s the one thing that puts me off
breeding
– I love children, but I can’t stand babies.”

Alan laughed. “They eat, they sleep, they shit, they cry. They wake you at three-hourly intervals all night long. What more can you ask for?”

The woman pulled a face. “Exactly.”

“You’re right,” Carolyn said, “but – I know it’s corny – but it is different when it’s your own. It does the same tedious things that all the
other babies do, but it manages to do them – uniquely –” She laughed with them, at
herself. “Really. I never thought I would like babies till I had one. Now it makes
me sad to think of them growing up.” She hesitated a moment. Sarah and Mike were listening attentively. “They seem pathetic, when you compare them to adult humans, and expect them to do
human things – because obviously they can’t. They can’t do anything much. But I remember with Chris especially – he didn’t seem human –” she smiled
quickly, forestalling Alan’s amused interruption “– but like something from another planet. So you weren’t aware of what he couldn’t do, so much as what he could do
and did do, and how little of it you could understand. Do you see what I mean? That a baby’s behaviour and perception are completely other than ours, and that maybe we know less –
understand less – than them.”

She stopped uncertainly, flushing crimson. Alan felt a wine-tinged surge of affection for her. He was sorry that he had criticized her to himself, for hiding in the kitchen, for not being
attractive. He felt as if he had only just remembered, after a long time, why he valued her.

When Mike and Sarah had gone, they flopped on the sofa. It was midnight.

“I haven’t ironed your shirt for tomorrow.”

“Never mind, I’ll do it in the morning. Did you like them?”

Carolyn shrugged, then nodded.

“You didn’t say much.”

“Alan, I don’t know half of what you’re talking about – people at work and all that –”

“You could listen, then you’d know.”

“But I’ve got other things to do, love, everything doesn’t stop, just because your friends come round. The children still need looking after, the meals still have to be
made –”

“You’re turning into a mousy little housewife.” He was half joking.

There was a silence.

“Am I?”

“No. I didn’t mean it. Only –”

“Yes?”

“Sometimes it seems as if you’re only interested in the children.”

She considered this seriously. “I am mainly interested in the children. At this stage. But isn’t everyone mainly interested in something? Aren’t you mainly interested in
work? That was what you wanted to talk about.”

“Not just work – politics, things that are happening in the world –” He felt the argument slipping away, was conscious of the contradictions in his own feelings. He
wanted her to stay at home and look after the children as much as she did; he wanted her to be mainly interested in them. He wanted her to be a real mother, not like Lucy.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He stood up abruptly and pulled her to her feet. “Can I take your dress off?”

She laughed in his face. “Why take the dress off a middle-aged frump? What poor taste you have – your friends would be shocked.”

It was all right. With a leap of joy he saw that she understood, could read his mind and arrive before him. Laughing, she fought him off till he’d got the dress off her by brute force,
and wooed her consent with practised skill.

Afterwards they lay on the floor, his head resting on her stomach. She gazed at the ceiling, feeling her heartbeat and breathing slowing to normal, her body quietening. His eyes were closed,
and she was surprised when he suddenly said, “Are you happy?”

She laughed and patted him on the head, but he sat up and frowned at her impatiently.

“I don’t mean that, I know that.”

“Modest.”

He ignored her, pursuing his question. “In general, are you happy?”

“I think so.” There was a silence. “Yes,” she repeated. “Aren’tyou?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. Let’s go to bed.” He got up and went to the bathroom before she had time to move.

In bed she was vaguely troubled by it, and examined her own answer. Yes. She remembered sitting on the garden step, early that morning, before her parents arrived. Alan was sitting down at
the end of the lawn, his back to the house “so you don’t distract me”, finishing off some work for Monday. Chrissy, on the step beside her, was choosing which story she should
read to him, and Annie was in the sandpit, trailing sand through her clenched fist into a yoghurt carton. Carolyn could hear the hissing of the sand as it fell on to the plastic and then, when it
had covered the bottom of the carton, the way it fell almost silently, with a whisper of its former sound. She loved the way the children absorbed themselves in activities. They were, in the
garden, the points of focus for her own attention; and the fact that they themselves were concentrating intensified her satisfaction.

Alan was concentrating too, his shoulders hunched, his head moving slightly as he read. She remembered looking down the sunny garden and feeling content. Her life was contained like an egg in
its shell, within the oval garden; her son, her daughter, her husband. She did not fear that she would lose it, because it was the world – her world, the reality that encased her. She worried
that Chris might fall and break his leg, that Annie might swallow a stone and have to go to hospital, that Alan might give himself an ulcer through working too hard. But for the framework, she no
more feared nor doubted it than she did the position of the stars in the sky. Looking back on that moment now, she felt it tremble before her, round and perfect as an overfull drip, and she caught
her breath at the thought of its transitoriness, its shimmering beauty, and suddenly whispered to herself, “I am happy,” as if she feared it might not last forever.

Alan must be happy too. He must be. She would ask him what he had meant tomorrow.

When she fell asleep, she began to dream. She was driving along a motorway. It was a bright sunny day, and there was very little traffic. She drove in the middle lane,
skimming past lorries. Her window was open and warm fresh air blew in her face and made her hair stream out behind. She felt light and free. She was happy, but she felt immediately that it was
threatened. It was as if menacing music had been played in a film, accompanying a scene of innocent happiness. Shewanted to warn herself, who was driving the car without a care in the world, but
she couldn’t get through. The sun went in, and gradually there were more cars on the road. They kept going just as fast
– faster – but there were more and more of them. She
was trapped in the middle lane, there was a solid wall of lorries to her left, and to her right a blur of fast cars. Ahead there was space, but her foot was pressed down to the floor and the car
wouldn’t go any faster. There was a lorry coming up behind her, a huge one, coming fast. It filled up her mirror and made the car dark inside, it was bearing down on her. Closer and closer
– it was touching her car, thundering in her ears . . .

There was a gap; blackness. She found that she was driving again. The lorry had gone, but she was tense and nervous. She could feel that the muscles in her stomach were clenched into a tight
ball. She glanced down and saw to her horror that her stomach was growing. It was the shape of a football. She tried to concentrate on driving, she got the car into the slow lane and looked down at
her stomach again. It was swelling like a balloon being blown up, expanding by the second. She knew she must get out of the car quickly, or it would get stuck behind the steering wheel. Already it
was pressing against it, jamming the wheel, making it difficult to steer. She slowly forced the wheel to the left and the car moved on to the hard shoulder and stopped. She was squashed between the
seat and the wheel, the seatbelt was cutting into her like a rubber band around a swelling finger. She struggled to free herself, and rolled out of the car and on to the ground. Her belly was
growing huge, it overshadowed her. She was suffocating, it was squashing her, pinning her to the ground. She could hear cars and lorries swooshing past and tried desperately to call for help but
she had no breath. The belly continued to grow, blocking out the light. She felt the skin on it stretched to bursting point, the pain was awful. She knew she would burst – she was going to
burst.