Limestone and Clay (15 page)

‘And now you're up the spout.'

‘Nadia!' The telephone rang; someone answered it and shouted Nadia's name but she didn't answer.

‘I don't know why you're telling me all this,' she said.

‘I thought … oh I was wrong, I can see that now, I thought you'd be a help. A trouble shared …'

‘You didn't think about
my
feelings. Poor Dad. Whatever will he say?'

‘Your dad would understand. He knows I'm still … well, still a sensual woman.' Nadia winced and picked at a loose thread in her skirt. ‘It doesn't stop when you're thirty, you know, madam. Sex. It gets better.' June stood up. The embarrassment in the air was almost tangible. They did not look at one another again. ‘I'm sorry if I've offended you,' June said, and she tried to say something else but her voice came out as a sob. She went out of the room. Nadia listened to her hard heels clacking on the uncarpeted stairs, feeling only glad that she had gone. She had been left thinking that she had been wronged. For twenty years she has held that against her mother. Held what against her? Her sexiness? Her unfaithfulness? But was it that? Perhaps her father had colluded. The abortion? Looking at it now, Nadia can see that was the only thing she could do. None of it was as simple as it had seemed then. Holding Sophie in her arms has unexpectedly wrenched her perspective. She flounders. Sees herself suddenly, her nineteen-year-old self, as heartless. All her mother had asked for was friendship. Light pours back over the years, cruelly illuminating her cruelty. She blinks.

And then what happened? She never knew. Presumably her mother had had the abortion, there was no more mention of the subject. There was her father's death only months after that – he had been crippled with multiple sclerosis for years. And then the embarrassing wedding. And that had been the last she'd seen of June. They had exchanged Christmas cards each year. June has tried for years to communicate with Nadia, written, phoned, but Nadia has been uniformly cold and unresponsive. Stupid cow! she thinks now. So heartless? And now there is this lump – well might be – the lump that Iris read in her own palm.

Sophie gives a small expert burp and Nadia smiles. Did June feel such tenderness for her? She holds Sophie out at arm's length and plays with her, lifts her up and down, until she laughs – perhaps her first laugh – and goes crosseyed with surprise at the noise. Nadia is overwhelmed by a wave of love. What if Sophie rejected – for that is what she had done – rejected her mother when she came to her for help? How could she bear that?

‘Oh my God,' she sighs. Sophie grins at her and then goes red in the face and fills her nappy.

The crawl narrows to a short squeeze, just one long squirm through, the rock pressing. He exhales to narrow his girth and pushes through. The tightness is only a body's length, and soon he is able to haul himself out into the Ballroom. Roland christened this the Ballroom because from the ceiling hang thousands of fine straw-like stalactites which when lit from below glitter like an enormous crystal chandelier; and because of the stalagmite columns, three pairs of them, that look for all the world like dancers frozen in time, turned to stone in the midst of a waltz. Simon stands and stretches. His knees are bruised and his back aches. He is sticky and white with the soft calcite – moonmilk – that coats the walls of the squeeze. He and Roland, in their delight at discovering the Ballroom, had danced together, a clownish parody of a waltz, la-la-ing the ‘Blue Danube', their loud jubilant voices vibrating the straws on the ceiling until they shivered and clinked.

‘No one has ever set foot in this place before,' Roland had said when they stopped, his voice reverent. ‘No human being.'

They had stood together then, the echo of their voices still reverberating, light from their lamps skittering over the points of the rustling straws and casting long swaying shadows from the dancers. And now Simon is startled by the memory of their loud foolish voices, like an echo trace sounding from the walls, or is it in his ears? Faint concentric circles of sound.

Roland had stood, a big man, bearded, bluff, and in his eyes Simon had thought he had seen tears. Roland had been moved by the beauty. Changed perhaps? He'd turned to Simon and his eyes had been naked, and Simon had understood, would have understood even if Roland had not blundered with words: ‘Makes you wonder, man, what it all means. Is it all just … chance? Christ! All this down here, this fucking beauty, man. Makes you realise …'

Simon breathes in sharply. He feels as if he has been winded by this sudden vivid memory of Roland, the very sound of his voice. Roland, whose last hours alive had been spent in this place, in this quest to make a link. Who had stood in this very spot, moonmilk glimmering on his back and thighs, and thought, no doubt, about Simon and known that he would feel betrayed by the exclusion. For it should have been the two of them. Roland had deceived him. Simon feels cold for the first time. This is what he has always assumed, but it may not have been a deliberate deception. Perhaps whatever has come over Simon, seduced him down here alone, came over Roland too. Simon cannot ignore the terrible sensation that someone is beside him. This feeling has been growing, it is as if someone is there just at the corner of his eye, just out of his field of vision, and because of the slow sweep of his light as he turns, they are always just out of sight. But there is the sense of a presence. Of course there is no one. That is something you can be sure of underground, so very far underground. The interior of the cave glitters. Last time it glittered so, it had been the rescue party's torches that illuminated it, their voices that set the straws rustling. Simon had been one of that party. But they never found Roland. Some of his equipment, but not a sign of the man.

This is where he will stop. He can hear the rush of the river. No louder than the sound he remembers, surprisingly. Underground water is unpredictable. The torrents of spring rain may have found another way, may not have altered this river more than slightly. He hears a gurgle below him, near his feet. He steps back and looks down. There is a small but rising pool of water, a perfect swelling circle in a hollow on the floor. As he watches, it swells to the size of a child's paddling pool and stops. It seems to tense – as if the surface skin has tensed with anticipation – and then there is a sucking sound as it diminishes, shrinks back through a tiny aperture like a plughole in the floor. He smiles, his momentary fear at the sight of the rising water evaporating. Strange he doesn't remember this. It is an ebb and flow pool. Sure enough there is another gurgle, almost as if the rock itself is chuckling, and the water rises again. On his previous expeditions the weather has always been dry, that is why he's never seen it before. The limestone is gorged with water. It is a magical thing, the slow regular pulse of crystal water.

Simon is cold. He should eat and then turn back. He is tired, his legs are trembling. There is this terrible sensation that he is not alone, which is so ridiculous. He turns sharply, the beam of his lamp jerking over the walls, making the dancers and their shadows judder and sway. The gurgle of the rock is like Roland's laugh. No it is not. That is ridiculous. Oh so stupid. Pure fancy. His mind is playing tricks. ‘Get a grip on yourself,' he says, and his voice is frightful in the cave, breathy and intimate.

He unscrews his water bottle and takes a swig. He unzips his rubber pouch and takes out a barley-sugar tablet to suck. He needs something. The sugar might give him strength. The sweetness is a comfort, strangely a female sort of comfort. Is sugar female then? And what is male? Cheese? Beef? Slugs and snails? Again the feeling – almost breath on his cheek this time – and he jerks round and sends the shadows chasing, glitters skittering over the mineral points and planes. The water disappears with a sigh.

He should go back, but there is this presence now behind him. It is not imagination. Simon prides himself on his lack of imagination. There is something made up of darkness behind him and beside him and he knows he must go on. There is no real choice here. The darkness
is
his companion. There is not far to go. Out of here there is a short descent into the entrance to the roaring river passage. His legs are weak. No, no, they are not weak. He takes a bite of oatcake and swigs water to wash the dry crumbs down. He has done this before. There is just the keyhole passage, just a matter of perseverance, back pressed against one side by the strength of his legs. And then there is the duck, the place where he will have to go under the water. But it is only short, one comfortably held breath, no obstacles. He has done it before. Followed by the burst out into fresh air. And it is the fact that it
is
fresh air that is significant. There is even a draught. He and Roland experienced a definite draught against their faces, which can mean only that there is an opening into the Boss System. And they had ascertained that there must be a way through, via a small tube that they had spotted.

He will find his way through. He will achieve what Roland set out to achieve. He must finish what has been started. He thinks briefly of Nadia, asleep now surely, snuggled warm and soft in the softness of the bed. To get back there he must go on. He does not dare turn round and face the darkness behind him, which is, he has almost convinced himself, only the fear of failure made manifest. Strange things take on edges in this kingdom of dislocation.

The water rises again, more forcefully this time, a little spray like spit first, and then a chuckle and then the clear swelling flow. He'll watch it rise and fall once more and then he'll go on.

Limestone

Nadia lays Sophie on her changing mat in front of the fire and begins to unfasten her sleep-suit. The baby is filthy. An onlooker might suppose her neglected. Her front is covered in slimy drying vomit; yellow shit escapes from the legs of her nappy and oozes down her legs, soiling the pretty pink velour. It has also leaked upwards, Nadia discovers, dirtying her vest. She manages to get the sleep-suit off, but the vest fastens with poppers between Sophie's legs, so that pulling it over her head is bound to dirty her face and hair. The only thing to do is to bath her. She picks up the squirming, stinking child and carries her – at arm's length – upstairs to find the bathroom. There is no baby bath, but the washbasin is big enough to serve. She runs the water, testing it with her elbow, and then kneels on the floor and takes off Sophie's vest and nappy. Nadia is horrified by the acidic pool inside the nappy, and by the redness of Sophie's bottom. Perhaps she was dirty before, she thinks. Perhaps it is my fault. But she smelt so sweet before, only a clean sweet smell. Nadia wipes the worst away, and then lifts Sophie into the basin. At first she struggles and flails her arms, but then she relaxes. Nadia supports her head with her hand and Sophie floats, pushing her toes against the side of the basin and gazing into Nadia's eyes. Her thighs have creases in them, gorgeous silky folds; her tummy is as round and fat as a puppy's, her sex a tiny split almond.

‘I love you,' Nadia says. ‘I will never let you go.' Sophie smiles at her, a wide-open smile of such purity that it makes Nadia hurt. Sophie doesn't know it's a game. To Sophie it is real. Nadia is her mother and that is all right. More than all right. It is perfect. Nadia's breasts ache with love. She wonders if June could ever have looked at
her
with such amazed love. The emotion is surely unique. No one else has ever ached with such love for a baby. Nobody who ached so much, who felt about to burst so full was she of love, could leave their baby in a pub to be looked after by God knows whom. By any lunatic who happened to be there. Lucky that Nadia was. Nadia soaps the baby, her fingers slipping on the perfect skin. Her grazed palms sting with the soapy water. It seems another life ago now, that cycle ride out of the city. And what it was that she was fleeing from.

Nadia closes her eyes for a moment as a wave of nausea sweeps her. She should eat. She is drunk. She cannot think straight, her thoughts are all rough and scribbled. But the important thing is this baby. She opens her eyes and sloshes water over the round tummy. Sophie kicks her legs with glee. But the water is cooling. Babies can die quickly of cold, she thinks, panicking. There is something about that she remembers. They cannot shiver, that is it. Nadia reaches for a towel from the radiator. It is almost impossible to manage the slippery slithery baby in one hand. The radiator is too far away. Nadia stretches and slips. How does she slip? She bangs her head on the radiator, there is a terrible clang that reverberates through all the pipes in the house and at the same time there is the more terrible quiet thud of the baby hitting the floor.

Nadia cannot understand this. What is going on? The baby is lying still and quiet on the hard scratchy carpet tiles. What a stupid floor to have when there is a baby to bathe. Her head is clattering, pain bounces off the planes of her skull, lights flash. She reaches for Sophie, who is limp and cold and wet. She pulls the towel from the radiator and swaddles her. She gets unsteadily up, feels herself sway, holds Sophie tight against her chest. The baby whimpers and Nadia breathes. She had not noticed that she had stopped breathing. Did she really think that the baby was dead? The moment is branded in her mind. It hisses and steams. Sophie wriggles inside the towel. Nadia can hardly bear to look at her. She carries Sophie carefully downstairs, putting both feet on each step and holding tightly to the banister. The pain in her head swoops nauseatingly at each movement. She thinks of a trapped bird in there beating its filthy wings.

Nadia sits by the fire and cradles Sophie for a long time before she dares to open the towel and look at what she has done. The baby's eyes are closed and she looks pale. Does she look pale? Wasn't she always a pale baby? Don't they have rosy cheeks? Wouldn't Nadia's baby have rosy cheeks? The birthmarks on her forehead are livid. They are only tiny, a sprinkling of ink. ‘They will fade,' Nadia says. She finds her tongue is thick in her mouth like a slab of cooked meat. She swallows away the awful taste. There is no more drink in her glass. She'd like more. Perhaps she should have coffee to clear her head. But it is perfectly clear, it clangs like a bell with pain, at each throb Nadia's sight is squeezed, so that Sophie seems to pulse like some sea-creature. There is nothing else wrong with her, nothing obviously wrong. There is a graze on the side of her head, a tiny pattern of scratches from the hairy carpet. Oh, they have such tender heads! Such a tender space where the soft bones are not yet fused and the throb of the brain is visible. It must be so easy, so pathetically easy, to kill a baby. Is she asleep, or is she unconscious? Nadia's heart scrambles. But babies do sleep a lot. Most of the time. Didn't someone say that to her once, didn't Sue complain about how boring babies are? She pleads with her memory to reassure her. And it is, after all, late at night. It is time she was asleep.