A Country Road, A Tree by Jo Baker Page A

but there’s too much else going on for him to feed it, to grow it, to tug it out into the light to be examined. The complaints of the body can’t be dealt with, and so become insistent, intrusive, far noisier than the quiet need to write. Hunched at the table, the little crocheted blanket over his shoulders, mitts on his paws, his empty stomach whines and pops; his feet are a torment of chilblains, his nose is ice. He finds himself staring for he doesn’t know how long at the blank page in front of him, or out of the window at the grey sky, his thoughts caught up in his body’s and his friends’ distress. His being here has merely added to the general burden. Another mouth. He is disgusted with his hunger, with his needs.

    “Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you, but…”
    He holds the door wide with one hand, grasps his blanket at his throat with the other. Suzanne is carrying a bundle of something; she lugs it into the apartment, dumps it down on the floor.
    “I’m going to need your help with this, if you don’t mind.”
    She is shifting furniture now.
    “It’s too cold to move,” he says.
    “It’s too cold to stay still.”
    She’s lining up chairs, backs turned to each other, six foot or so apart. As though they’re about to march away across the rug, then stop, and turn, and fire.
    “What’s all this?”
    “I had an idea.” She jerks her head towards the bundle. “Just lift that for me, would you? Help me shake it out.”
    The bundle unfurls into a hefty sheet of canvas; it smells of damp and is spotted here and there with mould. A forgotten dust sheet, or a tarpaulin used in some long-ago déménagement. When they shake it out, dust motes spin into the cold winter sun.
    “Where’d you get it?”
    “It was in the basement.”
    “Isn’t it somebody’s?”
    “Yes,” she says. “Ours.”
    She gestures for him to move round to the far side of the chairs. Between them they spread the fabric over the ladder-backs, so that it drapes down to the floor on either side. She straightens out the edges, tucks them in under the chair-feet to hold the fabric taut. He crouches down on the other side to do the same.
    “Did you ever do this as a child?” she asks.
    He’s still not quite certain what they are doing. “Eh?”
    “Make a den.” She lifts a fold of canvas, glances inside.
    He takes a step back, squints at it. Oh yes. “No.”
    “We did. Once in a while. On a rainy day.”
    She ducks in underneath the canvas; he follows.
    Inside, the air is frowsty; the light glows through the fabric. Beneath them is the old rug, with its faded Turkish patterns. He arranges himself uncomfortably, draws up his knees, feels ridiculous.

    “You can work in here.” Suzanne blows on her hands. “It’ll be warmer.”
    “Yes,” he says. “I see.”
    She is pleased with herself. He smiles for her. It makes sense, of course it does, and it’s also utterly absurd. The two of them are hunched there in a tent on the rug, as though this is a game. As though later there will be nursery tea and bath and pyjamas and prayers and bed, and not just more cold, more hunger.
    “Do you want your book?” he asks.
    “Please.”
    “And coffee?”
    “Oh yes, please.”
    “It’s horrible coffee.”
    “Comme d’hab.”
    He scrambles out, unfolding his long limbs. He finds her book; he finds a cup and rinses it. He dawdles over these little tasks, leaving her tucked away out of sight. She keeps doing things for him unasked, her kindnesses weave a mesh of obligation. He stirs in saccharine and watches the ersatz coffee spin and then fall still. No question now of milk. He brings these things back to her, passes them through the opening of the tent and crawls in after them. He folds himself up, knees and elbows. It’s warmer, yes, inside the shelter, in their shared warmth. They are toe-to-toe. The fabric drapes above his shoulders. His neck is bent. He can feel her breathe. The world has closed down to this. To body