“I didn’t understand. I didn’t know.”
Damian said, “You are right of course. She is also mine.” He could have added “And I am hers,” but he wasn’t capable of so much rhetoric.
“You know, they all go on about love. Love, love, love. You and me, me and you—well, not you and me
personally,
but in the abstract. No one writes songs to babies, do they? But when I
saw
her—that was love, that was
it,
I know what it is—”
“I know. That’s what I felt. When I saw her.”
The baby hiccupped. Awkwardly, but gently, Daisy tipped her up on her shoulder and patted her back. Then, gingerly, she held her out to Damian, who took her in his arms, and looked down into the unique, lovely face.
“What the hell are we going to do now?” Damian asked.
Martha, bringing a posy of daisies and anemones, came into the little space to find them both staring at the child, who lay on her shawl on the bed between them. Damian and Daisy had faces of baffled adoration. Daisy was still weeping, steadily and easily. It was perfectly clear to Martha what had happened. She thought of walking away, quickly. Damian repeated, just as he caught sight of Martha:
“What the hell are we going to do now?”
Daisy said to Martha like a child to its mother:
“I didn’t understand. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t cry,” said Martha, coming further in. She saw that Damian had tears in his eyes. The baby began to cry and Damian and Daisy both put out their arms to pick her up and comfort her, and both drew back together. Martha, not herself moved to adoration, could see no satisfactory way out of this state of affairs, which was supposed to be not her problem.
“We’ll think of something. Because we shall have to,” she said. The other two nodded vaguely. All three continued to stare at the baby.
A Stone Woman
(For Torfi Tulinius)
AT FIRST she did not think of stones. Grief made her insubstantial to herself; she felt herself flitting lightly from room to room, in the twilit apartment, like a moth. The apartment seemed constantly twilit, although it must, she knew, have gone through the usual sequences of sun and shadow over the days and weeks since her mother died. Her mother—a strong bright woman—had liked to live amongst shades of mole and dove. Her mother’s hair had shone silver and ivory. Her eyes had faded from cornflower to forget-me-not. Ines found her dead one morning, her bloodless fingers resting on an open book, her parchment eyelids down, as though she dozed, a wry grimace on her fine lips, as though she had tasted something not quite nice. She quickly lost this transient lifelike-ness, and became waxy and peaked. Ines, who had been the younger woman, became the old woman in an instant.
She busied herself with her dictionary work, and with tidying love away. She packed it into plastic sacks, creamy silks and floating lawns, velvet and muslin, lavender crêpe de Chine, beads of pearl and garnet. People had thought she was a dutiful daughter. They did not imagine, she thought, two intelligent women who understood each other easily, and loved each other. She drew the blinds because the light hurt her eyes. Her inner eye observed final things over and over. White face on white pillow amongst white hair. Colourless skin on lifeless fingers. Flesh of my flesh, flesh of her flesh. The efficient rage of consuming fire, the handfuls of fawn ash which she had scattered, as she had promised, in the hurrying foam of a Yorkshire beck.
She went through the motions, hoping to become accustomed to solitude and silence. Then one morning pain struck her like a sudden beak, tearing at her gut. She caught her breath and sat down, waiting for it to pass. It did not pass, but strengthened, blow on blow. She rolled on her bed, dishevelled and sweating. She heard the creature moaning. She tried to telephone the doctor, but the thing shrieked raucously into the mouthpiece, and this saved her, for they sent an ambulance, which took
Damian said, “You are right of course. She is also mine.” He could have added “And I am hers,” but he wasn’t capable of so much rhetoric.
“You know, they all go on about love. Love, love, love. You and me, me and you—well, not you and me
personally,
but in the abstract. No one writes songs to babies, do they? But when I
saw
her—that was love, that was
it,
I know what it is—”
“I know. That’s what I felt. When I saw her.”
The baby hiccupped. Awkwardly, but gently, Daisy tipped her up on her shoulder and patted her back. Then, gingerly, she held her out to Damian, who took her in his arms, and looked down into the unique, lovely face.
“What the hell are we going to do now?” Damian asked.
Martha, bringing a posy of daisies and anemones, came into the little space to find them both staring at the child, who lay on her shawl on the bed between them. Damian and Daisy had faces of baffled adoration. Daisy was still weeping, steadily and easily. It was perfectly clear to Martha what had happened. She thought of walking away, quickly. Damian repeated, just as he caught sight of Martha:
“What the hell are we going to do now?”
Daisy said to Martha like a child to its mother:
“I didn’t understand. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t cry,” said Martha, coming further in. She saw that Damian had tears in his eyes. The baby began to cry and Damian and Daisy both put out their arms to pick her up and comfort her, and both drew back together. Martha, not herself moved to adoration, could see no satisfactory way out of this state of affairs, which was supposed to be not her problem.
“We’ll think of something. Because we shall have to,” she said. The other two nodded vaguely. All three continued to stare at the baby.
A Stone Woman
(For Torfi Tulinius)
AT FIRST she did not think of stones. Grief made her insubstantial to herself; she felt herself flitting lightly from room to room, in the twilit apartment, like a moth. The apartment seemed constantly twilit, although it must, she knew, have gone through the usual sequences of sun and shadow over the days and weeks since her mother died. Her mother—a strong bright woman—had liked to live amongst shades of mole and dove. Her mother’s hair had shone silver and ivory. Her eyes had faded from cornflower to forget-me-not. Ines found her dead one morning, her bloodless fingers resting on an open book, her parchment eyelids down, as though she dozed, a wry grimace on her fine lips, as though she had tasted something not quite nice. She quickly lost this transient lifelike-ness, and became waxy and peaked. Ines, who had been the younger woman, became the old woman in an instant.
She busied herself with her dictionary work, and with tidying love away. She packed it into plastic sacks, creamy silks and floating lawns, velvet and muslin, lavender crêpe de Chine, beads of pearl and garnet. People had thought she was a dutiful daughter. They did not imagine, she thought, two intelligent women who understood each other easily, and loved each other. She drew the blinds because the light hurt her eyes. Her inner eye observed final things over and over. White face on white pillow amongst white hair. Colourless skin on lifeless fingers. Flesh of my flesh, flesh of her flesh. The efficient rage of consuming fire, the handfuls of fawn ash which she had scattered, as she had promised, in the hurrying foam of a Yorkshire beck.
She went through the motions, hoping to become accustomed to solitude and silence. Then one morning pain struck her like a sudden beak, tearing at her gut. She caught her breath and sat down, waiting for it to pass. It did not pass, but strengthened, blow on blow. She rolled on her bed, dishevelled and sweating. She heard the creature moaning. She tried to telephone the doctor, but the thing shrieked raucously into the mouthpiece, and this saved her, for they sent an ambulance, which took
Similar Books
