sucked the air from her lungs. She was burning in the icy water. The last time she had swum here had been in the summer, with Joe. Back then the river had wrapped itself around her like a lover.
She forced her arms to move and struck out towards the centre of the river. She knew it would have been no good throwing the bundle into the water in the dark. The stones might rip the velvet and the body might float up. The only way to do it was to dive and lay her burden down upon the river bed. And there, the creatures in these waters would take it and keep it. Vivian would be able to mourn her then. Nellie thought of the fish, the monster washed up on their kitchen floor. They’d taken the sorry creature from the river and now here she was giving their own sorrow back to the waters. And this was the only choice. Better than the churchyard, where an illegitimate baby would be judged and unwanted. The water would baptize her and take her to its heart.
There was a papery crust of ice on the surface of the water. It crunched and cracked as she swam through it. By tomorrow morning the river would be frozen. Villagers might skate on it, as they often did in a cold snap. Her limbs went weak. She began tofeel cold and afraid. If she died in these waters, they would not find her until the thaw.
In the middle of the broad sweep of icy water, her courage came back. Nellie owned this river. She knew its currents, its gravel bed. She would not be taken by it now.
She dived and the pain in her skull was terrible. Her teeth froze and her jaw turned brittle. She touched the river bed. She could not go down any further. She dropped her bundle. The baby was safe now. Delivered to its grave. She had done what she set out to do, giving it over to the care of the river. She pushed up to the surface, gasping for breath, the cold slowing her movements. For a moment she was lost. Which way to go? Which bank to swim for? On one side were Vivian and Louisa with her clothes. On the other side were snow and open fields. If she got it wrong, she would die of cold. She kicked and swam off towards what she thought was the right bank. And then she heard something. Vivian calling her name over the wind. She turned, and this time she heard her sister’s voice again. She knew she would make it back. The river would not take her, only the secret she had given to it.
Seven
Nellie sat on the window seat in the cottage, watching the lapwings flying over the fields. It was 1917, the country was still at war, and Vivian had been gone for nearly three years. The longer Nellie stared at the birds, the more she doubted those fragile shapes were blood and feather and bone. Against the pale sky they looked like rags; strips of black fabric dancing back and forth. She looked down at her hands resting in her linen skirt. Her sewing box sat beside her, a pile of mending untouched. She was no good at darning in any case. Vivian had always done it. Since she had lived alone, Nellie’s darning and mending had not improved at all.
Of course Vivian had left. Every time it rained she had rushed to the window, watching for any change in the water level of the river. Any sign of it rising made her anxious. She’d been afraid of what flood waters might deliver back to them. Nellie had tried to reassure her. She’d put the brown hagstone in a cotton bag and told Vivian that as long as one of them had the stone then the river would not give up its secret. It would not betray them or the baby.
Nellie got up from the window seat and put on her hat and coat. Outside, the lapwings gathered into a black knot in the sky. They moved away until they were a pencil line, and then a dot, and then gone. She cycled into the village, glad to be in the fresh air. It was a wonderful thing, a bicycle. Louisa had left it to her as a gift when she eloped with the wheelwright.
Should Nellie marry, like Vivian had? Even if she was open to the idea, and she wasn’t sure she was, there was no
She forced her arms to move and struck out towards the centre of the river. She knew it would have been no good throwing the bundle into the water in the dark. The stones might rip the velvet and the body might float up. The only way to do it was to dive and lay her burden down upon the river bed. And there, the creatures in these waters would take it and keep it. Vivian would be able to mourn her then. Nellie thought of the fish, the monster washed up on their kitchen floor. They’d taken the sorry creature from the river and now here she was giving their own sorrow back to the waters. And this was the only choice. Better than the churchyard, where an illegitimate baby would be judged and unwanted. The water would baptize her and take her to its heart.
There was a papery crust of ice on the surface of the water. It crunched and cracked as she swam through it. By tomorrow morning the river would be frozen. Villagers might skate on it, as they often did in a cold snap. Her limbs went weak. She began tofeel cold and afraid. If she died in these waters, they would not find her until the thaw.
In the middle of the broad sweep of icy water, her courage came back. Nellie owned this river. She knew its currents, its gravel bed. She would not be taken by it now.
She dived and the pain in her skull was terrible. Her teeth froze and her jaw turned brittle. She touched the river bed. She could not go down any further. She dropped her bundle. The baby was safe now. Delivered to its grave. She had done what she set out to do, giving it over to the care of the river. She pushed up to the surface, gasping for breath, the cold slowing her movements. For a moment she was lost. Which way to go? Which bank to swim for? On one side were Vivian and Louisa with her clothes. On the other side were snow and open fields. If she got it wrong, she would die of cold. She kicked and swam off towards what she thought was the right bank. And then she heard something. Vivian calling her name over the wind. She turned, and this time she heard her sister’s voice again. She knew she would make it back. The river would not take her, only the secret she had given to it.
Seven
Nellie sat on the window seat in the cottage, watching the lapwings flying over the fields. It was 1917, the country was still at war, and Vivian had been gone for nearly three years. The longer Nellie stared at the birds, the more she doubted those fragile shapes were blood and feather and bone. Against the pale sky they looked like rags; strips of black fabric dancing back and forth. She looked down at her hands resting in her linen skirt. Her sewing box sat beside her, a pile of mending untouched. She was no good at darning in any case. Vivian had always done it. Since she had lived alone, Nellie’s darning and mending had not improved at all.
Of course Vivian had left. Every time it rained she had rushed to the window, watching for any change in the water level of the river. Any sign of it rising made her anxious. She’d been afraid of what flood waters might deliver back to them. Nellie had tried to reassure her. She’d put the brown hagstone in a cotton bag and told Vivian that as long as one of them had the stone then the river would not give up its secret. It would not betray them or the baby.
Nellie got up from the window seat and put on her hat and coat. Outside, the lapwings gathered into a black knot in the sky. They moved away until they were a pencil line, and then a dot, and then gone. She cycled into the village, glad to be in the fresh air. It was a wonderful thing, a bicycle. Louisa had left it to her as a gift when she eloped with the wheelwright.
Should Nellie marry, like Vivian had? Even if she was open to the idea, and she wasn’t sure she was, there was no
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