the plant pots, the coiled hose, that old tin bucket all standing in inky pools of their own shadows. She is sitting cross-legged on a rug and, on the grass next to her, her shadow is struggling to hold its shape. She watches it for a moment, fighting a losing battle with its surface, the millions of blades of grass all growing in different directions, at different rates. The shadow’s edges are splintered, ragged, like something lost at sea.
Elina looks away from it and, as she does so, sees that she is holding a rattle in her right hand: a complex thing of coloured rods, bells, strips of elastic, beads inside balls. Beneath where it is suspended, the baby is lying. On his back, his eyes fixed on her. The frank interrogation of his gaze gives her a start.
She moves the rattle from side to side and the coloured beads ricochet around inside their clear globes. The effect on the baby is instantaneous and remarkable. His limbs stiffen, his eyes spring wide, his lips part in a perfect round O. It is as if he’s been studying a manual on how to be a human being, with particular attention to the chapter, ‘Demonstrating Surprise’. She shakes it again and again and the baby’s limbs move like pistons, up, down, in, out. She thinks: This is what mothers do.
A clashing noise from the house makes her look up. And there is Ted, in the kitchen window, framed in the act of lifting a pan from the stove. He is here this week, she remembers now, he’s taken time off work.
She turns back to the baby. She touches the hair on his temples, which is inexplicably turning from dark to light, she strokes the curve of his cheek, she rests a hand on his chest and feels his lungs fill, flatten, fill, flatten.
A squirrel with a grey-flecked tail darts from a flowerpot to the wall of her studio, its clawed feet gripping the wood as it shunts itself up to the roof and then away. The scrolled white petals of the calla lilies in the pot shiver with the vibrations.
She must have turned her head too quickly because the colours of the garden, of the baby’s suit seem to blaze brighter for a few seconds. And now Ted is coming out of the house and, in the bright sunlight, the shape of him seems to shimmer and bifurcate and, for a moment, it is as if there is another person there, hovering just behind him. He walks across the grass and the shape seems to follow him.
‘OK,’ he is saying, ‘get this down you. Pasta al limone , made with fresh—’ He catches sight of her face. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ Elina pulls her mouth into a smile. It is important to reassure him. ‘I think I need my sunglasses.’
The house is dark and shadowed after the glare of the garden. Unfamiliar, almost. She stares about her as if seeing it for the first time. That vase, the orange bowl, the jute rug with a million tiny loops. She tiptoes past all these things that are hers but don’t look like hers, through the kitchen and up the stairs. On the landing, she thinks: I am alone in the house. She stops for a moment, one hand resting on the banisters. She feels light, insubstantial, the air circulating around her empty arms.
She has tried to talk to Ted. She had thought it might help. He is at home this week, and the next. They are together, all day and all night, the two of them and the baby. She sits on the sofa, mostly, and breastfeeds. Ted cooks. Ted loads the washing-machine. Ted takes the baby out for walks in his pram and then she can sleep. She sleeps in short, snatched bursts – on the sofa, in a chair, in bed if she’s lucky – and these naps are animated by hectic, speedy dreams, most often on the subject of losing the baby or being unable to reach the baby, or sometimes there are abstract images of fountains. Fountains of red liquid. These she wakes from with a jolt, with a galloping heart.
So Ted is at home, with her, the shoot is over, and she has tried to talk to him. She tried last night as
Elina looks away from it and, as she does so, sees that she is holding a rattle in her right hand: a complex thing of coloured rods, bells, strips of elastic, beads inside balls. Beneath where it is suspended, the baby is lying. On his back, his eyes fixed on her. The frank interrogation of his gaze gives her a start.
She moves the rattle from side to side and the coloured beads ricochet around inside their clear globes. The effect on the baby is instantaneous and remarkable. His limbs stiffen, his eyes spring wide, his lips part in a perfect round O. It is as if he’s been studying a manual on how to be a human being, with particular attention to the chapter, ‘Demonstrating Surprise’. She shakes it again and again and the baby’s limbs move like pistons, up, down, in, out. She thinks: This is what mothers do.
A clashing noise from the house makes her look up. And there is Ted, in the kitchen window, framed in the act of lifting a pan from the stove. He is here this week, she remembers now, he’s taken time off work.
She turns back to the baby. She touches the hair on his temples, which is inexplicably turning from dark to light, she strokes the curve of his cheek, she rests a hand on his chest and feels his lungs fill, flatten, fill, flatten.
A squirrel with a grey-flecked tail darts from a flowerpot to the wall of her studio, its clawed feet gripping the wood as it shunts itself up to the roof and then away. The scrolled white petals of the calla lilies in the pot shiver with the vibrations.
She must have turned her head too quickly because the colours of the garden, of the baby’s suit seem to blaze brighter for a few seconds. And now Ted is coming out of the house and, in the bright sunlight, the shape of him seems to shimmer and bifurcate and, for a moment, it is as if there is another person there, hovering just behind him. He walks across the grass and the shape seems to follow him.
‘OK,’ he is saying, ‘get this down you. Pasta al limone , made with fresh—’ He catches sight of her face. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ Elina pulls her mouth into a smile. It is important to reassure him. ‘I think I need my sunglasses.’
The house is dark and shadowed after the glare of the garden. Unfamiliar, almost. She stares about her as if seeing it for the first time. That vase, the orange bowl, the jute rug with a million tiny loops. She tiptoes past all these things that are hers but don’t look like hers, through the kitchen and up the stairs. On the landing, she thinks: I am alone in the house. She stops for a moment, one hand resting on the banisters. She feels light, insubstantial, the air circulating around her empty arms.
She has tried to talk to Ted. She had thought it might help. He is at home this week, and the next. They are together, all day and all night, the two of them and the baby. She sits on the sofa, mostly, and breastfeeds. Ted cooks. Ted loads the washing-machine. Ted takes the baby out for walks in his pram and then she can sleep. She sleeps in short, snatched bursts – on the sofa, in a chair, in bed if she’s lucky – and these naps are animated by hectic, speedy dreams, most often on the subject of losing the baby or being unable to reach the baby, or sometimes there are abstract images of fountains. Fountains of red liquid. These she wakes from with a jolt, with a galloping heart.
So Ted is at home, with her, the shoot is over, and she has tried to talk to him. She tried last night as
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