I saw the newspapers on the Co-op news-stand last night, and I’m glad I had the forethought to get my hair done before I boarded the ferry from the mainland. It had grown fairly long, but I used to wear it up all the time, and to be honest it was a pain to look after. Now it’s short, cropped prettily around my ears so that the white whispers coming through at the temple look striking rather than dowdy. The hairdresser said it took years off me, and, seeing that awful old photograph they used on the front page of the County Press, I’m inclined to agree.
It’s a wonderfully bright morning, and I know I’m taking a risk walking here in Freshwater Bay, so close to James’s home, but I picked up a baby sling in town yesterday, one which allows me to carry Chloe on my front where I can keep her warm beneath my large jacket. Of course, up close, it’s obvious I’m carrying a child, but from a distance I could easily be mistaken for an overweight walker in a big coat. I’m doing well at appearing open and friendly to the few people I pass, and I’m sure no one suspects me. I seem so normal, I presume; whatever that means. I’m not so deluded as to think I hold all the answers on that score. A woman in a red puffa jacket strides purposely ahead of me, her legs slim in tight black jeans and walking boots, her head dipped against the biting cold. When she passed me seconds earlier, she turned her head in my direction and nodded a polite hello, before overtaking me, oblivious to the sleeping baby beneath my clothing.
I remember the first time we took Chloe out together, James and I, when she was tiny, perhaps only a week old. James drove us out to Caversham for an ambling riverside walk, not too challenging for me and my still bruised body, a little stroll under crisp blue skies and a light lunch at the waterside café. He was always thoughtful in that way. He’d even called his mother to come and stay, and she was back home cleaning the house from top to bottom, ‘so you young things can go out and have the good time you deserve’. It’s such a muddle when I think of Alicia – his mother – because there are times when I remember loving her so effortlessly, and others when I remember only fear and confusion. As we walked by the river James told me how much she loved me, and I cried on hearing that, because it helped to know I was loved. There was a time when he could read my mind, know exactly what I needed. The sling we had was a special one for newborns – a gift from his colleagues at work – and James wore it so that I could walk at his side unencumbered for the first time in months, my hand in his, my eyes roaming restlessly between the flow of the river and the soft crown of our sleeping baby’s head. James looked happy; there was no way he could know how I longed to release his hand and step down into the muscular flow of the water. On that idyllic, bright winter morning, how I longed to let myself slip beneath the river’s cool surface, limbs drifting, to be carried out to sea and swallowed up by the dark, expansive ocean.