Safe. She must keep Enid and the baby safe. So long as they were safe, she would be able to live the rest of her life in peace. But so many things seemed to cloud her mind. Enid insisted she was well, but she was as pale as milk; she even had that bluish hue to her skin, and she was still bleeding. Margery needed to get her collection in order quickly, and sell it. She needed to raise enough money to get them off the island. But most bewildering of all was the baby. The baby had tipped Margery’s life upside down.
Enid’s love for her child was so big and fierce, she couldn’t stop giving her names. She went through them like clothes, trying them on for size, then flinging them off. Nothing was right. Nothing offered the protection Enid wanted her baby to have, and she changed her mind by the hour. Hope. Greer, after Greer Garson, Mrs. Miniver being her favorite film. Betty, which had been her mother’s name. Little Wren, because she was so tiny. Things more biblical: Kezia, Rebecca, Mary. A brief flirtation with French names, like Cécile. In the end, she settled on Gloria. As for her surname, she wanted Benson. She wanted a proper name, not a bogus one, like Pretty. She wanted her daughter to have a name she could be proud of.
“But, Enid,” said Margery, “that is my name.”
“Yes, Marge. I know. I want to name her after you.”
“But why?” Since the birth of Gloria, everything seemed to bewilder Margery and reduce her to tears, as if she were suddenly living with her vital organs exhibited on the outside. “I am not her father,” she said, blowing her nose.
“I am going to call her Gloria Benson, because I know you will always look after her.”
And already Margery knew this to be true. In fact, the words were small-fry. They didn’t even skim the surface of what Margery felt about this baby. This puking, bawling, yellow-shitting tiny thing of wonder. She had entered Margery’s life with the force of a missile and taken up residence in a place Margery hadn’t even known was there, let alone vacant. Despite her size—she was smaller than a doll, and her bones stuck out like beads inside all of Enid’s knitted baby clothes—she was clearly her mother’s daughter, and a survivor, even in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Margery had not enjoyed more than an hour of solid sleep since she’d been born. Gloria screamed and arched her tiny back until she had Enid’s nipple; then, sated, fell asleep, yellow milk caked around her mouth and spilling down her tiny chin. Enid set up camp in the middle of the main room, surrounded by blankets and mosquito nets, like a giant nest, with pots of hot and cold water, and whatever Margery could produce to feed her; Enid’s hunger was a monster. So Margery belted up and down, ripping up cloths to make new diapers, boiling everything that was soiled or bloody or covered with baby vomit, providing fresh rags for Enid, yet stopped by her every time she got anywhere vaguely near the door to come back, come and see what’s she doing, Marge. Look, look. I think she’s smiling.
Margery gazed at the baby’s shut eyes with their regal lashes, and her good intention of a nose. Fingers that even came with their own miniature nails. The wild mop of her hair.
“She has your hair, Marge.”
“That cannot be true, Enid.” And yet. Her hair was thick and curly. It was marvelous hair.
The first time she heard Gloria burp, she almost exploded with joy. How could such smallness contain so much perfection? Margery’s feelings for Enid were pale and ordinary beside this primordial expansion of her heart. It was so vast and painful, she couldn’t see where it ended—she could barely step away from Gloria without rushing back to check she was still breathing in and out. How shallow Margery’s existence had been until now, how naïve and small and ignorant. Suddenly she worried about things she hadn’t even noticed before. A rain cloud. A spider. For Gloria’s sake, she wanted to live in a clean, fresh country where there was no illness, no dirt, and people were only kind.
But there was work to be done. Her collection must be correctly pinned and labeled, her notes must be finished, before she could even try to sell it. When Enid and the baby slept, she took herself to her study. She shut the door, not to keep them away but to keep herself inside. She forced her eyes to focus. A specimen must be taken out of alcohol and dried and then it must be pinned while it was still soft. But the pinning was an exact process. The first pin must be guided through the right side of the upper half, taking care that the height of the beetle on the pin was correct: half an inch. The antennae must be carefully positioned, the legs displayed, without flattening them or losing even the tiniest hair, the elytra coaxed open to display the papery wings beneath. And there was not much time. There was so little time. She needed to get Enid and the baby to safety before anyone came searching. So long as they stayed north, they would be fine.
“Enid?”
“Hm?”
“Enid, are you all right?”
“I think I have a headache, Marge. That’s all.”
Five days after Gloria’s birth, Enid became ill. She made light of it. She even pretended she was tired. But as she crossed the veranda, she went very slowly, almost creeping, clinging on to things with one hand as she passed, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. Out of the blue, she asked if her mother was coming for tea.
“Your mother?” said Margery. “Your mother’s not here, Enid. We are in New Caledonia. Your mother died when you were small.”
Enid paused, the baby cradled now in both arms, like someone about to step into a busy street, who pulls back at the last minute. “What am I saying?” She laughed.
But it got worse. Later she appeared wearing two blankets when it was now broad daylight and boiling hot, even in the shade. Her skin was covered with goosebumps. She couldn’t face food. Didn’t want to drink. All she wanted was sleep. She dropped off even while she was feeding Gloria. Then she began to shake.
“What is it?” said Margery. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m cold,” she said. “I’m so cold.”
Margery grabbed every item of clothing they owned between them, and piled them on top of Enid, even the old pink dressing gown. It made no difference: Enid was still freezing. She lay bundled up, shaking so hard her teeth rattled. And there was a smell, too. Margery didn’t like to say it, but there was a smell coming from Enid and she knew it wasn’t right.
A terrible thought dawned on her. It was so awful she didn’t even want to give it words, but she had to.
“Enid? You did have vaccinations. Didn’t you? Before you came away?”
Even as she got to the end of the question, she knew the answer. There’d been far too little time for Enid to have vaccinations. Besides, she had been sitting at home with a dead body, waiting for the police to appear. She didn’t even own a passport. Vaccinations would have been the last thing on her mind.
“Enid, is the bleeding worse?”
“I’m fine, Marge.”
“No, Enid, we have to get you to a doctor.”
“We can’t go to a doctor. They’ll arrest me. It’s nothing, Marge. I want to stay here with you and Gloria.”
Enid continued to refuse to accept she was ill. “I’ve just had too much sun,” she kept saying. “I’ll be fine.” But since the birth, she’d been nowhere near the sun. She slept all day, waking only to feed Gloria. She complained of a headache that was like a pole being pushed through her head, and then she tried to get up and doubled over, grabbing her belly.
“What is it now, Enid?”
“Nothing, Marge.”
“Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?”
“I’m fine, Marge. I just need to sleep.”
Margery tucked Gloria safely into Enid’s arms and lumbered down the steps to the dirt track. She needed air. She needed perspective. She couldn’t tell if she should be afraid. Or, rather, she wasn’t ready to be afraid. She felt they’d already had their fair share of fear, as if bad luck was something that came in reasonable portions, when people were prepared. A bit for you, a bit for me.
She walked in the shade of the palm trees, the day clicking with insects, the thick smell of the forest. A bird flew ahead, like a blue doll, cutting its path through the air. To her right rose the rumpled flanks of the mountain, warmed and reddened by sun, the forest covering it in pleats and folds. Then something made her freeze.
Someone called her name. “Miss Benson?”
She stopped. Dead still. She felt a flash of fear, an actual physical jolt. A man had called her name. She knew it. She scanned the wall of trees on either side, the undergrowth. No one. And yet she knew a man was close. She heard a smaller sound: a snap, a shuffling of leaves. Breathing. She listened so hard, the silence was like something solid. Not even the shantytown boys were around. “Hello?” she called. Her voice was small. Almost defying anyone to hear it and reply.
A breeze took up and rattled the leaves. All around her the trees whispered and shifted. Her body turned to rubber. Before anyone could appear, she turned. She fled to the bungalow, dragging herself up the steps, pushing open the flap of a door.
The moment would have continued to unsettle her, but by the time she got back, Enid was even worse. She was still on the mattress, and still covered with everything they owned between them, still shaking. Margery touched her forehead: hot as a furnace and soaking wet. And her mouth. Her mouth was so blue she looked as if she’d eaten the nib of a fountain pen.
Margery fetched more firewood, boiled more water. She was frantic at the idea of something happening to Enid. She hated the sky for staying so clear, as if nothing was the matter. Hated the birds, calling indifferently. But, most of all, she hated herself for bringing Enid here in the first place, for not getting her to a hospital to have her baby, for not even fetching proper help. She had no idea how she’d bear the rest of her life if Enid did not survive. Yet she still seemed to be stuck in the present.
She tried to lift Enid, but Enid screamed that it hurt too much, and begged to be left where she was. She lay another hour on the mattress, while Margery hunkered beside her, batting off flies with her hand. She felt like a radio that had lost its frequency. She still had a vague notion that if she delayed long enough, things might get better of their own accord. But as the sun went down, Enid began to hallucinate. She was sweating heavily one moment, cold as stone the next. And the smell was even worse.
“I had so many babies, didn’t I?” Her eyes were wide and frightened.
“No, Enid. But you have Gloria.”
“I loved them all.”
“You need to feed Gloria, Enid.”
“Tell me their names.”
“Their names?”
“I think one was called—what was she called? I think she was called Table.”
“Enid?” said Margery. Less of a question, more a command. “Don’t be so stupid. You never called a baby Table. Stop doing this, Enid.”
Enid’s eyelids fluttered up and down, but behind them, her eyes were blank, like a shop that is closed for the night.
And then the truth occurred to Margery, so fast it was like becoming another version of herself. Just because Enid didn’t want to leave the bungalow, and didn’t want to see a doctor, didn’t mean she was right. Enid hadn’t a clue. Margery experienced a plummeting feeling inside. What had she been doing all this time? Waiting for Enid to get better? She had only made things worse. She’d been wrong to believe she could be a true friend to Enid. She was just as afraid and useless and dithering as she had been all those months ago when she’d limped through the school, unable to find a door that even opened. She bundled Enid up, ignoring her cries and whimpers, and bore her to the jeep, where she laid her on the back seat. She rushed back for Gloria, and placed her beside Enid in a box that could act as a makeshift cradle. She went and threw a few things in the red valise. Blankets. They also needed blankets. She couldn’t find any. She couldn’t remember what she was looking for. Blankets. She was looking for blankets. And water. Enid needed water. She remembered the blankets. But what else? In her panic, her mind had become full of holes. Water. But if she put water in a pan, it would spill. She was running out of the bungalow, then straight back in. Nothing made sense. Food. Enid needed food. It was not safe to take her to a hospital but she needed a doctor and a clean bed, and she needed them immediately. Suddenly she had no idea why she was worrying about blankets and food and water when Enid might be dying. She dropped the blankets, the pan of water, the food. She hurtled down the steps with Enid’s valise. She flung open the passenger door and dived in, ready to depart.
What was she thinking? There was no driver.
Margery’s mind locked again. She needed to find a driver. She needed to drive to get a driver….Absurd. Also, she had never driven a car in her life. Until meeting Enid, she hadn’t even traveled in one.
Enid groaned.
“Margery Benson,” Margery said out loud. “You have delivered a baby. Now where is your gumption? Drive a car.”
She hoisted herself into the unfamiliar space behind the steering wheel. She tried to recall what she had seen Enid do. She twisted the key. The engine roared. She yanked at the handbrake, she flattened her foot on a pedal. The jeep leaped backward into a coconut stump. But Enid did not cry out. She did not even attempt to escape. Briefly she sat up. She said something about putting your foot down gradually, not all at once. She also said something about putting the jeep into first gear.
“Headlamps,” she murmured. Then she fell asleep again. Margery flicked every switch she could find. Windshield wipers, hot air, even a radio—who knew the jeep had a radio?—came to life. At last, headlamps. The track shone ahead. A tunnel of light between trees. She eased her foot more slowly on the pedal, crunched the gear stick, and finally the jeep rolled forward. She pressed harder. The jeep was straining as if held back by a giant rubber band. She fumbled for the handbrake. Yanked it. The jeep clunked, it stuttered, it stalled. She tried the key again, the pedal again, the engine flared, she wrenched the car toward the track and picked up more speed. Faster, faster. Too fast. She was hitting stones, she was flying into branches, she could not understand how to stay in a straight line. When a drunk staggered out of the dark, she shrieked and swerved the car just in time, crunching the side of the jeep against rock, but she did not stop, she would not stop, she kept going.
They traveled all night. She drove like a madwoman, praying out loud that every French policeman in New Caledonia was in bed, while also keeping the dial on the speedometer in the red. She no longer felt fear. Fear had penetrated right through her and out the other side. When Gloria began to cry, Margery cut the engine. She threw herself out of the driver’s seat. She scooped Enid in one arm, Gloria in the other, and did her best to attach the baby’s mouth to Enid’s bosom, like fixing a bivalve to an old pipe. After that, she continued, hurling the jeep over gravel roads, dirt tracks, bouncing through holes, steering hard to avoid a fallen tree, a herd of goats, with the radio playing at full volume, and also the heat. She was hungry, she was boiling hot, her legs were on fire. Dawn came. A sky so orange, the trees blazed; and there was the ocean to her right, full of flames. Then at last they reached the solid, elegant buildings of Nouméa. The Place des Cocotiers. The market. The port.
Enid sat up. Briefly wiped the hair out of her face. Murmured, “Where are we, Marge? What are we doing?”
“I’ve thought it through. Don’t argue with me. We have no choice. I have to save your life. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
Bougainvillea hung like purple lamps. The air was sweet and warm. Sunrise flared against windows.
Margery pulled up outside the British consulate.