IT WAS THE day of his first grandchild’s birth, and Karl was balancing on the top rung of a ladder putting the final touches on the elaborate sea mural he’d painted for baby Will’s new bedroom. Of course, he understood that Will, Kaz, and Rosie, would be living at Holly’s place once he was born, same as they were now. And that was totally fine. He just wanted them to know they’d always be welcome here. Here, there would be purple mer-people and bright yellow butterfly fish on the walls. Here there were glowing stars on the ceiling. OK, so secretly he wanted this to be Will’s favourite bedroom. That wasn’t so bad, was it?
Karl had always imagined he’d have a large family. Four, five kids at least. He’d been the youngest of seven, the quiet one, always smiling and watching the rest, and always getting tickled too. As his siblings left home one by one he’d missed the laughter, the company, the sense of being surrounded by people – so he wanted to fill his own house with the same boisterous noise. Then he’d met Cris, who made a fair bit of noise on his own. And as things had turned out, Kaz was their only child. He and Cris spoiled him rotten. They couldn’t help themselves.
And now Kaz, their baby Kaz, was having a child. The first of many, he secretly hoped, though far be it from him to interfere. He’d already got all the old toys out of the attic – they’d never been thrown away, of course – and he’d even started playing with some of the Lego. Just to remind himself, so he could help build the houses, the farmyard, the space station … Yes, he’d spent a while playing with the Lego. And he’d introduced himself to Will, his grandson-to-be, through the pouch. It was therapeutic, to whisper to someone through the pouch like that, palm-to-palm. Easier in a way than talking to someone face-to-face. Though Cris liked to call out to him from across the room: Good morning, baby Will, Grandpa’s arrived!
Karl himself had been a natural birth, as had all his brothers and sisters – his parents were traditional, at a time when it was still the old versus the new. He’d been born a month premature; his parents liked to tell the story. It had a happy ending. There were pictures of his tiny black body looking all wrinkled in one of those transparent cots they used for babies in the neonatal ward – just like in the leaflets about the risks of natural birth you got at school. He didn’t think it had affected him, but then how could you ever really know? Perhaps, given that extra month in the womb he’d have grown up to be a six-four prop for Harlequins like Cris, rather than a choreographer. Put like that, he was rather glad to have been born premature.
By the time he was an adult, though, everyone knew the baby pouch was the safest, the best way – it wasn’t just accepted, it was preferred. So he and Cris hadn’t had to fight for their right to have a baby with the pouch. FullLife had frozen eggs available for anyone who needed them. And they knew there’d be no trouble getting milk, since genetically engineered milk was available to all parents, specifically tailored, the healthiest option. They hadn’t had to suffer looks of surprise or, worse, activists telling them they had no right to jointly father a child. Incredible, how far humanity had come in a few generations.
He climbed down from the ladder, one careful foot at a time, and stood back to survey his work. It was pretty good, if he did say so himself. Beautifully colourful. He would have loved a room like this, when he was young. Kaz was going to love it too. They’d kept it secret, so it could be a birth day surprise. He could imagine Kaz’s face, as Cris held his hands over his eyes and they led him in – he could hardly wait. He sat on the floor and looked up to the solar system on the ceiling.
There had been some difficulty, for Karl and Cris. Twenty years ago now, but still fresh, still sore. There had been a baby girl, before she was even a baby, their daughter who never grew to be more than an embryo. She’d died just six days after implantation in the pouch. Before they’d even been able to carry her. It didn’t happen often, but when it did it always happened within the first fortnight. It was the most difficult part of the whole process, that initial attachment. He still missed her as if he’d known her all his life – he could picture her perfectly, even though he’d never seen her at all. He wondered why it was, that love should work like that. The next time they tried, Cris acted as the biological father instead, and Kaz was born. Strange words those, ‘biological father’. Parenthood wasn’t about being a blood relation, he knew – and he knew it deeply, in the same place he knew love and fear and hope. It was about intimacy.
The pouch itself allowed him to have an intimacy with his son that he wouldn’t have otherwise had. To feel what it was like to carry an unborn child, his tiny fists pressing against his belly – there was nothing like it. He’d written to Holly about it once. They’d lived not far from each other, and she was famous, so he knew which house was hers even though they hadn’t met at that stage. The first woman ever to use the pouch – even now he occasionally felt a little in awe of her. He’d been far too embarrassed to talk to her in person, but he wanted to tell her how wonderful it was, for a man. For two men. How life-changing. It was a gift, he’d written, and he didn’t know if he deserved it.
It had probably been a rather gushing letter, quite out of character. He’d written it just a few days after Kaz was born, overwhelmed with love and wonder and sleep deprivation. Holly had never mentioned it. Not when they met for the first time at that playgroup, not at all the school plays and Christmas concerts over the years. He’d taken that as kindness – as her understanding that he didn’t want to make a big deal of things. That he was a little embarrassed.
There was just that one moment, at the wedding. Kaz was in his suit, looking even younger, somehow, than he would have done if he’d worn his school uniform, and Rosie was looking pretty in that simple, elegant dress that had once belonged to Holly herself. They’d finished the main course and were waiting for dessert. Rosie’s sweet laugh echoed around the room. Kaz had pulled himself together after crying his way through Cris’s extended speeches. Karl hadn’t given a speech though, he hadn’t said much at all – sometimes he didn’t know what to say to anyone – but he had smiled around the table and felt proud of his son. And throughout it all, Holly had been seated next to him at the high table, watching the ceremony with a knowing look on her face. Then, quite unexpectedly, she’d turned her eyes to his, and whispered to him. ‘You did well,’ she’d said, making sure that no one else could hear. And then she’d winked.
Eva keyed in the phone number for the third time, and looked at the string of digits on the screen without pressing call. It was strange, how anxious she felt – she was not normally precious about making phone calls. It probably wouldn’t be his number at all, not after all these years. But if it was, she had no idea what to say.
Usually, she would have been direct – told them exactly who she was, listed her questions, requested information. And usually, in response, they were polite and accommodating, and sent her everything that she asked for, together with a promotional pen or fridge magnet. But today … She wondered if she should pretend to be a reporter or something, a researcher. Was there a way to make him think she was on his side? Quentin. Perhaps he would let his guard down if she lied, and then she’d be more likely to see a crack, a hint at something buried away from the public eye.
She pressed the call button. She’d work out the best approach once she heard his voice, play it by ear. Perhaps she should hang up.
‘Yes?’
The man’s voice was breathy and impatient. She hesitated.
‘Hello?’ he said again, a slight irritation creeping into his tone.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Hi, my name’s Eva—’
‘Who?’
‘Eva. I’m looking for Quentin?’
‘Yes, this is James.’
‘I …’ It took her a moment to realise that her mother had written only a surname. They can’t have known each other well. This was a mistake. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you knew my mother. Avigail Goldsmith.’
He didn’t reply, and she thought for a moment that he was going to be the one to hang up the phone.
‘Why are you calling?’
‘I found your number, in my mum’s address book and I—’
‘Just tell me,’ he said, ‘please. Just …’
The pause seemed endless to Eva, as her mind slowly caught up with the conversation.
‘… is she ill?’ he asked. ‘Has something happened?’
Eva felt a lurch in her stomach, wrapped her free arm around her waist to try and stop the reaction. She’d forgotten what it was like, having to tell people.
‘Yes,’ Eva said.
She heard his breath as he exhaled close to the phone. Was he genuinely upset?
‘I’m sorry, she passed away,’ she corrected.
Eva hadn’t meant to make it sound so recent, or so blunt, but her mum’s death was still raw. Besides, she’d never known how to soften the bad news for others. Sometimes, before falling asleep, she’d forget everything that had happened these past six years, and she’d be back to what things were like before. Her mum’s face as they argued in the office, eyes blazing, her laugh a crescendo, drinking wine over dinner, Eva confiding in her about how much she missed the garden now she was living with Piotr. Then she’d jolt awake, remember what had happened but think, just for a second, that it had all been a nightmare. That it was OK. That she’d find her mum downstairs making tea. And then she’d feel in her stomach that it wasn’t OK at all. None of it was OK.
‘Are you in London?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I’m, unfortunately, I’m very busy, we have … so much work but, if it’s in London, I’d like to come to the funeral.’
‘Oh. God, I’m sorry. It’s too late, she … I didn’t realise …’
There was silence on the line while Eva searched, unsuccessfully, for something to say. She couldn’t find any words.
‘Perhaps lunch then?’ he said hurriedly.
‘What?’
‘I can take a break at one. It’s the only time I have … Things are busy. Can you meet me for lunch?’
She calculated the time it would take to get to the station, the trains every half-hour at this time of day, but she could get there. Of course she could get there. She didn’t know why she was hesitating like this.
‘I’d appreciate it,’ he said.
He sighed, and she could hear another voice, muffled, in the room he was sitting in – someone on another desk, perhaps, working at another lab bench. She realised she had no idea what he was doing. Was he still at FullLife?
‘If today’s no good …’
‘No. Yes,’ she said, finally gathering her thoughts and grabbing a pen. ‘Today’s fine. Yes, of course. Lunch. Where?’
On the train, Eva had a row of seats to herself. Over beyond the doors she could see another passenger, a young man in a suit with bright yellow earphones. She could hear the thumping bass of his music above the smooth glide of the train on the tracks. Her eyes stared out of the window but didn’t focus on the fields they were passing – beyond them, in the distance and half hidden by trees, she could see the large complex of care homes on the outskirts of the city.
There was a paper at the end of each aisle, as there always was, even though everyone got their news online. But reading material, recycled of course, was supplied on public transport, to make the carriages feel homely, welcoming. Newspaper was the wrong word for it though, she thought as she picked one up. This was a brochure. A series of glossy adverts. Nothing more. She wished they’d leave the trains out of their bloody PR campaigns. Trains were one of the few places she still loved.
She’d once travelled by train across Siberia, with Piotr. The last time she’d left the country, in fact. How long ago was that? She counted back the years, trying not to use landmarks of funerals and hospital appointments to keep track of the dates. Ten years. Could it really be ten years? Even then the visas had been hard to get. Piotr’s credentials got them into Russia – officially he was writing an article about the new canals, unofficially a report on the black market for used pouches. Eva was allowed to go along for the ride. Everyone assumed she was his wife. Still, she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity, even if she was infuriated by the way it came about – FullLife were funding the website that had commissioned his report. But the world needed to know how much damage the pouches were doing, and she could write her own articles when she got home regardless of what Piotr decided to publish.
She could remember their compartment as if it had been a few weeks ago. The cooked-vegetable smell that wafted in early evening from the dining carriage, the flimsy curtains that she pulled across every night – except for one particularly clear night, halfway through their trip, when they’d kept the curtains open to watch the stars through their small square window. There were bunk beds that they were supposed to sleep in, each one barely big enough for a person – he’d confined himself to the lower bunk when they’d argued at the start of the trip. But eventually they’d climbed into the top bunk together, enjoying the closeness, laughing at the fun of it, clinging on to each other so as not to fall out during the night.
‘It must be possible to sleep like this. Humans used to live in trees,’ Piotr had said, his voice softly close, his breath sleepy-stale and familiar.
‘No, that was caves,’ she’d replied. ‘You’re so confused, sweetheart. Must be the sleep deprivation.’
‘I mean before the caves, sweet potato.’
The train’s wheels had clanked over some uneven track, both of them opening their eyes wide in alarm. ‘Sounds a bit wild out there,’ he’d whispered. But the train had carried on.
‘So, you mean back when we were monkeys?’
‘Apes.’
‘Then tell me, how did we balance on the branches?’
‘By wrapping ourselves all around them, like so.’
‘I see,’ she’d laughed quietly, into his chest.
‘That’s why we have such long arms and legs.’
He’d curled his legs around hers and pulled himself in closer.
‘So, I’m like the branch here?’
‘Skin smooth as eucalyptus.’
‘And that would make you a koala bear?’
‘Still an ape.’
‘Well, you’re hairy enough for it, I suppose.’
‘And there I was being so charming.’
Eva closed her eyes and allowed herself to fall back into the memory, just for a moment. She wished the trains into London juddered on the tracks the way the old Trans-Siberian trains did. She wanted to be jolted, to feel the movement of travel while she was travelling. All this gliding was too easy, made you forget the miles that were passing below your feet. It was like the colour green, everything painted green to be relaxing. Where did it come from, this obsession with everything being perfect? She wanted the rough edges back.
The endless birch trees, she remembered, bark shimmering in and out of the winter sunlight as they sped past. She hadn’t realised that was what it would be like. When she’d thought of Siberia, she hadn’t pictured birch trees – she’d imagined it as desolate and windswept. But then they’d passed Irkutsk and followed the shoreline of Lake Baikal, and there were no more trees. It was flat and desolate, the expanse of water reflecting the globe of the sun.
He had whispered to her one morning, as they woke in their tiny carriage, entangled, the sun bursting its way through that flimsy white curtain and the snow on the Gobi Desert reflecting more light than she’d ever seen. It wasn’t featureless though, wild as it was, it was curved and cupped, that snow. She could imagine movement in it, as if it were flowing, slipping through the air like satin. Yes, she remembered what he’d whispered, as they looked out at the Gobi Desert – she remembered it word for word. It was the moment that had changed everything. His breath tickling her ear, his arm heavy over her chest, the lurching of the cabin.
The train had pulled into London Bridge, and Eva looked up to realise she was the only one left in the carriage. She grabbed her bag and the paper lying beside her, ran to the train door, pressing the button repeatedly to make sure it didn’t close on her. It was a panic out of proportion. They weren’t supposed to close on a person, these train doors – they had special detectors to make sure they were perfectly safe – but somehow she was never quite convinced about that. Things had a habit of closing on her when they shouldn’t have, and she knew that it could hurt.
As the rest of the family chatted downstairs and planned the celebrations, Holly stood in front of the long mirror in her bedroom. Every now and then she could hear the pop of a party balloon that had been filled with too much air, followed by a pretend-scream and a giggle. She had bought balloons in every colour and shape she could find, the bright reds and yellows of children’s birthdays mixed in with elegant silvers, smiling cartoon faces and friendly monkeys. It had become a family tradition, the balloons, started on the day Daphne was born, her first child. It hadn’t been a room full of balloons then, though, it had just been the one.
She had worn the pouch herself as she and Will walked, hand in hand, into the FullLife birthing centre. She’d thought it was an important statement – she needed to show the world that this was her choice. She had not given anything up. She was carrying her own child, in the way that she chose. Will had suggested, although it was already what she was thinking, that they take turns carrying their children into the birthing centre to be born. It gave a lovely equality to the matching photos. Holly carried Daphne, and two years later Will carried their second daughter, Leigh. Then Holly carried Aarav but by then the press had cooled off and they’d swapped over in the lift because Holly was better at keeping Daphne and Leigh from fighting.
‘It’s because I’m the calm one,’ she said to Will as she readjusted the pouch straps around his back. ‘It’s not that I’m strict.’
‘Of course not,’ he replied, smiling calmly.
‘And it’s not that you spoil them.’
‘No.’
‘Though all that maple syrup at breakfast might not have been a good idea.’
But that was all later. For the first time, the birth of their first daughter, there was no joking in the lift. It was as if the world was holding its breath and, even for Holly, the nerves, the spotlight, made her anxious, aware of the importance of what she was doing.
Her mum still didn’t understand – neither of her parents ever had. But she didn’t expect them to, really. The parents who had explained to seventeen-year-old Holly that they couldn’t afford to send both their children to university, but that university wasn’t really important for women anyway. Her mother hadn’t gone, and things had worked out well for her. Spoken by her father, of course, although her mum certainly didn’t contradict him. She felt the injustice so sharply she didn’t know how to fight it, so instead she shouted the truth at them.
‘That’s stupid,’ she said. ‘I’m cleverer than him.’
Her dad had glared at her and left the room, and her mum had asked her to help chop the vegetables.
No, they’d never understood, but her mum did try, after her dad died, Holly had to admit – and she’d come round to visit Daphne often. She’d accepted Will, in the end. She’d even grown to like him. But her mum hadn’t been there to see her enter the building and change the world. That was what Holly and Will had done together.
The press had gathered outside the glass doors, not allowed in except for that one journalist who had been granted exclusive access to take the first photo after the birth was complete. As their camera flashes glinted in her eyes she held her head high but drew her arms around the pouch, as if protecting her baby from the media’s glare. She had worn a dress, a bright dress with a bold pattern of flowers, and looking back she thought perhaps that had been a statement too – that she would not hide. They were shouting her name, hers more than Will’s, and they walked together up the steps to the entrance as if they were on a red carpet. Then they’d walked through the glass doors and into the most peaceful building she’d ever been in.
It was new. Everything was new, everything felt warm and soft, the reception desk beautifully curved – even the doors had no sharp edges. And these huge, colourful flowers everywhere, it really was lovely. That was the moment when it hit her, just how much was resting on the birth of this one innocent, unaware baby. Will held her hand – his other arm occupied with their bag of supplies – and together they’d followed Freida into their birthing room.
And the funny thing was, she couldn’t remember what happened next. She’d seen other births so many times since she knew what must have happened, but all she could remember now was the look of absolute awe, of love, on Will’s face as he stared at his newborn daughter. He was almost afraid to touch her. ‘She’s so perfect,’ he kept saying. And she was.
Freida had left to give them a moment, in that thoughtful, sensitive way that she had. Sometimes it seemed to Holly that Freida was everything her own parents were not. And when she came back she brought a balloon with her. A single, deep-indigo-coloured, perfectly round balloon. Holly had looked for a balloon that colour for every birth she’d been to since, but she could never find one.
She had kept the dress, though. She’d altered it a few times over the years, had to re-hem it, and more recently she’d added pockets because she liked to have pockets these days. Perhaps that was some part of the ageing process she didn’t understand. But the colours were still there, on the pretty flowers covering the dress that she was holding in her hands. Will had called it her Holly dress.
‘There’s no holly on it, you know,’ she’d said once, many years after the name had stuck, after their children had grown up and they’d been told that his cancer was terminal.
‘But it’s got Holly written all over it,’ he said.
‘Unapologetic?’
‘Yes. And bold,’ he smiled. ‘And bright. And so very pretty.’
Now, Holly sat on the edge of her bed and pulled the dress over her head, feeding one arm at a time through the full-length sleeves of soft fabric. She stood up, smoothed over some creases, then turned back and forth to see every angle in the mirror. Yes, it still fitted her. She knew it would. It had to. This was the dress she was going to wear for the birth. For the new baby Will, named for the man she loved, whom she was missing, today, particularly deeply.