1980
Icicles clung to the window. When she woke, the first thing she saw was her breath. It was rare, Reg had told her, even in mid-January, to have a cold snap like this. They slept in vests and socks and pyjamas, a duvet and a blanket on the bed. The nights were long, and heavy with the silence of winter.
But she was happy. Even as it froze outside, something inside her thawed. She reached down and scooped Luke up from the basket and brought him into the bed. He wasn’t even crying yet, had just made a few mewling noises. He was soft and hot, and she held him close to her cold chest, pulling the bedclothes up around them. Next to her, Reg was awake, she knew, but he gave no sign, lying still and quiet, his breathing low and regular.
It was a miracle she thought, that something so small could effect so much change. She was exhausted and yet more awake than she’d ever been. She rose the instant Luke cried, warmed bottles, hummed and sang, made soothing noises.
Last night, for the first time, Reg had got up when she did. He’d held Luke, the baby wriggling and screaming and purple-faced. She’d warmed the milk, and Reg had handed Luke to her in the armchair, then stood behind her. The blanket she had wrapped around herself slipped as she shifted to get comfortable, exposing her shoulder, and he had placed his hand on her bare skin. She had not flinched. It was the first time he’d touched her since she’d returned.
As soon as Reg left for work, she showered. She put Luke on a towel on the floor, next to the tub, so she could see him. He kicked his legs and screwed up his face, made angry, grunting noises. He was never still, never settled—even when he slept, he fussed and whimpered. Sometimes he would wake suddenly, as if from a terrible nightmare, screaming and gasping. He was too little for dreams, she knew, too little even to focus. It would be another week or so until he would be able to see her properly. Imagine that, she thought. All the love and energy a mother gives her newborn and it doesn’t even know what she looks like.
The shower was always either too hot or too cold, and she chose, according to the temperature outside, whether she wanted to be frozen or scalded. He said she exaggerated, that hardly anyone over here had a shower at all, as if she should be grateful, which she supposed she should—better here on this tiny rock in the ocean with a shower than without one.
He thought things were different. She’d come back. He thought that meant she loved him. Perhaps he was right. She had not been able to sort out the conflicting feelings he stirred up in her. Somewhere in there, she thought, there might be love, or some version of it. A flicker. Enough to build on. Enough to come back. The look on his face when he’d opened the door to them. She’d almost wanted to laugh. He’d stared at her standing on the step, shivering, her bag at her feet, the baby secured to her with a length of stretchy fabric. She had no pram. No pushchair. Luke had started to cry.
‘Are you going to let us in?’
He’d stepped aside without a word.
Afterwards, he’d watched her while she’d unpacked her things, clearing space for Luke’s tiny babygrows in one of her drawers. When Luke grizzled, he’d bent over the basket and picked him up, held him awkwardly.
‘Did you know, when you left?’
‘After . . . what happened . . . my cycle hadn’t gone back to normal.’ Her cheeks had burned at sharing so intimate a detail. Stupid, after everything that had happened. ‘I had no idea. And when I realised . . . I was scared. I didn’t know how to tell you.’
‘I’ve a telephone, you know.’ He’d sounded bemused but not angry.
‘I’m sorry.’ She looked up from her folding. ‘He looks like you.’
He’d stared down at Luke. ‘The eyes, maybe. All babies look the same.’ But he’d had the whisper of a smile about him. ‘You’re here to stay, then?’
‘Of course. I wasn’t well when I left. I wasn’t thinking straight. I am now.’
He hadn’t looked convinced. But he’d lain Luke gently in the Moses basket, adjusted the blanket around him and helped her to unpack.