We had electric light now, a fluorescent strip in the kitchen and single bulbs hanging from the ceilings. The friendly buzz of the little fridge and fresh milk were still novelties. There were also two or three electrical outlets so, for just a bit more expense, we could have a lamp or two, maybe even music, and with the rainwater fast collecting in the roof tank, we might soon be able to use the shower, although, like Silva, I had grown to enjoy the ritual of our outdoor baths in heated-up river water. The prospect of such luxuries was thrilling. There would be no harm in spending a little money on a few more comforts. I began to think about a cot for the baby, a small chest of drawers, pretty curtains.
Then on the following day, for the first time, I was bored. The weather was depressing, and there was little I could do around the place. I was desperate for company and had too much time on my hands. I began to have doubts. Why, if I really wanted to get away and start my life again, was I holed up in a water-soaked shack within sight of the scene of my “death”? What was wrong with me that I couldn’t tear myself away from the ruined bridge or from Silva, the only connections I had between my old life and this one? Why was I willing to use money to establish an invisible existence at the cabin, when I could just as easily use that money to travel away from it?
I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter how far from that old life I had managed to go, as long as I had gone. I told myself it was not merely natural but necessary to stay. I had to stand by Silva, and besides, it would be wiser for the baby’s sake to remain here for the time being rather than find a place elsewhere, and alone. This was a period of rehearsal; I needed practice at living in Annabel’s skin. But was I nursing the same delusion-that she preferred to stay at home for the time being, until she felt a bit more like going out-that had kept my mother captive for thirteen years? The fact was I had chosen confinement and concealment. I remained in a hideaway rather than risk venturing into the open. I had struck out for the freedom to go anywhere in the whole world, and was afraid of freedom.
So that evening I was agitated and upset with myself long before Silva came back from work. As usual her spirits dipped on finding there had been neither sight of nor word from Stefan all day, but this time she didn’t recover her optimism. She didn’t sigh patiently and wonder if a sign of him might come tomorrow. Ron’s quiet saintliness I found for once a little irksome. Although I had longed all day for their company, I discovered I didn’t have much to say to them after all.
A wet haze of mist lay over the river and blotted out the far bank. It was too humid to eat outside, so we had brought in picnic chairs and set them around the trestle table, and we sat with the door and windows open to catch the slightest breeze. But the air was chill and heavy with water; nothing stirred except an unpleasant cloud of midges in the doorway and the rainwater that had collected in the chimney and was dripping down the flue, hissing on the logs in the stove. Ron had managed to light it, but the flames were sallow and weak, and curls of bitter smoke leaked through the glass.
He had brought a tinfoil parcel of leftover baked potatoes. After hours wrapped in their own heat, their skins were wrinkled and soft like warm glove leather and they smelled like moist leather, too, salty and dank. I had fried some onions and heated up a tin of beans, and those smells mingled with the woodsmoke and wet rust smell of the stove and the wormy aroma of rain. I was irritated by the glances Ron and Silva cast me as we ate.
“I’m starving,” I said, not caring much. I did not mean it apologetically.
“She’s always starving,” Silva said. She was eating less and less. Ron watched me scrape the remains from her plate onto my own. I couldn’t help it if he thought I was greedy and fat. I started on my third potato.
“Really, I feel like eating meat,” I said. “I would even eat rabbit. I think there are rabbits in the woods.”
“I don’t think I could shoot a rabbit,” Ron said, “even if I had a gun.”
“Trapping is better,” Silva said firmly.
“But tomorrow’s Thursday,” Ron said brightly. “Buffet day. The meat tends to go, but there’ll be Yorkshire puddings over, and gravy.”
“Can you bring back burgers from the shop or something?” I asked Silva.
“I might get a bit of beef,” Ron said. “Or pork.”
“Sausages. I could eat sausages,” I said.
“You need proper meat,” Silva told me. “There’s a butcher in Netherloch. Maybe I could get there, somehow.” She looked at Ron. “Ron, you know why she wants meat? I will tell you. Your wife, did you have a wife? Did your wife have babies?”
“Silva!” I protested, with my mouth full.
“It’s all right. She… well… no. No babies,” he said. “We didn’t have children.” His face creased, and he pressed a finger and thumb against his closed eyes. After a moment he looked at us and said, “My wife, ex-wife… Kathy. Cleverer than me, she was, younger, career-minded. Made it to regional manager, never wanted children. And proud of it.”
“Proud she didn’t want babies?” Silva said. “Didn’t she love you?”
“Oh, I think she did,” he said. “For a while.”
“But proud she didn’t want babies?” she said again, shaking her head. She didn’t understand it.
“Some people are,” I said. “They just are.”
“I thought there’d be time if she changed her mind. Later on… when we got divorced, I thought, probably just as well. No kids involved, getting hurt.” There were tears in Ron’s eyes now.
“You see, Ron, Annabel is soon having a baby. Annabel is going to be mama.”
“Silva! What are you telling him for?” I said. “Anyway, it’s not soon! Not that soon.”
“Yes, soon! So why he shouldn’t know? A baby, it’s good news.” Silva shrugged. “Anyway, it shows already. Soon you will be very big, then he’ll know.”
Ron was staring at me, and then at Silva, not sure if he was allowed to be pleased.
“A baby?” he said. “A baby, well. Well, then. Does that mean…” He hesitated and turned to me. “Does that mean, as long as… I mean, you might… I mean, will you be staying here?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be staying here.”
I did not know if at that moment I was making the decision or just announcing it.
“And the… the baby’s…”
“The father?” What could I say? “The father. He’s a man who never… He’s like your ex-wife. Never wanted kids and proud of it. It’s over, and he won’t be bothering us. Ever.”
At last Ron’s face showed relief. “Right,” he said, standing up. He was smiling carefully, softly. “Right, so that’s the case. Well, there’s plenty I should be doing.”
He went outside, and soon I heard the regular chop of the ax on a fallen log he’d dragged down from the woods. Silva and I sat on for a little while until she announced she was going off along the shore. She did that more and more, disappearing downriver for long spells, needing privacy. When I asked her once where she went, she replied cagily there was a place she liked to sit. I ate everything that was left on the table, and then I washed up.