by Cole Moreton
Little Sarah shook her head again, just a tiny bit.
‘She laughed. She laughed at God, because she was old and very tired and not able to have babies any more.’
‘But it wasn’t funny.’
‘No, it wasn’t funny. It was sad. Sarah laughed at God because she was sad and angry and couldn’t have babies, but do you know what happened next? Sarah?’
But Sarah didn’t hear what happened next, because she had her hands over her ears and was running fast for the garden, elbows banging into things, tripping over the step and out into the sun-shine, confused and upset about this person Sarah who was her, she was named after her, they were the same and Sarah could not have babies, Sarah could not have babies, she would not have babies and she loved babies, she really, really loved babies and she wanted to be a mummy and she wanted her mummy
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and she wanted her mummy so much it was a nasty, nasty pain that made her cry and she couldn’t see for tears and stumbled again and fell down on the grass, by the swing, sobbing and sob-bing and sobbing.
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Forty One
Gabe sees something he didn’t know he had, half hidden under the flap of a packing box of books. A bottle of bourbon whiskey.
‘Wait,’ he says and takes off down the stairs.
Sarah examines herself in the reflecting glass. The candle gives a soft, grainy light, easy on the brain. Now that her eyes have adjusted, she can make out the signals of super-tankers in the Channel, but no flashing blue lights inland. Where are the police? It must be nearly time. She wraps herself again in the blanket. It’s warming up in here with the heater blaring, even getting toasty, but it’s damp too. The windows are heavy with condensation.
‘Here,’ he says, offering a glass. He’s put on a jumper, an old rusty sweater with a fraying V-neck, with an army-green shirt poking out at the cuffs and tails. He’s a scruff, but somehow it works. Something to do with the way he carries himself, like a runner. Always balanced but never quite settled. Ready to go. He chews his shirt collar, she can see that.
The bourbon hits the top of her mouth. It is good. She should not drink; it is dangerous if . . . but it does not matter, she is sure. Still, one sip is enough.
‘I am not a victim,’ she says, although he has not said she is. ‘Tell me something, a different subject. Let me ask you something, actually. Where do you think I am from?’
‘I don’t know. Your voice is . . . well, nice.’
That is a mistake. Sarah looks away and he feels embarrassed. ‘London, I guess. There’s a bit of something else though.’ ‘Birmingham. Brum. Selly Oak. We lived there when I was very
small, before Essex. You didn’t say Trinidad or Jamaica. I get that a lot, but I’m not from Trinidad. My father is the palest Scotsman you ever saw. I didn’t know I was black until big school. Then there was this boy called Gordon, who had a lovely mum with huge bosoms, bountiful. She came to the school gate sometimes. They
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invited me round for tea and I didn’t know why, because Gordon wasn’t my boyfriend, although people said he was, even on the first day. I didn’t know why, but I do now, of course. Ackee and saltfish was for tea. I’d never seen it before, I didn’t like it, but I swallowed all of it because I wanted Gordon’s mum to like me and give me a cuddle.’ She looks at the swirl of bourbon in the glass. ‘Do you think Magda gave me something earlier? Why would she?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘So Gordon was in the playground with the other boys around him in a circle, chanting, “Get back on the boat. Black so-and-so.” I don’t want to say. The leader wore his collar up and spiked his hair. I had a crush on him, predictably. When Gordon went down, Stevo kicked him in the head. Hard.’ She looks across for reassur-ance. ‘I didn’t do anything. As he walked away, Stevo put his arm around me. He said, “You’re okay.”’
‘Were you angry?’
‘No! I had no idea why he would say that, but I felt like a prin-cess.’ She waits for some response. ‘Why am I telling you this?’
‘I was wondering,’ he says, smiling.
‘My mother.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you?’
‘No. Not really, to be honest. Please—’
‘I wanted her, all the time. I could not have her, because she was not there, Gabe. I have only a passing memory, like a person you see out of the corner of your eye as they leave the room. I was three years old, that is all,’ she says, her voice fading away to a whisper. ‘She was from Jamaica but I didn’t want to know about that or have anything to do with what it all meant. I didn’t want to look or speak like her. I couldn’t stand to think of her, it hurt so much.’
Gabe wants to reach out and comfort her, because it obviously still hurts now, he can see that, but he stays back. Looks at his untouched bourbon. Waits and wonders how to react if this gets too much.
‘I had a letter with me that she wrote to me. I don’t know what it said. I didn’t want to know until now, Gabe. Is that terrible?
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Years and years I refused. I thought I would break if I read it. Then I went to my father, last month. He was so surprised, but I need her. I am ready to hear her voice. I needed to hear it – who knows why? Maybe to know what she would say. I came here to be alone and read the letter away from him and to wait and to do this test on my own.’
‘Without the pressure?’
‘I wish. There’s always pressure, but it comes from me. Myself. I’m not a victim, remember? I am my mother’s daughter. I’ve always known that, but I ran away from her. These last few days I have felt it strongly, as if she is calling me to come to her at last. I am ready for her. But Gabe, I lost the letter,’ she says, her voice cracking. ‘It blew away, I don’t know when. I need her. She’s not here.’
‘Where did you lose it?’
‘Out there, on the Downs. I told you. It will have gone over now. Some sailor will pick it up. A sheep will eat it. I’ve lost the last of her. It is too much. Too much!’
She closes up, as if squeezing out the tears, and Gabe wants to go to her but he can’t, he mustn’t. He waits as she coughs, hacking, clearing the ways. She sits up straight-backed and flicks with a fingertip at the corners of each eye.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘It’s okay.’
‘There’s something else I remember. A story my granny told me from the Bible. She was often doing that. I’m not sure it was always wise, you know? God tells this woman – her name is Sarah – she will have a baby, but Sarah is old and angry and can’t believe it, so she laughs. Disbelief. She laughs because she can’t have a baby, it’s impossible. That’s what I heard when I was little. Granny was saying I would never have babies.’
‘She can’t have meant it that way, surely?’
‘I know. I’ve read the story many times since then, but I can never get past the laughter. I’ve always been convinced, deep down, that I won’t have kids. Do you think that’s why, because of the story? I am Sarah. Sarah is barren. I am barren. Such a cruel word. I never told Granny or anyone else how I felt. I just knew.’
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‘You took the story very seriously,’ he says gently.
‘Not until now. Not really. I forgot about it by tea time. It’s only lately, these last few days, going over everything, I remember. It was always there, growing up. Like a curse. Granny cursed me.’ She catches the way he is looking at her and smiles. ‘That’s a bit hard on her, isn’t it? I don’t really believe in curses, but if it was one, it did come true. We were trying for a baby for three years before they told me what I already knew, that it could not happen naturally. I had to have an operation. A little one. Keyhole surgery. Put a camera in there, have a look at my ovaries and zap the cysts. Simple.’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘No. Thank you. I remember thrashing about and shivering a lot when I came out of the anaesthetic, really shiveri
ng. I was scared. I had this big pain right across my stomach, and could not feel parts of myself. Something terrible had happened. The nurse said the doctor would be there soon, doing his rounds, but he was not. He did not come that night. Jack did. He held my hand, and sorted out the television that was on a swivel arm over the bed, so that I could watch EastEnders. It was a bit of a blur. Then he went and I lay there and listened to the pipes gargling all night. I was not sure if it was the pipes – the noises sounded human. I dropped off about half five in the morning. They woke me at six-thirty for my medicine. The doctor said they had cut me open, to get at all the cysts. There were too many. I kept thinking of the blade. Not the real blade, something like a cutlass.
‘I went home to my grandmother, who made me toast and let me doze on the sofa and helped me up to my old room at night. Jack was away. He kept his distance anyway, and I do not blame him because when he did come round I had nothing to say that was not about how I was never going to have a baby now. Then the tears, always the tears, every day, several times a day. I was swimming all day and all night. Floating. The drugs, pain-killers and anti-depressants, made me sleepy. The tears made me hollow out. I was not eating. I was getting lighter and lighter, drifting, looking down from the ceiling. Floating away.’
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‘For how long?’
‘Three months. All that, and the cysts were still there. I was given a drug to try and shrink them, because that would make it easier to conceive. It made me feel sick all the time. Like morning sickness. Worse. There was bile in the back of my throat all day. I just wanted to sleep. Jack was not coming anywhere near me, and I just was not interested in him. What was the point anyway? You get like that. You shrivel up.
‘I went back to work and tried to carry on, but that first day, Jack does not know this, I put my battle clothes on for school and I got on the Central Line in the morning and there was a pregnant woman who got on at the next stop. She was huge, sweating, it looked like the baby was coming, and I thought, You lucky cow! Nobody would give her their seat, but I did and as I stood up
I thought, I am going to go, I am going to faint. So I got off and sat on the bench there with my head between my knees.
‘People were milling all around, the service was so bad. I do not know how long I sat afterwards, watching the trains come and go. Floating. The crowds thinned and disappeared. A woman with a baby strapped to her chest came with her hand out for money. I wanted to give her money for the baby, honestly. “I will take the baby.” I couldn’t say that though, could I? It was quiet. Drugged maybe, like me. I just sat and sat, feeling everything and nothing – the clouds changing colours were like magic. My body was numb. Then it got busy again, the evening rush hour was starting. Can you believe it? So I got on a train going the other way and went home. Do you know what the nurse said?’
‘When?’
‘At the hospital. I went for an injection. She said it was cruel. I said, “What is?” She said, “This. Has nobody told you? The best way to cure what you have is to get pregnant.”’
Gabe watches her rubbing the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other, reddening the flesh, digging in her nail.
‘What kind of teacher are you?’ ‘History, English, drama.’ ‘I’m sorry.’
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‘The school is not so bad.’
‘The operation,’ he says.
‘I know. I was joking too. Do you want to hear all this?’ He indicates that he does and holds out the bottle.
She shakes her head and says, ‘I am glad to be saying it. Get it out. Always best. Do you think they’re coming?’
‘The police? I don’t know. Not tonight, maybe.’
‘Tomorrow then. First thing. After . . . I had better write some-thing so they know . . . What do I do about Jack?’
‘He can’t get in here, Sarah. I won’t open the door until you’re ready.’
‘You are a good man.’
‘I’m not so sure. Go on.’
‘Ah yes, you want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,’ she says, swilling the mostly undrunk whiskey around the glass. ‘I don’t know the truth. I do know they lied to me, that time and next time. Then again after the second operation. We had artificial insemination. It’s as romantic as it sounds. They give you more drugs to regulate the ovaries.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh.’ She pauses. ‘You know about the scans then. I did not pro-duce enough eggs the first month. Then the next month there were not enough staff to do the scan. The month after that, the nurse was not around to read it. This went on and on, for a year nearly, Gabe. Then someone new said she was really sorry but the clinic was closing because they didn’t have enough staff to cover for the nurse, who was going on sabbatical.’
‘On the NHS? That’s unlikely.’
‘Yes. I heard someone talking about it on the reception desk. They were not allowed to say.’
‘What?’
‘Catch up! The nurse was pregnant.’ ‘God—’
‘. . . wants nothing to do with this. Clearly.’
She’s quick, thinks Gabe, noticing the fine hairs at her temple as she asks him: ‘Are you a believer? You have the right name. . .’
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‘My mum loved One Hundred Years of Solitude.’ Examining his untouched glass of bourbon, he makes a decision, puffs his cheeks for the sake of marking it, and puts the glass down on the window ledge, undrunk. ‘Apt, really. Haven’t thought about that until now. I don’t know the answer to your question. I was brought up to believe, like you. I lost that faith a long time ago. Saw too much. But living here, I wonder if heaven and hell are the same. This place is beautiful, staggeringly so. Heavenly. If you treat it with respect there is no finer place to be. If not—’
‘How far did you get?’ she asks.
‘With the treatment? Ah. Not far.’
‘IVF?’
‘What I’m trying to say is that heaven and hell are the same place – the same cliff, the same sea, always changing with the weather but still basically the same – but it can be heavenly or hellish depending on how prepared you are—’
‘You don’t have to answer,’ she says, cutting him off. ‘Not sure I care about God just now, to be honest. I am going to tell you how it is for me. You did ask. Nobody else does any more, they have learned not to ask, but as you insist, I will tell you.’
Sarah takes a breath. ‘Let me see. You must know about hos pitals and clinics, but once you get into the actual treatment, things change. You have to go late at night, when the pubs are closing and all the happy couples are walking arm in arm down the street. It feels furtive. You have an injection, one you cannot give yourself. Profasi.’
‘Sounds like a tribe of ancient Greeks who swear a lot.’
Her thin smile says, Please shut up, I am trying to talk; you wanted me to talk and now I am talking, so please listen. That’s a lot for a thin smile to say, but he gets the message. Her voice says, ‘It ripens the eggs, whatever that means. You go home and you can’t sleep, so you watch ice hockey, or whatever is on. Your hus-band gets up and sits with you and asks why you didn’t want him to go with you to the clinic, and he talks some more but you’re not listening and you don’t want to talk. You can’t talk. Shall I go on?’
He says yes. What else can he do?
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Forty Two
Miracles never happen, thinks Sarai in the desert, four thousand years away. Or if they do, they hurt. A daughter is born, her cry makes the soul sing, but when she is lifted to the breast there is no sound and her mouth is cold. The soft wind blows on her face but there is no breath. Where is God then? Where? A son comes at last, a great blessing, an answer to prayer, but he is born to a ser-vant girl and the longing remains. It gets worse. It used to hurt so much she doubled over in pain and then she got used to the hurt and forgot to notice that it was still there, but now the old fool has stirred it all up again.
‘Abraham, where is your wife, Sarah?’
That is not her name. She is Sarai. It’s not even the name of her husband, Abram. But he has been trying to force these dif-ferent names on her lately, with some crazy idea that their fate will change. He says God told him to do it, but she knows the trouble that comes when men say such things. They are small changes, but in her language the new sounds alter the meanings in a way he seems to find inspiring. She finds it cruel. Abram becomes Abraham, Father of Many. Sarai becomes Sarah, Mother of Nations, which is not funny. It stings. She is ninety years old and has no children and knows she never will.
