‘All right,’ she says grumpily. And then, looking at his crumpled face, feeling guilty about her night thoughts and suddenly tender: ‘Really all right. Sorry I snapped. Feeling bloody awful, actually.’
‘You look it.’
‘Thanks a million.’
‘No, I just mean washed out … pale. Why not go back to bed for an hour?’
Celia shakes her head. ‘That wouldn’t help. I thought we might go shopping this morning. Do come, do. Help me choose some carpets. Then we could have lunch in the Grapes.’
‘OK.’ He stretches and grins. The telephone rings and Dan reaches out to answer it. ‘Hello!’ he says. His voice is surprised, and Celia’s interest is caught. ‘Oh …’ his voice sinks, ‘oh no, Christ almighty, Nadia. No.’ He looks sharply at Celia and then away. She had been getting up but she sits down again, her knees suddenly weak as if they will buckle and bend the wrong way.
‘What?’ she asks, but Dan frowns at her and cups his hand over the receiver. She has gone cold right through. She notices that the tulips on the table are beginning to flag, their lovely scarlet petals turning soft and dark. There are speckles of black pollen on the table-top.
‘I will. Yes, of course, we will. We’ll be here. See you, Nadia. Chin up, eh?’
He replaces the receiver.
‘What?’ says Celia calmly. If she can be calm, then nothing can be very wrong. Dan doesn’t look at her immediately. In the sunshine she notices that his glasses are filthy. She is surprised that he can see. But at least there is sunshine.
‘It’s Simon,’ Dan says. ‘Looks as if the silly bugger went off last night …’
‘Off?’
‘Curlew Cavern.’
‘No.’ Celia holds on to the edge of the table. She swallows. ‘And Miles?’
‘Not Miles, no.’
‘On his own?… Si?’ Celia presses her fist into her belly. ‘I don’t believe it.’ Dan grimaces and shrugs. ‘And is he … all right?’ she asks, as if the very act of asking makes it a possibility.
‘Don’t know yet,’ Dan says. ‘Nadia was ringing from the cave. Rescue under way.’ Celia’s tongue has stuck like rice-paper to the roof of her mouth. ‘Are you all right?’ Dan says. ‘You’ve gone green. Are you going to faint? Oh Christ, Celia, don’t faint. Oh Christ.’ He fetches her a glass of water.
She sips it. ‘Of course I won’t faint,’ she says. ‘We must go.’ When she stands up she does feel faint, there is no denying the fizzing in her ears, the fuzziness around the edges of her eyes.
‘I’ll make some sweet tea,’ Dan says. ‘Put your head between your knees.’
‘No.’ Celia smiles at him, feeling fond, forgetting for a flickering instant. ‘Some tea would be nice though.’ And then it comes back to her, a swinging fist in her gut. ‘That stupid bloody pillock,’ she gasps. ‘Oh Dan, what if he’s … remember Roland?’
‘I said we’d be here. They’ll ring if … well, when there’s some news.’
‘But we must go …’
‘No point, Celie. What could we do?’
‘I don’t care! We can’t just sit here, waiting.’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘Well I’m going … I’ll go mad here. If you hadn’t unplugged the phone …’
‘What difference?’ Dan sighs. ‘Poor bloody cow.’
‘What?’
‘Nadia … sounded half out of her mind.’
‘Yes,’ says Celia. She remembers Nadia’s face yesterday when she told her about Si, about the baby, how pinched it looked, how her lips had whitened. Her hand goes protectively to her belly, she sees Dan see and his own face tighten. It is Si’s child, whatever Dan says, she knows it. ‘Poor Nadia,’ she agrees.
Dan hands her her tea. She cradles the cup in her hands, puts her face over it to feel the heat rise, closes her eyes. ‘Please,’ she whispers, ‘please let him be all right. Please.’
Simon’s car is parked just off the road on a patch of gravel. There are other cars parked behind it. They look like cars parked for a picnic, the sunshine glinting on their roofs. The ling is still brown but the long rough grass stirring in the wind has the sheen of healthy dogs’ hair. Clouds skitter across the pale blue sky like lambs, dappling the hills with shadow, flickering over Simon’s car and all the other cars. Some vehicles have driven down the slope to be as near as possible to the entrance of the cave.
There is an ambulance, three more cars – among them Miles’s – and a Land Rover. There are several people standing about – a man and a woman by the ambulance, smoking; a row of onlookers standing at a respectful distance, gaudy in their bright jackets, pink and purple and fluorescent yellow. Onlookers got here first, Celia thinks.
Dan parks the car and Celia gets out immediately and runs down the slope. Wet jewels splash up around her feet. There is a man standing by the cave entrance holding a portable telephone. ‘What’s happening?’ Celia demands breathlessly, steadying herself for a moment on his arm. He frowns and pulls his arm away, and then recognises her and smiles. ‘Sarah, isn’t it?’
‘Celia.’
‘That’s it – didn’t you and –’ he jerks his phone towards the cave, ‘used to have a thing going …?’
‘Yes. What’s happening?’
‘They’ve reached him, matter of prising the bugger out now.’
‘Is he …’
‘In a bad way.’ He doesn’t meet her eyes. She looks nervously at the dark hole which has been festooned with official-looking orange tape.
The man speaks into his phone. Celia recognises the weak crackly voice of Miles. ‘May I?’ she asks.
‘Handing you over to Sarah,’ the man says.
‘Miles, it’s me, Celia,’ she says.
Miles’s voice on the other end of the line is reassuring. ‘Wotcha mate,’ he says. ‘Si’s jammed in down here, clear of the water, thank Christ.’
‘Can I help? I could come down.’
‘Oh no you don’t,’ says Dan, reaching her and putting his arms round her as if to stop her bolting. The man takes his phone back.
‘He said to look after Nadia,’ he says before moving off to speak to the ambulance crew.
‘And anyway you’re in no condition …’ scolds Dan, and Celia smiles bleakly at this old line which is so perfectly apt. Her legs feel rubbery again. She wants to sit down.
She looks up and sees Nadia. She is standing some distance away on the slope above the cave entrance. She is alone, a small figure in a green duffel coat, arms wrapped around herself, hair tumbling wildly in the wind.
‘Oh God,’ Celia says. She lifts her hand, but Nadia does not see, or at least does not respond.
‘Poor kid,’ Dan says. He stands behind Celia and she leans back against him, grateful for his steadiness in all the shifting and flickering and unruly glistening of the April day.
‘She looks lonely,’ Celia says.
‘Shit-scared, more like.’
‘Yes, but …’ Celia gazes at the small figure, motionless but for the writhing of her hair. Nadia’s misery communicates itself to her; she feels it as something separate from, beyond, her own. Si is Nadia’s. And he is below their feet, squeezed in there, sandwiched in the rock.
‘I’ll go and talk to her,’ Celia says.
‘I’d leave her be,’ Dan advises.
‘No, I must just … you wait here.’ Celia walks down and then up the slope towards Nadia. The plastic tape across the cave entrance rattles in the wind.
Nadia does not acknowledge Celia. She is like a little stone statue. Her face is white and set and her lashes are wet with wind-blown tears. There is a bruise on her forehead which shows when the wind lifts her hair. Celia has no idea what to say. They stand for some time without speaking, the blustery moaning wind the only sound. A strand of Nadia’s hair lashes Celia’s cheek. The man, whose name Celia cannot remember, speaks intermittently on his phone. The ambulance crew cup their hands round fresh cigarettes. Dan looks up at them, his glasses glin
ting in the sun. The bright row of onlookers fidget. One of them pours a cup of something from a thermos flask and passes it round. Another car draws up and two people dash out of it, one with a camera slung round her neck. A cloud passes across the valley, dimming the scene suddenly.
‘Nadia,’ Celia says. She puts out her hand and touches the rough cloth of Nadia’s coat.
‘Piss off,’ Nadia says through clenched teeth.
‘Nadia, please.’
‘Remember yesterday?’ Nadia says. ‘Just fuck off, Celia.’
‘Yes.’ Celia withdraws her hand. Tears come to her own eyes.
‘You’re all right,’ Nadia says, glancing her fury at Celia. ‘He might be dead.’
‘No …’
‘He might die,’ Nadia continues. ‘You have a part of him. I have nothing.’
‘Nadia …’
‘No one. My arms are empty.’
Celia closes her eyes for a moment. She opens them to find the sun is shining again. She sees the tiny figure of Dan below her. She is confused. Her head is clogged. She does not know what is true or what is the best thing to say. I was wrong, the baby isn’t Si’s, she could say. Would that be the kindest thing? She doesn’t know. She needs advice. It is too complex for this panicky day with the blustery wind and the skittish sunshine, and the dread of what is happening under the earth. What if what she said caused this – caused a row – caused Si to flee into such uncharacteristic foolhardiness? And what if it wasn’t even true? Is all this for nothing then? She cannot bear to know.
‘Just let him be all right,’ she whispers.
Nadia breathes in a long shuddering breath. Celia sees that her hands are screwed into fists, the knobs of the knuckles shine like ivory. Nadia is holding herself together in the wind, in the gusting misery.
Celia tries to imagine Simon, tries to visualise his face. Are his eyes open or closed? Is he conscious? Who is in his head as he lies there?
‘I’ll never go underground again,’ she says, and Nadia darts her a look of pure contempt. ‘No, I didn’t mean …’ she says, realising too late how selfish and irrelevant this remark seems.
Nadia breathes out. A long controlled exhalation. Yoga breathing, Celia realises. Nadia is controlling herself with the rhythm of her breath. She is unwillingly impressed at Nadia’s strength. There is the long looping liquid song of a skylark somewhere far above them. Celia breathes deeply too, and realises she needs to pee.
There is a sudden burst of activity below them. Dan raises his arm to Celia in some sort of signal and the ambulance crew begin moving towards the cave, their yellow tunics flashing in the sun. There is the glinting of binoculars from the onlookers. Celia looks at Nadia, at the startled hugeness of the pupils of her eyes. ‘Come on,’ she says, and tries to take her arm. But Nadia stays put. She is like someone in a dream. Her lips move but she makes no sound. ‘You can’t stay here,’ Celia says. ‘Come on, Nadia, please. Si will want …’
But Nadia will not move or respond. So Celia, unable to bear the not-knowing any longer, runs bumpily down the hill, twists her ankle on a tussock, stumbles down to the mouth of the cave, to Dan, who puts an arm around her shoulder. Two of the rescue team emerge first.
‘Move back, please,’ cries the telephone man. The photographer begins to work, darting around to get different angles. Then Miles emerges, and a stranger, and between them a stretcher on which lies Simon. His hair is wet and he is smeared with blood. His face is the colour of rock. One hand trails down, strangely soft and heavy, the loose fingers grazing the ground.
Dan holds her tight. The faces are grim, exhausted, depressed. Miles does not appear to recognise her. The ambulance crew take over. There is oxygen, blankets, bright optimistic movement. It is only minutes before the ambulance has driven away, lights flashing, siren intermittently wailing.
Celia looks for Nadia. She has walked down in her dream towards the place where the ambulance was parked. Her face is ashen and her mouth is open, as if she has got stuck in a gasp, and wisps of hair cling to her lips. She moves like a sleepwalker.
‘Christ,’ Dan says, ‘we ought to take the poor kid home.’
But Miles approaches her. He is wearing a wetsuit, which, Nadia notices, is ripped on the back as if he’s been savaged by terrible teeth, and there is blood.
‘Miles needs help,’ Celia says, stepping forward, but Miles reaches Nadia first and puts his arms around her and Nadia sags. All the stony strength leaves her and she is small and shuddering and soft. Miles holds her against him.
‘Shock,’ Celia says. ‘She should have gone in the ambulance – Miles too.’
‘We’re driving them in,’ the telephone man says. ‘Ironic that it wasn’t the water,’ he adds. ‘Lucky bastard was high and dry.’
‘He knew what he was doing,’ Celia says, and the man looks at her as if she’s mad.
People have surrounded Nadia and Miles and there are blankets and thermos flasks. ‘Be seeing you,’ the man says and he goes over to take charge, to bundle Miles and Nadia into the Land Rover and drive them away.
Celia and Dan stand looking after it for a moment. The onlookers disperse. ‘Thank Christ he’s alive, at least,’ Dan says.
‘Yes,’ Celia agrees doubtfully, remembering the awful blue-greyness of Si’s unconscious face. She has no confidence.
‘Now it’s you that needs looking after,’ Dan says. ‘Let’s get you home.’
‘We could follow them to the hospital and see how Si …’
‘We’ll phone,’ says Dan firmly. He takes her hand and leads her back to the car.
‘I’m dying for a pee,’ Celia says.
‘Can you wait?’
‘Well I’m not doing it here.’ The road is full of traffic now. It is an ordinary sunny Saturday. People are streaming out of the city to enjoy the air, the change of weather after weeks of greyness and rain. Celia has no idea how much time has passed. Her ankle begins to throb. ‘I’ll wait till we get home.’
Light
Simon opens his eyes and is blinded by the bright, ridiculous, blaring light. It is like the shriek of angels. Even inside his lids the dark is diluted. There is no mineral tick and no roar. But there is sound. He concentrates on it, his brow furrowed in stiff ridges. Through all his memories of sound he searches until he finds it. It is the stuffy bustle of a woman’s legs inside her skirt. That is it. He opens his eyes a slit and this time the light retreats, shrinks back through the square window until it is appropriately daylight. A sunny morning in a hospital ward. The woman is a nurse. She holds his wrist between her fingers; he feels the pads of them against his skin, perfect little cushions of flesh. ‘Simon?’ she says. ‘Back with us at last.’ The flesh of her face seems to fall forward away from her bones as she leans over him. Under her eyes are shiny grey hollows. There is orange powder clogged in the fluff on her upper lip. She is technicolour and warm and beautiful. She smiles at him. He smiles back but there is a time lag between his thought smile and the stretching of his muscles. He shifts slightly and there is pain in his back as if seams are splitting. There is a tight wiry stinging in his arm.
‘Mind your drip,’ the nurse says. He tries to speak but his lips are as stiff as parchment and he is afraid that they will rip. His tongue is a loose parched thing, a curled leaf in the dry cavern of his mouth. He closes his eyes.
When he wakes he is somewhere else. The light is coming from another direction. There is no single square window as surely there was before. Was there? He opens his eyes gradually, letting in the ward by degrees – the squares on the ceiling, which are a white-painted corky stuff, the frosted-glass light set into the ceiling asymmetrically, annoyingly not in the centre of the squares. There are long windows with blinds pulled up, fat radiators. He can see, in the bed opposite, a man with a shiny bald head and closed eyes. Floral curtains are drawn around the other beds.
‘Simon?’ says a voice. ‘I’m Doctor Rani.’ She has black hair pulled back from her face. ‘Can you remember
what happened, Simon?’ This time he dares to smile and runs the dry tip of his tongue around his lips, feeling the flakiness, the sharp spikes of skin. ‘Water,’ the doctor says, ‘just a sip.’ She helps him. The water has the taste and temperature of the ward. She speaks in an exquisite, doctorly way, with exact measured doses of words. He could easily love her.
‘I remember,’ he croaks.
‘Good. Good. Now, we have stitched your back. Very nasty lacerations. Dehydration. Hypothermia. You were in a bad way. You’re lucky.’ She starts to move away. Her hair is long, a loose plait down to the small of her back, a flat bluish shine.
She looks over her shoulder. ‘I’ll return later. Nurse will freshen you up. Maybe a cup of tea later, eh?’ She leaves him and her walk is silent almost, just a faint cottony rustle and the peeling sounds of her soles lifting off the floor. His heart rises and flutters, a loose light thing in the enormous freedom of his chest.
Nadia holds his fingers in her hand. She looks at his closed face, closed like a bud, his eyes, his lips sealed as if with wax. A terrible dread and tenderness and anger battle within her.
‘Simon,’ she tries again. She has been watching him sleep and willing and fearing his awakening. Now he stirs. Opens his eyes. She starts, seeing how bloodshot they are, the grey irises standing out shockingly against the red.
‘Nadia?’ he whispers.
‘Fool,’ she says, smoothing his hair back from his eyes.
‘Don’t say … I told you so,’ he says with difficulty, his dry lips stretching into a sort of smile.
‘Hmmm.’ Nadia plays with his fingers. They are limp and warm. The nails are broken as if he has been clawing at the rock. So, he is alive. She is glad. She loves him. If only it was as simple as that. She is the only one with him inside the flowered cubicle, but inside her head she is not the only one. Celia flickers there like a pale film between them. She has told herself she must wait until he is strong before she tackles him. But how can she wait? She needs Simon to know that she knows what he is, what he has done. If he doesn’t know, then he will be operating in a different place from Nadia, a place with different premises and different rules. And how can they communicate then?
Limestone and Clay Page 15
