by Ian McGuire
‘What? What did you say?’ Molly was falling asleep. He opened his eyes and saw that hers were drooping. She looked like a doll laid flat, her eyelashes stiff and sharp.
‘You can imagine the rest.’
Did he say that or think it? He could hear the ticking of the Mickey Mouse clock, the see-saw of her breath, or was it his breath? Morris couldn’t tell.
Hedda’s eyes rolled back into her head, her lips lolled off E’s nipple and her tiny mouth fell open, pink and cushioned like the box for a wedding ring. E could feel sleep tugging her sideways, coaxing her in. She shook her head and blinked it away. If she fell asleep now, she would lose her only child-free hours of the day. Where was Nick? She remembered now – New York. It was Morris in the other room. Christ. The crippling strangeness gripped and squeezed her. What had she done? What was she doing? She stood up. Hedda mewed, crackled then relaxed. She lowered her into the cot and wound the musical mobile. Hedda was so much easier than Molly had been. As a baby, Molly would roar and rage against sleep. Every night with her was an epic, tear-filled battle that she always lost but never seemed to learn from. She was like Morris in that way – the inarticulacy of her rage, the pointless persistence of it.
E refastened her industrial-strength bra and tucked in her breast pads. She walked across the landing to Molly’s door and listened. Too late for a goodnight kiss; all she could hear was breathing. She tiptoed in. There they were, the two of them, asleep. The night-light fanned on to the wall above Morris’s head like a Byzantine halo. Molly’s vanilla face was cupped like an orb in her Tweeny pillow. He seemed happier now, she thought. She had noticed that in only a day and a half. Was he seeing someone? She felt a flash of jealousy and sadness. But no, it was probably just the job. Being finally out of all that. Not that working for the Chaudhary Brothers sounded like the greatest option. Wasn’t there some happier middle ground? But Morris had never been good with middle ground. She stepped closer. God, they looked alike. Now more than ever – that nose, the slight backward bulge of the head. Morris snuffled and snored, stopped breathing then started again more smoothly. She should really wake him up – they had things to talk about. But she didn’t.
Her love for Morris was still there, she realised. It was like an outfit hanging in her wardrobe which she didn’t wear anymore, but couldn’t throw away. Every now and then, when she was looking for something else, getting ready for her day, she would notice it again. Now as he lay there, silent, perfect, like a swollen echo of Molly, she thought it possible she could try it on again, it might still suit her. She took a blanket from the rocking chair and laid it over Morris so just his head was showing. He smelt of something, of what? Of Morris. She groaned at this evidence of his absoluteness.
The problem is time, E thought. The problem is having one thing but never quite having the other. She thought of Morris working in the corner shop; Morris the teamaker; Morris the fool. What did he expect, she wondered? What did he ever really want?
The Mickey Mouse clock ticked. Morris opened an eye and saw her there.
‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Is it really late? Have I slept for hours?’
Acknowledgements
I have been helped in any number of ways by the following people (in order of appearance): Francine Prose, Denise Shannon, Deborah Eisenberg, Priyavadita, Su Carroll, Richard Kirkland, Gail Ashton, Arabella Stein, Caleb Thompson, Adisa Lokmic, Rosemary Davidson, Arzu Tahsin. Thanks to all of you.
A NOTE ON THE TYPE
The text of this book is set in Linotype Sabon, named after the type founder, Jacques Sabon. It was designed by Jan Tschichold and jointly developed by Linotype, Monotype and Stempel, in response to a need for a typeface to be available in identical form for mechanical hot metal composition and hand composition using foundry type.
Tschichold based his design for Sabon roman on a font engraved by Garamond, and Sabon italic on a font by Granjon. It was first used in 1966 and has proved an enduring modern classic.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Ian McGuire grew up near Hull and studied at the University of Manchester and the University of Virginia, USA. He is a founder and co-director of the University of Manchester’s Centre for New Writing. His stories have been published in the Chicago Review, Paris Review and elsewhere. He is the author of Incredible Bodies (2006) and, most recently, the acclaimed The North Water.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The North Water
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First published in Great Britain 2006
This electronic edition first published in 2016
© Ian McGuire, 2006
Ian McGuire has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: PB: 978-1-4088-8247-4
ePub: 978-1-4088-8246-7
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