The Sky is Changing

by Zoë Jenny

  A light went on in the neighbours’ house. It was the window with the Superman sticker on. She could hear the boys scream and she could just imagine them, jumping up and down on the bed, having a pillow fight, driving their mother to her wits’ end. Wasn’t she supposed to be that person, trying to get her children to bed? Instead of sitting here on the patio having a barbecue, desperately trying to enjoy herself, chewing on a dry piece of chicken breast?

  As the evening went on, their voices got louder, buzzing in the mild silky air. Even though they were divided by brick walls, there was a certain communal feel that only happened in summer when the backyards and gardens became additional living rooms. Someone was laughing, a glass broke, Jack Johnson’s soft, effortless voice came from a radio on a window sill: ‘I hope this old train breaks down, then I could take a walk around, see what there is to see...’ At dusk bats appeared, flapping over their heads. “Where are they coming from?” Sadie wondered.

  “Probably from under the bridges on Regent’s Canal,” Anthony contemplated, his face unsharp in half-darkness.

  Sam was rolling a joint. There was something childish about the way he was fiddling with Rizla paper, like he just couldn’t help it. She had never understood his fascination with marijuana. It just made her feel sleepy and stupid. Claire didn’t know what came over her, but she suddenly leaned forward and started telling them about Nora. That she went to that coffee place, bought her cake and how close she felt when she was holding her hand as if it were her own child. Relieved to be unburdening, she found herself adding, “I even imagined taking her back home with me.”

  Claire sensed immediately she had made a mistake. The words sounded wrong, desperate, like a confession. Everyone looked at her taken aback; there was a silence. She had changed the cheerful scene, the easy flow of the evening.

  Sam shook his head, inhaling noisily. “Maybe you should have your own child to look after.”

  Claire didn’t answer; she just looked at the empty bowl of sangria, the bits of fruit stranded on the bottom.

  “I have read of women who are so desperate for a child that they steal babies out of prams,” Sadie added. It was intended as a joke, but nobody laughed.

  “I just did the woman a favour and played babysitter for an hour,” Claire said, hoping to end the conversation. But it was too late.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Anthony asked, irritated.

  “Probably because it’s not that important,” she said elusively.

  For a second she contemplated making a scene; how dare he reprimand her like that in front of friends? Instead she decided to save her anger for later, shrugged it off and got up. “Tea or coffee anyone?”

  “I’ll help you,” Christine said quickly, following her into the kitchen.

  Putting the kettle on, she regretted her openness. Why did she have to talk about it?

  “I can’t believe he still does that.”

  “What?”

  “Smoking pot,” Christine said, pointing at Sam. They could see them from the kitchen window, the candlelight dancing on their faces.

  “He promised to stop for good, you know.”

  “Sure,” Claire answered absently, pushing down the plunger of the cafetiere, still feeling furious about Anthony’s attack.

  “We went to this information evening about adoption,” Christine said suddenly, lowering her voice. Claire looked up.

  “We have been thinking about it for a while... We did these tests and unfortunately Sam doesn’t produce enough fertile sperm. Apparantly that happens quite often nowadays... According to the doctor, our chances of getting pregnant naturally are very slim.”

  Claire turned away from the window; she couldn’t look at Sam – it was just too awkward to be informed about such intimacies, talking about his sperm while he was sitting there a few metres away, unsuspectingly enjoying his joint.

  From the urgency in Christine’s voice, Claire could sense that she had wanted to tell her this all along, probably waiting the whole evening for the right moment. She wished she could just hug her and tell her that everything would be fine, that she needn’t worry. But she felt she would be lying.

  Claire sat down at the kitchen table and told her how long she and Anthony had been trying to conceive. She could tell Christine now, knowing she would be feeling just as miserable.

  “At least you have a reason why it’s not working. The most frustrating term in reproductive medicine is ‘unexplained infertility’.”

  “What is it then with you guys? Stress?” Christine asked.

  “How pathetic is that,” Claire answered promptly. “Stress is what woman in Third World countries have, struggling to get food and water.”

  “Maybe we have to accept there are certain things that can’t be explained,” Christine said thoughtfully. “It’s hard though, when you see these women with their brood in tow, reproducing like rabbits, fat and ugly, shouting at their foul-mouthed kids on the street, and you ask yourself, why her?”

  Claire was stirring her coffee. It was good to hear Christine talking like that. “I just never thought it would become such an issue, you know. I expected it to happen like with my sister. It seemed so easy for her, for most people it is, anyway.”

  Christine didn’t answer but looked towards the lattice window; they could hear the tapping of heels on the pavement.

  “But this is serious Christine. Adopting, I mean. Why don’t you get donor sperm?”

  Christine looked up, twisting her eyes and Claire realised that, as much it was a relief to talk, it was also painful and embarassing.

  “That’s what I suggested to Sam,” she answered, whispering again, even though no one could hear them, “but Sam doesn’t want to. He won’t accept sperm from another man. He couldn’t do it. And frankly, why do we need to have our own baby when there are so many out there in desperate need of loving parents?”

  She was holding her cup with both hands, staring at it, frowning as if she was looking for an answer in there. “Maybe there is a reason, you know. Maybe I am meant to give a disadvantaged child an opportunity.”

  It was Anthony shouting where the hell were they that made them get up and join the others again. Serving the coffee, Claire looked at Christine when they were back outside, her short hair the colour of burnt caramel, the freckles around her nose, and she realised how pretty she was. Christine was laughing now, wrapping her arm around Sam, and it struck her how happy and carefree they looked even though there was so much emotional turmoil and heartache behind the facade.

  Christine left just after midnight despite a chorus of disapproval. They would stay up into the night, moving their chairs closer to each other, and soon someone would go to the off-licence around the corner to get another bottle of wine. Sam would roll another joint, promising Christine it would be the last. At about two in the morning they would become hungry and start rummaging in the fridge for more food, finally cutting up the chorizo. Claire could just see these things happening like a film on fast forward, but she couldn’t see herself there participating.

  When she closed her eyes drifting off to sleep, she wasn’t mad at Anthony anymore; she was just relieved that she knew at least one other woman with who she could share her pain.

  *

  It didn’t surprise Claire that Mrs Ross asked her again, and this time she didn’t hesitate to agree.

  “Nora likes you,” she said matter of factly. It was impossible to tell her age. Mrs Ross had a preserved kind of beauty, locked in time. Her smooth doll-like forehead suggested that she’d had some injections that had relaxed her facial muscles so they didn’t move anymore. But whatever treatment she’d had, it was subtle and effective and didn’t look over done. She was clearly a woman of taste, always dressed in expensive selected fabrics that accentuated her tall, slim figure. She oozed the cool, sexy elegance that men both admire and are afraid of.

  “That’s alright, Mrs Ross,” she said, “it’s a pleasure. But it isn’t easy to teach No
ra, I have to admit. She is very afraid of being in the water. I wonder whether she ever had a bad experience?”

  Mrs Ross looked at her with surprise. “No, I don’t think so; she is just very shy,” she answered before rushing off.

  It was the first time she had talked to Mrs Ross about Nora. Unlike other mothers, who asked eagerly every time about their child’s progress, Mrs Ross didn’t seem to care at all. To Claire’s annoyance, some mothers would even wait at the big glass window and observe their children during the lesson. Mrs Ross was the other extreme.

  This time Nora did as she was told. She glided into the water at once and even managed to do a few proper strokes, her eyes wide open, staring ahead with tightly pressed lips. She had clearly steeled herself for the lesson. Maybe Claire had finally earned her trust.

  “You will get a reward for that,” Claire said proudly, clapping her hands.

  Back in the changing room, Claire contemplated going to a shop and buying Nora a toy as a treat, but quickly realised she couldn’t do that without raising questions, and Mrs Ross would probably not approve of her buying gifts. She recalled the flyer that was put through her letterbox advertising a fun fair in Highbury Fields. It would only be a short cab ride away.

  Nora was over the moon when she suggested they go there and maybe have a ride on a rollercoaster. “I wanted to go to the fun fair last weekend,” she said, “but Mummy didn’t have time. She’s always working.”

  “And where is Daddy?” Claire asked curiously and cautiously.

  Nora looked at her as if she asked a stupid question. “He doesn’t live with us. It’s only Mummy and me in the house.”

  They hailed a cab on Upper Street. It was strange to be in a cab with Nora; she could go wherever she wanted to with her, even leave London, and it occurred to her that Mrs Ross had entrusted her own child into her hands – into the hands of a complete stranger. It seemed irresponsible to Claire, like the fact that she had let her play in the sea in Spain even though she couldn’t swim. How fragile a child was, so completely reliant on the decisions of its parents.

  “That’s where we live,” Nora pointed out excitedly when they had got out and reached Highbury. There was something grand about the Georgian terraced houses fronting Highbury Fields.

  “That’s a nice area to live. Do you have a lot of toys?” Claire asked.

  “I can show you,” Nora said. Fumbling at the outside pocket of her little rucksack she took out a key and dangled it in front of her nose with a triumphant smile.

  “Our house is only five minutes away.”

  Claire was flustered. The prospect of showing off her house seemed to Nora suddenly far more exciting than the fun fair. She wanted to show off her room and toys and share it with her – now that she had a new friend. How attached she had become. It was flattering and worrying at the same time. Would going to her house be a step too far? For their own sake, they shouldn’t bond too much.

  “Don’t you want to go to the fun fair?” she asked warily.

  “Let’s do it next week,” Nora answered quickly, like she expected this to go on forever. She didn’t yet realise that as soon she was able to swim their time together would end and they wouldn’t see each other anymore.

  “Please please,” Nora begged, rolling her eyes as she sensed Claire’s hesitation.

  “Are you sure no one is at home? Your mummy doesn’t want us to go to your house, you know.”

  “But she doesn’t know, please please. Only five minutes!”

  The house was in a quiet, leafy street. It was big, considering it was just the two of them living there. Claire envisaged an estranged well-off husband who had given them the house.

  When Nora opened the door Claire felt like an intruder, stepping into forbidden territory. The spacious living room on the ground floor had the subtle emanation of wealth. An antique gilded mirror adorned the mantlepiece. The slim, tall Bang&Olufsen loudspeakers suggested a taste for classical music. Big abstract oil paintings were hanging on the walls, but it was the photos of Mrs Ross in the hallway and on the landing that captured her interest. They were professional pictures of Mrs Ross posing, smiling over her shoulder, or glancing to the side and showing her striking profile. Her face appeared in a multitude of expressions, some sultry and demanding, others pensive, almost fragile.

  Claire wondered whether she was an actress, immersing herself in different roles like that. Nora’s room was at the end of the corridor on the first floor. Through a crack in the door Claire got a glimpse of Mrs Ross’s bedroom, a king-size bed and a stack of books on the bedside table. She was curious to know what Mrs Ross was reading, but didn’t dare snoop around. Feeling guiltier with every step, she almost tiptoed.

  From afar they could hear the noise from the fun fair and the screaming of the people on the rollercoaster. Claire looked nervously at her watch; she wasn’t at all comfortable walking around this house, although she couldn’t completely stifle her curiosity – it was also fascinating being in a stranger’s house unobserved. Nora smiled at her, completely at ease, waving her into her room. It was spacious for a child’s room, with a little dressing table and a desk with a little wooden chair.

  Stuffed animals guarded Nora’s bed like an army. “These are my friends,” she said proudly. “I can only sleep with my animals around me.” An array of teddy bears, birds and reptiles sat neatly lined up on the bed; there was even a snake curled up at the foot of the bed. A huge chimpanzee sat enthroned on top of the pillow like a guardian.

  Nora told Claire their names, and she was intrigued by the girl’s vivid imagination. Every animal had its set place in the hierarchy of Nora’s Kingdom. She had even made up stories for every toy – she told her that she had found them on the bus or the tube, even in the garbage on the street, and that they had all been abandoned by their previous owners. Claire didn’t believe that – they looked much too nice – but Nora seemed to believe her own made-up story. It was real to her, and there was something touchingly good-natured about the fact she saw herself as the saviour of the lost toys of London.

  “That’s very good of you, that you look after them, and give them your own bed as a home.”

  “Last winter he almost froze to death,” she said, taking one of the numerous teddy bears in her arms. “Mummy said I have to get rid of half of them; she says I have no space in the bed for myself anymore, but I won’t give them away. Not a single one!” she said decisively, clutching the teddy bear to her chest.

  “Of course not,” Claire agreed. “You have to look after them.” She immediately felt devious taking the same line and undermining her mother’s decision. Nora nodded, pleased with her reaction – she was a loyal friend, staying by her.

  Claire could imagine Nora alone in her room, talking to her toys, playing games with the stuffed animals, mimicking their voices. That was the genius of children, the ability to bring everything to life, even a stupid mute teddy bear. What a shame, Claire thought, that she would lose this gift eventually, when she could read labels like ‘made in Taiwan’ and discover that the eyes of a teddy bear are nothing but hard plastic.

  “I have something for you,” Nora said, opening the drawer of her little desk. It was a crayon drawing of two stick-figures and an out-of-proportion angel with spiky wings.

  “That’s us,” Nora said. Just as she was about to close the drawer, Claire saw something in there that was familiar – the golden dragonfly necklace that Sadie had worn at the barbecue. Claire reached out and took it from the drawer to have a closer look. It was without doubt the exact same necklace. “Where did you get that from?” she asked.

  “I borrowed it from Mummy. I took it out of her jewellery box. I have to give it back, though,” she said, looking down as if she had been caught red-handed.

  “Give it back now,” Claire said suddenly, in a commanding tone. As Nora left to do so, for a brief moment she was alone in the room. It was as if the stuffed animals with their dull empty eyes were disapprovingly staring
at her, a stranger and intruder, standing there in the child’s room, in the inner sanctum of the house, giving orders. It was then that she felt queasy and had nothing else in mind but leaving the house.

  “We are going,” she said, much too loudly. “We are going now!”

  On the way home Claire almost had an accident. Driving from the gym in Essex Road back to Remington Street on a daily basis, she knew the route blindly. Lost in thought, she drove past the pub on the corner into Duncan Terrace, a line of grand Georgian town houses with bits of greenery in front. She always looked at them with some envy; she would have preferred to live in one of those houses, but they were considerably more expensive than the houses on their street, which backed onto estates of cheap council housing. She was now and again astounded how radically the scenery of the same neigbourhood could change. Just a few metres further down, turning left along Regent’s Canal, the houses became more and more squalid. Nelson Place was a narrow street, flanked by shabby council flats, only a few feet long but always littered with beer cans and junk, smelling of pee as if it was an open urinal. Once someone had dumped a mattress, leaving it there to rot.

  At night Claire avoided walking there on her own. She would go via City Road, which was better lit and busier, even though it was a detour and took five minutes longer. But during the day and on her scooter she didn’t think it dangerous. As it was a one-way street and most of the time empty, Claire always accelerated to get through this bleak bit as quickly as possible.