Geoff Ryman - The Child Garden

‘You seem to be having some trouble with my name,’ said Milena, giving up trying to cut her seal. She had to hold her hands up almost over her head to reach it. ‘My last name is Shibush. My family are from Eastern Europe, but the name itself is Lebanese. I believe your name is originally Asian, too, isn’t it.’

A silence as icy as the room descended.

Rolfa said nothing. She kept her eyes down on the plate and ate with pained, exaggerated good manners that made Milena want to throw the seal cutlet at her. When asked to pass the salt, Rolfa wordlessly reached across the table, moving as slowly as a rusty hinge. Rolfa was in hiding, even here, in what was supposed to be her home.

Her father sniffed and proprietorially brushed some seaweed off the table and into his cupped hand. He then threw it over his shoulder.

‘So you actually work in Toy Town, do you, Squidge?’

‘Were you talking to me?’ Milena demanded.

‘I wasn’t talking to the seal.’

‘My name is Milena. Perhaps no one told you that.’

‘OK. Milly. You work at that place.’

‘The National Theatre of Southern Britain. Yes, I do.’

‘Could you tell my daughter please what the attitude of that place is towards GEs? For instance, are they ever going to let her sing there?’

Was that Rolfa’s ambition? Milena’s heart sank for her. Rolfa, Rolfa, you won’t get to sing at the Zoo by hiding in tunnels. Milena looked at her. Rolfa reached thoughtfully for her wine, eyes focused inwards.

Milena answered the father’s question. ‘They probably won’t, no,’ she said, softly.

‘Hey, Rolfa, we’re talking about you. Did you hear that? Rolfa!’ He slammed the table. Rolfa jumped, along with the glasses and the silverware. ‘Look at yourself, sometime, girl. They’re never going to let you sing, you’re covered in fur.’

Rolfa picked up her silver knife and fork and began to eat again, in silence.

‘Your daughter is a better singer than almost anyone at the National Theatre.’ Milena spoke warily. ‘She could also become a very fine composer.’ Milena looked at Rolfa’s face for any sign of surprise. The face remained a mask. ‘If she ever got any help or training or encouragement…’ Milena broke off. She’s had to do it all by herself, Milena thought. She’s had to do it all alone.

‘Is that true?’ Zoe asked, leaning forward.

Milena’s eyes seemed to swell like small balloons about to burst. She could only nod in answer.

‘Can you tell me why she’s such a fat slob?’ the father asked.

‘Because her father is,’ replied Milena. She felt like spitting at him.

He saw that and liked Milena for it. He laughed, showing his canine fangs. ‘Hell yes,’ he said, and belched.

‘What does she do all day?’ Zoe asked, concerned.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not prepared to talk about Rolfa as if she isn’t here.’

The father answered Zoe’s question. ‘She just hangs around. She thinks something’s going to happen. Some angel’s going to come down or something.’ He looked back at Milena. ‘She’s wasted enough time. And money. End of summer, she goes to the Antarctic’

‘Antarctic? You mean the South Pole?’ Milena was rendered stupid by shock. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ the father said, his voice going wheedling and sarcastic. ‘That is where we make our money.’

Milena found that she was smiling, smiling with the absurdity of it and with anger. ‘What is Rolfa going to do in the Antarctic?’

‘Work for a change,’ said her father. ‘We’re not like you people. We owe each other things. With us a woman does the same job as a man or we kick her butt until she does. She’s going to Antarctica before the New Year…’ The father began to chuckle, ‘or I tear her head off.’

‘I think that’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,’ said Milena.

‘You’re a Squidge,’ said the father with a shrug. ‘Your mind’s infected. It’s full of germ’s. Nobody infects our minds. Nobody tells us what to do. So. You call us — what — "an intelligent related species". Personally, I think we’re the last human beings left, but that’s OK, because if we aren’t defined as human beings, then we don’t have to obey your crazy laws. We don’t have to have our heads pumped full of disease, we all live to a decent age, and we do what the hell we want when the hell we want to do it. And you know what, Squidge? You people find that very useful. You find it very useful to have people who aren’t part of your little exercise in mind control.’

Milena felt the icy breath of the truth.

The father unclipped a column of adding machine paper from himself and examined it. ‘So,’ he said, slightly distracted. ‘What we’re talking about here is legal definitions. My daughter over there is saying, I want to make bee-ooo-ti-ful music’ His voice was full of scorn. ‘She hangs around with Squidges, she wants to be a Squidge. She gets herself defined as a Squidge, it could mess up our whole little system. You think we’re going to let her do that?’

‘No,’ said Milena, almost inaudibly.

‘Damn right,’ said the father. He was finished with the paper. He crumpled it up and threw it onto his plate.

Rolfa still ate, slowly, carefully, eyes fixed on her food. Well, Rolfa, thought Milena. Do you have anything to say? I can’t stop them, Rolfa. If you let them do it to you, I can’t stop them.

‘Going to Antarctica is like going to school for us,’ said Angela. ‘It’s something everybody does. Maybe meet a nice man.’ She was trying to sound bright and encouraging. Her father began to key in figures. There was a whizz of paper.

Rolfa, you are a great lump. Milena felt betrayed. The meat in her mouth went round and round. Why am I eating this? I don’t need to eat. She spat the seal cutlet out onto her plate. That’s what I think of you all.

‘I can get you an omelette,’ offered Zoe.

I don’t need to talk either. Milena shook her head. She drank. The wine was sour and sharp, which seemed appropriate. May you all freeze in hell. Why am I sitting here?

Milena finished her wine, throwing it back down her gullet, and stood up. Rolfa finally moved, turning suddenly toward her.

‘It’s all right! You don’t need to move,’ said Milena. She looked at the family. ‘Enjoy your meal,’ she told them, and left. As she went down the stairs, she began to run. She ran to the door and threw off the coat. The carpet had crystals of ice along its fibres. Who needs winter? Milena pulled open the front door and left it hanging open, and plunged into human temperatures, the warm blanket of summer air. She still had on the indigent gloves.

She walked, mind raging, so angry she couldn’t think. The tragedy loomed around her, so vast that it seemed part of the iron railings, and the classical Kensington porticos, and chimneys against the sky, part of the other people who passed her, hunched and hesitant, as if the pavements were too narrow. She walked round and round in circles through the unfamiliar streets.

She found herself back in front of the Polar house, all creamy, ice-blue in the summer night. Something broke.

‘Rolfa!’ she shouted. ‘Rolfa! Rolfa!’ Her voice went shrill and she picked up an edge of pavement and hurled it towards the house.

‘I’m here,’ said a voice. ‘Ssssh.’

A shape, a shadow of a head through an open window on an upper floor. Rolfa had been sitting all alone in the dark.

Milena waited in the silence, in the moonlight, hugging herself. She stamped her feet with impatience and to get the blood flowing in her icy toes. Then there was a quiet clunk, and Rolfa stepped out the front door, carrying something, a blanket. She was back in her shorts and cloth shoes.