Geoff Ryman - Child Garden

‘Well I ran away,’ said Thrawn, rather grandly, comparing herself with Milena. ‘I hid out in the Slump, in the reeds. Nobody was going to doctor me. I hid, and then I came back. I tell you, I got terrible grammar.’ Then she leaned forward. She leaned forward and used both her arms to push her breasts forward. They hung within the neckline of the leotard. ‘Are you?’ Thrawn asked, smiling.

‘Am I what?’ asked Milena, scarce believing.

Thrawn rolled her eyes and asked again. ‘Are you?’ She rolled forward onto her knees, presenting herself.

Milena felt a kind of slow, hazy panic. My God, is she asking me? My God, have I found another one? ‘Yes,’ Milena said, experimentally.

Now it was Thrawn’s turn to be coy. ‘Yes to what?’ she asked, striking another pose.

Milena’s face was hot. She was smiling a lazy, fearful smile. She felt confused. ‘Yes to whatever you’re asking.’ The whole thing was moving too fast, hurtling forward.

Thrawn laughed, and slid nearer to Milena. ‘Saying that could be dangerous. You might not know what I’m asking.’

There was something between them, as if the gases in the air had solidified. It was a shape, defined by them, but with a life of its own. Sex was only part of it, but it was as impersonal as sex. It and time hauled Milena forward towards Thrawn.

She crawled towards Milena with her slow smile. ‘You don’t know what I’m asking at all.’

But this is so crude, thought Milena. This is so banal. I’m being vamped.

Thrawn kissed her on the cheek. I’ve had fantasies like this, Milena thought and made herself continue. Then Thrawn began to lick her face as if it were a lollipop.

I’m not sure about this, thought Milena, pressing her lips and eyes shut. Thrawn smelt of sweat and boiled onions.

‘Oh, tooch, bubi, tooch.’

What, thought Milena, is that supposed to mean? Does she really think it will drive me wild with passion? Thrawn leaned back to pull off her leotard, and Milena felt desire retreat. It left her beached and dry and slightly sick in the stomach.

The flesh around Thrawn’s eyes was coiled like a rope; her face was a knot. As she descended again, Thrawn’s face was turned away from Milena, denying what was happening. Is she enjoying this? Milena wondered.

She tried to make the best of a bad job. She tried to shift to a more comfortable position but the rug kept rucking up and sliding away underneath her. She lay still for a few moments under the oblivious Thrawn. Finally, Milena tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Thrawn,’ said Milena, as if reminding her of something she already knew. ‘Thrawn. Stop.’

Thrawn went still. Then very quickly, she rolled away.

Milena sat up. Her elbow had been badly knocked in the struggle. She looked at Thrawn. Thrawn lay on her side, back to Milena, picking at the rucked-up rug. Milena’s trousers swaddled her thighs and made it difficult to stand. She managed it by pushing her knees together at an awkward angle.

‘It’s because I’m old and fat, isn’t it?’ said Thrawn, from the floor. She was staring at the strands of the rug.

‘You aren’t fat,’ said Milena, out of kindness, and because it was so far from the truth.

Thrawn sat up and her eyes were poison. ‘I am. Don’t tell me I’m not fat.’ She shook a dried pouch of loose skin on her belly. She stood up, and began to pull on her leotard, carefully running the elastic back into place along the same lines of indentation in the skin.

‘Our relationship should be strictly professional,’ said Thrawn, with a kind of snarl.

‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’ said Milena, beginning to smile.

‘Not,’ said Thrawn, and pulled back her hair. ‘Where I am concerned.’

‘Good. Fine. Glad to hear it,’ said Milena, rubbing her elbow.

‘I’m quite ruthless in my standards,’ said Thrawn coolly. She pulled on a pair of trousers over her leotard. ‘I am a perfectionist. It is something of a curse always to want the very best.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ said Milena and thought: there’s something wrong with this woman. Her elbow was black from bruising.

‘You’ll hate me,’ said Thrawn with a sigh, looking up. It was a statement of fact. It had the ring of truth. It also sounded like a promise. Milena looked up at the sad, devouring face.

‘No I won’t,’ said Milena, lightly. A process of mollification had begun.

Later that same day, walking back from the Strand, Milena suddenly thought: it’s my birthday soon.

It was one year since Rolfa had gone. The thought rooted Milena to the pavement where she stood. She was standing on Waterloo Bridge, where she and Rolfa had walked back together from the Spread-Eagle. This year, September had been hot, wet, monsoonish. But on this one evening, the sky had cleared. It was the same plum colour it had been on the evening when Rolfa had led her back from meeting Lucy.

St Paul’s Cathedral looked the same, with its dome of white stone and sheets of lead. But electric lights hung in chains now all along both banks of the river. There were puddles of light, pools of it on the pavements. It will be like this, Rolfa, thought Milena. I will get further and further away from you. And you’ll get dimmer and dimmer, like one of those little lights on the end of the chain.

Milena couldn’t dawdle. It was her turn tonight to take care of little Berry. She walked on slowly, her head down.

A year since Rolfa; a month since Berowne had died giving birth. It was so unfair. He had made it all the way through. The child was born. It was wailing. He had time to shout at it, ‘Hello! Oh hello!’. Then the afterbirth came free. The blood had hit the ceiling. And there was another orphan. Of sorts. The baby’s mother, the Princess, could not face him.

Milena walked down the steps of the Zoo, and into the Child Garden.

She walked down into a room full of wood panels with colourful paintings. The place smelled of infants: milk and nappies and sodden padding. It was too warm. It made Milena giddy. A Nurse took her to Berry’s cot. He was three weeks old. He looked up at Milena with solemn blue eyes. Who are you this time? he seemed to ask. Milena lifted him up onto her shoulders and he started to wail.

‘I know. I know,’ she said, and patted him.

Out of the corners of the room, on the mattress-covered floor, the other infants came. They came crawling and whispering to each other.

‘All these people coming to see him.’

‘Yes, but they’re not his parents are they?’

The voices were high and wispy and wheedling with jealousy.

‘His father is dead.’

‘His mother never comes to see him.’

Their minds were full of virus. They could speak, they could read, they could add and subtract. They ringed Milena round like a hostile tribe. The sound of someone else crying made them angry. They wanted to cry themselves. They wanted to howl their lungs raw. The viruses made them speak.

‘Why can’t he talk?’ one of the infants demanded. He supported himself on all fours. His flesh was plump and creased.

‘Why haven’t you given him the viruses?’

‘It’s time he was given the virus.’

Milena didn’t answer them. She stepped over them. The room was hot and she was feeling ill. She simply wanted to escape.

‘He hasn’t had the virus!’ the infants called after her, in rage, as she fled.

She couldn’t think why it had so upset her. She felt she was protecting Berry from them. She had to stop to gather breath, cool breath, and found she was trembling. Her hands shook as she wrapped Little Berry up in his blankets. She held him to her, and walked under one of the brick bridges along the elevated walkways, and then looked up, and saw the Shell.