Pat Barker - Another World

Afterwards they lie side by side on their backs, staring into the dark. He says, ‘That was all right, wasn’t it?’ and she says, ‘Was it?’

‘I didn’t know whether you wanted to come.’

‘You didn’t try to find out.’

‘I could kiss you down there. Come on, Fran, please… Please?’

‘Don’t bother.’

She turns over. After lying for a while, irritatingly exuding guilt, Nick rolls away from her, and though she tosses and turns and heaves deep sighs it’s not long before he starts to snore.

When she wakes next morning he’s still snoring.

He’ll be full of guilt when he wakes up.

Not full enough.

Today’s Sunday and they’re going for a day out to Fleete House, where, Nick seems to think, the Fanshawes lived after they left Lob’s Hill. But the thought of having to organize it all: the nappies, the sandwiches, the orange juice, the cans of coke, the car seat, the pushchair, the beaker, the potty — in case Jasper starts to think its absence means he needn’t bother — makes her want to vomit.

Lying there, lazily, in the last few minutes before Jasper wakes and roars for attention, she dips her fingers between her legs and sniffs them. That warm, kippery smell of fucked-the-night-before cunt, the best smell in the world. Normally she’d have invited Nick to join in, but not after last night. Her fingers move further down to the episiotomy scar, soon to be cut open for the third time. She wonders how Nick would react if somebody proposed cutting his scrotum open without a general anaesthetic and then repeating the procedure, twice. He isn’t keen on the idea of a vasectomy — the Big Snip, he calls it — though it’s the obvious solution for somebody who grows ten thumbs at the sight of a Durex packet.

Jasper’s chuntering rises to a yell. Fran gets out of bed, staggers out into the landing, feeling dizzy as she always does when she gets up too quickly, and trips over the tangle of jeans and underpants Nick’s left on the landing. He’d only got undressed out there because he was trying not to disturb her, but that doesn’t stop her feeling angry. Lifting the heap of clothes on one bare foot, she kicks it halfway downstairs.

Jasper’s leaning on the rail of his cot in that four-square John Bull way, the way a man stands when he’s inordinately proud of what he’s got between his legs, though what Jasper’s got is a sodden nappy that drops to the floor with a disgusting plop as she picks him up. ‘You stink,’ she says. His bottom’s wet and cold against her arm, as she carries him along the corridor to the bathroom — pausing to bang on Gareth’s door as she goes past — and runs the bath.

The bathroom’s lovely, almost her favourite room in the house, though the window’s so closed around with roses that the room seems dark. Green, rather. A submarine light with fugitive shadows of leaves chasing each other across the wall.

She runs a shallow bath and puts Jasper in. It’s easier to hose him down than to wipe him. ‘You’re going to see Paddington Bear today,’ she tells him. He’s concentrating on a yellow plastic duck that, when squeezed, squirts jets of water high into the air. One spurt hits her in the eye, and he roars with laughter as she gasps and blinks. Like father, like son, she thinks, and lifts him out to dry.

Gareth ignores the bang on the door. With any luck he’ll get half an hour on the new game, before Mum bursts in rabbiting on about family togetherness and all that crap. The screen glows gently in the gloom of the closed curtains. While he waits for the computer to finish loading, he reads the back of the box.There is no doubt that you are being watched, by whom and by what life form is not determined. Even Spock has not been able to accurately assess this data. The occurrences are just too strange. Is that truly an ancient WWI triplane heading straight for you at Warp 9? How can your sensors suddenly report life forms on a dead planet…?

He feels pressure on the back of his neck. The sense of somebody in the room behind him’s so strong he almost turns round, thinking it must be Mum telling him to for God’s sake switch the damn thing off and get dressed. But she’d have spoken by now, and Gareth’s too frightened to turn round.

Instead, he goes on looking straight ahead. He sees his own shadowy reflection in the screen, but can’t be sure there’s nobody else there. In a small voice he hardly recognizes as his, he says, ‘Please go away.’

Nobody answers. After a few moments the pressure on the back of his neck’s lifted and he knows he’s alone.

‘Why do babies need so much stuff?’ Nick asks, pushing rolled-up nappies into the plastic duffel bag with its design of blue frolicking teddy bears, while Fran tries to squeeze the potty into the zipped compartment underneath. He knows the answer, he’s just trying to break the thunderous silence Fran’s maintained since breakfast, but she’s in no mood to respond to overtures.

‘If you don’t mind him shitting on the car seat say so and I’ll leave some of it behind.’

‘Miran—’

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing.’

Oh, Fran thinks, I see. Either Barbara managed things better or Miranda was the first baby to be born with a miraculous self-wiping arse. ‘Pass the nappy liners, will you?’

Nick hands them over in silence, then goes into the hall to hurry Miranda and Gareth along. Miranda appears at the top of the stairs wearing the same long skirt and T-shirt she’s been wearing since she arrived. He wishes she’d make more effort, but he doesn’t know how to say so; anyway, she has enough to cope with. There’s no sign of Gareth.

‘What’s Gareth doing?’

‘Cleaning his teeth.’

Oh, God. ‘Bang on the bathroom door, will you? Tell him we’ll go without him.’

Nick goes back into the living room to find Fran struggling with the toggles on another plastic bag. ‘Is that it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Dink,’ says Jasper.

‘You can’t have one,’ says Nick.

‘Oh, give him one. He’ll only scream.’

Nick unpacks the bag, pours orange juice into a beaker and watches as Jasper raises it unsteadily to his lips. He manages without spilling any. ‘Good boy,’ Nick says, stroking his hair. ‘Do you know the fontanel’s completely closed now?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I think so.’

He investigates Jasper’s scalp, pressing gently here and there. Fran comes to look too, and they stare in joint fascination at the small blond head they’ve produced between them.

‘Mum… ‘ Gareth says.

They look up guiltily, as if they’ve been caught in an illicit threesome, to find the two older children staring at them accusingly from the door.

‘OK,’ Fran says. ‘Get in the car.’

Nick looks at her, at the stained T-shirt and straggly hair, and says, ‘You’re not going like that?’

Abruptly, she starts to cry. ‘It’s all very well for you. By the time I’ve got everything ready there’s no time for me.’

The children gawp at her.

‘Get in the car!’ Nick shouts.

Miranda darts him a reproachful look, then stalks out without a word. Gareth bangs the door.

They’re left alone. Nick sits in one of the armchairs and listens to Fran cry, which she does very thoroughly, giving herself up to the sobs. Jasper stares at her, tries an experimental whimper, then moves closer to his father, resting one pudgy fist on his knee.

‘What’s wrong, Fran? What is it?’ Nick asks as a gap in the sobs seems to be approaching.

‘I don’t know.’ She wipes the tears away angrily. ‘It’s nothing, I’m just tired.’

‘Would you like to stay here and get some sleep? I’ll cope with them.’

‘No, it’s all right.’ She looks down at herself, at the outstretched, abandoned, puppet legs. ‘I just don’t like what I’ve turned into, that’s all.’