The Drowning Lesson (6 page)

The woman at the table beside me knocked me sharply with her elbow. She didn't apologize. She was pulling apart the salad in front of her, her fingers glistening with oil. Her companion, neck bandaged with unnecessary scarves, was braying with laughter. The room suddenly seemed full of spoilt women wasting time. It would be good to escape to a culture where even the children had better manners.

‘So Dira was like an adopted aunt?' It was time to go. I found a five-pound note in my bag and wedged it under the saucer.

‘Dira was a witch.'

The unexpected word echoed in a hush that fell coincidentally, almost as though people had heard and were absorbing something frightening. Then the scarf woman laughed again and the chatter renewed. Perhaps Megan had been joking.

‘Lucky you,' I said, as I groped with my feet under the table for the shoes I'd kicked off. ‘I'd give anything for a few magic spells.'

‘No, you wouldn't.' Her voice was tense. ‘One of the girls from school went missing later, the popular one, the one who'd left me out.' She leant forwards, ‘There was a nationwide search in South Africa but
she was never seen again. A few months later, a bag of pelvic bones was found by the railway station near our home. They turned out to be hers.'

The words were grotesque; they belonged in one of those fairy tales Zoë loved to be frightened by.

‘We were on holiday in England when it happened but friends wrote with the news,' she continued. ‘There had been whispers in our village. People said it was Dira, because of her powers, but the police pinned it on a gang of rapists from South Africa. They were imprisoned for life. The girl's mother went insane.' Megan looked at me, her brown eyes empty of expression. ‘Part of me still thinks it was my fault because Dira did it for me.'

The smallest Russian doll had been mashed to pieces. The bright flakes of china were all over the carpet. I leant to take Megan's hand. Deep inside the layers, the wife, the secretary, the friend, there was a badly damaged child. ‘You said the school was in South Africa?'

She nodded, looking down.

‘So how could Dira have had anything to do with a crime like that, hundreds of miles away in a different country? It makes no sense, Megan.'

She didn't reply. The café was quieter now: the women from the table next to ours had left and the waitress was clearing the plates. I had to go too. Standing and slipping into my coat, I touched her
shoulder. ‘My new registrar is coming to supper tonight. Why don't you join us? I'd like to meet Andrew.'

After a few seconds she looked up and smiled. ‘We'd love to.'

I parked outside the girls' school, and hurried to the entrance across the playground. The low autumn sun shone through the trees, the long shadows cutting the tarmac into stripes of light and dark. How did Megan balance her faith in the brightly lit scientific world of her work, with dark beliefs that belonged to a shadowy, ancient past? I shivered, and rang the bell then pushed my cold hands deep into my pockets as I waited to be admitted.

In the classroom, Mrs Philips was in a hurry, slamming papers on desks. When she saw me at the door she nodded and walked rapidly to a cardboard box on her table. ‘I've collected what you'll need – a copy of the curriculum, the syllabus and a weekly schedule, textbooks and a teaching guide for each subject.' She patted the box. ‘It's all in here.'

‘I'll do my best.' I tried not to feel daunted. ‘Alice is worried about getting behind.'

Mrs Philips walked briskly back down the aisle, continuing to thump paper onto the desks. ‘She's a bright child. Her grasp of languages is excellent. She's way ahead. In a way, that's her problem.'

I let that pass. If the school hadn't found a way to manage a bright child, it was a good thing she was leaving.

‘Has anything else gone missing?' I asked.

‘That seems to have stopped.' She walked back up an aisle, and as she came near she smiled. ‘She seems happier now.' She watched me as I picked up the box. ‘I expect she's delighted about the forthcoming addition.'

I didn't mention that I hadn't told Alice about the pregnancy; suddenly it seemed time that I did. I stowed the box in the car. It would have to wait till this dinner party was over. Tomorrow; I'd have time to tell her properly then.

The jeep judders over ruts in the road.

Was Josiah's dog killed when he barked, in case he gave the abductors away? If Sam cries, will they kill him too? As I press the back of my hand against my teeth, biting skin, drawing blood, I remember maggots take time to hatch: the dog must have died two days ago, padding down the road, intent on adventure.

The village could be any village in Africa at night: no electricity, no streetlights. I'm quickly lost. The huts we pass are silent. I can't see where my clinic is. One hut by the road shows a lit square of window. I wrench the car to that side and, barefoot, step out into a warm puddle. Blood? Dog urine? I look down; my foot shines black. Engine oil.

I knock on the door, then bang with my fists. Behind me, in the car, Zoë whimpers. The door is opened by a young woman. A man stands behind her, his tattooed arms tightly folded, while an old woman hovers at the side, her fissured face wary. A
boy in school uniform peers out at her side. Light from a paraffin lamp strung up behind them flickers over posters of cars on a dark green wall.

‘I need to find Chief Momotsi. Can you tell me where he lives?'

The man pushes to the front, his arms spread to hold the doorframe. He jerks his head up, a soundless angry question.

‘My baby is missing.' The obscene words make it true, the world sways giddily and the old woman steps forward, curls her cold fingers around my arm. Her grip is strong. Her eyes are bright under lashless lids; thousands of lines criss-cross her cheeks. Like a witch. Terror beats in my mouth. Then she smiles and reaches for the young woman, bringing her forward, to translate perhaps. The girl is very pregnant, probably a patient because she recognizes me and puts her hands across her abdomen, shaking her head – is she afraid my child's misfortune will contaminate hers?

Behind me in the jeep, Alice starts shouting, short, loud yells, like a car alarm that has broken and starts up for no reason. I turn, get back into the front seat and pull her to me. The yelling stops as suddenly as it began.

The old woman shuffles after me, the boy behind her. She put her thin hand on the top of the door; a delicate bead bracelet slides down over the bones of her wrist and hits the metal with a small clash.

‘Kgosi Momotsi.' She points down the road. The boy nods as she turns to talk to him in rapid Setswana. He starts jogging, beckoning me to follow. I start the engine and the woman's hand slips off the door. Moving away, she becomes any old woman, tired and bent, going back into her house and her life, disconnecting from our catastrophe.

Francesca seemed too young to be a registrar. How could she have gone through medical school without so much as a line on her face? I'd forgotten how young, young was. Her husband, Gianni, was older and much fatter; grey hair crawled untidily at his neck. He stood close behind her, smiling and talking a little too loudly, as if to deflect from the age difference. Once in the sitting room, he dived for the smoked almonds and stood munching, legs wide apart, blocking the heat from the fire as he looked round.

It had taken two hours but the scum of papers and laptop leads had gone. The room gleamed with polish, and a bunch of white lilies stood in a thick glass vase, sending out their heavy honey scent. Cut crystal shone on the drinks tray, and a fire in the grate crackled and hissed. The room looked luxuriant and ordered; no one would guess that in a few days the papers would be back and the flowers would be dead. It worked for now.

When the bell rang again, Megan and Andrew were at the door. Megan looked different: her hair was swept up, the dimple in her cheek so deep it had its own little shadow. She'd recovered but Andrew surprised me: he was older than I'd anticipated or perhaps it was the disease. Gaunt and narrow-shouldered, he limped through the door, his face lifting at the sight of the open fire. I sat with him and Megan on the sofa, straining to hear as his speech came slowly and indistinctly.

Just before supper I slipped upstairs to settle the girls. Megan came with me: she wanted to say goodnight. Zoë had already fallen asleep on a heap of stuffed animals. I kissed her as Megan stroked her hair, her face tender. Caring for Andrew would fill the space where children might have been, but as I tucked the sheet round Zoë, I felt a pang of sorrow for the mother Megan would have made.

Alice was bent over her desk reading a textbook but she got up as we came in, staring at me as if I were a stranger. The hand holding her chair was clenched, her body rigid.

‘Good news, darling, Mrs Philips said you don't need to worry …' I began.

‘She said about the “forthcoming addition”,' she whispered. I didn't understand at first. ‘Why didn't you say?'

After all this time the news had come from
outside the family. I reached for Alice but she jerked away and stepped back against the wall, a small animal at bay. Megan stood silently behind me; she seemed to be holding her breath.

‘I was going to tell you tomorrow,' I said. The words sounded inadequate, even to me. ‘I thought you had enough on your plate, Ally, without worrying about a baby.'

‘Why would I worry?'

‘Sometimes children think a baby might mean they're less important.'

Her eyes were wide with fear. I took her cold hand – the fingers were ink-splotched, the nails bitten – and laid her palm against my abdomen. ‘Feel. I'm relying on you to be my chief helper.'

I could feel her fingers trembling before she snatched her hand away.

‘It's not going to make a difference to anything, sweetheart.' That wasn't quite what I meant but everything I said sounded wrong. As I searched for better words, Sofia's voice came faintly up the stairs, calling from the kitchen. She sounded panicked.

Megan stepped forward. She put her arms round Alice. ‘Can I stay with you for a little while, Alice? I'd much rather talk to you than all those people downstairs.'

Alice's head nodded against her shoulder. Sofia's voice became louder.

‘Thank you,' I murmured, and hurried out.

The kitchen was full of steam, the potatoes had burnt. Sofia had been laying the table and had forgotten about them. I measured rice into a pan and left it simmering.

In the sitting room, Adam was talking to Francesca. Gianni had moved to the sofa next to Andrew; I caught a few words about the Italian lakes.

I drew Adam aside. ‘Alice knows I'm pregnant. That teacher told her about the baby. She's upset we didn't tell her earlier.'

‘I knew it,' Adam said. His mouth had compressed into an angry line. ‘I'll talk to her now.'

As he turned to go, Megan was at the door; she stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. ‘Alice is fast asleep now.' She smiled up at him. ‘She was exhausted. She had a little cry but then she cheered up when we talked about names. She's chosen one already.'

‘I can't thank you enough.' I hugged her. ‘Nothing I said was helping.'

‘She guessed a while back but as no one said anything' – Megan touched my arm – ‘she thought she must be going mad, imagining things that weren't there.'

‘Poor Alice.' I felt sick.

‘Thank you.' Adam bent to kiss her cheek. ‘You've been brilliant.'

‘I'm glad I could help.' Her blush was deep. ‘I think it's all going to be fine now.'

I doubted it would be as simple as that but at least Alice knew the truth now. I took Megan's arm and led her into the candlelit dining room. The walls were dark red, the candles making little pools of light on the polished oak of the table. Sofia had set a small plate of thin pink ham, layered with crimson-fleshed figs and discs of mozzarella, in each place.

‘This is so perfect,' Francesca said to Adam, drawing out a chair and sitting next to him.

‘A bit womb-like, don't you think? Trust Emma to bring her work home …'

Francesca gave a tinkle of laughter.

I smiled and turned to Megan. ‘What names did Alice come up with?'

‘Samuel for a boy, Samantha for a girl.' Megan replied. ‘She's reading
Lord of the Flies
in English. Sam was one of the boys in the good tribe. I suppose she thinks –'

‘Of course,' I interrupted. I didn't want to admit I had no idea what Alice was reading. ‘Samantha,' I repeated. ‘I like that name.'

Sofia helped bring in the main course: a casserole of bubbling
bœuf bourguignon
. The rice steamed in its dish, sprinkled with parsley. There were little murmurs of approval. No one knew about the pan of burnt potatoes in the bin, and the meal looked perfect.

As we ate, the discussion turned to babies.

‘I don't mind delivering them, but the thought of looking after my own is scary.' Francesca was skewering chunks of beef with her fork. She gave a small shrug, a little smile. ‘Maybe I just need to be a bit older.'

‘Oh, I don't know. I was younger than you when I had Alice and we managed to survive, despite the occasional scare.' An expectant silence fell. ‘I was on call one weekend. It was quiet. Alice was a baby and I wheeled her to the corner shop in her pram.'

‘Classic Em,' said Adam. ‘She left her in the shop.'

‘The hospital called me for an emergency; I went outside to answer my phone, then rushed straight there.' Why was I telling this story? It wasn't funny at all, but women like Francesca, play-acting helplessness, provoked the desire to shock. ‘It wasn't till I was scrubbed in theatre that I remembered I'd left my baby by the freezer cabinet in the Spar.'

The silence was broken by another tinkling laugh from Francesca. Megan stared at the tablecloth; I'd upset her. She didn't know how strangely easy it was to be careless with your own children while you worried about the health of strangers. Or did she? An image came to mind of a child in the white heat of an African morning, watching her mother hurry away down the steps of a veranda, doctor's bag in hand. I wished I hadn't been so flippant.

‘It was all right, as it happens,' Adam was telling everyone. ‘Emma phoned me and I went straight round. Luckily the shopkeepers knew us or they might have called the police. Alice was sound asleep, safe behind the counter.'

Francesca was looking at Adam through long eyelashes. ‘So you saved the day?' Her short curly fringe reminded me of a calf.

‘Since he wasn't tied up in hospital, delivering babies, I'd say it was a pretty straightforward job to wheel a pram home,' I said. ‘More, anyone?'

Megan shook her head. Gianni nodded vigorously. Andrew's eyes were closed and, for a second, I thought he'd gone to sleep.

When I got up to fetch the pudding, Megan offered to help. She was carrying the white-chocolate mousse when she stumbled just as she reached the table. Time seemed to slow: the perfect white disc, rimmed with falling blackberries, turned over before it reached the floor. We stood quite still, looking down at the curdled mess of creamy white streaked with dark red. For a moment it looked like spilt blood.

There was a little flurry of activity around Megan, almost as if she had been hurt. As Adam swept it all up with a dustpan and brush, I quickly assembled the cheeseboard.

After everyone had gone home my face felt stiff from smiling. I took off my shoes and flung them into a corner. My uterus had been tightening off and on all evening. No more dinner parties until we got back from Africa. I didn't want this baby to come a moment before it was due.