Weldon, Fay - Novel 07 (35 page)

 
          
Liffey’s baby
lay in its cot by the
fire and smiled. It seemed, to the outside eye, a perfectly ordinary baby. It
spoke to Liffey, silently, but less and less as its body grew into better
proportion to its being. It gave up all appearance of being in charge, of
knowing best. It left all that to Liffey now.

 
          
Liffey
looked at herself in the mirror and laughed. She thought she seemed a very
average person: no longer pretty, or elfin, or silly, or anything particularly
definite any more. She was much like anyone else. She thought that she too had
become what Richard wanted. He had triumphed in his absence.

 
          
She
put on another jersey. The baby wore two pairs of leggings. The wind turned to
the north. Black clouds heaved around the Tor: sometimes it was obscured
altogether by mist and rain. In the very cold weather the fire smoked to such
an extent it would put itself out, like a scorpion that stings itself with its
own tail. On Christmas Eve, Liffey ran out of kindling wood to relight the
fire. It was raining, and the branches and twigs outside were wet and useless.
She went into the outhouse and there found the withered remnants of Richard’s
puffballs. They were tough, withered and leathery, and she remembered what
Richard had said about their use as firelighters, laid them in the grate and
lit them. They burned slowly, patiently and brightly, and she thought there was
some good in them after all.

 
          
She
wanted the baby to speak, to mark so momentous a thought, but his spirit was
finally cut off from hers. He smiled at her and that was all.

 
          
The
fire lit by the puffballs stayed in over the Christmas holiday, to Liffey’s
satisfaction. The baby smiled at the flames. On Boxing Day a car drew up
outside. It was Richard, and his arms were full of soft fluffy toys—white bears
and pink fish and orange lions. Liffey thought that vitamin drops and
disposable nappies would have been more sensible.

 
          
“Christ,
Liffey,” he said. “I am sorry. I don’t care whose baby it is.”

 
          
Liffey
opened the door, not without reluctance. But she knew the baby liked to see
people. He enjoyed company more than she did. He would smile at everyone,
Liffey told herself, at Mabs and Tucker and the postman and the milkman. But
now the baby smiled at Richard too, claiming him for father, shuffler of the
genes. Liffey knew that that was that. The baby claimed them all, everyone, as
bit-part players in his drama, dancers in his dance, singers to his tune.

 
          
Come
in, Richard. Here is Liffey.