Our Picnics in the Sun (35 page)

So Howard carries all the teapots out to the yard tap and fills them up, and the woman takes them one at a time and has a go at pouring the water out, then hands each one to her husband to try. I can see Howard thinking the man’s a fool, tipping out water and splashing his sandaled feet; he doesn’t like men who laugh along with their wives. She cannot abide a dribblesome teapot, she says, and the husband giggles as if she’s said something witty. She’s right!
he says, and is it too much to ask that somebody should’ve come up with a no-dribble-guaranteed teapot by now? She turns serious: really and truly, it is so annoying because
the main thing
you want from a teapot is that it doesn’t dribble. She’s disappointed with just about every teapot she’s got, and she has ever so many.

But not one of Howard’s. They don’t buy. Howard draws their attention to some small wood carvings he’s done—hobgoblin figures and grinning faces—says they’re old pagan household deities, for hanging up at the door. Or they make good Christmas tree decorations. The couple make phoney interested noises but are edging away. I wipe my hands and go outside to let them know we also do afternoon teas, but they’re already walking back to their car. I go to help Howard carry all the teapots back, and I drop one of the lids and it smashes. I try to pick up the pieces but bending over requires a monumental effort now my belly’s so big. Howard kicks the pieces out of the way and says something unkind and I burst into tears. He believes tears are manipulative, so now it’s me he’s angry with.

Just the sight of me sets him on edge, if truth be told, swelling up by the day as I am doing. He “accepts” my pregnancy, but he doesn’t like it. It isn’t the right time. The fact is it’s more than a little inconvenient. Or rather it would be, if it were going to change anything very much, which he is determined it shouldn’t because pregnancy’s natural and women are designed to take it, and childbirth, in their stride. In fact it would be patronizing of him to treat me as if I were ill or incapacitated in some way; a pregnant woman living, as I am, with an awareness of her fundamental connection to the earth will naturally tap into her own primal, maternal wisdom and discover her own strength. It doesn’t exempt me from doing my bit; I’m still a functioning human being! And after the birth he’ll still regard me as his equal and we’ll still halve the tasks, he assures me. Still, I wonder how am I going to do all the food and bedrooms for the spiritual retreat guests, and the afternoon teas, and keep up my weaving and see to the hens, as well as do my share with the vegetables and animals,
and
be a mother. I’m due to give birth at the very end of September and another winter is coming. I worry. He worries. The
subject is difficult and neither of us raises it unless necessary; in fact there is more he should know that I haven’t dared tell him yet.

Nor do we talk much of the fact that Stoneyridge isn’t paying and the money’s all but run out. Last winter was colder than our first and the spring was dry and late, so the garden this year is slow to produce, never mind that we have slugs and tomato blight and greenfly. We’re behind with clearing the land and working on the sheds—it’s so slow when there’s just the two of us—and there hasn’t been time to find partners for the bartering scheme Howard wants to set up. Apart from Digger and the shopkeepers in the village we’ve only really gotten to know Callum and Fee, who are doing much the same as us—hens, sheep, vegetables, bees—so there isn’t much to swap. They had a pig but it tasted awful. They don’t need any more pottery and Fee does some weaving herself. And her parents gave them their land and Callum also makes clogs and they sell lots of them at music festivals, so it’s not really the same at all.

We’re going to convert our old pig shed for yoga, but until we can afford it the people coming on Howard’s spiritual retreats have to do theirs in the hall on the old red carpet, which smells when you’re down close to it. He thinks that must be why bookings are so down this year. Another reason may be that last year it was mainly Howard’s old London friends, who came for free, as guinea pigs, and we’ve lost touch with a lot of them since. Only two came at Easter, again for free, in exchange for doing a bit of painting in the house, which they didn’t finish.

It feels too late now to ask why, with his devotion to doing everything naturally and tapping into the earth’s natural life rhythms, Howard doesn’t disapprove of the Pill. But he doesn’t; in fact he made sure I went on it right from our first weeks together in London. When we came to Stoneyridge there was no reason to change that or even talk about it; there was so much to do it was obvious a baby couldn’t be thought of, and it wasn’t. Nor even the possibility of one; I paid no more heed to the notion of my fertility than I did, being young and healthy, to the workings of my gut or the beating of my heart. So I didn’t think it would matter that I couldn’t get to the village
in late November because the roads were icebound and I’d be a few days late getting my prescription renewed. Then snow came and the few days turned out to be ten, but still I didn’t worry about it much. It’s absurd, but I don’t think I made a proper connection between the taking of a tiny daily pill and Howard’s thrusting between my legs which concluded, always, with a kind of throaty mumbling that told me he was nearly finished and made me feel, oddly, not wholly present; they didn’t seem to be about the same thing at all. That was why I didn’t think of trying to stop him reaching for me under the covers on a snowy night in December when we were barely warm enough in bed, which makes the pregnancy my fault, not his. That doesn’t mean he won’t shoulder the responsibility, but it doesn’t mean he’s going to pretend to like it, either.

I do get tired these days. On top of everything else, his anger tires me. Not that he shouts or goes storming around the place. No, he carries his anger about with him very quietly, like a grenade in a secret pocket, and just occasionally he’ll bring it out and threaten to pull the pin; his rage flares up over nothing and he’ll say one savage thing and go quiet again. For the rest of the day I’ll walk around in shock and he’ll give off a certain satisfaction as if, now I’ve been reminded he’s still got the grenade and could explode it at any time, all is as it should be. So when he comes into the kitchen an hour after the incident with the teapot lid and suggests we go up on the moor together to check the sheep, of course I say yes, even though my belly feels so tight it’s making me a little breathless and I could still burst into tears at any moment. Nevertheless, I remind myself, I am not ill. Howard even has his pipe and his knife and latest bit of carving with him—a good sign, suggesting we are going to spend some time sitting in the sun together—so once the bread is out of the oven I make a flask of tea, pack a rug to sit on, and we set off.

I can’t go as fast as Howard. Your legs are so much longer, I tell him, off you go, and I’ll catch you up. He frowns and says he’ll head on and see to the sheep and I can meet him just over the ridge at the place where there’s that slanting white rock, the one that’s like an altar. I know the spot; I’ve always thought the rock more like an ironing board at a funny angle, but I don’t say so. There are other big
boulders in a loose group around it and the gorse grows thickly there, making a natural windbreak. It’s almost always windy up there.

Soon Howard is a long way ahead. As he walks on up the moor his swaying figure in the distance loses color, blends against the green and steel-dark furze until it’s part of the land- and cloudscape shifting under the wind, the sun and shadow on the move. I struggle on after him and because he’s too far away to hear me I allow myself to give in to the need to cry, which has followed me up the hill. I’m absurdly sensitive today, I realize. It’s the sight of him striding away, the regular swing of his body made blurry by the heat haze and now by tears, that makes me feel so alone and stupid. I stop and press my hands into my back. It might break with tiredness. And now that tightening, grabbing feeling comes again, more intense than before. I’m already huge; I think Howard’s appalled at the size of me. If he knew anything about pregnancy he’d be even more appalled, because the reason I’m so big is I am carrying twins. Howard hasn’t come with me to any of the prenatal checks (another thing he’s angry about is that I’m putting my trust in conventional medicine rather than nature, even though I tell him about my breathing exercises and how natural they are) so he doesn’t know, and I haven’t dared tell him yet. I know his opinions on hospitals and I’ve been strongly advised against—in fact the midwife won’t hear of it—the home birth he’s been insisting on, so that will be another battle. I’ve only told Fee, and Auntie Joan in Edinburgh. They both say he has to be told. And he will be, but I have to wait for the right moment.

By the time I get to the slanting white stone I have a stitch in my side that’s really sore, and I’m worn out. No sign of Howard down on the other side but I can hear the faint bleating of the sheep. He’ll be wandering after them with his crook, to count and check; since we got the flock of twenty Jacobs, he’s ever the watchful shepherd. The sun’s gone behind clouds and it’s cool in the breeze. I’m glad I brought the tea. I decide not to wait for Howard, and pour myself a cup from the flask, and drink. To my surprise I vomit it up almost immediately, and even when my stomach is empty I feel wretchedly nauseous. The gorse emits an astringent, purgative stink I’ve never
noticed before. I lie back on the slanting rock, which holds some of the sun’s warmth, and try to take deep breaths, but the nausea remains. I break out in a sweat and the stitch in my side seizes me again, and spreads around my body. It grips me hard: not painfully but very tightly, like a malevolent hug. Then it lets me go, and as I’m getting my breath back I wonder for the first time if what I’m feeling isn’t a stitch at all, but a contraction. But it’s far too early. I stand up and walk around. It’s much too early; they told me there would probably be these false alarms. I’m incapable of deciding what to do, so I just wait. The likelihood is it will all just go away. But after some minutes it comes again, another squeezing crush. Now I can make out Howard tramping up toward me through the long grass, his shepherd’s crook in his hand, beard and hair flying out in the wind. I have never been so frightened or so delighted to see him. As soon as I judge him within earshot, I let out a great shout that turns into a scream. He looks up, and starts to run.

The strange thing is that by the time he reaches me, I am calm. I tell him I think my labor is starting and we should hurry down to the house. But he looks at me and shakes his head, then makes great circles with both arms. Look, he says, look, Deborah, behold! The moor, the sky, the wind!

I don’t understand.

He takes hold of both my hands. Listen, when I asked you to come up here with me today, he says, it was a sudden impulse. I don’t know why I did. I didn’t really want your company. Now I see I was—he pauses—I must have been responding to something. We’re here for a reason. It’s your time. Something’s brought you here, for you to give birth here. You’re going to give birth in the most natural place, in the most natural way you could. Look, you’re on safe high ground. You’re under the sky. I shall not leave your side. It could not be more beautiful.
You
could not be more beautiful. Don’t you see?

I can’t do it up here! I tell him. Of course I can’t! My teeth are chattering now, and my legs are trembling. I’m cold. I have to get back down—you don’t understand. Just then, another contraction seizes me, tighter than before, and for the first time it’s really painful. I groan through it, and just as it’s easing I feel a gush of warm fluid
coursing down my legs. I cry to him, Howard, help me! I’ve got to get back to the house, you’ve got to call an ambulance! You don’t understand—Howard, listen. I should have told you. I thought there’d be more time but listen, I have to tell you now. There’s two babies. I’m having twins—I was going to tell you. I’ve got to get back to the house, you’ve got to help me.

Howard gasps, then lets out a great shout and a laugh. Twins? Twins, are you sure? He’s grabbing me now and hugging me. Are you sure? Oh, my God, twins! He’s practically dancing. I don’t understand. He didn’t want one baby, why is he delighted there are two?

But Howard, listen, I say. I can’t stay up here. I’ve got to get to hospital.

Twins, I can’t believe it! Hospital? Don’t be silly! What d’you need a hospital for? Women have been having babies forever—long before there were
hospitals
! Your body knows what to do, you just need to trust it! Besides, you couldn’t get down the hill now anyway—you’re much safer up here.

Howard, listen—of course I have to be in hospital! It’s twins!

But there’s a look on his face that I know of old; it’s full of ecstatic faith. He’s filled with the spirit, charged with prophecy, unreachable. Another wave of nausea sweeps over me and I double over and vomit up a thin, burning string of bile. Behind me, Howard says cheerfully, Don’t fight it! Don’t be afraid—let it happen. I tell you, your body knows what to do! I’ll look after you.

I can’t stop shivering. Howard sits me down on the rug against a boulder and dashes off to the line of trees on the ridge, assuring me he’ll be back in moments. He reappears with an armful of fallen wood. Excitedly, he scrapes out from the sheep-cropped heath a rough circle, exposing the peaty earth below. He places the dug-out divots around it and surrounds those with a ring of small stones. Then he goes off again and comes back with pocketfuls of torn-up, ripe moor grass, yellow and dry. All this takes some time, during which two more contractions come. I submit to them, and try to remember my breathing. I’m calm again. I must talk to him quietly, and explain that he’s got to help me down off the moor before it’s too
late. His hands shake as he stuffs the straw into a crisscross of sticks in the fire pit and, after several attempts, gets it to light. Flame hisses upward and a plume of smoke blows at me horizontally. He lets out a whoop and feeds more wood on to the fire. I call out to him to be careful—surely you shouldn’t light a fire up here? Howard shakes his head and says it’s fine, and comes to crouch beside me.