want to be viewed with compassionate eyes for a second time, nor any further prying into the state of their marriage. They do not need help. They are fine.
Privacy is needed. Ignorance. Hari’s compassion is simply the first wave, the ripple along the surf. They will be drowned many times over before others have finished expressing their sympathy.
‘Does anyone else know?’
‘I haven’t had time to think. Not even our parents know yet.’
‘I can ring around if it’ll make things easier.’
‘No. This is Claud’s shout. Something we need to keep to ourselves for the time being.’
He has a feeling when the signal fails, fortuitously, the phone masts banished from the hospital’s immediate radius, that he will be avoiding Hari for a very long time, now seeing the point of distance between friends.
This is not the plan. She has already been discharged. He sees her, unexpectedly, as he walks up the ramp towards the entrance and works hard to keep his face from crumbling. She is sitting on a bench, reading a leaflet, her overnight bag wedged between her feet. Even from this distance he sees what change the night has brought, how she seems to have shrunk by degrees, her wraparound coat, a recent prized buy, now appearing several sizes too big for her. No longer following the contours of her body, its bagginess gives her a wizened quality, the double knot tied at the waist making her appear swaddled. Bleached out by sunlight, she is so pale as if to emphasize her blood loss, though the bed curls and the detailed embroidery across the coat breast give her a gothic quality; a vampire in urgent need of food. Her eyelids are red with lack of sleep, in spite of the staff nurse’s earlier report. Sockets are marginally sunken and bags more pronounced. As she lifts her hand to turn the pamphlet, he notices a series of angry blotches floating across her hand, suggesting that every part of her body is suffering the loss. Only the glow of her hair remains defiant, refusing to mourn.
‘I thought the doctor wasn’t seeing you until later. They told me not to get here until ten.’
‘They’ve a busy day in theatre. Wanted to get me out of the way.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Same as yesterday. Please can you take me home, now?’
She will not be kissed; rises and walks down the ramp before he has a chance to tell her where the car is. The leaflet, ditched on the bench, is for counselling. He too chooses to leave it.
The drive is difficult. She does not want to talk. Does not want the radio. They had talked on the drive up yesterday. Reassuring talk that willingly ignored the sudden blood loss in the bathroom. Useless, ignorant talk that pooh-poohed the writings of medical practitioners, and played for her trust. Now there is no right to speak unless spoken to. He feels her tightening up against him, watches the tautness of her mouth as she keeps it all in. It is as if the easiness they once shared, the ability to be comfortable with one another has been lost with the baby.
The bunch of sunflowers he believed to be casual and not loaded with meaning are registered briefly, then ignored. Nor does the grey angora blanket thrown over the passenger seat please her.
‘Worried about messing the car? Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
Her laugh is grim and pained.
‘I thought you might be cold.’
‘I’ve got this coat. Don’t need wrapping up in cotton wool.’
Why are you holding it then, he wants to ask, stung. He is expecting her to bite but is still unprepared for it when the sharp words come, so busy was he in his head to make everything right. He must not let her behaviour cloud his judgement or feeling. What has happened has been harder on her than he could ever imagine. The doctor said as much last night. Anger, guilt, and blame must be compassionately received. Only then will she open up.
He can do it if he tries. See past the scorn manifest on her face, and the strangulation in her voice each time she addresses him; even if its tension is like a single wire held firm at the base of his neck, ready to slit his throat at the first thoughtless remark. For the first time in their marriage he is frightened and aware that he does not know her. But he can forget that, fear crushed under Pirelli tyres, when her breath loses its shallowness and becomes deeper, bringing some warmth into the frozen cabin; when she touches his shoulder lightly and says, ‘Can we take a drive though Richmond Park? I’m not ready to go home yet.’
‘Sure. What do you want, hills or deer?’
‘Deer, I think.’
‘Why not? We can take the route we took the other week. That way we get some hills too. Best of both worlds.’
They drive though Richmond Gate, whose imposing presence, tall and unencumbered by trees or outbuildings, always seems to dwarf and belittle all who enter, then left, towards sparser areas of the park, Ham, Sheen, and Pen Ponds, away from walkers and anywhere where there may be groups of mothers and small children. He has driven in a roundabout way from the hospital, taking a series of back roads to avoid two primary schools for this very reason.
He sees her looking for where the deer converge. Her eyes intently study thick growths of bracken and fern, craning her neck across both sides of the road as she peers through dark, mature copses for any sign of movement. He wonders whether it is the creatures themselves she wants to see, or just a confirmation of their camouflage, that maybe she too wishes to hide.
But there are no deer to be seen on their tour, only a panorama of discarded water bottles and a trail of tanned cyclists, Australian or South African, streaming through the foliage. He watches as her eyes lock onto the cyclists’ wheels weaving along the dust track, taking in the lightness of those machines, and the speed and the agility of those powering them. The BMW is an unwieldy beast by comparison, a useless lump of metal, leather and angora, pitifully unable to fly her away.
‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ he says, uselessly, unable to bring himself to mention the cyclists, spectacularly male and thundering with sun-nurtured virility.
‘Not without the wildlife. It looks like a giant garden otherwise.’
‘I thought rabbits were meant to be lucky, not deer,’ he says, and immediately realizes it is the wrong thing to say, that luck should not be brought into anything, should never be mentioned again.
‘I tell you what, Claud. I’ll get some venison in for dinner if we don’t see any. Knock-up one of my specials. How does that sound?’
The hand on the shoulder again. A softening.
‘Amal, you don’t have to do anything special because you think it’ll cheer me up. I’m fine.’
‘Really? You’re fine.’
‘Yes. I am. I will be. Stop worrying.’
On the second stage of their honeymoon, a weekend at a country house on the edge of Dartmoor, a late-Victorian decompression chamber following three weeks in Mexico, their suite had been studded with several stag heads won from various county hunts. Claud had tried to hang from one of them whilst he was eating out of her. There was no chandelier in the room so this was the next best thing. They were adventurous, then. Sun-spoilt and happy, he remembers
