Free The Ice is Singing by Jane Rogers Page A

She does not enjoy lingering in the cool darkening garden, selecting long-stemmed pinks, breaking the twigs of fragrant orange-blossom. Nor does she wait for and take pleasure in the
stillness of the house with sleeping children: the running bath and room filling with steam, the slow pouring of luxurious bath foam into the rushing water. She does not enjoy the sight of her own
healthy body in silky, flattering garments, nor the feeling of her warm pampered flesh tingling with satisfaction and anticipation.
    Oh no. She does it all for Gareth. And Gareth’s interest and pleasure are her reward. In fact it was not even necessary for him to show interest and pleasure. He simply needed to exist,
like a chair, to give meaning and purpose to all her actions, and to enable her to be happy. He didn’t even need to speak. But if he should take himself away, when she is doing all this for
him? She will be wronged, her joys ruined. And he will be guilty.
    * * *
    Vi accusing me. The night is clear, and the date, November 5th, the year before last. I was three months pregnant with the twins, feeling sick and slow. I remember I sat by the
bedroom window in the dark watching the fires and distant rockets. There were patches of red sparks and that orange glow reflected in windows, of fires burning in gardens and on waste ground. In
different areas of the sky there were spates of business, as different parties let off their rockets, their golden rain and shooting stars. I was out of it. We used to have a bonfire when the girls
were little; now they were out together at Jackie’s, Gareth was going to bring them home. I was at peace up there, with my precious bellyful, and the whole of London dark and lit up outside
my window. Twice I heard the sirens of fire engines hurtling to fires that had got out of hand; their urgency accentuated my calm. I had no need to worry.
    Then there was a flurry of noise in the hall, the door slamming, sharp breaths and footsteps running round the downstairs rooms. I sat and waited, part of me feeling that I was invisible, and
invulnerable – the other part, paralysed with fear. The footsteps thudded upstairs – I recognized them.
    ‘Vi?’
    She came running, and stopped just inside the doorway. ‘Mum?’
    ‘Yes. What’s the matter?’
    ‘What are you doing? Why are you sitting in the dark?’
    ‘I’m watching the fireworks. What’s the matter? Where’s Ruth?’ Slowly she came over to me. As she approached the window the orange light from outside showed me
that her face was blurry with smoke and tears.
    ‘Where’s Ruth?’
    ‘She’s OK. She’s at Jackie’s.’
    ‘What’s the matter then? Why have you come home on your own?’ She stood hesitating in the darkness for a minute, then knelt down next to me. She was looking out of the window,
at the fireworks. I began to stroke her hair. We both watched in silence for a little while. Her breaths quietened and I heard her swallow a lump down a couple of times.
    ‘It’s quiet here,’ she said.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Don’t you mind being on your own?’
    ‘No. It’s peaceful.’
    ‘Where’s Dad?’
    ‘He’s – well, I think he’s at a meeting. He told me he’d pick you up from Jackie’s but it’s not ten yet, is it?’
    ‘Mum! He’s a liar –’ She burst into noisy tears, shifting away from me to lean against the wall. ‘He’s a filthy beastly shit of a liar and I hate
him!’
    I let her cry for a while. To the south, an expensive party had got under way. They were letting off rockets four at a time, and each one fired – I counted – six coloured flares.
    ‘Look. Isn’t that pretty?’ I reached for her in the dark and touched her cheek. She flinched away from me.
    ‘Can’t you hear what I’m saying, Mum? It’s important.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I know what you’re going to tell me, Vi. That he wasn’t at a meeting, or whatever it is you’ve discovered. I know all about it.’
    ‘What do you know?