Crustaceans Read Free

expression, more than one emotion. There is joy, and the ache of wanting to hold you, but you keep your distance, your separateness from me. This is as much as you will offer, and yet still I cannot stop smiling. I peer at you closely, trying to absorb – to remember – every detail of your appearance. But even as my gaze touches your face, it blurs and you fade, your likeness eludes me. I click my tongue; I concentrate harder. I focus perhaps on your mouth, or your fringe, or your nose. I ask you to help me; I joke and cajole. But I know I am losing you. And then you are gone. My legs give way beneath me, a blanketing weight falls over me. There is panic, and the puncturing pain of my longing. Fragments of light glint near my eyes, silica-fine and piercing, and my body shakes uncontrollably, my blood becomes turbulent. I hear the sea crashing, receding, windbreaks flapping. Voices are calling, viciously whispering. A dog barks. Electrical connections fizz loose in the fairground; a single note blares from the carousel organ. I try to shout for someone to help me, but I’m suffocating – can’t make any sound – and I twist and arch to escape, then realise that I’ve been here before. I know I am dreaming, but the agitation is real and will surely kill me; I shall die before I open my eyes. I grab for Ruth’s arm, dig my nails in to rouse her, dig deeply, and keep digging until my nails break, until I remember it’s already too late, that there’s no point in continuing.
    When I wake my body is heavy on the bed, the sheets undisturbed, everything quiet. I haven’t moved, Ruth isn’t beside me, and my breathing is steady. But something of the disturbance remains, and I know that whatever I now look at is likely to move, become animate, unpredictable. I don’t fear it. I stare into the shadows and corners, all the low spaces. I will your image to form, I wait for you to appear, but I see only what I wish to forget. I get up and wander the house, switching on lights as I move from one room to the next, and I feel your presence then, more real than dreaming. You are in the passages, the doorways, all the in-between places. You evade me, slip away as I approach. But I know you are there, and I talk to you, I talk to you endlessly.

FOUR
    I remember a moment just after you were born. The midwives were busy with Ruth, washing her down, unplugging the wires, and I wandered into a corridor to stand a short while alone. It was as good as any place to be – peaceful, spacious, uncluttered – though a smoker would have had to search longer. There were No Smoking signs everywhere. I breathed and exhaled, the air was suddenly full of you. And I thought, Who am I now, and what can I show you? I stared at the palms of my hands, the empty hands of your father, and I made myself promise never to hit you; I made myself promise never to leave you. I trusted in promises then. I was what you had just made me, and my thoughts ran to the seashore in summer, absurdly, too hastily, for I knew the names of nothing we might find there, but already we were gathering shells, casting stones at the waves, raiding rockpools for crabs. Crustaceans. I knew that word at least, and I helped you pronounce it.
    Of course my hands had no idea then of the work you would find them. Today, in this cold, with your coat plumped out by your scarf, they would strain to fasten your toggles and I would scowl at your restlessness, the effort just to make you stand still. I would shape a tissue for your hand and guide it to your nose, show you how to pinch as you blew. I would kneel and turn you around and demonstrate once more how to tie the knots in your laces. Then I’d count the fingers into your gloves, ease the rim of your hat over your ears, and hold you by the shoulders and smile. So many things you wouldn’t want to be shown, and which you wouldn’t have time for.
    But I was always too keen to