Limestone and Clay by Lesley Glaister Page A

her thumbnail. ‘I see you’ve been reading Plath again.’
    â€˜So?’ She has ripped a shred of skin with her teeth, and it hurts. Tears come to her eyes. She gets up quickly to stop him seeing.
    â€˜Did you think you were?’ he asks, but Nadia will not answer. He follows her into the bathroom.
    â€˜Get out, will you. Can’t I have some privacy?’
    â€˜You should have said,’ Simon says. ‘Isn’t it to do with me? Nadia, are you angry with me?’
    â€˜Brilliant!’ Nadia shuts the door in his face. She brushes her teeth, spits violent froth in the basin. She feels sick from the dinner and the wine and the news, Celia’s wonderful news. She puts on her nightdress, gets into bed and pretends to read, ignoring Simon when he gets in.
    â€˜Funny how people who don’t like poetry like Sylvia Plath,’ he says.
    â€˜ And people who do,’ she retorts, turning the page. ‘Does it threaten you?’
    â€˜Sorry.’ Simon snuggles against her but she lies stiff. ‘Of course it doesn’t. I do love you,’ he says miserably.
    â€˜I’m trying to read,’ says Nadia.
    Simon sleeps and Nadia listens resentfully to his breathing. I should not be angry with him, she thinks. My rage is not for him. Not really. But how can he sleep while I am so angry? How can he just slip away? It is evasion. It is a dirty trick. She moves roughly, elbows his ribs, but he does not wake, only sighs in his sleep and turns over. They should have talked. Air your differences, her mother would have said. Bring them out into the open. Did she really say that? And what differences? Celia is pregnant. She can hardly blame Simon for that. Nadia is not pregnant. And that’s not his fault either. Is it the caving that is making her so angry? But she always knew he was a caver, how can she be angry with him for being what he is? What he has always been. We should have talked, she thinks, then I would be able to sleep. But I am not tired, I’ve been sleeping all day. How can Simon sleep while I’m so awake? He sleeps like a baby – only babies don’t sleep at night, people complain. Lucky fertile people complain about their broken nights. How she would love to stumble from her bed to soothe a crying child. Simon groans as if he’s having a dream. ‘Bastard,’ she whispers. Lines come into her head:
    I was angry with my friend ;
    I told my wrath, my wrath did end .
    I was angry with my foe ,
    I told it not, my wrath did grow .
    I do like poetry, she thinks, suddenly sitting up, dragging the quilt off Simon. How dare he imply that I don’t!
    She gets up and stands glaring at Simon, who lies uncovered on the bed, dimly illuminated by the light from a street lamp outside their window. He sleeps naked, and his precious penis is squashed against his leg, clinging like a leech. She throws the quilt on top of him and goes into the kitchen to heat milk. She drinks it sitting cross-legged in front of the gas fire, wrapped in her dressing gown. There must be a leak in the chimney, for every now and then there is a hiss and shudder from the fire as if a raindrop is finding its way in. There is a low sporadic sound that she cannot identify and then she realises that it is snoring; not Simon, but a rumble from downstairs. Iris’s husband, perhaps.
    Maybe it’s Simon’s sperm that’s at fault. Simon, lying there so smugly oblivious in his sleep with his soft little leech. She imagines his sperm, inactive or maimed, swimming round in circles, their tails flapping feebly. She wonders if he’s thought of that. That it might be his fault. But no. For she has conceived. And he told her once about a girl he’d made pregnant, who’d had an abortion. So it can’t be him.
    She goes into her studio, and looks into the cold cupboard at the drying pots. She could fire them tonight, since she’s not asleep. It would take hours