The soles of my shoes lift eddies of dust from the lane. I have on an old pair of denim overalls from my pregnancy and my hair is up in a knot, the sun warm on the back of my neck. I look at the beach roses, the potato fields, the row of tilting telephone poles, the lighter wash of sky to the east, above the sea.
I want Tom to be right about Greyabbey, that we’re safe here, that this village is different from the city. It is different. We have a microclimate, to start. The air feels warmer here in the summer and colder in the winter. We have thicker fogs and heavier snow. Our nights are darker, pitch-black. Our shops sell different things, you can buy mismatched silver at our antique shops, or a set of enamel coffee spoons, or a vintage steamer trunk, and across the street, you can buy turf bricks at the farm shop.
Our storms are worse, blowing straight in from the sea, and sometimes the roads flood. Sometimes the wind rips branches from the trees. Last winter, an ice storm knocked down a power line. The storm came fast, I remember worrying about the fishing boats that had been caught at sea. One of them had to be rescued by the coast guard. Those are the kinds of problems we have here. We’re closer to a coast guard post than to a police station.
We don’t have crime. We have tense council meetings about building extensions and roadworks, we have feuds between rival antique-shop dealers. This village is safe, relatively speaking. Maybe Tom is right, maybe if we move to London, I’ll start worrying about knife crime, or international terrorism, or air pollution. If we stay here, Finn can have a canoe, and a dog, he can swim in the sea even on schooldays, he can grow up near his extended family.
Though even places like this have been targeted in the past. No one really knows of our village now, but it could be notorious one day.
Marian said they’re close to a cease-fire. She said dozens of people are working in secret to end the conflict. A twinge pinches my side, which I ignore. The sun is behind us now, sending our shadows ahead of us on the dirt lane. I wave my hands and Finn laughs at the jumping shadow.
I walked on these lanes all through my pregnancy, which from here seems like such an easier time. I feel nostalgic for it, for my concerns then, their simplicity. All I had to do to be a good mother then was, what, take a prenatal vitamin. Not smoke. Maybe buy some nappies.
Now, I wonder, would a good mother take Finn away from this place, or keep him close to his father? Would a good mother work for peace, or stay away from the conflict? Would a good mother be preoccupied with terrorism during every minute she has spent with her son this week?
I don’t want my son to have to forgive me for anything, but I can’t even tell what that might be, so how can I avoid it?
Before Tom left, I said, “Do you ever worry you’re a bad father?”
“No,” he said.
“No as in you’ve considered it and decided you’re not, or no as in you’ve never thought about it?”
“Um,” he said. “The second.”
“Christ. What must that be like?”
“Why, do you worry about being a bad father?” he asked.
It’s impossible. I want someone to tell me what to do. If we can stay or if we need to leave tonight, right away, the sooner the better.
* * *
—
At home, I open a jar of vegetable purée while Finn grizzles and bounces in the high chair. “No need for alarm, it’s coming, here we are.”
His mouth clamps down on the spoon. I hope he always loves food this much. The first time he tried pears, his eyes widened and he patted my arm to ask for more. Once he’s done, I finish the jar, scraping out the last swirls of squash with a spoon.
I always feel vaguely self-conscious buying jars of his food at the supermarket, like someone is about to tell me I’m too young to have a baby. Which I’m not, of course. Not even close. A stranger did once look in my shopping basket and tell me to make homemade purées instead. “So much better for the baby.” There’s always someone, for a mother, ready to tell you to pull your socks up.
I wipe the squash from Finn’s hands and face while he squirms in protest, remove his stained clothes and gently wrestle him into clean ones, change my own dirty shirt, wipe down the high chair, and kneel to mop the floor below it. I’m rinsing the baby food jar for the recycling bin when the exhaustion crashes over me.
After his bath, I hold him on the bed, with a pillow folded under my arm. While nursing, Finn reaches to grip the strap of my top. He often does this, finds a hold to cling to, out of some instinct not to be separated from me.