Snegurochka Judith Heneghan (most read book in the world .txt) 📖

It has just taken all her strength to shuffle to the bathroom and back again. ‘I feel empty,’ she says, and it’s true, she is empty – her milk is all gone. She hasn’t nursed Ivan for three days, and now there’s nothing left. Lucas shows her the powdered formula he bought from the pharmacy in Lipki – some American brand she’s never heard of, but the date on the base of the tin is still good and Lucas says he read the instructions, boiled the water for ages, and even found the sterilising tablets Rachel kept beneath the sink.

‘He didn’t like it at first,’ Lucas tells her. ‘But he hasn’t been sick and now he slurps it up from his beaker like a pro.’

Rachel rests her head back against the pillow. Ivan is sitting on the floor by Lucas’s feet, brandishing a rope of cotton reels that Elena has made for him. Her hand reaches through the space until she touches the top of his head. This isn’t how she wanted to wean her son. In truth she hadn’t known how she would do it and the loss leaves a physical ache, as if a piece of string is knotted beneath her sternum and someone is tugging, but it keeps catching between her ribs. Ivan is separate from her now; yet, unexpectedly, the ache of separation is tempered by relief. He survived out on the balcony even though she wasn’t there. If she died now he would live.

‘Where is Elena?’ she asks.

‘Elena? No idea. She was here earlier, though. I know you weren’t sure about leaving her with Ivan, but she’s been a godsend while you’ve been ill. She’s taken the washing away, taken him for walks. Don’t worry – I’ve told her not to take him out on the balcony.’

‘It’s okay,’ says Rachel. ‘I don’t mind.’

Lucas is taken aback. ‘Really? I thought it would upset you!’ He doesn’t know about Mykola’s warning, or the gravity-invoking weight of her own fear and none of this matters to Rachel any more, because Elena has taken her baby out to the edge and proved them all wrong.

‘Look,’ continues Lucas. ‘I’ve been thinking. I said some stupid stuff before you got ill, and I’m sorry. I really am. But you do need to go back to England for a couple of weeks – nothing more, I swear – just a bit of time for a rest and some food that won’t poison you.’ He takes her hand. She doesn’t pull away. ‘Zoya’s been useless – I think a relative died and I’ve got behind with work. Not your fault, obviously. So I’ve booked you a ticket. For next week.’

Rachel blinks quickly, her old habit, the one she has always used to push away difficult thoughts.

‘Anyway,’ continues Lucas, ‘when you come back my story will be finished and we can take a holiday together, maybe down to Crimea like I promised at Christmas. I could get a feature out of it – make it pay for itself.’

‘I suppose.’ So many other things are stretching, twisting, re-forming into a way of thinking that is as yet unclear. For the first time in months Rachel peers out at a pressing, insistent future. England, and the fact of its continuing existence, is beginning to reassemble itself.

Chapter 24

On the morning of Rachel’s departure she wakes early and stands in the kitchen in her bare feet. The sun is already high above the river. She can feel its warmth on her face as she sips her tea. Her suitcases are packed. Ivan’s changing bag is ready. The cupboard is full of dried pasta and tinned tomatoes so that Lucas won’t starve. Soon she will wake Ivan, give him his morning milk and dress him for the journey, but she won’t move until she hears Lucas pull the light switch in the bathroom. Her own stillness calms her. In a few hours she will be in England, knocking on her mother’s door. She hasn’t told her mother she is coming. Neither has she mentioned this fact to Lucas. Baby steps, she thinks. First one foot, then the other.

Lucas, however, doesn’t go into the bathroom. Instead he steps in behind her and stands just an inch or two away. She can feel his bed heat between them. She can smell his morning breath. He can’t take her to the airport, he tells her. Lukyanenko has called a breakfast press conference. Lucas wasn’t given any warning; he has to go. He is sorry, but this is big. Soon he is dressed and gone, leaving only an awkward kiss next to her ear and a plea that she will call the office number from Heathrow when she lands.

Rachel watches from the window as he strides across the car park. Soon he is a tiny figure like the other tiny figures moving across the road, milling at the tram stop, combining and separating, impelled by some law of mutual proximity. She stows her copy of Jurassic Park in the bottom of Ivan’s changing bag and waits for Zoya.

* * *

When Zoya arrives, Rachel tells her how sorry she is to hear about her bereavement.

Zoya is wearing a green shirt today, tucked into the high waist of her jeans. She looks different – the outfit is more casual than her usual skirt and boots as if she was dressed for a stroll in the park.

‘My grandfather was old,’ she says, with a quick shake of her head. ‘Dying was all he had left.’ She spots Rachel’s suitcase. ‘Let’s go. You have your passport, your ticket, money?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Rachel clips Ivan into his pushchair and loops the changing bag over the handles. When she closes the front door behind them and rattles it to make sure it is locked a shiver passes through her, a sense of severance, as if the time she has spent here is shaking itself out. She will be back in two weeks, she tells herself. Nothing will have changed.

Downstairs