Preposterously pregnant now, her stomach bulbous and her sturdy frame fuller than a few months before, she makes her way towards her flowers. Katy plods along behind her. With a supporting hand on her arched back her walk is not so much a walk as it is an awkward, labouring waddle. Every day she has made this trek to her flowers unaided, and every day she has proceeded to tend to them – much to the objections of her GP, David and lately even Petrus – but it is important that she gardens. It is something she feels she must do; something that helps her remain true to herself.
Panting lightly but trying not to let it show, she arrives at her refuge, and her senses are bombarded all at once. A myriad of colour greets her eye, an indescribable fragrance meanders towards her and gradually wafts up her nose, and the faint buzz of selfless, hardworking insects trickles into her ear. All of which warms her heart. Standing before her months of hard work and looking upon it, she is overwhelmed by an immense feeling of pride. This is her work, her accomplishment, the fruits of her labour. She retrieves her gardening tools and slowly, carefully kneels down before a section of wildflower.
Although she derives a great sense of enjoyment and satisfaction from her gardening, it is also a process that facilitates thought. For the next hour or so she will not look back at Petrus’s house, where she now lives, nor will she yield to any distractions; her flowers and her thoughts are all-consuming.
The move was more for convenience’s sake, and because of the insistence that she do so from everyone around her. Succumbing was not easy, but she saw it not as a defeat, but as a sensible compromise.
Spade in hand, she thinks on. Whilst she has declared to have had no affection for the country and what used to be her land many times before, her view is now somewhat, although not altogether, different. How can she claim to love herself yet not love the land, which she has come to see herself more and more closely intertwined with over the course of her pregnancy? This joy of nurturing her flowers from little seedlings into thriving, blooming, spectacular creations, and being allowed the opportunity to cultivate the land so; it is something to be thankful for. The land cannot help who inhabits it, nor control the actions of those that do. The land is not responsible for the evils which she has encountered and will never forget – it is reliable in its stability and consistency. She can depend on the land, it will always be there, stable. She takes comfort from this.
Her mind wanders and she finds herself thinking about the life inside her. As if on cue she feels the baby kick, and momentarily stops uprooting rebellious weeds. Still on her knees she straightens her back as best she can for comfort and to marvel. Raising a child was not a decision she had given much thought to in the past – given her nature she had all but ruled out the possibility – but the prospect of being a mother, she decides, sits well with her. Sure, she is apprehensive, but what mother isn’t? She knows within herself that she will not treat her child as a manifestation of that day. The child is not at fault, he or she will receive her boundless love.
A wave of nausea sweeps over her, no doubt the strong smells surrounding her the catalyst, the trigger. But she waits it out resolutely, fighting off wave after wave until the discomfort and unpleasantness subsides.
She stands up to fetch the secateurs and twine – the market is tomorrow and the flowers are in their prime. She has been to every Sunday market since moving in with Petrus. She and David go together, setting up her stall each week. Many of the passers-by whisper to each other as they pass her stall. Whether they know the truth or have made their own assumptions about her pregnancy she does not care. She still has her loyal customers, and it’s not about making money to her. The flowers she displays not in hope of benefiting, but to showcase what she and the land have accomplished together. She has also come to appreciate the particular allotted time with David. It is the only time they spend together, but she is glad they could reconcile to some extent. Though his irony and preoccupation with himself frustrates her to no end, she often finds herself delighting in the more friendly debates they share once a week. And he is there, making an effort; standing tall and proud by his child and his child’s decision. He may not have been a model parent, but he has not failed her.
She finishes off her gardening for the day; bundles of flowers lie bunched and tied in a box together with potted ones. Katy watches her, apparently uninterested as usual, as she struggles to pick up the box and waddles, protruding-stomach first, back toward Petrus’s house in the fading late afternoon night.
*
She has had relatively few issues with Pollux. Moving into Petrus’s home, living in such close proximity to Pollux was her main concern. He has not peeped on her in the bathroom again, as far as she knows, although sometimes she catches in his expression a hint of desire; a desire to exert power over her like he has before. Whilst she is not paralysed with fear, she sleeps with a hammer in the top drawer of her bedside table. Once burnt, forever scarred. But she does not let her scars dictate her actions. They are there, ugly and permanent, but they will not control her. She will not let them.
Her bed groans and creaks as she attempts to find a more comfortable sleeping position. She realises she is being kept awake by the moonlight seeping in through the opening in her not quite closed curtains. As she approaches the window a slight breeze cools her face and causes her nightgown to billow slightly. The sensation is wondrously refreshing. She is overcome by a mysterious happiness. A few moments later she returns to her bed content and in high spirits.
*
Her door creaks and she is immediately drawn to consciousness. Straining in the half-light to determine the identity of the figure, she sits up. ‘Hello? Is something the matter?’ But the figure does not respond. She can tell now that it is Pollux, her eyes having adjusted quickly. ‘Pollux? Is that you?’ she says, trying to make her voice sound casual. Again he does not respond. He has not moved from the doorway. Her heart rate quickens. Petrus and his wife are sleeping at the other end of the house. She could scream if he did anything, and the hammer was only an arm’s length away.
She feels a wetness soak her lap and dampen the bottom of her thighs. Oh no, not now, she begs. ‘Pollux, go get Petrus. Please hurry, I need to get to the hospital as my water has just broken.’
He takes a step inside the room. It is too dark to see his face.
‘Pollux, go quickly!’ she pleaded, starting to swing her legs over the side of the bed.
She turns away from him in order to lift herself up off the bed, but suddenly he is upon her, pushing her back down. She tries to scream but he has his hand around her throat, choking her. He is naked but for his underwear, which he disposes of almost as quickly as he hikes up her nightdress. She writhes beneath him but he is too strong. He forces himself into her. She is utterly petrified, and running out of air. She digs her nails into the hand that is choking her but he just squeezes harder. Her first contraction rocks her, but at least it is a natural kind of pain. It stirs her into action. Pollux continues to clumsily but forcefully thrust in and out of her, a sickening expression on his face. She reaches desperately for the bedside table now, tears escaping her eyes. She grasps for the handle of the hammer, aware that she was becoming weaker with each horrid second.
It strikes Pollux on the temple. Instantly he becomes limp and collapses on top of her. A sense of urgency takes over her and overrides the pure shock of what has just happened. She must go to her flowers.
She pushes Pollux off of her and stumbles to her feet. She is ravaged by another contraction and needs to steady herself against the wall. As soon as it is through she begins the journey she has made so many times over the past few months. Except this time she is wearing only her soiled white nightgown. Countless times she is brought to her knees on the way to her refuge, so often so that they begin to bleed freely as graze builds upon graze.
But she makes it to her flowers.
She falls on her back amongst the wildflowers, pansies and roses and screams with agony at every harrowing contraction. They are still going when day breaks. They are nearing an end as she hears David’s pickup pulling up the drive, ready to take her to the market. Somehow he spots her immediately and is now rushing towards her. ‘Lucy!’ he screams. She had not seen her father run so fast in his life. As he gets to her side he takes her in his arms. She is fading. She feels she is near the end; sheer exhaustion, of body and soul. Tears now stream down David’s face.
The baby comes.
It was the land that raised her flowers, she merely tended to them. She had now delivered to the land a new life; it was up to the land to raise her child. She could only tend to him in spirit.
