Snegurochka by Judith Heneghan (best ebook reader for laptop .TXT) 📕

tweedy tie that swings forward as he manoeuvres round his over-sized Soviet-era desk and lifts Ivan out of her arms. When he speaks his vowels curl at the edges, the hint of a past life in Australia, perhaps.

‘Let’s get him undressed. Seven months, hey? He’s a good weight! Had all his jabs, I take it, eating well . . .’

‘Shall I do that?’ asks Rachel, rising to her feet as the doctor lies Ivan down on the narrow consulting bed and starts to unzip his snow suit.

‘No need. Means I can check his joints and his reflexes . . . You sit down, have a rest.’

Rachel does as she is told.

The consulting room is taller than it is wide. There is a long, wooden-framed window behind the desk and freshly-hung net curtains, still with their horizontal creases, open slightly. Beyond Rachel can see a small courtyard and the trunk of a plane tree, its bark patchy as if it has a skin disease: impetigo or psoriasis or another of those words that used to fascinate her as a child. There’s an austere quality to the room – the thin February light, the pale blue walls, the high ceiling with its airy cornicing – that lightens the weight on her shoulders, opens up her lungs. She takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly.

‘Nasty rash,’ says Dr Alleyn, as he opens Ivan’s nappy. ‘I’ll give you something for that. But the best treatment is plenty of fresh air. Put him on a mat on the floor and let him go commando.’

‘Okay,’ says Rachel. Here is the doctor, she thinks. He is telling her how to look after her baby. This is what she has been missing. This is what she needs.

‘He’s sitting well. Pulling himself up to stand, yet? Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a late walker. He’s got long legs. Higher centre of gravity. Super chap!’

Rachel smiles, nods. She remembers the way the security guard had squinted at Ivan’s passport photo when they arrived. The photo had been taken when Ivan was six weeks old. The photographer had lain him down on a white sheet on the counter in the shop near Clapham Junction, then stood on a step ladder above him. When the flash went off Ivan’s arms and legs had shot out in surprise. The result was an image of a moon face – white, hairless, eyes half-closed and that wide, searching mouth. He looks quite different now, she thinks, as the doctor hands her son back to her, nappy re-taped, vest flapping about his long, strong thighs. Ivan swings his torso forward, fists open, reaching to grab something from the desk. She glances down to see what has caught his attention and notices a copy of Time with a picture of a snow-flecked banana on the front cover.

‘Look, Ivan!’ she says, as a memory flickers. ‘Banana.’

‘Likes them, does he?’ asks Doctor Alleyn, washing his hands at a sink behind a curtain. ‘You’ve done well to keep breastfeeding. Those journalists are a tough crowd – not like us coddled Foreign Office types! But you – well, not many western wives and mums out here, I should think. Everything else all right?’ He turns off the tap and pulls a paper towel out of a dispenser, before returning to his chair behind the desk and writing something on a pad of paper. A silence settles around the room. Rachel realises she is expected to answer.

‘I’m fine.’ She chews her lip. ‘My back aches a bit. We don’t have a washing machine, so I do the laundry in the bath . . .’

Doctor Alleyn looks up at her.

‘Quite.’ He frowns a little; just enough to suggest sympathy, should she need it. ‘Are you sleeping?’

‘Well, yes, mainly. The dogs wake me sometimes. And I still get up twice a night to feed Ivan . . .’

‘Try letting him cry. Tough love, and all that. It’s not easy, but it works. Are you eating properly?’

She thinks of the soft folds of flesh across her abdomen that won’t shift, despite all the walking and lifting and bending. ‘Yes. Too much, probably.’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ He notes something down, then regards her with a calm, practised gaze. ‘Do you ever feel weepy? I mean, cry for no particular reason?’

A pause.

‘No.’

‘Are you more irritable these days? Do you feel any more angry or more lethargic than before you had your baby?’

‘I don’t think . . . No,’ says Rachel, carefully, as she realises, too late, where these questions are heading.

‘Don’t mind me asking. I’m sure you are on top of things. Anyone who brings a child to Kiev must be pretty resilient . . .’

Rachel, however, is struggling to concentrate. The room’s height, its airy spaces are pulling her away from her chair, her heavy stomach, the baby on her lap. If she stands now, he’ll fall to the floor and the magazine he is grasping will fall too. I know this picture, says the voice in her head. I’ve seen those bandaged hands, I was there, this is Teddy’s photograph taken outside the monastery and Ivan and I are just out of shot, beyond the red border . . .

‘I have to ask . . .’ The doctor is still speaking. ‘It’s all part of the service – no stone left unturned. Have you ever had thoughts of harming yourself or your baby, Rachel? Even for a moment?’

Rachel looks up and sees that one of Dr Alleyn’s eyes is not quite level with the other, as if an invisible finger is tugging at the side of his face. She resists the urge to laugh, though she must bite the inside of her cheeks if she is to remain composed. A lie isn’t always a lie. Sometimes you simply nudge the camera sideways.

‘Everything’s fine,’ she says, pushing Ivan’s legs into his snowsuit. ‘I’m just tired. Thank you so much for seeing me. You’ve been very reassuring.’

She stands quickly, holding Ivan against her hip. Doctor Alleyn stands too.

‘Take my card,’ he says. ‘For emergencies. I have to tell you I won’t be in