by the same author
SEPARATE TRACKS
HER LIVING IMAGE
MR WROE’S VIRGINS
JANE ROGERS
The Ice Is
Singing
First published in 1987
by Faber and Faber Limited
3 Queen Square London WC1N 3AU
This paperback edition first published in 1988
This digital edition first published by Canongate in 2012
© Jane Rogers, 1987
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 0 85786 950 0
www.canongate.tv
Marion’s journal and stories, February 2 – March 8 1986
Second story: The Spinster Daughter
Third story: What Sort of a Mother
Fourth story: The Perfect Parasite
Part of The Ice is Singing was written while I was Writer in Residence at Northern College, Barnsley, in 1985–6. I would like to thank Northern College and the Arts Council of Great Britain.
The characters in this book are fictional, and bear no relation to any person living or dead.
Jane Rogers
Sunday February 2 1986
There were a lot of cars. It took me by surprise. Moving very fast. They swerve in and out. Or stop, or turn. As if they know exactly where they’re going.
I was clear. The twins were asleep. I was perfectly clear. I started the engine, and backed on to the road in one manoeuvre, clean and mechanical. Moved the gearstick from first down to second, up and across to third, straight down to fourth. No sticking or crunching. Needle creeping across the clock. When I got to the end of the road I had to turn right, towards the motorway. But the bright headlights were moving too fast. I couldn’t judge their speed. I stopped there watching. A car behind me hooted repeatedly. After a while I accelerated forwards into the road, and turned into a lane. More of them hooted at me, one screeched its brakes.
I tried to drive a straight line. Dazzling lights appeared quite suddenly out of the blackness both in front of and behind me, making me wobble. Those behind came up fast and just when I thought they would burst right through the back window they swerved out and roared past me. Their red tail-lights dived into the dark space of road I was driving towards.
I thought it would be best to stop. It was not possible to reach the side because they were passing on my left and right. I stopped in the middle, switching on the hazard-lights. The stream of cars divided easily around me and flowed on. Their moving lights made lines across the darkness. Ruth has a time-lapse photo of New York at night. The moving lights of vehicles have left trails across the picture. I thought, it would be easy to drive those streets, following the red and gold threads that hang suspended in the black air. To be strung in place like a bead.
Later on the traffic died down. When the road behind me seemed empty I started off again. It’s like riding a bicycle, you have to keep going. I can’t have driven at night for a long time. Gradually I built up speed.
It’s warm in here. Someone’s vacuuming the corridor. Outside it has snowed, quite heavily.
Monday February 3
I drove on up the motorway. There is snow lying, it makes the light strange. I’m driving through fluorescent tubes. The motorway was full of cars and slow. In places, like a conveyor belt. At a garage I filled the tank.
Driving is more like skating now. At times I can pull out and swoop past someone, skimming gracefully back into position in front of them. The car seems more responsive, it likes to swoop and glide quickly. It is engaging my concentration, I do not think about anything else. I feel well; I feel quite clear. I do everything right. Eat, go to bed, eat. When I slept I dreamed I was still driving.
My head is full of emptiness, a white eggshell. I drive in silence to keep it so. The radio is trouble. Snow light is filling up my eyes, they are scoured white. I drive blind, but the road is a clear black line and not hard to follow. Keeping moving seems the best thing to do. I move to keep blank (it works); driving all day with a ball of thoughts and feelings rolling along behind me, ready to crush, a carelessly chucked giant’s marble.
Tonight I am staying in a small cluttered room, with a china dog, amongst other