2010 Anniversary of 1966 Wedding

This forthcoming Friday is our forty-fourth wedding anniversary.
Not significant in commercial terms, no precious metal or stone nor, to the best of my knowledge any spurious gap-filler of ... flowers or futons or figs. Nevertheless I see it as sort of significant if only for the fact that I was born in a house numbered forty four.
And because we started going out together on the fourth day of the fourth month. So I shall give this wedding anniversary a more apt attribution. I shall say this occasion is our lucky wedding anniversary.



We just wanted to be married, so we could live together, sleep together.
My mother wanted to be the Mother of the Bride and endlessly discuss weddings with her work colleagues, so would have preferred us to wait another six months at least.

His parents wanted us to get married in church, despite the fact that neither of us were believers. The hoops they made us jump through, in their attempts to persuade us included a deeply funny tea party to which his mother’d invited the vicar, overcoming her antipathy to his extreme blackness of skin in the hope that he’d talk some sense into us; he, however, appreciated our lack of hypocrisy.

I asked Steve’s recently widowed aunt to make my dress and jacket (nothing fancy – a simply shift) but she rather cocked it up.

My father got so fed up with all the aggravation about church weddings, and was nervous about making a speech, that he offered us £50 to elope to Gretna Green.

Initial doubts

"Gran, you're not listening ... I didn't say his name was Bud, I said his initials were Bud - B U D, like my initials. And anyway you can be called Bud, strange as it sounds, it is a name in America - wasn't there someone called Bud Flanagan or something?"

She looked back over her shoulder at her grandmother, sat at the table doing the crossword, and trying to beat her self-imposed 30 minute deadline, then turned back to the task in hand: getting the fire going, the wind was in the east and it was hard to get it to draw, despite sitting there with a newspaper held up against the chimney breast for what had seemed ages.

"Well what is his name then, what do the initials stand for?"

"Benedict Ulrich Dohl - his father's father was German apparently."

"Well, you certainly can't be marrying him then .. "

" Whyever not? - not that I've any intention of doing so, for heaven's sake! - stop trying to marry me off to every bloke I mention .. but why not this chap?"

"Because with your name - Barbara - you'll become a Barbie Dohl," and Rose triumphantly laid down her pen. "Finished! Finished in 28 minutes - and that newspaper's going to burn if you're not careful."

Capturing the experience

The pleasure of sitting at the deep back of a dark wood bar on a sunny summer day cannot be over-stressed, and for relaxation it certainly outweighs the outside passings of traffic seeking parking and a place to eat.

Add a pint of Guinness and fresh crab sandwiches and the opportunity to people-watch a murmuring crowd of like-minded lunchers and the occasion further satisfies.

In the days when I carried one of Seawhite’s small chunky sketchbooks and fine black ink pen in my tatty secondhand motorcycle jacket, and had a mini paintbox and brush in the pannier, such lunch stops were captured therein, not necessarily with the hope of a perfect rendition but in the certain knowledge that the resulting memory would be far, far longer-lasting than a photograph, for who looks at the scene they are snapping for more than seconds?

This was an August lunchtime in the Bantry Hotel on a trip which had begun as an Irish BSA rally but was hastily abandoned for a variety of reasons; over-reliance on hope on the part of the organisers being one, and a first, appalled, meeting with a ginger-bearded horror being the convincing second.

The scenery impinged less than it ought due to the combination of Irish roads and insufficient suspension on the second-choice bike (the first having sprung a leak in the petrol tank the morning we were due to leave) which meant that our eyes were continually scanning the tarmac, in order to stand up on the footrests at every unavoidable pothole, so that the back mudguard did not scrape and overly wear the tyre.

But nearly eight years later it is the good bits – the kindnesses, the taste, the music – that encourage me to return, time and time again, although nowadays my new slimline jacket has room only for an equally slimline notebook and pencil in which to capture memories but when space permits I take both).

Notes made on a tour of New Orleans

Neutral ground, Bourbon Street, Vaseline on poles;
Louis and Anna;
Johnny’s bar – candlelight – no ice;
Quadroon balls

Blue poles of varying height = depth;
House > float > boat

Lower Ninth:
Weatherboard – that’s what we call it in Britain,
No protection against Katrina,
Weather damaged, stripped, warped.

Walls no longer protecting, now mouldy, rotted, ripped, removed.

Peeled: lives peeled away, to reveal inner: soul, core, basic,
Peeled: overgrown, tiles missing, broken gaping lives open to the sky, to the elements,
Peeled: memory overgrown with bad, weed infested.

Shock / warning / ignore / hope / decision hard to make:
Rust – government bought empty plots;
Stripe, strip, stripped;
Shutters, shut, open, shut, folded, hinged.

Arrogant and bloody-minded

In the moments before my life ended I was arrogant, opening my eyes and looking with curiosity at the doctor who had just pronounced “there is no blood pressure ... and the pulse is fading fast.” I thought to myself “he looks Egyptian ... silly man, sounds as if he thinks I’m dying” and I closed my eyes again, hoping to work out for myself what was going on.

My next thought saved me. I had just given birth to a son, and on the way to the hospital we had passed, driving in the opposite direction, my regrettably little-loved sister-in-law who had, two days previously, given birth to a stillborn son, full-term but throttled by the umbilical cord.

This second, bloody-minded, thought – which began only mildly incoherent and ended with a scream at least as loud as the initial pain of my rupturing uterus – was “motherless child ... childless mother ... tidy solution ... NO! ... I do not want her to have my child.” And it was this which arrested my death and which enabled my GP to speak of me as a ‘modern day miracle’ since the charts which I saw later confirmed that yes, I did, in fact, have only minutes left – maybe as many as three.

[This originally appeared as a Thinking Ten piece]

Consequences

He had imposed a deadline.

Tossing and turning the pros and cons in the scratchy grey dawn she suddenly recalled a conversation in Amsterdam, a conversation from three or four years ago which, due in part to its out-of-placeness, was unusually frank.

And they’d been virtually strangers too, since although Sharon was a fellow student, notorious for her installation of a bedstead to which was attached a row of papier maché penises, of varying dimensions and colours (Title ‘Sizes that mattered’) they’d hardly spoken before.

They’d been sat on stools in the window of a stepped, dusty-wooden floored café near the Rijksmuseum, one used by locals, the food cheap and unpretentious.

Sharon had spoken of her divorce, bitterly, bitingly.

“If I’d know then how hard it would be I’d never have done it, never have left him.”

What the hell does he think?

Black on white, I reclined on a bed not mine, having broken my bourbon virginity.

Near the end of a word-filled weekend, he was examining his prior expectations. "I thought you'd be wilder," he said.

I don't know what sort of wild he expected. I wondered however about the truth of his claim to be a writer.

Did he not know that writers tell tales of twisted truths?

Life class position

Eduarda was a truly lovely-looking Mexican girl, late twenties, married with a young daughter – what she was doing in Middlesbrough goodness only knows. However we were just glad she was our current life model since not only did she have a good body to draw she had an eagerness and a talent for theatrical poses, frequently bringing in shawls and cushions and other props. She was also totally uninhibited, wandering round to look at everyone’s work without bothering to put on a wrap of any sort.

This being England everyone who came to the evening Life Drawing class always sat in exactly the same place as they’d sat last week, and the week before that, for ever and ever amen. And there being considerably more women than men in the class, the men tended to sit together in one corner.
On the sixth week the men arrived early and deliberately positioned themselves one on each side of the room – north, south east and west – and when we asked why they said they’d noticed that when they sat together the tutor invariably posed Eduarda with her back to them: this way they’d get a turn at drawing her front, sooner or later.

Life class

Martin was an occasional life drawing tutor, i.e. he was a full time tutor who rarely had to bother with us part-timers, but due to an oversight with the timetable it was discovered that we needed a further six drawing sessions and he was the only one available.

He set up the model, instructed us to draw very large on joined-together pieces of paper, and include what was behind the model in the rest of the room. While we drew he walked round and stood behind each of us in turn, commenting or not as he chose – after five minutes in silence behind me I couldn’t decide whether he was stunned with admiration or didn’t know where to start with the criticism, so tended to ignore him.

He had a reputation for being over-attentive to the younger female students (one of the reasons he was so dismissive of our class – we were mostly mature students.) Bob the well-endowed milkman had told me of an occasion in another class where he had been posing: “one lad was really good but Martin just criticised him all the time. But another lass, very pretty, he put his arm round her and said “this is really quite promising ... but if you look carefully you’ll see he actually only has two arms””

Fred might’ve been right – but she was lucky

“Coffee?”
“Yes, please”
“Sugar? – sorry no biscuits”
“Don’t take it ... why don’t you sit here?” ....
“... ?”
“Didn’t think you were likely to ... worth a try, though”

Orkney journeys

The first time we went to Orkney we took the caravan as far as Brora, three children (two with chickenpox) and three days and arrived in the drizzle of a July afternoon.

Later, overnight seemed best – spouse working all day then driving the first stage, me awake to keep him awake, then driving the midnight stint: youngest piteously from the dark of the back seat “I’m all on my own,” his elder siblings asleep either side of him.

Once we stopped in a Northumberland layby: three males got out to pee and I imagined the nearby bus shelter rising with the tidal surge and floating away in the dark.

Just the two of us went to view Scapa Haven, overnight again, needing sleep half-hourly, and the September solstice crossing of the Pentland Firth the roughest we had ever known; when we took a trailer load of furniture up the following Easter I skidded on the icy road and we ended in a ditch.

On my last return from this seventeen year sea view haven, alone and having painted for three weeks there, I hit a post office van who drew out un-looking, smashing the headlight so I had to hurry four hundred miles home before dark.

Next Thursday we begin another three day journey there, ‘doing it while we can’ on a fifty-two year old A10, returning via a cousin in Invergarry and the Applecross peninsula.

Fred might have been right

Fred Brown talked a lot about sex, he was witty with it and it stayed just... just ...on the right side of offensive. His hooded blue eyes challenged you to believe that he told the truth, his smile teased so you suspected he didn’t and he was confident, good-looking and intelligent but due to a degenerative disease his spine was damaged, his years were numbered and his height was only 4’ 11”.

Secretary to the chemists in the plastics research department she’d had a shy and unconfident childhood and despite being three months married, was to some extent naïve and socially inept, so when Fred Brown told her “Every man in the lab gets a hard-on when you walk through” she assumed he was teasing. Every day she delivered the internal post to the laminating plant, where John invariably delayed her in conversation on the day’s topics, to the paper plant where she and Sam talked about music and to the filter section where Dennis asked her about what she’d done at the weekend, and finished up in the chief chemist’s office where he tended to come around the desk to collect his post if she didn’t hand it over and escape as quickly as possible, without being rude.

Dennis occasionally gave her a lift home, which was helpful because it meant she didn’t have to wait half an hour for a bus and walk the last mile, he asked whether she would be away during the factory shut-down, the first week of June, and she said “no” because her husband had to work. One day Dennis said he often thought about doing it with someone other than his wife, just to find out what it would be like and she laughed, as she did when he said he might pop round for a coffee during the shutdown – she was embarrassed when he did as he’d promised because it was a hot day, she was dressmaking and had only a short shift dress on and nothing else at all.

Gallery visit

The Pier Arts Centre in Stromness in Orkney has recently been extended and modernised in a truly exciting fashion. Before this took place the upstairs galleries were reached by a central staircase which had half a flight one way, then turned round on itself and continued with another half flight to the creaking, sloping floor-boarded landing. From this landing, to right and left were small galleries, each with a window at the back, overlooking the harbour, the right hand one also with a window overlooking the narrow slabbed street, across which was a flower shop owned by a Czech called Borek. As well as selling flowers he tuned pianos and sang in the choir ...he was also hugely attractive in a rugged, dark haired, beautiful voiced sort of way.

I was alone in the gallery one afternoon, leisurely enjoying the latest exhibition of sensuous and sensitive small paintings and plaster pieces by Will MacLean, based on writings, maps and sea journeys and very suited to this sea girt and beautiful room. Up the stairs came two smartly dressed women who strode resolutely into the room and, completely ignoring the paintings, went to the window overlooking the street “Ohhh” moaned one, quietly, “no Borek ...” and they stood silently contemplating the shop where he was not for several minutes, before leaving as quickly as they had come.

“A modern day miracle”

This being the third I knew immediately that the transition from first to second stage wasn’t usually accompanied by pain of such screaming quality. The surrounding babble of voices made it impossible to concentrate on identifying what had gone wrong, their exhortations to “push, mother, keep pushing, you’re doing fine” annoyingly intrusive. “Here’s a foot Mother, sit up and you can feel it” – they pulled my hand down to touch, but I was unappreciative ... eventually it was born: “What is it?” “A boy, you’ve got a lovely boy.”

... washing my thighs with warm water ... no, it’s blood, my blood ... “It’s the afterbirth breaking up” and someone tried pumping up and down on my stomach to expel it – my screams must have stopped her although I thought I’d simply said “don’t, please don’t”... “What’s her name? ... Sandra! Sandra! ... there’s no blood pressure and the pulse is fading fast.”

... opened my eyes “He looks Egyptian ... silly man sounds as if he thinks I’m dying ... that’d be a tidy solution – a motherless child and a childless mother ... no – I don’t want her to have my baby ...”

... someone groaning ... pink room instead of green, clock above my head telling an incomprehensible time ... Steve’s laugh outside (that was what had roused me) ... dark blue dress bustles in “I don’t know why you’re making that noise – we’ve just given you some painkiller” ... just like in the books, the groaning was ME “Then it doesn’t bloody work” ... “and you’ve had eleven pints of blood so you’ve no cause to complain” - “eleven???????????? something wrong there.”

[Comment: on the way to the hospital we had passed my sister-in-law coming the other way, she having just given birth to a still-born son]

Dancer

No-one at any rally who spent a night in the bar, when there was music, could fail to have seen him dancing, as I had done several times over several years, presuming him to be Belgian or Dutch.

Something over six foot four, not conventionally good-looking but mobile, warm, interesting features – and no more than mid forties. It was his enthusiasm, his energy and his slimness – his slim hips dancing with smooth fluidity in tight blue denim (probably matching blue eyes but I may have imagined those) - that was memorable, that absorbed my non-dancing attention (spouse does not dance and I was still too sober). But of far greater impact was the shock of his pure white, longer than shoulder-length hair - he was too young for this, too mobile, too fluid ... too sexy ... and the contrast was invariably mesmerising.

At breakfast on Sunday, spouse and I having briefly bickered, I stalked late into breakfast and had to take the only chair between spouse and this man who’d fired my thoughts the night before. His still-damp hair was rat-tailed and not so white and his companion had only a few minutes earlier been described to me as “son of Quentin Crisp” (he’d been in the bunkhouse and we’d been trying to work out who’d shouted out in the night, as if having sex), and he complained - an Englishman that as a result of all last night’s dancing he was suffering from “that disease that alsatians get” by which he meant dislocated hips.

Double Damme – Sunday

Both Belgium’s appeal and its drawbacks are root wrapped in its immediate charming domesticity: unkempt little fields with black and white cows separate mini-brick built houses whose windows are shrouded with thick lace-curtained windows and gardens display close-shaved, excruciatingly tidy topiary.

This Sunday of the May Day weekend Belgium thoroughly merits the oft-repeated, clichéd description of “flat, smells of cow shit and closed”. Along the whole of the 70 kilometres between Velzeke and Damme the only shops open were patisseries, every one with a most mouth-wateringly seductive range of cakes – chocolate and fruit confections in pleated white paper - all regrettably untransportable in either tool-stuffed panniers or dirty-washing packed tank bag.

So we arrived in Damme again, with four hours to spare and the restaurant we chose had battleship grey walls hung with a variety of prints, each with its own strip light above. The floor was black tiled, tables black wood and high-backed chairs black leather – all cool and modern in an old, old room – and behind a pewter-topped bar, on white painted shelves were rows of gleaming wineglasses and whisky bottles with tawny orange labels.

Coffees, then lunch, then more coffees, then musical chairs to the luxurious loo, then a paying of the ‘rekening’; having watched the hail torrent down we made sure to collect up our economically-used blanket-thick serviettes to wipe down wet bike saddles. Returning to the square we discovered that Damme is a ‘book town’ with an event on the second Sunday of every month – on this first Sunday the one and only secondhand bookshop open yielded up A. S. Byatt’s ‘The Matisse Stories’, of which I’ve read one so far.

Double Damme – Friday

Despite its name Damme was haven, not hell, on two occasions.

In just ten miles riding from Zeebrugge, in fine misted rain which blurred a landscape of dyke ditched horizontals crossed by verticals of poplar and pollarded willow and inculcated an appreciation of the horrors of WWI trench warfare, waterproofs of all qualities, from Tony’s top of the range Hein Gericke all-in-one to Den’s bright orange, nicked-from-British-Rail over-trousers were thoroughly tested, and all found wanting.

So having all day in which to cover just 80 kilometres we crossed the canal and parked in Damme’s cobbled main square as the bells on the town hall tinkled out ten o’clock thus alerting apparently closed cafes to our coffee-desperate presence, since doors opened and waiters appeared to sweep the pavements and vigorously wipe down tables and chairs.

The place we chose, for the flaming wood fire we could see through the window, led me to wonder, not for the first time, why it is that the British so often seem to be the only nation totally lacking any appreciation, enthusiasm or taste of colour and of what makes an ordinary room beautiful.

This one had high ceilings above battered wooden beams, painted in a cracked and peeling cream, faintly green-tinged as if under water, and a tiled floor in squares and medallions of dusty pink with Cobalt blue and white. The plain painted walls were matt and earthy cocoa, tables and chairs mismatched and worn varnished wooden; coffee was served in plain white cups, each with a piece of sponge cake foil-wrapped in vivid green alongside sugar lumps and silver spoon, and by the time we’d finished our gloves and scarves had dried on the hot radiators and the sun was shining.

Heartfelt composition

Less than five minutes after starting, the monitor on the cross trainer registers my heart-rate at 153 – I can never remember whether it ought not to exceed 200 minus my age or 220, but in any case was too busy imagining and putting into words the end of a confrontation between hero no.1 and heroine to worry about it too much.

Nine sets of weights, three sets of twenty repeats on each: too much thinking causes me to lose count so I frequently over- or under-exercise, and too often forget which machines I’ve already been on. I hurry round without pause because I need to get home to write it all down.

The treadmill has a chart of maximum heart rate for cardiac or fat burning exercise: after five minutes of a hill programme mine exceeds that of a 30 year old, which I think is probably a bad thing rather than a good one, but I am also composing a ‘losing her virginity’ scene (for the second time to hero no.2) which might have something to do with it. I also suspect the heating is set too high. Straight home no change no shower no lunch until all salient points, all apt and crafted phrases are noted down.

Mayday

May 1st wasn’t exactly a dainty dancing upon a dewy lawn start to the day – dawn was long gone by the time I crunched across gravel chips and oil-rainbowed tarmac to the mud foot-printed floor of the barely functional – and paperless – loo. Overnight, this had been declared ‘Ladies only’ thus depriving us of the clean ones in the newer, unisex Belgian-style block, presumably because someone’s sensibilities had been upset due to an inability to avert eyes from urinals.

May’s eve had threatened bunkhouse hell – greeted by a vista of flat-squab grubby pillows on rucked blue, crumbed and crumpled towelling sheets stretched unfitting over close packed bunk beds in a dingy and depressing gloomy room I went into instant, paralysed shut-down, as I tried to marshal sufficient resources to face two nights within. Impossible, but no other option since the tiny town had “no tourists, no beds” and I agreed to try one night in a lighter but larger – twenty-four bed room, with the promise of sufficient alcohol to ensure sleep.

It then got worse: rumour had it that the man I most disliked in the whole of the BSAOC – a loud-mouthed thieving letch, a ginger-bearded close-to-paedophile - had bagged the bunk opposite mine – I acquired a hammer and a lighter for his beard, should he be his usual obnoxious self - and obtained a couple of promises of tent space if required in the middle of the night.

In the event, this last rumour was unfounded, the half dozen who did use the room were alcohol-defyingly considerate and I slept long and sound, hence despite the aforementioned drawbacks, May’s dawn I considered a good one.

John Bull Rally

Midday today some six or so BSAs will assemble here: it’s necessary to leave plenty of time to get to Hull – a 2 hour journey in the car – to allow for breakdowns – last year it was us, pouring rain, dodgy battery and a long stay in a layby to swap with one from another bike which did, or did not, have a magneto, apparently. Of those travelling with us today, three tie for the sexiest voice but the one who wins the best bum award, and who I was hoping to get to know better – a man of many multi- and contradictory layers - has pulled out at the last minute.

The queue at Hull will contain forty or fifty bikes – they always put us at the front but often load us last – and the risky ride up the greasy metal ramps to the narrow galleried mezzanine deck, overlooking caravans and trucks where they park us two by two and expect us to scramble to tie up in hot, restricted spaces is reminiscent of a cattle truck – we deserve the beer we head for once riding gear and helmets have been exchanged for something more comfortable - departure is not until nine.

Tomorrow from Zeebrugge - cross country if not wet to avoid motorways – not necessary for old British bikes – for about fifty miles, frequently stopping so as not to arrive before the organisers: a couple of years ago we had to spend the afternoon in an eccentric, sleepy Belgian bar where locals laughed at us and all defied the ‘no smoking’ sign – even the barmaid.

So – two nights in a bunkhouse – I am assured there’ll be plenty of space and it won’t be cheek by jowl, so to speak – with dozens of other bikers – being the John Bull rally only the bikes are British, they’ll be ridden by Germans, Dutch, Danes, Swedes, the idea being to not have to take tent etc. since the bike is already well loaded with spares and tools I am allowed one book and have sneaked a small exercise book in too. Belgian beers, like bikers, are myriad and interesting – too many (beers) means frequent loo trips all through the night so wine might be a wiser choice; we leave Sunday morning for a slow trip back, overnight to Hull and, bike willing (though the AA has been helpful in the past) we’ll be home by midday Monday.

Paintbox

A multiplicity of memories on worn thin tissue, overlaid and frayed and torn around the edges, piled one on one, together building a layered grid of coloured squares, indistinct and hazy-edged. Jam jar of still-bubbled water, maroon painted handle sharp flaking under fingernails, sable bristles cruelly bent.

Square tin, a paintbox grid, each rectangle of colour named beneath, named and become a character, permeated by pigment, assembled into tales more vivid than any picture I can paint on cheap and bleeding paper which never fails to stain the page beneath. Rose Madder, inescapably the heroine, long before I heard of Tara, and Prokofiev- inspired Lieutenant Kijé: blue-uniformed, his cheekbones Prussian, jingling sleigh bells echoing across the snow. The villains: predatory Hookers Green (years before I heard of whores) or cowardly and caddish Cadmium yellow, headed for a Crimson lake. Siennas, Burnt and Earth, and Ochre – the names beloved but colours then thought oh so dull, create a castled landscape.

Effectivity?

Friday afternoon, 30 mph limit on the A4124.
All but standstill traffic between Brownhills and Wolverhampton
Stop, go traffic lights, stop go roundabouts.
Icelandic ash might have blown over but still plenty fumes in the air.
Custard yellow sports car draws up alongside, roof down. Hanging from the rear view mirror is a yellow christmas tree air freshener.

Time traveller challenge – immortality in oils

Her sisters had been as unthinkingly generous with their advice to her as they had been with their luscious bodies and pretty faces to a succession of pantingly priapic Provençal peasants. Two, with their three screaming infants shared the room adjoining hers, having failed to get rings on their fingers; those that were wed were further worn, since siestas were regarded by their husbands as a second daily opportunity to lose themselves in what, with eyes closed, they could still pretend was firm golden flesh, (lying down, the doughy dimples were less evident). Madeleine, certain that she was their equal as far as looks were concerned, was equally sure that she possessed more in the way of brains and ambition: faced with the unavoidable evidence that time and over-use would inevitably cause her beauty to fade, she planned to have her present beauty immortalised.

She had heard (who had not?) of the scandalous paintings of a man called Edouard Manet and as soon as she reached Paris – for that was her goal - she went to see them for herself, whereupon she gained in confidence since she knew she was far lovelier than the hefty-thighed woman sat picnicking so brazenly on the grass. It didn’t take her long to find her way to the artistic quarter, to come to the notice of the lively group of painters and musicians, to feel confident about offering herself as a model, and she thought her ambition was fully realised when a highly esteemed pair of artists, recently returned from painting in the countryside, invited her to their studios – Pablo Picasso offering his friend Georges Braque first turn, and a mandolin as prop.

The resulting portrait can be found at
http://reisserbilder.at/bildergross/Braq_S9735_g.jpg

Feels like unfaithful

Turned on, I find familiar face and flush at what is said - feels like unfaithful
Anticipation, recognition, empathy and pleasure - feels like unfaithful
Like minds, like mine, touch, stimulate and satisfy - feels like unfaithful
Shared truths and secrets, intimations unperceived by spouse - feels like unfaithful
His lack of words, incomprehension, sends me to seek elsewhere - feels like unfaithful
Despite distance, time and absence of the physical, I can’t deny - feels like unfaithful

Feedback

After “you’ve got two ears one mouth – use them in that proportion, “praise to criticise 3:1” was the most often used of the management phrases I’d been issued with over the years. Used to my children that was – I was a lousy manager since I assumed that they’d do whatever their conscience and desire to earn dictated. (I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in anything other than party-plan childrens’ book sales)

About three years ago I spent some time trying to design a website for myself, went to a few classes, read (a few pages of) a hefty ‘how to’ tome. Asked my son for advice – “look at lots of websites, see what works, do a flow chart of how you want yours to work – I’ll have a look at it when you’ve done.” I followed his advice, sent him an outline, waited impatiently, nervously (ridiculous!) for his reply, eventually an email beginning “sorry this has taken so long – I’m struggling to think of ninety-nine things to praise you for.”

First kiss

Visiting my parents' friends who had the builders in. One with the looks of David, the warmth of the sun and the colour of honey. Labouring, strong-armed, at a saw-horse in the orchard and singing snatches of ‘Sloop John B’. Blue shirt, blue eyes, blue sky beyond September-edged leaves. Smiled, took pity on me, (gazing in wordless, gormless, disbelieving, adoration). Warm lips tip of tongue taste of heaven.

Friendship values

We moved to a small Hertfordshire village, no more than three or four days before the end of the summer term, and to my mother’s surprise my brother and I both begged to be immediately allowed to go to the school which was immediately across the road from our brand new bungalow – I think we feared an entire summer holiday without knowing anyone, or maybe we wanted to get on with our new lives as soon as possible.

There were only three classes and, aged seven, I was sent to the middle one and told to sit at the end of a bench on which sat three girls, across a long trestle table from another four; with one accord they all turned to look at me, with one accord they all said “Cooo – ain’t she ugly!!!” At playtime, I stood alone, ignored and miserable (but pretending not to be) until Brenda came up and said “would you like to play with me?” – a gesture of friendship I never forgot.

She lived at the deepest, roughest reach of the council estate and during the next five weeks I occasionally went to call for her; we played in the street and she was always accompanied by (and responsible for) one, two or three of her seven younger siblings. In the sixth week her mother answered the door “Brenda’s not in” she said, clearly cross and, I sensed, lying, since where else would Brenda be at that time of day so, puzzled, I went home and told my mother “Brenda’s not playing but I don’t know why.”

“Because,” she answered “I told her mother I didn’t want you playing with her – you should be mixing with better people than that.” Admittedly, some ten years later, Brenda was frequently to be found in the pub wearing high heels, a white fur coat and nothing else at all – but I still don’t think my mother was right to interfere.

Unmoving

Awakening with a sense of displacement due to the wardrobe looming awkwardly between me and the window, supposedly compensating for lack of curtains, I recalled its emptying the day before, in readiness for carrying downstairs by the removal men. It broke my mother’s heart but after just 2½ years we were leaving this house of her dreams and moving eighty miles to a two-shop village in the Hertfordshire countryside, to a brand new bungalow she had never seen, although we had pored over plans (the drawing of which by my father was the sole evidence of his youthful dream of becoming an architect) and had chosen paint colours for the distempered walls.

This move was taking place after several months of separation, months when my father had stayed, uncomfortably, with his sister-in-law’s family, assimilating a new job and trying to find a suitable house, his first choice having been turned down flat by my mother and any further visits to view possibilities vetoed because of the expense.

My memory of the move itself is as squashed as we were in the cab of Patterson’s shiny green pantechnicon – twitchy with anticipation, too diverted by the novelty to notice my parents’ apprehension, too young to realise that this move would re-direct our lives. But when we arrived – another mean-wired stone-shot plot around sharp red brick, but wide and bright inside – I did sense my father’s anxiety and my mother’s martyred determination to dislike. She had already written the script for this chapter in her life, one which invariably ended with the phrase “and I never ever sang around the house again.”

Life models

Previously we’d had as life models two anorexic Scottish girls, pastry plain Geraldine who invariably refused to take her knickers off, Eduarda the gorgeous and totally uninhibited Mexican and a beautifully plump dance teacher whose sagging, dimpled flesh was an absolute joy to draw. The only male had been Bill, who inevitably wore a posing pouch.

Bob the milkman’s well-hung willingness to pose as nature intended was, therefore, unusual, and much welcomed. In his first class with us he was instructed to walk round inside the circle of easels we had formed, taking five steps and then stopping for one minute – we were to draw all views on the single sheet. He took an interest in what each of us made of the exercise, commenting and encouraging sotto voce. On reaching me for the third time he suggested perhaps some aspects of my drawing weren’t entirely accurate - it was hard to resist reaching out with my pencil and re-arranging him to suit.

One that got away (unsixed)

I : light relief

It had started as a bit of fun, a bit of light relief at the end of what had been an exceptionally drab day, and once the conversation paused she really hadn’t expected him to do any more than pick up the packet of cigarettes he’d bought, along with his change, and leave. But he’d caught her glancing at the clock, had realised that it was a couple of minutes after closing time (it was he that had delayed her) and noting her tiredness he offered to run her home (although where exactly ‘home’ was he didn’t bother to ascertain).

Pete had been in France for months – far longer than some of his mates, who’d looked a bit evasive when she met them on leave, on their way to the pub a couple of weeks ago, after Pete had written to say it’d be impossible to get away. She wasn’t a fool – he’d been really odd about fucking her while she was pregnant, even admitted one drunken, shrunken, unsuccessful night (the drink her fault - she’d hoped it’d help) that he was scared the baby would bite him – so she’d’ve put money on him looking elsewhere.

Of course, like in all the films she’d seen, all the novels she’d read, this bloke had picked the one night she could be sure of the house being empty; the baby, three months old now, was with her mother and she had a nine-month ache of celibate desperation which no amount of DIY would assuage. The magazine had been in the doctor’s surgery, the advert for stockings had caught her eye because of the crumpled bedspread in the background (she could imagine what her mother would have to say about that) but it had planted an idea in her mind, which might solve both her loneliness and give her a bit of extra money – to buy nylons for example – perhaps this was an opportunity to see how she liked it, whether it was worth getting that picture copied and put on a few NAAFI noticeboards.


II : snuffed

Just after seven – she’d managed a couple of hours sleep then, and yes, got a better sense of proportion than she’d had at four, when tears in her ears and the wet pillowcase had pretty well drowned all attempts at recovery. OK so Plan A had failed ... well perhaps not exactly failed, and it wasn’t really fair to call it a plan at all, because she’d hardly thought it out, it had been no more than a glimmer of an idea that she was holding onto until she had a bit of time to consider it.

But what she did know now was that under no circumstances whatsoever could she go with just anyone – last night had shown her that he’d have to be at least ... at least a lot of things, and since she couldn’t see how she could list all her requirements, her ‘musts’ and her ‘must nots’ on one card (she giggled, imagining the size of card necessary) noticeboards were definitely out. And also, she recognised that she’d have to put some effort in – keep the place tidy, a LOT tidier and Bridget’s baby stuff out of the way – oh god the nappies last night, clean ones on the table (at least they smelt sweet) but the one on the floor definitely hadn’t, and though she’d grabbed it as she went into the scullery to put the kettle on she doubted it’d gone unnoticed ... and offering a cup of tea! ... not that there was anything else except the scrapings of a bottle of Camp, but surely something better ought to be offered – sherry? (don’t be daft, that was for vicars!)

It’d been so much simpler before she married, when where didn’t matter, didn’t have to be part of the setting, when was as soon as could be managed and who was the one you fancied at the time (and you fancied him because you knew him a bit, i.e. the fancying came first, mostly, not like last night).

A complete stranger, no knowledge of who he was, nothing to say once she’d given directions and they’d done the awfulness of the weather, and a man who somehow became a good deal smaller once he’d taken his overcoat off, a bit unhealthy looking, and older than Pete by a good six years she’d guess. Well, what was done was done, no good thinking about it, she’d better get up ... and the first thing she’d got to do was clear up the shattered cup that she’d thrown.


III : light fantastic

Two weeks later, five minutes before closing time, he was back. She wasn’t entirely surprised, but her frown was as much because she wasn’t sure whether Mrs. Shambrook was cashing up just the other side of the partition, or was further back out of earshot. Thank goodness he had the wit to realise this, asked for cigarettes in a normal tone, and whispered “Lift?” as she rattled open the till, tilting his head to indicate that his car was parked just up the street. A lift would get her home quite a lot quicker than walking, but she’d have to do some talking before they arrived, so there was no misunderstanding; she nodded briefly, unsmilingly, counting out his change and followed him to the door to turn the sign to ‘Closed.’

“My mum’s at home with Bridget” she said, as soon as he moved off. “Yes – I drove past your house earlier and saw a light on, but thought I ought to check the shop before knocking ... I just wondered ... just wanted to see how you were – we didn’t get off to a very good start (wasn’t even a start really was it?) and I hoped you were allright – you’re looking better.” Hell’s bells – it was just as well he hadn’t knocked. “Thanks, I’m fine ... thought a lot about what you said, and realised you were right – it was pretty obvious neither of us were cut out for cheating, no matter how much we thought it was what we wanted.”

He dropped her off at the end of the narrow road – a car was unusual enough to cause suspicion – and she paused long enough for her eyes to adjust to the pitch dark, before running the 100 yards to where not her mother but one of her pre-marriage fancies, on indefinite leave due to appendicitis (with complications) was waiting.


IV : backlit

Although now it seemed barely credible that ten year old boys could be viewed as compellingly attractive (except by their mothers), she knew that her eight year-old self had felt a sort of innocent-through-ignorance lusting after three or four of the older boys in the top class, of which Eddie had been the most memorable. She’d been inescapably aware of his progress through primary school from ‘naughty’ through ‘bad’, ‘disruptive’ and ‘hooligan’ to ‘delinquent’ before he was eleven, after which (she having gone to grammar school, him not) their paths rarely crossed, his occasional disappearances being attributed to a variety of incarcerations.

Had it been within a day or two of that episode with John (hah! he was as likely a John as she was the Genevieve she’d claimed) it might have been different ... maybe ... and had she and Eddie managed it their teens, as she’d certainly wanted to, she might’ve resisted ... but knowing what she knew now, she probably wouldn’t have done, because by Saturday lunchtime, as she pushed the pram and her shopping homewards, the space between conscience and need had gone from still, small voice of calm to screaming abyss.

She’d not recognised him at first, was just glad Bridget wasn’t asleep because the noise of the bike pulling alongside would surely have woken her. “Heard you’d got a baby,” he said, pulling the scarf away from his face, “can I have a look at it?, girl or boy?”

“... uh ... girl” she stuttered (Christ Almighty, Eddie... oh dear god but he’d not changed a bit, he’d just got, just got ... more, so much, much more) and she watched him, forgetting to breathe as he leant into the pram, pulling the edge of the blanket down with a leather-clad finger and stroked the baby’s cheek once, gently.

“She’s like you ... you going home? I could murder a cuppa” ... but his dark eyes were contemplating Jenna’s fingers, white-knuckled around the handle of the pram as she concentrated on holding herself upright, balance threatened by the weakness of her knees and the fast-melting fluidity of her insides.


V : torch

He hadn’t needed telling to put the bike out of sight round the back of the house nor, she heard, as she filled the kettle at the scullery sink, to lift the crying Bridget from her pram ... cries that ceased immediately as he put the tip of his finger into her milk-seeking mouth.

She’d witnessed in her friends the virtually instantaneous transformation from girl to mother each had made after giving birth so on one level was unsurprised at her own ‘grown-up’ competence, the swift, efficient preparation of a bottle, the spooning of tea into a warmed pot, all the while answering Eddie’s casual questions, the level of his voice varying as he circled and jiggled. But these tasks were carried out against a non-stop, non-maternal background fizz, as if someone had inserted a cartoon gunpowder fuse into her head, and the need to concentrate caused her to frown slightly as she changed a nappy, poured tea and settled to feed, only then asking him, conventionally, conversationally grown-up in the civilised silence “You’re very good with babies – any yourself?”

“None acknowledged” he’d grinned, and she recalled last summer’s scandalised speculation, although it had been less about the likely father of the 8 pound black-haired heavyweight brought forth by the petite blonde and more to do with how her bone-headed, ginger-haired husband had been persuaded that the child was his – and what would happen when he realised otherwise.

“... my sisters all have kids ... has Pete seen this one?” casually, his back to her as he carried out their empty cups. (So he too knew, or had heard, of Pete’s two-timing). “Just for a couple of days, soon after she was born.” (She wouldn’t ask, and knew he wouldn’t tell unless she did). She tucked the fed, winded, shawl-wrapped and now-sleeping baby back into the pram then straightened up, feeling suddenly exhausted and tearful.

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” unexpectedly close, so close that she felt his breath on the back of her neck.


VI : ablaze

In the morning he brought her buttered toast soldiers and boiled eggs, the mist droplets in his hair confirming that he’d been out and lifted the eggs warm from under some unsuspecting hen, his evident self-satisfaction due as much to the kick he’d got from the thieving as in serving her. Served she certainly had been, and how good it felt not to be self-satisfied, she had almost forgotten the different qualities, the shifted centre of sensation resulting from a thoroughly efficient tight-cock-fit fuck: last night’s had been repeated sufficiently often to leave her languorous, relaxed and totally replete. Dovetailing the demands of motherhood with that of ... lover? (adulteress more honest) had been disconcerting but Bridget too, bless her, seemed to have taken extra comfort, settling quicker and sleeping longer than she’d ever done before.

Yesterday afternoon, recognising her vulnerability, he would have been willing to just hold her, to just comfort her; on recognising her greater need he would have taken her slowly, with appropriate gentleness, but from her glance at the still-livid scar low on his belly he correctly intuited her fleeting fear that it was he who might not be capable, and moved to swiftly reassure. Indrawn throat-aching breath came at the first warm silk touch on her thigh, he saw her frantic long-held hunger, her blindly reaching hands, her glistening urgency and he abandoned gentleness so that the ever-glorious first thrust was a force to be joyously, rapturously reckoned with, to be welcomed, flushing quivering shuddering gasping and he found himself in a race to come first which he had no chance of winning.

Breakfast was brought to an abrupt end by Bridget’s insistent demands, and the bedroom-woven spell was broken on going downstairs. Jenna knew that memory would sustain her, if necessary, for a while, knew that Eddie was a chancer (although she hadn’t yet tried to work out to what extent yesterday’s meeting might have been chance, had been calculated) and knew to expect nothing more from him. She was, therefore, taken totally unawares when he opened the back door, let in the sound of the church bells, pulled on his gloves and stroked her cheek with one leather-clad finger, whispering “see you after dark”.


VII - firelight

During the day she had slept whenever Bridget slept and now found herself more clear-headed than she’d been for months, certainly capable of seeing that although at that moment her conscience was serene, Eddie’s return would most certainly change one justifiable night of sex into something with far greater potential for damage: he was no longer the feral figment of her teenage lust but a new-found, sensitive man, whose abilities thus far had exceeded all expectations.

He arrived soon after dark, on foot with a couple of steaks and four ounces of butter – honestly acquired from his Uncle Bob, he told her, as she leant against the doorframe watching his hands and admiring his culinary efficiency, and knowing Uncle Bob’s reputation she smiled to think that all evidence would shortly disappear. Well fed and easy, for an hour or more they watched the firelight, comparing memories, shared and separate, and their then-selves to now. She had thought of him as a caged lion, having once inadvertently witnessed him trapped in a corner of the classroom, hurling chairs in impotent fury at the apoplectic headmaster: “Huh - that was always happening, fighting or damage he always assumed it was me, never asked for my side of the story, always went on and on about my brothers and it used to really piss me off.”

“Used to”: this morning she had described him to herself as a chancer, careless and light-fingered (eggs, and other men’s wives, for instance): whatever he had done in the intervening years (and he was not entirely forthcoming on that subject) had matured him in a way that all Pete’s education had not. She took this awareness to bed and was surprised to find that he too had gained something from their conversation so that the day ended with tenderness and a gentle lovemaking, far beyond basic fulfilment.

Monday night and Tuesday night he came late, smelling of smoke and beer, rough-edged, uncommunicative, unrelaxed, fucking more than loving and at times almost as desperate as she had been on Saturday. Wednesday there was a family ‘do’ that he could not get out of but he would be waiting for her return from work on Thursday when her mother had Bridget for the night. On Friday morning, early, he left her: he had a medical board in London and expected to be passed fit – after which he’d be posted God knows where, for God knows how long – he wished her nothing but happiness.


VIII – sheltered flame

Later on Friday morning, when she collected Bridget she found that the village grapevine was as rampant and efficient as ever and that her mother had not been left in ignorance of the latest gossip, inescapably corroborated by Jenna’s flushed face and puffy eyes. “I just hope you know what you’re doing” was all that was said (unmentioned concern at the rumours about Pete preventing full scale condemnation) but Jenna had to assess from her mother’s expression whether or not names had been named or her transgression was being linked to a stranger in a car (or even, heaven forbid, both).

“You’ve no need to worry any more,” flatly, “he’s gone back.”

Two weeks later a brief train-time letter from Pete, reaching her barely an hour before he did, which at least meant that she didn’t have too long to wonder what to marshal in the way of defences (nor make the wrong assumption about who it was coming in the back door). Her numb detachment and his seething preoccupations made for a hiatus in their greeting so that instead of rushing into each other’s arms, each half stepped forward and then paused, three feet apart, dumbly gazing, as if each believed that truth might be found in the other’s eyes. She saw that he would have liked to accuse and to rage but was gagged by his innate honesty: by whatever means the information had reached him it had carried sufficient detail for him to at least recognise that her choice of cuckold had been far from casual.

Although holding the moral high ground (unless by appallingly bad luck she’d been spotted in that bloke’s car, which would definitely dump her in the shit, never mind that, strictly speaking, it hadn’t constituted anything truly reprehensible) Jenna took the view that ‘least said soonest mended’ and put in maximum effort to ensure that by the end of his leave they had restored their marriage to a state which, with continued care and attention – and their survival - might well be stronger than before.

After Pete left, however, she had to make another effort, had to find a way to stop, divert or become deaf to an inner voice which constantly asked “what if?”, had to find a way to blank out the insistently scrolling alternative-future scenario, the result of having seen the expression on Eddie’s face when he responded to her teasing question as to whether or not he had deliberately sought her out that Saturday morning: “I’d always fancied you Jenna – wanted to see if you felt the same.” She had to find a way because it seemed very probable that he had taken it upon himself to alert Pete to his wife’s unhappiness.


IX : double reflection

Alerted he had been but her appearance, pale and unsmiling, was totally at variance with the sprawled and naked figure he’d unwillingly carried in his mind’s eye for the past seven days, wanton and panting under that black-haired bastard, but even after he shook that away he saw that she was not the Jenna he had left: pregnancy, and a baby, had indefinably changed her. No make-up, ah, but she never did – he’d spent too long in Rosalie’s company: an unbidden thought which, fearful that it had shown on his face, halted in an instant his move towards her so they stood apart, stock still and expressions frozen (like a pair of bloody mannequins), and then spoke together, so neither properly heard the other ... Christ, this was going to be harder than anticipated.

She offered tea, and made stranger-polite enquiries about his journey but before she sat down the baby – Bridget she was called, Bridget, after his mother - had woken and cried so what with nappies and bottles and whatnot an hour went past without anything being said ... and they still hadn’t so much as touched each other, until she said “Here – you take her” and laughed briefly and unsympathetically at his appalled expression, settling the baby’s head in the crook of his elbow. While he looked down at her - quizzical eyes, squirming mouth – Jenna calmly said that she’d guessed why he’d come home but didn’t want to know about any of the women he’d been with, nor hear his explanations; she presumed that, despite seven month’s near silence, he was intending that they remain married?

“But what about Burdock?” he asked, jaw quietly clenched “will he be sniffing around again as soon as I’m gone?” and saw her frown: “He has nothing to do with this” and she went to peel potatoes, leaving him unsure as to whether or not his indignation was righteous, and too scared of dropping the baby to move off the sofa.

The day’s final hurdle: the bed, whose well-stuffed pillows suggested other bodies and plump-buttocked eiderdown inadequately covered memories of failure (although the first thing she’d done on receiving Pete’s letter was remove the still faintly Eddie-smelling sheets and put them unwashed in a drawer). Both lay apart until, in the dark, the mattress tipped them together and encouraged them to take, with courtesy and care and the eventual attainment of mutual recognition, the first step towards re-igniting their marriage. The second step, in the morning, when there was just sufficient light for each to see the other’s face, was less polite.


X : spotlight

Despite having at least half an hour to wait he strode right to the end of the platform because he was damned if he was going into the waiting room only to be ambushed by yet another bloody load of hay-brained yokels: either they were downright fucking nosy or they were related to that sod Burdock... and more often than not both ... and what with the insolence he’d had to put up with from the bloke who’d given him a lift and then told him he was Burdock’s shitting eldest brother for God’s sake, he’d be damned glad to get away. And the whole bloody visit had probably been a waste of time: Jenna hadn’t wanted to hear what he had to say, said she’d already heard it all ... so he hadn’t actually been able to explain about Rosalie ... (not that he’d actually explained Jenna to Rosalie either – she knew he was married but had assumed, had been allowed to assume, that his wife was ... well, a bit of a liability if the truth be known - he might have overdone the ignorant village girl just a bit) and she certainly hadn’t known about the baby ...

Christ, that had been a bugger of an evening, explaining and calming her down ... at least Burdock had added credence to the ‘peasant’ idea... but he’d been a bit surprised at just how absolutely fucking furious he’d been at the idea of Burdock having his dirty hands on his wife – got a three day pass issued pdq before he even thought about why. Once he’d calmed down he was a bit relieved, to be honest (he certainly didn’t relish the thought of challenging Burdock to any sort of a fight) and he thought it might be easier, face to face, to ... somehow get Jenna to agree to want to leave him ... ? But then Jenna had been so offhand about Burdock (bastard was probably boasting) and assumed he’d come hotfooting back to say he wanted to stay married ... so it was difficult to actually say no to her, just like that ... he’d enjoyed fucking her again (he’d got a bit more know-how there too which she probably noticed) ... but the baby hadn’t exactly made her any more appreciative ... or keener.

He’d been so sure it was what he wanted: nice village community, everyone knowing everyone (fool!), it had been such a contrast to his lonely childhood. He’d thought he could become one of them ... stupid, because you couldn’t just put on someone else’s history like it was an overcoat, you really did have to live it, but it had been just after his mother died, and he probably hadn’t been in a fit state. And once the novelty wore off he’d felt trapped, when he’d barely begun to find things out – even Jenna had had more experience ... and having to be a husband, and then a father ... no, really, no ... so it wasn’t surprising Jenna had often been fed up with him. Rosalie was pretty fed up too last time he saw her, and although he hadn’t said in so many words that it’d all be fine when he got back he might have implied it. But how the hell was he going to explain all this to Jenna now, in a letter, when he’d just left her thinking things were going to be all right and that they were going to stay together?


XI : light of reflection

Three weeks – long, lonely, silent and without communication of any sort whatsoever, during which her health and strength seemed to leach away, and she slept badly even before Bridget began teething. On this day she came to suddenly, eyes open in an instant, muddled by the quantity of daylight, before flinching at the remembrance of a fractured and fractious night. Bridget crying, crying, inconsolable, and herself so tired, tired to tears, tired to death, craving silence and sleep ... but there was a knocking ... a knocking at the back door ... and that was what had woken her.

Susan – Susan Burdock-that-was, Eddie’s sister, the cheerful one – and that she still looked cheerful halted Jenna’s plummeting insides - not bad news then. Not bad bad news, no, but not good either, told quickly: Pete had a woman (as opposed to several), had done for a while, stupidly confident that distance would prevent discovery. Susan’s husband (in the same unit) had pointed out the inadvisability of his behaviour and urged at least discretion without noticeable effect (“just a gobful of arrogant shit.”)

The thoughtfulness of Susan’s forewarning briefly warmed her, but the twitch of revelatory relief at this confirmation of the unadmitted did not prevent Jenna feeling downswept with pain and sadness: she had married with optimism and love in the belief that he was sincere; that he had strayed so soon, had cared so little, had lacked the will, the honesty, to tell her to her face devalued her, reduced her to worthlessness and cast her aside. But to have also cast Bridget aside was unforgivable and on her behalf Jenna felt anger, allowing herself to see clearly his disinterest, to recall that he had handled her without love or understanding, to admit that not once had he referred to her as his daughter.

Susan’s habitual blitheness was supplemented in turn by tea, sympathy and condemnation, seasoned with gossip and news, her Sam being a prolific letter writer. She was careful to mention, in passing, that Eddie was back to full physical fitness, but equally careful to omit Sam’s comment on his mental state (‘bloody evil tempered, miserable bastard.”)


XII : tempered

Thank Christ he had some good mates ... blokes he’d grown up with who he could trust to look out for him, because he’d sure as hell be well and truly in the shit had they not stayed with him and kept him out of yet more trouble. He thought he’d got his temper under control, thought he’d learnt that the only person he damaged was himself ... but seemingly not. He’d been pretty bloody volatile for weeks, mad at himself for letting Jenna get under his skin, despite doing his damnedest to turn her back into just a casual fuck after that Sunday when they’d just sat and talked for hours and he’d found himself saying and thinking all sorts of things he never had before ... he’d used to be a bit in awe of her but, in an odd sort of way, seeing the effort she was making to be so brave had somehow made her less scary. So when he’d suddenly seen that utter shit of a husband of hers, with that stuck-up little cow, hanging onto his arm and looking up to him so fucking soppy (two faced bitch) ... god he’d been an idiot – just two second’s thought and he’d never had spoken to him, never have told him she was unhappy. It was bloody obvious he’d go straight back and make it up with her (which presumably was why he’d done it – for her sake, so she wasn’t so pale and neglected.)

But less than three weeks after (and he’d heard all about the visit – Saturday his sisters had seen him with Jenna and Bridget and Monday Mike’d had him in his car, bloody funny, that) there the bastard was again with that Rosie woman, and yes it hadn’t been sensible, in a public street, with people around but it had given him a hell of a satisfaction to punch his smug face, even if it was only once, before he was pulled off and dragged away. Dragged away struggling and fighting still and as he was bundled round the corner and out of sight – four of the buggers, leaving Sam to do his usual pacifying and patching up - his collarbone had broken (again!) and now here he was being sent home on sick leave. Which was going to be bloody difficult.


XIII : silhouette

Getting no response to his knock he had lowered himself carefully onto the sheltered stone doorstep, gingerly manoeuvring his right shoulder so as not to take any weight and extricating Woodbines and matches before bracing himself, one foot against the opposite pillar, head and undamaged left shoulder resting in the angle between painted wooden door and concrete jamb, and he now sat watching smoke drift in the weak sunshine, contemplating the wisdom of this forthcoming encounter.

Susan had been willing as ever to make up a bed for him ... willing as ever too to give him an earful about his stupidity in allowing his anger to develop into violence (God knows he didn’t need telling), and had in return extracted a promise from him that he go and see Jenna first thing, before she heard elsewhere that he was home again (and why!) ... but for the life of him he didn’t know how she’d react ... or how he wanted her to react ... or how he would react himself ...

“....didn’t think it’d take you long to get to sleep, little one.. Oh!” ... his eyes flew open and she was there, her face in shadow as she looked down at his, his eyes screwed against the sun, fiercely uncertain as to whether her gasp had indicated fright or delight, fiercely uncertain about his own reaction on seeing her again. She reached across him to put the key into the lock above his head, glanced down at the bulk of his bandaged shoulder and the sling supporting his arm and smiled (in sympathy? amused? scornful?) ... “Will you fall over when I open this door or can you manage to stay upright?” Considering the stiffness of his cramped legs, he had to admit to uncertainty so she braced herself against the door and held her hand out to him, to allow him to pull himself up, which he managed more easily than he expected, only to be immediately caught out as one foot numbly gave way. He teetered forward and with no free hand to support himself almost fell onto her, would have done had she not instinctively used the palm of her hand to first fend him off, and then to allow his impulsion, halting him only when their faces were almost touching, whereupon she looked straight into his eyes and said “I am so glad that you’re here.”


XIV: through tears

But that was a remark the old Jenna would have made, to an old friend ... but was inappropriate now that this particular old friend had become a lover - no, had become a man who had fucked her for a week and then disappeared for a month. Was inappropriate for the doubly discarded reject she saw herself as, unhappily certain that she could not offer even something as light-hearted as a flirtatious remark and get away with it, certain that any such would be met with a chorus of mocking laughter and disbelief, a consensus of scorn at her self-deluded presumption that anyone could find her sufficiently attractive so as to respond in kind.

And indeed even this man, who had fucked her for six of those days, who had on one day out of that precious seven made love to her, made love with her, and had received, had wholeheartedly entered, encompassed, overwhelmed and ... yes ... given every indication of loving her in return, even he was now reluctant to exchange so much as a friendly kiss – pulling away from her after only seconds. “Wait” he said, and in her mind she heard the continuation “you are not what I want” and bitterly wished the self-exposing words unsaid, hiding her hurt with closed eyes, turning her head and trying to push her way out from between him and the doorjamb she was pressed against. “No Jenna ... wait .. I have to tell you first, before ... because ... please Jenna ... oh BUGGER this shoulder ...”

Desperate to escape him and the shame she felt at having repelled him by her eagerness, she squeezed past him, pushed open the door and would have slammed it in his face had he not got his foot in the way; when he pushed it wide she ran into the sitting room, turning to face him from the far side, eyes blurred, mouth incoherent, both hands ineffectually indicating that he should stay away from her. Appalled at her distress, unable to comprehend what had prompted it, Eddie paused in the doorway “Jenna – listen – before anything else you need to know that I punched your husband, I don’t know how you feel about it but I do need to tell you, before ... “

“And did he do that to you?, did he hit you back? did he actually fight you for me?” ...her voice distorted by her tears, he couldn’t grasp what it was she wanted to know. “... er...no, not exactly, this was done after ... he didn’t fight at all.”


XV : double vision

Although he had spoken the truth, Jenna’s reaction was such that he wished he had expressed it more tactfully (but how? – the man had just stood there, blood on his face and no intention of retaliating), and he now wondered whether she knew what a two-timing shit her husband was? or did she still want him back, regardless? (but she had just said she was glad to see him). Whichever, he could not simply let her stand, crying open-mouthed and agonised, and he went to comfort her, momentarily forgetting his own incapacity so that his instinctive reaching out to her was one-armed and short-lived since he could not pull her closer than the barrier of his sling-cradled arm. In any case she was resisting, resisting with increasing ferocity and distress and in the interests of self-preservation he had to let her go (but she had just said she was glad to see him).

In the interests of her self-preservation Jenna knew that she could not let him touch her again for her body would surely betray her. Her body had known when she was eight that his was the one necessary for her completion, it was just that her mind, having been brought up to value education, to esteem academic qualifications, had thought it necessary to seek other, higher things, had sought cerebral satisfaction, but her oh-so-cerebral, well-bloody-educated husband had shown the uselessness of that idea. But it was her mind she must use now to save herself from further hurt, to remind herself yet again that it had only been a matter of chance, of timing - he had just been caught short, there were no other, better, girls around and he just wanted to hone his technique, to keep his hand in – he wasn’t a man who could do without a woman for very long, he liked them too well. That Sunday night – no - she had totally mis-read that since it was impossible that he loved her as he had appeared to – his behaviour on subsequent nights had shown that.

He had never seen Jenna like this – so out of control, acting without reason: always she had been the cool, strong one, always she had been a friend - she had just said she was glad to see him, yet now there was a kind of fear in her desperation to fend him off. Her eyes had certainly been glad to see him ... and he was sure he had not been mistaken about the momentary spark between them, which he had had to quench before he ... before he what? ... come on for fuck’s sake, tell yourself the truth – before you what?

But as he stood irresolute, watching Jenna’s efforts to wipe tears and unstick hair from her face, efforts to stop her shuddering, hiccupping breaths, there was a sudden startled and enraged cry from the garden: “OhChristBridget” and he turned in an instant and ran and by the time Jenna reached the back door it was to see the affronted backside of next door’s cat escaping through the hedge – and Eddie holding Bridget safe on his shoulder, murmuring reassurances.


XVI: clarity

Jenna, having seen for herself that Bridget was unharmed, had remained on the doorstep instead of rushing to take her off him as he had expected and was now watching him, unsmiling and pale now in the aftermath of hysteria, although whatever had caused her original welcome to so suddenly turn to tears and then panicked resistance had, he saw, now been overcome, if not forgotten. But he didn’t feel ready to forget it, he needed to try and work out what was behind her evident hurt, to understand what had caused her such pain, and since the now wriggling Bridget was challenging the security of his one-armed grasp he carried her across to Jenna and gained himself more time by suggesting he go and put the kettle on. In truth, they both needed a pause, a beat or two of peace.

In the sitting room the sweet-smelling warm solidity of her daughter effectively banished the residual echoes and remnants of distress, and the remembrance of his warm solidity, holding Bridget, underlined the impossibility of foregoing his friendship. From across the room, watching her more closely than was apparent as he inconsequentially related a tale about one of his sisters’ children, he identified this moment of resolve and asked “All right now?” “Sorry ... flew off the handle a bit didn’t I?” she couldn’t explain, wouldn’t risk jeopardising his current ease with her, she would just have to find a way of dealing with the physical ache for him, find a way of coping, probably as one of a string of occasional women (find a way to ensure she was one of a string – did she have no pride?) “Pete deserved thumping - I should have done it myself ... but if he didn’t fight, how come you got hurt? ... and why did you hit him in the first place?”

He heard the escalation of social politeness in her voice and saw she was in the process of re-arming herself against him, and was humbled at the strength of her, but since he wanted not to be cast out, not to have a barrier between them, he knew he owed her at least the same level of honesty. “Jenna ... you must want to thump me too ... I didn’t know how much you knew of what Pete was up to, how much you cared about him, so I kept away, didn’t write ... but I couldn’t stop thinking about you, missing you all the time ... I knew it was happening that first afternoon I came here ... even before we ... but I couldn’t see any future in it, so I did my damnedest to spoil it before it spoiled me. I didn’t have the strength not to come, not to take you so long as you were there. I didn’t think about how it would seem to you because I didn’t, couldn’t hope, wasn’t at all sure that you felt the same ... but now I see that you do ... don’t you?”