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.
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Monday, 26 April 2010
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
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
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
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
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
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
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.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
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?”
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?”
Monday, 22 March 2010
Sensory deception?
I had only a three hour slot, and a lot of information to assimilate, so my attention was strictly divided between the hooded screen of the film-reader and the notebook on my left, eyes flicking between the two. As usual I was grateful for the deep-pile atmosphere of scholarly hush, knowing that in this inner sanctum the two librarians would say only what was necessary and relevant: exemplars of academic observance.
Consequently when I heard the door murmur open I anticipated no disturbance, and indeed there was none, my eyes remained focused, my left hand continued to write and my right hand wound on the film, scratched and grainy page by page. Nevertheless another of my senses – one not required for the task in hand - was instantly diverted: the person who entered, who quietly gave his name, briefly detailed his area of interest and confirmed that yes, he knew how to use the index, where to find the films he needed, had one of the most compelling voices I’d heard for a very long time.
His vowels were flat, confidently Calderdale, not harsh but modulated, rounded as a stream-smoothed pebble which had been washed every day of its life in soft, sky-dropped peat-brown hill water, his tones as smooth and as rich and as creamy as the toffee the town was famous for, and as he sat to use the reader on my right I changed my mind about the desirability of silence and would willingly have listened to him speak on any subject he chose for the rest of the morning, but he restricted himself to only the most occasional of occasional remarks to the librarian.
At twelve thirty I re-wound the film, turned the machine off and gathered up pencils and notebook, deliberately refraining from looking to my right until the last possible minute, whereupon I discovered that this aural distraction who had been sat beside me for the past two and a half hours was thin and faded, sixty-ish, tweed-jacketed and to all appearances totally unremarkable.
Consequently when I heard the door murmur open I anticipated no disturbance, and indeed there was none, my eyes remained focused, my left hand continued to write and my right hand wound on the film, scratched and grainy page by page. Nevertheless another of my senses – one not required for the task in hand - was instantly diverted: the person who entered, who quietly gave his name, briefly detailed his area of interest and confirmed that yes, he knew how to use the index, where to find the films he needed, had one of the most compelling voices I’d heard for a very long time.
His vowels were flat, confidently Calderdale, not harsh but modulated, rounded as a stream-smoothed pebble which had been washed every day of its life in soft, sky-dropped peat-brown hill water, his tones as smooth and as rich and as creamy as the toffee the town was famous for, and as he sat to use the reader on my right I changed my mind about the desirability of silence and would willingly have listened to him speak on any subject he chose for the rest of the morning, but he restricted himself to only the most occasional of occasional remarks to the librarian.
At twelve thirty I re-wound the film, turned the machine off and gathered up pencils and notebook, deliberately refraining from looking to my right until the last possible minute, whereupon I discovered that this aural distraction who had been sat beside me for the past two and a half hours was thin and faded, sixty-ish, tweed-jacketed and to all appearances totally unremarkable.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
Action and reaction
Sanctuary lasted only as long as it took me to open my eyes, momentarily closed in relief as I shut the back door behind me. Through the inner door of the kitchen, across the narrow hall and through my open bedroom door, I saw that he had followed and was watching me, grey-jacketed elbows akimbo, blue striped shirt exposed, red face close to the glass as, eyes shaded, he peered in. Instinctively I ran and pulled the door shut to blot him out, then a silent shriek at my stupidity sent me back to turn the key in the door, by which time he’d moved to the adjoining window.
As he ran round the outside of the bungalow I closed the inner doors, my brother’s bedroom, the bathroom whose dimpled glass I knew he wouldn’t be able to see through (but was unprepared for the shock of my own open-mouthed, tear and mucus-stained face in the mirror), the lounge and my parents’ bedroom until I stood in the dark hall, hearing his raised voice at the back door above the blood-rushing heartbeat in my head.
He shouted to me for several minutes but what I presume was shame at my eventual capitulation has blotted out what exactly he said, how he eventually persuaded me to return to the kitchen, to unlock the door, to go back across the road with him to the place which, having reached the end of my endurance, I had run from, probably less than half an hour previously. Neither is the precise timescale of what happened next very clear, but as well as the awe with which I was greeted I remember that after delivering a lecture about the unacceptability of bullying he made the entire school, including me and the sharp-fingered tormentor behind me, sit in silence with hands on heads for a five full minutes.
As he ran round the outside of the bungalow I closed the inner doors, my brother’s bedroom, the bathroom whose dimpled glass I knew he wouldn’t be able to see through (but was unprepared for the shock of my own open-mouthed, tear and mucus-stained face in the mirror), the lounge and my parents’ bedroom until I stood in the dark hall, hearing his raised voice at the back door above the blood-rushing heartbeat in my head.
He shouted to me for several minutes but what I presume was shame at my eventual capitulation has blotted out what exactly he said, how he eventually persuaded me to return to the kitchen, to unlock the door, to go back across the road with him to the place which, having reached the end of my endurance, I had run from, probably less than half an hour previously. Neither is the precise timescale of what happened next very clear, but as well as the awe with which I was greeted I remember that after delivering a lecture about the unacceptability of bullying he made the entire school, including me and the sharp-fingered tormentor behind me, sit in silence with hands on heads for a five full minutes.
Friday, 19 March 2010
Proper epic
Woken by an echoing conversation concerning a clothes prop I lay and contemplated the bareness of the new room whose strangeness – no curtains, no carpets - had delayed my getting to sleep the night before.
While Mum and Dad continued to talk in the shade beneath my window I climbed out of bed for my very first morning view, limited by the chest high windowsill. The high sky – much more of it than I had been used to - hummed with an immaculate blueness which failed to enhance the bare earth of the garden, rough with bricks and lumps of cement, a long rectangle meagrely delineated by three strands of wire threaded through stumpy, still-white concrete posts.
The voices stopped and I looked down and sideways as Dad came into view, monochrome in the black of hair and trousers and billowing white shirt, becoming vivid as he stepped from the shadow of the house across the sandy scrape of unmade road and into the flickering, swishing long grass, the green intensity of which was chalked by sunlight catching the ridged roughnesses. The trees where he was heading were a mass of dark slender trunks and I regretted that I had slept so late, wished that I was striding through the meadow with him, to find a strong branch of the right length, with a fork at the right height for propping up the newly-strung washing line.
Now, whenever I recall this, the memory is accompanied by a cliché soundtrack of big orchestra, silhouetted-man-walking-into-sunset film music – the ‘Good the Bad and the Ugly’ perhaps or ‘The Magnificent Seven’.
While Mum and Dad continued to talk in the shade beneath my window I climbed out of bed for my very first morning view, limited by the chest high windowsill. The high sky – much more of it than I had been used to - hummed with an immaculate blueness which failed to enhance the bare earth of the garden, rough with bricks and lumps of cement, a long rectangle meagrely delineated by three strands of wire threaded through stumpy, still-white concrete posts.
The voices stopped and I looked down and sideways as Dad came into view, monochrome in the black of hair and trousers and billowing white shirt, becoming vivid as he stepped from the shadow of the house across the sandy scrape of unmade road and into the flickering, swishing long grass, the green intensity of which was chalked by sunlight catching the ridged roughnesses. The trees where he was heading were a mass of dark slender trunks and I regretted that I had slept so late, wished that I was striding through the meadow with him, to find a strong branch of the right length, with a fork at the right height for propping up the newly-strung washing line.
Now, whenever I recall this, the memory is accompanied by a cliché soundtrack of big orchestra, silhouetted-man-walking-into-sunset film music – the ‘Good the Bad and the Ugly’ perhaps or ‘The Magnificent Seven’.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Five ‘don’ts’ and one ‘do’
I don’t taste food when I’m cooking in case it tastes horrible and I have to find something else to serve up.
I don’t research destinations before I visit so as to be able to discover them without prejudice once I arrive.
I don’t read the blurb on the cover of a book to remind myself of the story just before I start reading, knowing that it informed my decision to buy it in the first place.
If asked “have you any questions” when embarking on a new course I don’t ask about the content, on the assumption that if I’ve decided to apply it will be fine, and that the discovery will be part of the learning process.
I don’t – cannot – read guidelines and instructions on how, for example, to set up a blog page, because I don’t know what I need to know before I’ve found out what I don’t know.
I do like printmaking because I can proceed with blind optimism and imperfect remembrance and more often than not the results are a delightful surprise.
I don’t research destinations before I visit so as to be able to discover them without prejudice once I arrive.
I don’t read the blurb on the cover of a book to remind myself of the story just before I start reading, knowing that it informed my decision to buy it in the first place.
If asked “have you any questions” when embarking on a new course I don’t ask about the content, on the assumption that if I’ve decided to apply it will be fine, and that the discovery will be part of the learning process.
I don’t – cannot – read guidelines and instructions on how, for example, to set up a blog page, because I don’t know what I need to know before I’ve found out what I don’t know.
I do like printmaking because I can proceed with blind optimism and imperfect remembrance and more often than not the results are a delightful surprise.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Unprotected
She’d spent the first week rehearsing lust, which didn’t go unnoticed by his wife who was also her aunt. Having been taken the same way, when only a couple of years older, this aunt smiled, understood and did her best to most tactfully warn.
In the second week, unheeding but alone and no less hungry, she bought a bikini in the sale and sunbathed, toasting her body along with her imagination as she read on the beach. Tall for her age, and the pre-formed bikini top promising far more than it could possibly fulfil, she caught the eye of a Triumph rider named Trevor. Before she clambered, still in her bikini, onto the back of his blue bike, she gave him directions to a beach she knew, secluded and well away from town.
She was just fourteen.
In the second week, unheeding but alone and no less hungry, she bought a bikini in the sale and sunbathed, toasting her body along with her imagination as she read on the beach. Tall for her age, and the pre-formed bikini top promising far more than it could possibly fulfil, she caught the eye of a Triumph rider named Trevor. Before she clambered, still in her bikini, onto the back of his blue bike, she gave him directions to a beach she knew, secluded and well away from town.
She was just fourteen.
Premature
I didn’t exactly sprint down the hill - it wasn’t my style – and as well as the residue of self-protection was the painfully recent remembrance of the hard-eyed Malayan, her scalpel blade flashing and tweezers snatching around my most tender areas. A midday of blue and eye-screwed brightness, birdsong and a well-washed denim dress, smiling shoppers toiling bags towards me, returning from the town. I smiled too, full to the brim with joy: blissfully lacking anticipation of the crushing sense of responsibility which would later overwhelm us.
He wouldn’t be expecting me: he’d dropped me off before eight that morning and planned to pick me up after six, a third successive Saturday we’d spent apart. Hearing me rattle open the door, he came to the top of the stairs, paintbrush in hand, enquiring and concerned. I, a bit breathless: “They weighed her – they said her weight’s OK – we can fetch her now – we can bring Julia Kate home!”
He wouldn’t be expecting me: he’d dropped me off before eight that morning and planned to pick me up after six, a third successive Saturday we’d spent apart. Hearing me rattle open the door, he came to the top of the stairs, paintbrush in hand, enquiring and concerned. I, a bit breathless: “They weighed her – they said her weight’s OK – we can fetch her now – we can bring Julia Kate home!”
Friday, 12 March 2010
Rose tinted Stillington
The locals called it ‘Stilly’ – a South Durham pit village where the pit was long gone but the community remained in the two-up two-down Victorian terraced houses.
And it was this sense of community that she pondered on as she sat surrounded by scattered children’s books and an appreciative crowd of mothers, their pyjama-ed children running in and out of the front door which opened directly onto the warm September evening.
The women mostly had grown up together, their mutual familiarity felt close and warm, their conversation easy and lacking the hidden agendas of the spiky-edged social sparring she encountered among the randomly assembled occupants of the new housing estates (more interested in the books too) and for a few minutes she was envious, recognising facets of sociability she knew was incapable of – a lack of nature far more than of nurture.
The book party was a good one – a genuine belief in the benefits of reading meant that money was more willingly spent there than in some areas, although as usual she’d not insisted on payment on the day, knowing that that would cause difficulties.
“Three weeks – I’ll phone you when the order comes” ... but as it happened she met the girl who’d hosted the party (the local stripper apparently – she was certainly an attractive lass) in town the day the order arrived.
“The money’s all got in, it’s in an envelope in the sideboard drawer ... but you’ll have to go and fetch it yourself because I took the kids and left him last week ... would you deliver my order to the Women’s Refuge.”
And it was this sense of community that she pondered on as she sat surrounded by scattered children’s books and an appreciative crowd of mothers, their pyjama-ed children running in and out of the front door which opened directly onto the warm September evening.
The women mostly had grown up together, their mutual familiarity felt close and warm, their conversation easy and lacking the hidden agendas of the spiky-edged social sparring she encountered among the randomly assembled occupants of the new housing estates (more interested in the books too) and for a few minutes she was envious, recognising facets of sociability she knew was incapable of – a lack of nature far more than of nurture.
The book party was a good one – a genuine belief in the benefits of reading meant that money was more willingly spent there than in some areas, although as usual she’d not insisted on payment on the day, knowing that that would cause difficulties.
“Three weeks – I’ll phone you when the order comes” ... but as it happened she met the girl who’d hosted the party (the local stripper apparently – she was certainly an attractive lass) in town the day the order arrived.
“The money’s all got in, it’s in an envelope in the sideboard drawer ... but you’ll have to go and fetch it yourself because I took the kids and left him last week ... would you deliver my order to the Women’s Refuge.”
Identity crisis
The headline to the brief newspaper report was ’50 headless Vikings.'
An ancient burial pit had been found near the Dorset coast containing headless bodies of young men.
Expert archaeologists declared they had been decapitated.
Expert archaeologists thought the deed was probably done by Anglo Saxons.
Expert archaeologists identified the headless bodies as Scandinavian invaders.
Expert archaeologists came to this conclusion 'after examining teeth samples' ...
An ancient burial pit had been found near the Dorset coast containing headless bodies of young men.
Expert archaeologists declared they had been decapitated.
Expert archaeologists thought the deed was probably done by Anglo Saxons.
Expert archaeologists identified the headless bodies as Scandinavian invaders.
Expert archaeologists came to this conclusion 'after examining teeth samples' ...
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Misplaced confidence
A rare treat, just Dad and me going down to town on a Saturday morning, and wonderful too in that he was enjoying just me, a recognition which transformed the weekday familiar high street into a bright and newly fascinating bazaar.
‘I’ve got a good idea – we’ll go home a different way’ - a treat intended both for him and for me, but when he headed further into town I was sure he was mistaken and would get us both lost, but didn’t like to say so because I didn’t want to make him feel silly.
Dubiously I held his hand as he took a secret muddy path beside the station, ragged-edged with yellow-flowered weeds, a thin, bramble-wrapped hawthorn hedge the only barrier between us and the railway lines, beyond which the ground dropped out of sight down to the wide grey-green river.
On our left were the blank red brick backs of the high street shops and beyond them a steep, grime-grassed bank, strewn with a litter of rusty cans, chip-wrappings and slit, grey-stained mattresses, which had somehow been manhandled over the sagging, square-meshed fences strung between angled-iron poles.
These I noticed, but their ugliness had little impact since I was by then in a state of terror since it was obvious, from the frequent patches of burnt cinders every yard or so along the muddy path, that there was every likelihood that the path itself would at any moment bust into flames: I could not be certain that Dad had recognised this danger and was torn between wanting to warn him and not wanting to undermine his confidence.
After a mute twenty minutes, the path reached the rough cropped grass of a field which adjoined the spinney known as ‘The Hangings’ and I sighed with relief at danger passed, now fully confident that Dad would protect me from the next potential hazard: the man who lived in these woods who, as everybody knew, captured and ate children.
‘I’ve got a good idea – we’ll go home a different way’ - a treat intended both for him and for me, but when he headed further into town I was sure he was mistaken and would get us both lost, but didn’t like to say so because I didn’t want to make him feel silly.
Dubiously I held his hand as he took a secret muddy path beside the station, ragged-edged with yellow-flowered weeds, a thin, bramble-wrapped hawthorn hedge the only barrier between us and the railway lines, beyond which the ground dropped out of sight down to the wide grey-green river.
On our left were the blank red brick backs of the high street shops and beyond them a steep, grime-grassed bank, strewn with a litter of rusty cans, chip-wrappings and slit, grey-stained mattresses, which had somehow been manhandled over the sagging, square-meshed fences strung between angled-iron poles.
These I noticed, but their ugliness had little impact since I was by then in a state of terror since it was obvious, from the frequent patches of burnt cinders every yard or so along the muddy path, that there was every likelihood that the path itself would at any moment bust into flames: I could not be certain that Dad had recognised this danger and was torn between wanting to warn him and not wanting to undermine his confidence.
After a mute twenty minutes, the path reached the rough cropped grass of a field which adjoined the spinney known as ‘The Hangings’ and I sighed with relief at danger passed, now fully confident that Dad would protect me from the next potential hazard: the man who lived in these woods who, as everybody knew, captured and ate children.
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
early March weekend
Long weekend away, partly for some catch-up time with husband - because we're both busy with at home interests we make sure to arrange the occasional trip together, and this was to check out some of his family's Leicestershire graveyards - and then to our granddaughters' birthday party - fascinating to see how their personalities are growing and changing.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Picnic preparation
Sunlight through the open doorway laying milk chocolate rectangles across the plain of the Marley-tiled floor, hinged with warm cream up the wall beyond which, black hair and white shirt silhouetted against the bright garden, Dad fold-wraps sandwiches and slices of home made fruit cake in waxy paper.
My brother and I, eager to speed the departure, unusually harmonious in our shared anticipation, running, giggling, bumping in doorways, bizarrely trying to disperse our overload of excitement by taking it in turns to sniff the revolting odour of some sort of purple yellow seaweed fern on the table in the hall.
Disbelieving, jigging frustration because Mum is sitting in the little-used, cold-from-no-sun front room sewing - hurriedly hemming the red spotted white skirt she has almost finished – she tells me it’s ‘circular’ in a way that makes that fact rare and important and I understand that part of the pleasure of the day for her will be wearing that skirt (but wonder why she didn’t finish it last night so we could be on our way.)
We sit on separate saddles fixed to Dad’s crossbar, my brother in front because he’s smaller and wriggles against me, Dad behind, his arms either side, his breath blowing my hair as he pedals, legs up and down, knees bumping feet if we don’t keep them still on the black, flat - barred footrests.
Mum carries the food in the big loose-woven wicker basket on the front of her bike, towels and buckets and spades and cardigans piled above the scalloped edge, smiling and pleased with her skirt and in anticipation of the day.
But here my picture ends – was that the day I got lost in the dunes? was scared by a giant green crab lurking under the wet wooden groyne? cut my foot and was so overwhelmed with contrariness that I screamed as she tried to put a plaster on, knowing that I was behaving badly? – I cannot remember, but I wonder how she managed to cycle in a circular skirt, smiling.
My brother and I, eager to speed the departure, unusually harmonious in our shared anticipation, running, giggling, bumping in doorways, bizarrely trying to disperse our overload of excitement by taking it in turns to sniff the revolting odour of some sort of purple yellow seaweed fern on the table in the hall.
Disbelieving, jigging frustration because Mum is sitting in the little-used, cold-from-no-sun front room sewing - hurriedly hemming the red spotted white skirt she has almost finished – she tells me it’s ‘circular’ in a way that makes that fact rare and important and I understand that part of the pleasure of the day for her will be wearing that skirt (but wonder why she didn’t finish it last night so we could be on our way.)
We sit on separate saddles fixed to Dad’s crossbar, my brother in front because he’s smaller and wriggles against me, Dad behind, his arms either side, his breath blowing my hair as he pedals, legs up and down, knees bumping feet if we don’t keep them still on the black, flat - barred footrests.
Mum carries the food in the big loose-woven wicker basket on the front of her bike, towels and buckets and spades and cardigans piled above the scalloped edge, smiling and pleased with her skirt and in anticipation of the day.
But here my picture ends – was that the day I got lost in the dunes? was scared by a giant green crab lurking under the wet wooden groyne? cut my foot and was so overwhelmed with contrariness that I screamed as she tried to put a plaster on, knowing that I was behaving badly? – I cannot remember, but I wonder how she managed to cycle in a circular skirt, smiling.
Monday, 1 March 2010
Late Spring Spawn
March: in normal years the pond is full.
All twenty plus frogs mated and spawned.
Rarely is the surface empty, rarely are the evenings quiet.
Carousing, calling, froggies come lately. Pond-side stage-door johnnies panting.
Hoping against hope for even later females.
All twenty plus frogs mated and spawned.
Rarely is the surface empty, rarely are the evenings quiet.
Carousing, calling, froggies come lately. Pond-side stage-door johnnies panting.
Hoping against hope for even later females.
Much Abbreviated Resumé of Character of Husband
Motorbikes are my husband’s raison d’être.
Although he says he couldn’t live without me.
Realistically, he’d be unhappier without them.
Cooking and shopping, he already does it.
He’d maybe miss my alien (lack of) humour, my stay-at-home inclination, my weight on the pillion seat (when adjusting the chain) and the music I play that he doesn’t like. He definitely would miss me making his bed.
Although he says he couldn’t live without me.
Realistically, he’d be unhappier without them.
Cooking and shopping, he already does it.
He’d maybe miss my alien (lack of) humour, my stay-at-home inclination, my weight on the pillion seat (when adjusting the chain) and the music I play that he doesn’t like. He definitely would miss me making his bed.
Not of time but of perception
March was the month my status changed forever.
Although I’d done absolutely nothing to cause such an alteration, I found myself suddenly aged.
Regular exercise, eating healthily – five a day fruit, four a week gym – made not a jot of difference.
Cheese and wine six times a week (and occasionally chocolate) while not ideal, were not responsible either.
Henceforth, whether I was caught shoplifting, knocked down by a rampaging elephant, or climbed Everest stark naked things would be different. From the day that phone call came – the 3rd - whatever I did, however well I did it, I would inevitably be described as “Grandmother.”
Although I’d done absolutely nothing to cause such an alteration, I found myself suddenly aged.
Regular exercise, eating healthily – five a day fruit, four a week gym – made not a jot of difference.
Cheese and wine six times a week (and occasionally chocolate) while not ideal, were not responsible either.
Henceforth, whether I was caught shoplifting, knocked down by a rampaging elephant, or climbed Everest stark naked things would be different. From the day that phone call came – the 3rd - whatever I did, however well I did it, I would inevitably be described as “Grandmother.”
Thursday, 25 February 2010
In December, in vain, is strange
Imagine, if you would, that you are stood in the doorway looking into a room of about fifteen feet square; the room itself is dark, but light from behind you illuminates it to some extent.
And imagine that this light is reflected back at you from what seems to be hundreds of strands of that shiny narrow ribbon used to tie birthday presents suspended from the ceiling; (I haven’t done an accurate calculation, but you should assume that each ribbon is hung no more than a few inches from its neighbours). The ribbons (silver? red? blue? – you can choose) differ in length, their ends between one and three feet from the floor, and tied to each is a tiny, shiny CD, each scribble-patterned surface glinting. Diagonally across the room, on the opposite wall, is another doorway; there is no light beyond but you are able to pick out its somewhat indistinct outline.
Your task (of course there’s a task!) is to make your way across the room through the hanging ribbons, as directly or indirectly as you please, to the other doorway, and on your way you must randomly collect at least six and no more than ten of these CDs, which you cut from the ribbons with the scissors provided (warning: scissors are a sharp pointed instrument).
On reaching the far doorway it becomes possible to read the words that are written on your CDs, whereupon you discover that common to each is the word ‘love’, the other words - song titles or phrases from songs – will, when taken together, give as good and authoritative a definition of love as you are likely to find anywhere.
[Successful submission to Love6S]
And imagine that this light is reflected back at you from what seems to be hundreds of strands of that shiny narrow ribbon used to tie birthday presents suspended from the ceiling; (I haven’t done an accurate calculation, but you should assume that each ribbon is hung no more than a few inches from its neighbours). The ribbons (silver? red? blue? – you can choose) differ in length, their ends between one and three feet from the floor, and tied to each is a tiny, shiny CD, each scribble-patterned surface glinting. Diagonally across the room, on the opposite wall, is another doorway; there is no light beyond but you are able to pick out its somewhat indistinct outline.
Your task (of course there’s a task!) is to make your way across the room through the hanging ribbons, as directly or indirectly as you please, to the other doorway, and on your way you must randomly collect at least six and no more than ten of these CDs, which you cut from the ribbons with the scissors provided (warning: scissors are a sharp pointed instrument).
On reaching the far doorway it becomes possible to read the words that are written on your CDs, whereupon you discover that common to each is the word ‘love’, the other words - song titles or phrases from songs – will, when taken together, give as good and authoritative a definition of love as you are likely to find anywhere.
[Successful submission to Love6S]
6S Truth, daring and developing ideas
While knowing that I could write, in the manner of 'can't everyone?' since I inevitably assume that if I can do it must be easy, I hadn't really considered myself to be 'a writer' as such, not quite considering the writing up of research in the same category. 6S, mentioned by Julia, looked interesting, became addictive and once I'd joined inspired me to try different voices. Now writing is taking over. My first post on 6S, Truth or Dare, referred to my 'boringly pedantic' style and expressed the hope that I would 'circumvent my instincts, dare to escape from the bounds of the proven, and colour in some of the monochrome facts which beg to be illuminated.' Not straying too far from reality was important but by adding 'a little bit of fantasy icing to the rich historical cake' of resource material - especially Tom's photo albums - has been truly satisfying for me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)