Here is the Beehive

by Sarah Crossan

  only ever befitting a rental.

  I got a deep pan Hawaiian and a salad bowl

  piled high with cucumber and croutons,

  wondered what my friends were up to.

  ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘You’re always late, but I love you.’

  ‘I love you,’ I told him. ‘You’re a control freak, but I love you.’

  We refilled our glasses with Diet Coke.

  In the car park a woman in a BMW couldn’t

  reverse her car into a space

  wide enough to park a mobile home.

  ‘That’ll be you in a few years,’ he said.

  ‘Piss off,’ I replied.

  ‘I love her baseball cap,’ he said. ‘And I like rich women!’

  We still talked about money like it was a fantasy

  that belonged to the future,

  to other people,

  to adults –

  which we weren’t quite prepared to admit

  we’d become.

  ‘Will you marry me?’ Paul said.

  I was keeping tabs on the ice cream factory in the corner:

  tubs of Smarties and dolly mixtures,

  strawberry and chocolate sauces in giant sticky bottles.

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Not really. As I explained, I love you.’

  He reached into the pocket of his messenger bag

  and pulled out a burgundy box.

  ‘Here.’

  Inside was a gold ring.

  No diamond, an amethyst at its centre.

  ‘I can get you something else.

  Something garish if you like –

  to go with a BMW.’

  I used a napkin to wipe away tears.

  Then I slipped the ring on to my finger.

  ‘It’s really me,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Sorry about the film.

  I know you wanted to see it.’

  ‘Sorry I was late. We can rent it.’

  ‘So shall we do it then? At some point.

  Get married, I mean.

  Happy to see the film too though.’

  Paul was looking sheepishly into his untouched pizza.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’d really like that.’

  It was a garish, traditional wedding.

  Paul and I speak in grunts and nods.

  The children look first to me, then him,

  trying to interpret our maze of silence.

  We are all sick now.

  Everyone stuck at home

  coughing, shivering, not showering.

  I make the children fresh honey, lemon and ginger tea,

  and back in bed we watch The Goonies.

  ‘You’ll love it!’ I tell them.

  Because I love it.

  But The Goonies is too scary.

  Sloth is strange.

  There is a dead man in the freezer.

  I had forgotten about all the kissing.

  When Paul trudges downstairs drenched in self-pity,

  Ruth and Jon

  jump up,

  squeeze him as though he has returned from the wilds;

  they are glad to see him alive.

  ‘Mum gave us jelly,’ Jon says.

  His tongue is green. He is still in his pyjamas.

  ‘To cool our throats,’ Ruth says,

  sensing Paul may not approve of my mothering.

  He is not listening.

  He is heading for the front door.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the banging?’ he complains,

  opening it. In walks his mother, Leanna Williams,

  ablaze in a suit the colour of sweetcorn.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier, my darling.

  I had a hair appointment.

  Oh, hello, Ana.

  I thought you’d be at work.’

  ‘I thought she would too,’ Paul says.

  Ruth skips around the coffee table.

  Jon has given himself a paper cut, cries.

  ‘We’re on the mend. You didn’t need to come,’ I say.

  And I wish you hadn’t, you old bitch.

  ‘I brought Berocca,’ she says.

  ‘And smoked salmon. Who’s hungry?’

  Paul kisses her powdery cheek.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Mum,’ he said. ‘We’d be lost.’

  Leanna settles herself on the sofa. The kids join her.

  ‘Tea?’ Paul asks.

  I follow him into the kitchen.

  The butter is open on the countertop.

  Paul uses his forearm to push it aside.

  ‘Shouldn’t she be making you the tea?

  Has she come for a holiday?’

  Paul fills the kettle using bottled water.

  Not looking up, he says,

  ‘Have you thought about moving out?

  Maybe you should start looking for places.’

  ‘Me? I’m not leaving the kids.’

  He clicks the kettle. It growls gently.

  ‘Well. Someone should go.’

  In the doorway, Ruth is watching us.

  PART FOUR

  The agent, a girl no older than twenty,

  pushes open the door

  and curls a nostril.

  ‘They must have pets,’ she says.

  The mat is littered in mail, more discarded behind the door,

  along with a broken umbrella,

  a tool box.

  And two grey cats do appear,

  bony and matted.

  ‘So it’s twenty-two hundred per month.

  Three bed.

  One bath.

  Sixth-month minimum lease.’

  The agent leads me into the kitchen.

  Saucepans are piled high in the sink.

  The surface of the dining table is invisible beneath a mess

  of oil paints and monochrome canvases.

  ‘Not bad really for the price.

  This area can get silly.’

  ‘I live close by,’ I explain,

  wondering why I’m trying to impress this child.

  ‘Are you renovating?’

  ‘No, I’m separating.

  I’m looking for a place for myself and my new partner.

  He has three boys.

  I have a girl and boy.’

  ‘Right.’

  She is distracted by the smell, isn’t attending to my lies.

  But I continue, as she leads me upstairs

  into bedrooms with bed sheets for curtains.

  ‘I guess we’re a typical blended family.

  His ex isn’t completely on board, but these things take time.

  Main focus is the kids now.

  And retaining my dignity.’

  ‘Uh huh. So I’m showing someone else the house later.

  If you’re interested you’ll need financial references

  and to let me know as soon as.’

  The plughole in the shower is caked in hair.

  Bile rises in my throat.

  ‘It’s a shithole,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not interested. But call me if anything better

  becomes available.’

  Ruth and Jon will be asleep already.

  Paul will be scrubbing pans.

  And I am here trying to torpedo them all.

  This family I have made.

  It is almost dark outside.

  My phone rings. It is Rebecca.

  ‘Hi, Ana! How are you?’

  ‘I’m well. You?’

  ‘OK, I know this is going to sound cheeky

  but you said I could call if I needed someone

  to watch the boys.’

  ‘What time shall I come over?’

  The trampoline was speckled with conifer detritus.

  They spiked the soles of my feet.

  Patches of the mat were damp.

  You didn’t care:

  bounced on your knees,

  spun in the air,

  star-jumped,

  until the motion
made me nauseous.

  ‘Come on,’ you said. ‘Jump with me,’ you said.

  It was our first time together in a house,

  a detached cottage rental in Gloucester,

  better-suited to a family than the two of us.

  What could we possibly do with all that space

  when we were used to narrow hotel rooms,

  maids knocking at nine.

  ‘We should have brought the kids,’ you said.

  ‘And our spouses.’ It was a joke

  I was fond of making,

  suggesting we look for ways to bring

  Rebecca and Paul together –

  ‘If only they’d meet someone,’ you said.

  If only they’d die, I thought.

  Inside, after pasta and sex,

  we lay on the couch listening to Smooth FM,

  not talking until I said,

  ‘Have you ever thought about hiding your assets?’

  ‘Is it possible to hide anything these days?’

  ‘You hide me.’

  We were silent until you asked if I’d be willing to live in Iceland.

  I said I would, so we shook on it,

  agreed Iceland in the summer,

  Lisbon in the winter.

  And we went to bed.

  The next day in town we chose a sofa.

  I wanted the brown velvet, you preferred blue,

  but we settled,

  at least, on a button-back style,

  and pretended to watch TV on it,

  though we were staring out the first-floor window

  at vans

  passing by in the downpour.

  ‘We cooperate so well.

  We should live together,’ you said.

  ‘Paul and I are splitting up,’ I told you.

  ‘He doesn’t want to but I want you. It’s decided.

  Are you leaving Rebecca, or is this it?’

  ‘You aren’t splitting up.’ You seemed scared.

  ‘I’m leaving him.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ana.

  All I do is hurt you, Ana.

  You realise that, don’t you?’

  Back at the house we sat inside, stared out at the trampoline.

  It wasn’t easy to remember what I had felt the previous day.

  The freedom of jumping.

  The sting of it.

  You topped up my glass with rosé.

  ‘It’s you I love,’ you said,

  inching your chair away from mine to catch some sun.

  It went that way.

  When I wanted more,

  you punished me with distance.

  Paul cried.

  I hadn’t seen him do that much,

  even when his brother died.

  ‘You’ll destroy our family,’ he said,

  and, ‘I don’t understand,’

  and, ‘The kids are tiny. They’re tiny.’

  He curled into a ball in the bed,

  wouldn’t let me touch him,

  eventually refused to listen.

  I’m not sure he slept.

  Ruth had a party the next day at Belmont Farm.

  We went as a family,

  fed goats from the flats of our hands.

  You messaged a photo of David in his cricket kit

  as I queued for cake.

  My husband couldn’t speak.

  He was crushed.

  And I had caused it.

  We had.

  While your life ticked by unaltered.

  And Rebecca?

  Oblivious.

  Happy and stupid.

  In the kitchen, your sons are perched around the table like statues.

  Rebecca presses her hand into the top of each head.

  ‘This is Ned, David and Jamie.

  These two guys staying here have promised to leave you alone.

  Haven’t you? Did you choose a film?’

  Only the youngest nods.

  ‘We’re gonna watch something with boobs.’

  ‘Jamie!’ Rebecca laughs. I am supposed to do the same.

  ‘You’re going to go to bed in a half hour. Right?’

  Your eldest reaches for another slice of garlic bread.

  His head is shaved.He has a tiny monogram tattoo on his thumb: CM.

  Your middle child, David, scans me like he knows everything.

  ‘Who are you?’ He has your teeth. Nose.

  He is wearing lots of braided bracelets.

  Each of your boys is painted in a little bit of you.

  ‘I’m Ana,’ I say.

  ‘Mum’s friend?’ David eats with his mouth open.

  You did that sometimes. It wasn’t a thing I disliked.

  ‘I hope your husband doesn’t mind us borrowing you?’ Rebecca says.

  Around the kitchen, stocky candles have been lit.

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t mind. Time alone with the TV suits him!’

  I messaged Paul to say I had a client meeting.

  He didn’t respond:

  he has given up trying to understand.

  ‘We won’t be too long.’

  Ned stands

  and with a grunt follows Rebecca into the hallway.

  ‘David will show you where the coffee’s kept.

  Thank you for doing this.

  You’re so good.’

  I get into Jamie’s bed and read to him,

  laughing, laughing,

  as we turn the pages,

  as Mr Gum and Billy William

  drink beer and belch.

  ‘You’re so sweet,’ I say,

  and your youngest rests his head against my chest.

  ‘Stay for a Prosecco,’

  Rebecca pleads, arriving home and

  rattling on about how well

  Ned is performing at school.

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  I say, ‘OK,’

  and we drink until midnight.

  Look at me now, Connor Mooney.

  Just look.

  When I think of the things

  I almost said,

  the flotsam

  in my head,

  a hand tightens around my throat.

  I wish I could speak simply

  or simply speak,

  whisper the wrecking yard junk

  hidden in my pokiest corners.

  But there is little meaning in the slant of words

  unless a listener replies.

  And your reply is forever silence.

  After the firm’s Christmas do,

  a curry on East End Road with thick red wine,

  Tanya and I take a cab to a seedy nightclub in Holloway.

  ‘I should go home,’ I say, but don’t.

  I do shots at the bar,

  dance in my coat

  with my bag on my shoulder.

  In the toilets

  two girls in leather skirts

  stop kissing to say,

  ‘You’re lush for someone your age,’

  and press a pill

  between my lips.

  The brunette leans forward, licks my mouth.

  ‘Well lush,’ she says, peering into me

  until the other girl pulls her back,

  devours her hungrily.

  I dance again,

  drink,

  barrel against clubbers until the bouncer throws me

  out.

  I wait for Tanya across the road in a kebab shop.

  I am mumbling to myself, but I don’t know how to stop.

  ‘It’s the pill. It’s the pill,’ I am saying.

  The chef laughs.

  I threaten to fight him.

  He laughs again and so does a hipster.

  ‘You only get away with that sort of shit when you’re eighteen,’

  the hipster says. ‘Bit sad when you’re fifty.’

  ‘Fifty?’ I push him.

  He staggers gently,

  bites into his burger.

  Ketchup from the side drips on to the floor,r />
  too gloopy to be blood.

  They laugh harder than before.

  I am funny. But I do not want to be funny.

  I want to fight.

  I want to lose.

  Snow has settled overnight

  though the forecast promised rain.

  Tree branches crack, drop lumps of ice.

  The postman hasn’t yet been.

  I poach eggs, the yolks bright as small clementines.

  Outside, Ruth and Jon are giggling, arguing.

  Paul shovels snow,

  glares in at me now and then,

  perhaps because I am in my dressing gown,

  perhaps because he heard me throwing up when I got home.

  Ruth is building a snow-throne using her bare hands.

  Jon is whining about a ruined snow angel,

  his pinching wellies.

  He shouts, ‘Come outside, Mummy!’

  Ruth raps on the window. ‘It’s quite OK. Isn’t it, Daddy?’

  ‘Breakfast in two minutes.’

  The eggs are rubbery.

  The toast popped too long ago to be butterable.

  Paul tosses aside his shovel, comes indoors.

  ‘Your shift,’ he says. ‘I’m going back to bed.

  By the way, Ruth has swimming at ten.

  Jon has a party at twelve.

  I already texted you the details.

  I’m busy all day.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He laughs and, leaving the room, says,

  ‘I know that isn’t a real question.’

  We met in Cherry Tree Wood,

  sat on a bench and watched parents whittle away their time,

  pushing swings.

  ‘I just think we should sort out our marriages

  then find one another afterwards,’ you said.

  ‘How long will it take?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ you said.

  I wanted to be reasonable,

  to say I understood

  and yes

  and of course

  and anything you need.

  I said, ‘So you and Rebecca go to therapy

  and I just wait for it to be over

  with no knowledge of which way it’ll go?’

  I was eating a sandwich for lunch,

  rewrapped it in its paper.

  A mother pushed with one hand,

  checked her phone with the other.

  By her feet were three bags of groceries,

  one toppled, onions spilling out on to the rubber mulch.

  ‘I love you,’ you said,

  and I wanted to hold on to that,

  but what part of loving me meant giving me up?

  Again.

  ‘She deserves closure.

  Counselling would give her that.

  I can’t just walk out.

  People don’t just walk out, Ana.’

  ‘Ask me to walk out and I’ll do it,’ I said.