by Polly Hall
Dandelions and grasses, sycamore and clover, seeded and planted themselves everywhere. In April the growth accelerated as if launching a stealthy attack of foliage on our garden. Did you want it to consume you? Or were you too absorbed in your work to even notice?
Tidiness and completion, in-its-place-ness, all corresponded with my internal landscape, the molding of my new home. After the miscarriage I needed to make our surroundings more like our home. First, the clearing by hand of the blocked, stagnant pond at the side of the house. Then removal and disposal of other detritus, after the felling of split willows and shrubs grown woody and gnarled. We burned up the debris, letting the smoke anoint us like incense. After the flames had died down and a smoldering pile of ash remained, I witnessed the light enter the front windows of the house like a long-lost friend; there was space again, as if in that clearing we had also made way for our own new growth. The moldings of our new life together began.
One morning I woke to find the windows of our home coated with the fine particles of another continent, as if a golden ghost had walked around and brushed against them. As I rested in bed, I looked out and imagined a sandstorm in the Arabian Desert traveling like a magic carpet across the ocean, raining gold dust as it reached land. I blinked, thinking something was in my eyes, until I realized it was not my eyesight but a filmy layer coating almost everything. The outer world had shifted, a subtle but marked change like the blurring of edges, not worth commenting on at the time. I heard about the sandstorm on the news, but it was passed over as if unremarkable compared to celebrity gossip. To me, it was a miracle. Dust had traveled for thousands of miles, and it was ignored like the passing clouds of moisture above us. Did we ignore the subtle erosions of our partnership? Would honesty have saved us?
You saw the miracle in life, didn’t you? You would still marvel at the sheer beauty presented at our feet as if you were the ruler of a magical kingdom. An unfurling crest of bracken. The silent flight of a barn owl. The murmuration of starlings at dusk. The rawness of bark where a deer had rubbed its velvet antlers. All your observations were worth more to me than your physical presence. And in your work, you tried to preserve some of it, uncompromising and self-effacing. A cruel master to your art, you craved perfection in a world of beautiful imperfection. Yet, all the while, I witnessed your obsession, as if mimicking Orpheus descending to the underworld, and I did nothing but encourage you. You couldn’t help but look back at me. Perhaps I was past saving, even then.
Do you remember how you taught me to mimic a deer when we first met? You said I was lucky, as you could only attract a doe with mimicry in the short window of a few weeks. You held the edge of a beech leaf between your forefinger and thumb and blew a short pheep—once, twice. Then we waited. I started to fidget, but you placed your hand on my arm with a look that told me to be patient. Then, emerging from the thicket, a doe. Her nose twitched; her head tilted from side to side, testing the vibrations. In that moment I felt her heart as if it were my own; I tasted her fear. I was amazed how a cautious creature like that could be lured so subtly by your simple tricks. No buck followed, so you did not shoot. Was there peace in your eyes as you watched it leap back into the undergrowth?
You held power in those moments. I wondered if you felt anything, wondered what it was like to take a life. Was the impact instantaneous as the shot pierced the hide, or did it affect you later as you washed the day from your skin? Perhaps that was why it was important for you to ingest the deer. That time I went stalking with you, I understood your relationship to your work. You did not use your bare hands like a savage to kill the deer; you were removed like a god from the physical act of death. Although I have no doubt you were prepared to use your hands if you needed to. Yet when you killed a deer you showed respect and reverence. I understood the need to cull a creature that swelled in numbers. They were damaging to the environment when no other predator hunted them. This insight could not deaden the spike of sadness each time you dispatched one and brought it home in the back of your truck, limp and lifeless as a wilted plant.
As I watched, I had not even considered the striking similarities between myself and those deer. But now I see it. You lured me with a silent, powerful instinct. The pain of not keeping your child within me hit me and I wept, not for our loss, but for my failure. It crept up like indigestion from the pit of my stomach to my throat, and once the tears started, I just couldn’t stop crying.
I sought out natural water to cleanse myself, the barrierless rhynes that marked the division of worlds, each side looking to the other, above and below the waterline. There, the marsh marigold adorned the intimate passing place between water and earth. Arrowhead pushed to the light from its liquid foundation. I sat on the edge of the rhyne, soaking the hem of my dress with the fields’ juices, and let my bare feet slide slowly down the soft margin where the bank meets the waterline. It was here, in this liminal space, that I felt freedom. The world seemed unfinished, like your experimental creatures. Frogbit and duckweed pretended to offer support with dense green blankets coating the surface of the water, yet the rhyne was deep. I felt the cold water deaden the sensation in my skin as my ankles were enveloped. Then came the point of no return as my calves, then knees, sank deeper below the water. I slid down, hoping my feet would reach the peaty bottom of the rhyne, but I kept sinking. Beneath me lay the silt-laden layer of nutrient-rich liquid that would spill up and over onto the land like the dark, deliberate pouring of gravy on a pie.
My waist reached the water level and deliciously caressed my groin, heavily sticking the fabric of my clothes to my legs. I kept sinking and slipping as my feet tried to find some footing below. Something wide and ribbon-like touched my leg but I raised my arms above the surface so I was half-floating, half-treading water. The willow trunks on the far side had grown tall and lean, split down vertically like flipped up diver’s legs. I dunked the upper half of my body beneath the waterline, once, twice, then completely submerged my head for only a few seconds before emerging, plastered in duckweed and dead reeds.
Shivers took hold of me even with the sun directly on the exposed parts of my body. I tried to swim, but my clothes were hindering me. Pulling my dress up and over my head, I was nearly naked in the water. I rolled it into a sodden ball and threw it toward the bank, where it landed with a liquid kiss. Even though the water was cold and dark I found solace there among the sedges. Then it began to rain, and all became water. I was born again, baptized.
I knew my tears would soon dry up because I had you, the love of my life. And even though I had no idea we would get married so quickly, I am happy we did. It was another bond forged between us. We are both impulsive, I know. Yet this memory still remains one of the most vivid days of my life. I only wish Rhett had been there to give me away. I know you thought him selfish but, really, he is a simple soul; he is not in the slightest bit interested in others’ pleasures unless they directly involve him.
It was so easy, just the two of us. No guest list to worry about, effortless. All we did was book the register office and ask a passer-by to be a witness. A bit like a lucky dip, selecting a stranger from the crowd who hesitantly signed her name as if signing a death warrant. Do you think she dined out on our story or let us drip from her memory like blood off a knife?
I wasn’t going to miss dressing up though, even if we were the only participants at our wedding. I had never fantasized about my wedding day like some girls seemed to do, planning every detail even before they’d met their potential spouse. But I loved to have the excuse to spruce up. The frills and lace of my mother’s wedding dress were perfect, if a bit dated. The flowers I had picked from the garden—red and white roses with ivy trailing like an emerald ribbon—were gorgeous. I couldn’t stop touching you in your tweeds; you looked so smart.
“Do you, Henry Royston Pepper, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?”
I can still hear her lisp as she said your name. But I became Mrs. Scarlett Pepper—sounds like somethi
ng sprinkled on your steak to hot it up. Ssssscarlet Pepper.
You chose a Bob Dylan song and it still rings in my ears—I want you. How I wanted you then—So bad. You held me close, and we walked in step toward the truck to go to our honeymoon destination.
It wasn’t far from home, but for one night we pretended we were miles away. It might as well have been anywhere, as we hardly left the room apart from a short walk about the grounds of the house. It was a medieval house hotel, something private and decadent. The peacocks strutted about looking for mates and let out high-pitched shrieks that seemed to reverberate through the thick stone walls. I think the receptionist was a bit shocked when we turned up, as if she had overlooked a wedding reception taking place. But you laughed and reassured her.
“Don’t worry dear,” you said, “we’re only passing through.”
“Are there any other guests in your party?”
“No.”
“Would you like to book a reservation for dinner this evening?”
“I think we’ll have it in our room.” You looked at me. I know you were thinking of me eating with my hands in front of other diners; it would have raised quite a few eyebrows.
The receptionist looked at the both of us, probably wondering how we could make such an unlikely pairing. What did she see? A young woman and a man twice her age, a typical father/daughter scene. However, we were clearly bride and groom. Age didn’t seem too much of a taboo, but I remember once I was mistaken for your daughter. Did that make you feel old? Perhaps it was because I looked so young for my age, so the gap seemed to widen in the eyes of those who inquisitively judged us.
You kissed me on my neck, lingering, while still facing the reception desk. The poor girl looked down, an uncomfortable rash of red spreading up her neck. How were you able to cast such spells, so quickly? Was it something about your aura pushing forwards and enveloping everything in intoxicating smoke?
The girl gave a nervous cough as she passed us the key, then blushed even more as you winked at her.
“The peacocks are very loud,” you growled at her.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she blushed again.
I pulled you away and we ascended the stairs, side by side, arm in arm.
Once in the room you took no time to set about consummating our marriage.
“Keep your dress on,” you grunted as I sat on the edge of the four poster and kicked up my legs so you could glimpse under my dress. You unclasped your belt and slipped off your jacket, then popped the buttons one by one on your waistcoat so it hung open.
I leaned back and kicked off my shoes. You faced me, loosened your belt and whipped it off with one movement. I could see you bulging to release from your trousers so I lay back. The bed was harder than I anticipated, and the room was dark. Dark wood, dark burgundy brocade curtains that hung tied back from the bed, dark walls and dark polished wooden floor.
You stalked toward me with the front of your trousers unzipped, your shirt tails loose. I felt like prey you were about to play with. My blood quickened.
“Well, Mrs. Pepper—what do you propose we do about this situation in which we find ourselves?”
I had reapplied the reddest lip gloss so it shined pornographically. You reached beneath the hem of my wedding dress and stroked your hand up my leg to my inner thigh. I parted my legs, and we were surrounded by a furrowing balloon of lace and silk, layers of petticoat billowing like a cloud between your body and mine. Yet, beneath, the heat was rising as you felt round my suspenders, hooked your fingers around my silk underwear and stripped it all down my legs with the same care you took in your work. I fidgeted on my back and slid further up the bed, and you disappeared in a flourish under the layers of my dress. I gazed up at the ceiling of the four-poster bed, ornate carved figurines of angels and naked women entwined with fruit between their breasts and thighs. You were waiting, not touching me, so I edged my body closer to your face.
Then came the sweet, wet pleasure of your tongue dancing as you swept your lips over me. I could feel your beard grazing and tickling my thighs and tried to imagine each expression playing across your features. I wanted to tell you how it felt, to try to put it into words but the words didn’t matter anymore. I could not define how you made me feel.
From beneath the covers of my dress, you emerged and pressed your body into mine. We found each other instantly, pushing deep and rhythmic as my body convulsed in waves. You grabbed my waist, lifting me up onto you, me still inside you. I pushed my weight down as the material of our clothes concealed our bodies.
“Oh, Mrs. Pepper—you are so hungry today.”
I wanted you to lose yourself, to be so removed you could not speak, so thrusted faster and deeper with my pelvis, contracting my muscles to suffocate you and suck you inside.
“Fill yourself my darling. Fill yourself up.” You kept taunting me as if I were the needy one. None of my movements seemed to make you speechless.
“Just fuck me harder, Rhett!”
I don’t know where the words came from but you looked startled, then the shock turned to brute force. You pushed me roughly against the hard mattress, turned me round so I was facing down on the bed. You fumbled with my dress, pushing it up and over my backside, and crushed against me, your thick cock pushed hard inside. In and in and in, your hand hard against my back crushing the air out of me.
“I’ll fuck you if you want—is this what you want?” You drilled me harder and harder, panting and grunting. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move.
“Please“ I tried to move but your weight pinned me and I felt hot tears sting my eyes as you kept me crushing me as if a mallet were driving me into the hard mattress. “Please.”
“Hard enough, you bitch!” You shuddered then collapsed onto me. We lay breathless. My face was pressed into the sheets. My body felt split, wet and filthy. La petite mort.
Moments before, my body had felt soft, clean and gloriously open. This was my wedding day, our wedding day. But after I had spoken another’s name, you turned from lover to beast as if a door were slamming shut between us. My world darkened; the heat dissipated from our bodies. Everything felt fake and undone.
Knocks at the door broke the silence, like a little pecking bird. It roused me out of my stupor. It was nearly eight o’clock.
I must have fallen asleep. I felt you ease off the edge of the bed before getting up to answer the door. With the door opened just a crack, you said, “That’s fine, just leave it there—I’ll fetch it in a moment.” Then the awkward fumbling of keeping the door open as you pushed the trolley inside.
“Scarlett?” you sat back on the edge of the bed and touched my back with your fingertips. I know I must’ve flinched because you lifted it away. “Are you hungry?”
I turned around to face you, my make-up smudged and my hair disheveled. Was it something in my expression that told you our love had changed, shifted into a matrix of power?
“You hurt me,” I said.
“I didn’t mean to. You made me do it.”
“Made you . . . ? I don’t know why I said his name . . .”
“Hush, it’s ok, it’s ok.” You placed your finger to my lips silencing me. Sitting before me was a different mana reflective, calm, gentle man. The one I had married earlier that day. But I was left puzzling over who was right and who was wrong.
“Shall we eat?” You lifted the domed metal lids off the plates to reveal what looked more like a piece of modern art than our dinner. You picked up the menu and read: “Spliced sea-bream enrobed in mustard seed jus, set on a bed of steamed purple-sprouted broccoli.”
I sat up, hugging my legs, and looked toward the food.
“Scarlett. Let’s not fight. This is our wedding day—be happy.” You patted me on my leg.
“I am happy.” I was. You made me happy.
You lifted another cover from the dishes on the second tier of the trolley.
“Look—strawberries and meringue with chocolate sauce and berries.”
Of course, we forgave each other for our little ways, our strange quirks. We were destined to share everything. I wanted to share it all with you. The whole fucked-up mess that I was.
I woke later that night and for a moment didn’t recall we were in the hotel. It was so dark, but it wasn’t the dark that bothered me. There was something in the room other than the two of us. I tried to listen between your snores but there was no sound I could discern, not a footstep or the rustle of clothes. But I could sense a presence. There was a disturbance in the atmosphere, like a ghost or the echo of a ghost. As if something had been reflected into this world and was testing the environment, much like a reptile tests its surroundings by flicking its tongue. It was the space in between the space that I could sense.
The peacocks’ cries had lessened as darkness fell, but this was closer. I thought of the frieze above us carved on the ceiling of the four-poster. I pictured the birds flitting among the women, bulbous fruit draped around the cornices. I attuned my senses to the window. It had turned chilly later in the evening and now, out of my wedding dress, I felt cooler under the sheets. I pulled the heavy covers back over my body from where they had shifted over toward your side of the bed. Then I felt as if something small but weighty leapt upon our bed. At first, I thought a cat had entered our room unnoticed and now wanted to claim its place on the bedding. But as I strained my eyes, I could see it was not cat-shaped. I tapped you on your arm but you carried on sleeping.
