by Meg Bignell
‘It’s not,’ said Valda. ‘It’s cold. I prefer the cloudy days in winter, keeps the heat in.’
‘We have a present for you, Valda.’
‘I don’t want any more Vivaldi; he’s for twits, Neville says. That solo violin birdsong …’ She screwed up her face.
‘No, it’s a new lipstick.’ I held the little package out to her. ‘We – Eloise and I – thought you might like a new colour.’
She didn’t look at it. ‘I have plenty of lipstick, thank you very much. I bought Myer out of my colour years ago and it’ll see me to the grave. Neville didn’t like me in anything else. Once I changed to pink for a tennis party and he flirted with Lurlene Wallace all day to spite me. He was much better tempered with me in coral lipstick.’
‘It is a coral shade,’ said Eloise. ‘Just a bit darker than yours.’
‘But Valda,’ I said as gently as I could, ‘he’s not here any more. And I don’t think he’d mind if you let him go.’
‘Yes, he would. Very much mind. What do you know?’
And so I was quiet. After a minute I went to the CD player, found the Vivaldi I’d lent to Valda the other day and slipped it into the player. His Goldfinch flute concerto piped in on the morning. I made tea, poured her a cup and then left.
‘Susannah?’ she called before I’d got to the front door.
I stopped. ‘Yes, Valda?’
‘Turn it up, please.’
‘Okay.’
‘And leave the lipstick.’
Oh, Neville, you old sod. I thought he’d been worn thin by Valda. Perhaps not. The lipstick is called ‘Coralie’! Hugh would like that. (I phoned him. He sounds so animated he’ll probably come back as Astro Boy. I’m taking care to be excited with him; this case could change building standards for the better of all. And he’s found something to stimulate him other than Antarctica and blow jobs.)
I’m reading Danny, the Champion of the World to Jimmy and Mary-Lou. I love Roald Dahl. I will miss reading him to the children when they’re all grown. Sometimes I don’t want things to change at all; sometimes I wish for time to stop so I can read Roald Dahl at my children’s bedside every night forever. There’d be time to collect pine cones, find shapes in the clouds and teach them all French. The rush of the years takes my breath away sometimes. No wonder anxiety is always in the media.
We’re halfway through the year but sparkle is scarce.
SATURDAY 1st JULY
Oops, had a horny dream about Danny the Champion of the World’s dad. It’s not surprising, really. Such a patient and gentle man (apart from the killing pheasants). So engaged with his son … God, listen to bonkers me. At least it was a fictional character this time and not the children’s principal. Damnations. I still haven’t talked to him about the school musical.
Which reminds me, Raffy wants to do a project and a presentation about the viola now, featuring me and Eloise Driscoll. He seems moderately enthusiastic, which for Raffy is about a point eight on the Richter Scale. Major. He says he can even get Elliot Driscoll to bring the viola in; he’s already mentioned it to Father Graham! I am astounded by such initiative, in a child who still thinks setting the table is fetching a pile of forks. I’m trying to steer him towards the piano and Ria’s work. The promotional material is out for I Capture The Castle – The Musical! It opens next March and is booking out already. He could talk about all that. Far more interesting than the story of a promising career derailed. Although I suppose it could be a cautionary tale about not putting all your eggs in one basket because all sorts of things out of your control could upset it, make a nasty mess and leave a lot of eggshells for everyone to walk on forevermore.
Also, I don’t think I’d cope with seeing it again, the viola. The empty shelf in the wardrobe is bad enough. There’s little point in sitting in there for the quiet because it’s not quiet. It’s humming with gone. I remembered that I left a scribbled composition in the case pocket, so perhaps I could ask Elliot Driscoll for it back. Or not. Perhaps it belongs to the viola. I don’t know. Will put it on my list of Things to Think About. Or on the list of Things Not to Think About … The piece was called ‘Lullaby for Eloise’.
Eloise is at Oatlands today, at a friend’s farm. It’s only an hour’s drive but the Midlands, with its rickety windmills and wobbly sheds, seems a world away. She’s staying the night. If she gets homesick, I’ll drive up. I can’t help hoping she’ll get homesick, or display some other emotional light and dark. She won’t. The other three are in the garden with Ava and Thomas. Josh and Isobel have had to go out, probably to lunch for two in a butterfly house, or to give a paper at a team-parenting seminar.
LATER:
That’s two horny dreams about other people in less than a week. Am I obsessed?
Doubt it. Probably just my atrophied vaginal baroreceptors sending neglected signals. Or the absence of Hugh. I haven’t felt much like sending flirty text messages or boob shots. It seems a bit desperate. I can’t compete with the drama of the courtroom and all those future lifesaving overpass improvements. Oh, shut up, Susannah, for goodness sake. Where’s your benevolence?
TUESDAY 4th JULY
This is probably a good time to knock a few items off my list of Things to Do. The things unrelated to love and romance, which is most things. (Children, washing, letter-writing, current events, entertaining, clock batteries, smoke alarms, garden weeds, pest man, mending, odd-sock amnesty, fish tank, car service, photo albums and exercise, just to name a few.) I can store current sparkle progress in my sexual muscle memory and draw on it later. Actually, there really hasn’t been much progress …
The word ‘exercise’ looks so hopeful and perky. I feel sorry for it already.
Bit teary today. I’m on the couch with my list and there’s a thing on the telly about how pegs are made that Hugh and I could watch together. I will note it down to talk about when he gets home.
THURSDAY 6th JULY
Hugh came home unexpectedly yesterday afternoon but he’s gone again today. For another fortnight. ‘I’m sorry, Zannah,’ he said. ‘It’s taking so much longer than anyone thought. There’s more technical detail than we bargained on; this incident is a result of at least four separate oversights. Such a freak event. Anyway, I know you can manage. Everything’s looking smicko here.’ (I’d been redefining the edges of the garden beds, but suddenly wished I hadn’t. Mum might have been right.)
I felt instantly cross and said, ‘God, I hate it when terrible things are referred to as “incidents”. There is nothing incidental about negligent behaviour resulting in terrible injury.’
If he wore glasses, he would have looked at me over them. He said, ‘Do we need to talk?’ And I said, ‘No,’ and remembered again how he’d never wanted to leave Hobart. I had to chew up a little ball of something bitter, swallow it down. Think of it as one of those raw food energy balls, I thought, then gave a bright, energetic smile and said, ‘Could you change the batteries in the smoke alarms?’ Then I had another little think and added, ‘And tell me all about the oversights.’
He looks different. It’s as if he’s come back from the tropics with a tan, only he hasn’t got a tan. He just looks, I don’t know, healthier? Glowing? If he were a woman, I’d think he might be pregnant. He’s just lit up with industry, I suppose. No wonder the Antarctic Division wanted him back.
He told me all about the case. It does sound interesting.
‘This matter is really instrumental, Zannah,’ he said, then explained how the overpass’s box girders didn’t have enough stiffeners and the members were overburdened. I refrained from distasteful innuendo that might reflect unfavourably on our relations, but the parallels weren’t lost on me. He’s taking April back with him this time to see how the process of giving expert evidence works.
‘Well, I’ll be here ready to wash your blackened shirts from all your time at the coalface,’ I said, which was meant to be lighthearted but came out covered in grump.
I gave my selfless bone a heft
y nudge and listened properly, even asked some pertinent questions and got so interested that he must have had one of those waves of fondness because he said, ‘But tell me about you. What’s been happening here?’ And I couldn’t think of anything beyond Mary-Lou getting a certificate for being helpful, so I kissed him. And he kissed me back with unexpected passion, which I think allows me to say HE INITIATED SEX! We kissed and kissed until I got distracted by the smell of my armpits (if I’d known he was coming home, I would have showered after weeding), then he pulled a twig out of my hair and I said, ‘I’ll meet you in the bedroom. I’ll just have a quick shower.’
It wasn’t as quick as I’d meant it to be because hair wash, emergency eyebrow plucking and leg shave, so by the time I got to bed he was fast asleep. I didn’t wake him. It must be exhausting being so instrumental.
Sometimes one’s most useful orifices are the earholes. I will phone him more this time.
Sex break untainted.
MONDAY 10th JULY
I’ve had an idea. With Hugh away, now might be the time to get in touch with myself; myself meaning my vulva. I’ve never been particularly big on masturbation. Actually, I’ve never done it at all, so I’m not sure where to start but it might have to be with some raunchy material. Not computer porn, as I’m terrified randy Gillian will pop up again. And not The Joy of Sex – I’m over that. (That beardy man in the illustrations gives me the heebies.)
There’s a chance that this is the missing element of our sex life. (Masturbation, not Gillian. Or the beardy man.) Apparently women who know their own vaginas and masturbate regularly are ‘more balanced, more confident and less stressed’. Similar results to butler school, I imagine.
Hugh just called. It was brief.
‘How’re things?’ I asked.
‘Great. Slow. We’re hearing victim impact statements – hard work.’
‘Oh, no. What sort of things?’
‘I’ll tell you later, bit much on.’
‘How’s April faring?’
‘Fine, I think. She’s staying with friends so I haven’t seen her much. How’re the kids?’
‘Very well. Eloise made a candle holder in metal work.’
‘She does metal work?’
‘Yes,’ I said with a bit too much ‘you should know that’ inflection. Perhaps a bit of ‘why shouldn’t she?’ too. How much loading can one small word take before the girders of a conversation come crashing down?
‘Nice. Well, I’ll call them all before bed. I gotta go.’
THURSDAY 13th JULY
So I found a book with quite a bit of raunch. It’s mostly lesbian, admittedly, but I think I got a bit of a lower stirring from it last time I read it. Is there a chance that I have a smidgen of gay about me? How very chic.
Anyway, after re-reading some heated lesbian sex scenes that involved a large leather dildo, I found myself quite drawn to my clitoris. And my clitoris, in turn, seemed very happy with the attention. If handled in the right way, those little buttons can take quite a bit of pressure, can’t they? It was very quick. I felt a bit silly at first, and kept thinking that someone might catch me, but there was no one home except Barky and he was asleep in the washing.
After a minute of rubbing that little raised triangle of flesh, I forgot about anything else. The effect was instantaneous, my muscles all at once relaxing and tensing. There was a loosening of the legs and an edging apart of the knees. I put my head back onto the cushion behind me and it was like my fingers were encouraged by the movement of my hips, slight at first, then more pronounced. It wasn’t much more than a minute before I brought myself to a shuddery, gasping orgasm, with an aftershock of small involuntary muscle clenches deep within that I’d never felt before. The feeling was intense: familiar but altogether different.
And it was nice. Really, really nice. I was left feeling amazed but also guilty that I could reach such heights in so short a time, with no Hugh. It was only quite a bit later that I realised I had completely ignored my vagina (as in the actual hole) and this made me feel a bit guilty too. It was all clitoris. When it comes to sexual pleasure, I’m wondering, do we even need the hole? Do we need penetration? Do we need men? We certainly don’t need too many more babies coming out of the holes. The population explosion is the biggest threat to mankind. Goodness me, could the clitoris be the dear little pink solution to all the world’s problems?
Valda asked me for a good book the other day. I think I’ll lend her the lesbian one. I’m feeling cheeky.
SATURDAY 15th JULY
Oh my GOD. I just fell off the stool in the kitchen while inspecting my clitoris. It’s a bit sore so I thought I’d have a quick look over my pre-dawn coffee. Barky walked in and gave me such a guilty fright that I fell off and the stool fell on my foot and I yelled and woke all the children. Even Raffy and Eloise got out of bed. My foot has a bruise. So does my dignity.
The dog scampered away, possibly embarrassed. Thank God for elastic-waisted pyjamas or I might have been on the floor with my trousers down. The children only think I’m clumsy, not depraved and clumsy.
My clitoris smarts. This is probably why masturbation was once declared a sin, because they thought one might wear one’s clitoris off altogether and riddle marriage and passion with even more problems. Imagine wearing off your clitoris early on and then not having it to make sparks and ardour and orgasm so much more attainable?
It’s very a bit addictive, this masturbation thing. I can’t imagine why I didn’t get into it sooner. As in, twenty-five years ago. I blame my viola and all the time I spent fiddling with that. Just look where I can focus that vibrato practice now that the viola’s gone.
The viola’s gone. I just shed a tear. I don’t miss it but I do. I suppose there was a little bit of hope in that box of guilt.
I did play my music for Eloise. Quite a lot when she was a tiny baby. A very sketchy rendition of ‘Lullaby for Eloise’ was the last thing I played for her. By then, sincerity had been replaced by guilt. The resonance of guilt is a strong and ugly sound, with too much reverb. And a buzz, as if a seam has lifted. I got the bow re-haired and replaced the strings before they were due; I crumpled up the lullaby and tried other things, but it was still there, that buzz …
I’ve been very tolerant of the children since I’ve discovered self-arousal. Perhaps it’s a form of mindfulness. I haven’t raised my voice once since Hugh left, not even when I found Jimmy eating my activated almonds. (I don’t know what those things are meant to do but they’re really expensive and sound as though they’ll have me leaping tall buildings in a single bound.) It’s as though I respect my body too much to put it through the stress of irritation. My feet shouldn’t be stomped and my vocal cords shouldn’t be strummed. My body is a temple, with a fun button.
THURSDAY 20th JULY
Things are somehow simpler without Hugh. Dinners, for instance, have mostly been soup. Once from a can. Hugh thinks soup is an entrée. There’s also been eggs and bacon, chicken sandwiches (with avocado – avocados evidently have every nutrient you ever need) and one night we all had muesli. (Nothing wrong with a brekkie for dinner, is there? There were seeds.) I haven’t ironed a thing, nor have I had to soak any white business shirts. I’ve read a whole book, caught up on phone calls owed, skyped Ria. She doesn’t look well.
‘Have you lost weight?’ I said, then actually touched the screen where her cheek was. ‘Or does the screen take weight off?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Might have; working too much. We have Cassandra auditions next week and I’m still rewriting parts. Plus I’ve started on another musical idea that won’t leave me alone. I’m buggered. I have one of those twitches in my eye that makes the lyricist think I’m winking at him. I’m not. He’s a knob.’
‘Use Latin on him. That’ll make you feel better.’
‘I did, but it’s not the same without you sniggering at my elbow. That reminds me, I have to show you something …’ She walked me through her apartment to a corner
of the room, where a striking mannequin with very familiar bone structure stood.
I gasped, ‘Is that … is that Caroline Smedley-Warren’s sister? Oh my god!’
‘I know. Can you believe it? She’s just the same. I found her in the costume department and begged and begged for her. She’s living with me now. We’re very happy together. What shall we call her?’
‘Deborah, of course.’
‘Deborah. Perfect.’
Ria’s new musical is called The Boy with No Dreams. She hasn’t said, but I’ve an inkling that Raffy is her muse. I told her about Charmian only realising her dreams are her dreams when she’s looking at them. She’s inspired to include that in a song. I hope she doesn’t overdo the modulations: such a cliché. (I’d never tell her that, though. She’d be thrilled by my interest and probably suggest a collaboration.)
Mostly, though, while Hugh’s been away I’ve had such silence, with time to sit in it.
We think we need to catch up on filing and calls and emails and cleaning grout, when actually I think we need to catch up on silence. I’m breathing again. I haven’t, I realise, been breathing so well with Hugh here. So much cold fog, elephants and eggshells.
.….….….….……. See? Thinking and thinking and thinking time.
Ooh, I’ve been able to sprawl out in the bed too, except for last night when Mary-Lou hopped in and snuggled up like she used to before kindergarten took my baby from me.
I promise I didn’t go anywhere near myself with her there! Haven’t for two nights, actually, as things are still a bit raw. I’m thinking about perhaps getting myself some sort of vibrator – partly to spare my clitoris but also because I’m curious now. Shouldn’t I be buying something like that with my husband, though? Something we investigate together? I mean, if poor Hugh comes home and finds me shacked up with a shiny new vibrator (who merely needs a battery or two periodically and doesn’t need its trousers washed or its steak medium-rare), wouldn’t he feel a little left out? I think I would.
