by Ruth Skrine
‘I’m no good at mending. I ought to buy a new pair.’
‘I’ll do it for you. My grandmother taught me to darn, and though I say it myself, I’m good at it.’
He spoons the egg onto fresh toast with the crusts cut off, then pours the coffee. I look round, remembering the room when my father’s desk was under the window with an examination couch pushed up against the wall. A door goes through to Quentin’s bedroom, the old waiting room. From there a short passage takes one to the patient’s entrance, now the front door of the flat.
‘You’re very quiet.’
‘I was thinking of this room when my father worked here.’
‘How old were you then?’
‘He died before my eighth birthday.’
‘Not a good time– but there’s no good time to lose a parent.’
‘Are yours still alive?’
‘Yes, they live in Portsmouth. They’re not happy about my separation from Janice.’
So they are separated. ‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised it was like that.’ So Briony was right, the marriage is on the rocks.
He smiles up at me and takes another piece of toast, breaking a bit off to sweep it round his plate. ‘I’m afraid I was a naughty boy.’
I raise my eyebrows but for a moment he doesn’t elaborate. I have no intention of pressing him to confide any details, but after taking another swig of coffee he goes on. ‘I had a fling with someone at work. She wasn’t important but Janice threw me out. Luckily this job came up so I had a reason to move away.’
Perhaps he thinks something similar happened in my marriage. ‘Our problems were different. We just weren’t compatible.’ That old excuse sounds vague enough and does not invite further questions.
He fills my cup and hands me a jar of silver shred marmalade. ‘Sorry this is shop-bought. Janice used to make some good stuff. It was one of the few things she did well. She wouldn’t give me even one jar when I left.’
I jump up. ‘I’ve got some that Susan made.’ What fun it is to pop through the connecting door and back again. I don’t knock this time.
‘That’s my girl.’ He helps himself to a large spoonful, and eats with gusto. I love the wholehearted way he does everything. ‘What’s Susan like? Have you known her for a long time?’
‘Since I was a girl.’ I explain about her marriage breaking up. ‘She was a part of our household for many years though I sometimes wished she wasn’t.’ I don’t want Quentin to think me spiteful. ‘The trouble was that she gossiped with my grandmother and my mother got left out.’
‘I thought you said that your grandmother cramped your mother’s style?’
He is trying so hard to understand a situation that is still a mystery to me. I don’t understand how it all worked and now I don’t suppose I ever shall. ‘All I know is that after the old lady died Susan latched onto my mother.’
‘Perhaps she is a woman who has to have a Best Friend.’
That makes sense. ‘You seem good at understanding women.’ Now my mother is dead, Susan may be trying to make me fill the vacant slot. That is a vain hope. I am not someone who needs such closeness with a woman. A man now… that would be different.
‘I suppose I had better get back to the grass.’
He makes no move so I take the dirty plates to the sink. He follows and I wash while he dries, like a married couple who don’t need to discuss such domestic details.
Wearing a pair of my mother’s gardening gloves I attack the herbaceous border, sorting the weeds from the dead stalks. These I collect and throw onto the patch of ground where the bonfires have always been lit. Pulling dead sticks from a mound of half-rotted compost I add them to the pile waiting to be burnt. Quentin comes to help me. We giggle over the odd things we find buried in the dirt: labels from far off plant purchases, broken plastic pots and odd bits of black sheeting. He fetches a wheelbarrow, not the broken one in the glory hole but a fairly new one my mother bought recently. He loads it with the best bits of compost as we continue to sift through the heap.
‘What on earth is this?’ He holds up a small object. I take it to the outside tap. As the mud washes away I can see it is the doll’s house potty. The handle is still intact and the outline of faded roses is visible on the side. We used to sit the pipe cleaner people on it and they would fall in. I hope the little boy didn’t get into the compost too, he would have rotted away long ago. I tell Quentin about the doll’s house in the attic.
‘My children would love to see it. Will you show me round sometime? You must have lots of treasures.’
Hope flickers inside. I imagine him following me from room to room, his solid presence making them safe. He has taken off his sweater and the bend and thrust of his body mesmerises me. His wheelbarrow of friable compost laced with worms is almost full.
‘Come on, don’t just stand there. You can spread this on your border.’
I give a mock salute. He goes on digging in the compost as I wheel the barrow over the grass.
‘Oh my, how did this get here?’ He is holding up a pair of forceps, trying to open the blades but they are welded together with rust.
‘They must have been my father’s. What a waste, they’re completely ruined.’
‘Maybe not. We could clean them up with oil and emery paper.’ Putting them aside he returns to his work. ‘Look, whatever next?’ He holds up a tubular bit of stuff that I recognise as an old condom. I suppose it must have come from one of the previous tenants. There has been no need for such an object in our house for many years. He throws it into a sack for non-biodegradable finds, his laughter dissipating my embarrassment.
When we need a break I prepare a tray of sandwiches, send it up in the lift and carry it through into the drawing room. He bounces in with two cans of lager straight from his fridge. We sit by the window, our plates on our knees, the cans on the floor beside us. Conversation flows so freely that I am reminded of how I used to talk with Briony, before she got into boys and left me behind. Quentin speaks so easily about books and ideas and the world. I join in without having to censor my words. We seem to be dancing; first he is in the lead then it is my turn, two instruments interweaving our personal tunes so that they blend into a harmonising whole. Before we go out again he makes paper sticks by rolling sheets of newspaper. I try to imitate him but my sticks are too loose. ‘Did you learn to do that in the boy scouts?’
‘No. My mother taught me years ago. You could do it with practice; you can learn anything if you want to do it badly enough.’
Anything? He knows nothing of the one thing I want to be able to do. If he finds out I am thirty-seven and still a virgin he will think me a freak.
The bonfire catches easily with the help of the paper sticks. I run about collecting dry twigs and bigger branches. Flames spring up and soon we have a roaring inferno. I fear a branch of the oak tree may catch fire, so Quentin adds forkfuls of wet leaves. The smoke becomes thick and we dart from side to side, avoiding the choking cloud as it changes direction. Using long sticks we ease air into the pile, then load more rubbish on top.
Leaning on our poles we watch as red ash collects at the bottom. When the light begins to fade, the sparks from the fire show up more brightly against the darkening sky.
‘Let’s cook some potatoes,’ I suggest. Running inside I find four medium sized ones and wrap them in foil. We poke them deep into the ash.
‘The sparks are like eyes looking at us.’ I start to recite:
Tyger Tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night…
My hands are seized and we dance round the fire chanting the first words over and over. I have never been so happy in my life. Glancing up, I see Susan watching us from next door.
‘Come and join us.’ I want the whole world to share my joy. ‘Bring your own potatoes.’
She looks as if she thinks we are mad but after a few minutes she arrives with a potato in each hand. I run to get foil for them and the three of us stand watching the dy
ing flames. Susan is standing too close as usual. I wish I hadn’t asked her. She is so elegant in her slacks and town coat. She scowls at my dirty jeans as I pick dead leaves out of my hair.
‘You are having fun,’ she murmurs. ‘The gardener always did the bonfires.’
‘I had one with my father before you moved in. He showed me how to do the potatoes.’ She doesn’t know everything about me.
Quentin fetches some more lager, and we drink from the cans. When the potatoes are cooked he pulls up the wooden seat and I fetch salt, butter and teaspoons. Sitting crushed together we dig out the smoke-flavoured centres. The beer is seeping through my body, removing the tension that has threatened to spoil everything when Susan joined us. I don’t care what she thinks, there is no need to tie myself in knots to win her approval. I start to eat the skin of my potatoes.
‘How can you eat that, it’s all sooty?’ The sky is dark now, the bonfire giving little light, but I am aware of her face screwed up in disgust.
‘It tastes wonderful.’
She scrunches her own skins up in the foil and tries to wipe some marks off her coat. ‘I’d better go and wash.’
As she walks off Quentin snuggles up to me on the seat. ‘I don’t think we’ll see any more of her tonight.’ Putting his arm round my shoulders he gives them a squeeze. ‘We must be filthy.’ His voice is filled with childish relish.
I love that “we.” With an effort I drag myself up. ‘There’s not much more we can do tonight. I’ll just collect those bean canes that I left in a pile and then we had better go in.’ The bonfire is now nothing more than a smouldering stain of ash. Blundering about in the darkness I trip and fall. Pain sears the inside of my thigh. My trousers feel sticky.
Quentin runs over. ‘What happened?’
‘I’ve hurt myself.’ I roll onto my face and grasp a fistful of dead leaves. A funny taste fills my mouth. I must have bitten my tongue but it is more like dentist’s disinfectant than blood. Somewhere in the blackness I hear my grandmother’s voice murmuring. “She had to go to hospital. It was an awful thing to happen. It could have gone right up inside her and done terrible damage.” I am floating in dark nothingness. “It could spoil her chances for marriage, they should take better care of them at that school. You must think about sending Meena somewhere else.”
I try to cry out. I can’t leave my lovely new school.
***
Opening my eyes I find myself on Quentin’s bed, covered with a blanket. ‘How did I get here?’
‘Feeling better?’ he sits beside me and takes my hand.
I slide the fingers of my left hand down my hurt leg and feel a plaster. The shadows threaten to engulf me again.
‘It’s only a scratch. I had to take off your trousers to see the damage and clean it up.’
His voice sounds distant but real, different from the querulous spectre of my grandmother. I remember now. A friend at school had been trying to clear the high jump. She caught her foot and fell onto something sharp. ‘Do you often faint?’
Quentin’s voice brings me back. ‘I’ve never done it before.’ The walls of the room seem to be pulsating. ‘It reminded me of something…’ I stop. His face is smudged with smoke but his eyes are so full of concern that my defences dissolve. ‘A girl at school fell on a cane.’
‘Yes?’
‘She did some damage to herself.’ I stop as it dawns on me that it is not the blood that frightens me but the idea of something going inside. ‘She screamed as she was taken to the sick room. The siren of the ambulance swelled as it got nearer the school and then faded into the distance as it took her away to hospital.’
‘What a drama. You girls must have wondered what had happened.’
‘When she came back a week later she told us she had some stitches but we didn’t like to ask any more details. People just whispered in corners.’
Quentin leans forward to smooth a strand of hair out of my eyes. ‘You’re very beautiful, even with your dirty face.’
‘Listen who’s talking. You’ve got a spot of potato on yours.’ I reach to flick it away.
He kisses my cheek, then moves his mouth onto mine. His tongue flicks. ‘Umm. You taste of butter.’
My body seems to fall further and further into the bed as if it doesn’t belong to me. He shouldn’t kiss me like that, even if he is separated. I try to push him away but it is a half-hearted attempt. His hands move over my breasts and down my body. I feel myself stiffen.
‘I’ll be careful not to touch the sore place,’ he says.
‘It’s all sore down there.’ I pull myself onto one elbow to hide my face in his chest. He reaches to circle my shoulders with his arm, patting my back as if I am a baby with wind. ‘I can’t let anyone touch me down there; I never have.’ I wait for him to recoil. Like my husband, he will grow to hate me now he knows the truth.
His voice, speaking to the back of my head, is soothing. ‘Oh well, we’ll see about that. You have a lovely body.’ He undoes my bra and fondles my breasts.
‘You’re married,’ I remonstrate.
He pulls away. ‘Not for much longer. I had a letter this morning. She’s going to start divorce proceedings.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s probably for the best. At least I’m nearly a free man, so you mustn’t feel guilty. It’s just the children…’ He looks away for a moment and I squeeze his hand. He turns to me with such a tender look that my confidence returns. But I need to wash the remnants of bonfire off my body.
‘You’d better bath here so that I can be around in case you feel faint again. I’ll get your things.’
He is soon back with everything I need. ‘Leave the door unlocked. I promise I won’t come in unless you call.’
By the time I have washed my hair and every part of my body, using my flannel for the bits down there as I always do, I am feeling better. The plaster has come off my leg and the graze stings a bit, but it is not bleeding. When I stand up, bits of ash and burnt twig become stranded on my skin like seaweed on a beach. I rinse them off and sit dozing in my dressing gown while he takes his turn in the bath. I can’t bear the thought of my own house, of those pictures, swishing curtains and creaking floors. When Quentin emerges, looking dashing in a cream tracksuit, I ask if he will take me back to my bed.
‘I will be glad to escort you.’ He sits on the arm of my chair.
‘I don’t want anything to happen between us. It couldn’t anyway, as you know now. But my memories are so jumbled and the house is so big and full of shadows…’
His arm comes round me again. ‘Have you really got such a problem?’
‘I wouldn’t make it up, would I?’
‘I wasn’t suggesting…’
‘I know.’ I should try to explain. ‘It’s so ridiculous, everyone has sex these days but I can’t. I really can’t.’ My anger flares. ‘You don’t believe me, but I have tried.’
‘I do believe you, of course I do.’ Quentin shifts a little away from me. ‘Have you ever thought of getting some help? I’m not a doctor but I think you should see someone. Would you like me to come with you?’
I am steadier now. ‘For goodness sake, I’ve got to be grown up about this.’
‘Well, promise me you’ll go.’
My secret is out and Quentin didn’t laugh. How silly to be so scared of talking to a doctor. He insists on supporting me through the passage and up all the stairs, then pulls back the covers of the bed with professional detachment. After lifting my legs and tucking me in, he leans down to kiss my cheek. He makes no attempt to recreate the feelings of the buttery kiss. ‘You go talk to that doctor, then we’ll see what we can do. Will you be all right? I can stay if you like.’
‘I’m OK. Just leave the passage light on and the door ajar. That’s how I always had it when I was little.’
I listen to his feet going down the stairs, remembering the times I stirred to find my mother standing in the crack of light. Burrowing down I think again about the voice
of my grandmother in the garden. If only someone had talked about the injury instead of keeping it such a mystery; I would not have imagined the stick going right in, piercing her organs or coming out of her throat. I know now that those pictures have stalked my mind for a long time. I huddle the blankets round me and think of the sparks from the bonfire and the feel of Quentin’s hands as we danced about like wood sprites released from some spell.
Tyger Tyger burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye…
I fall asleep before I get to the fearful symmetry.
Chapter 7
I am avoiding Quentin, playing childish games with myself. If it doesn’t rain today I’ll phone the doctor… then I don’t. If I get back from school before half past five… that is most unlikely. After several weeks I steal myself and ring the surgery to ask if they have a lady doctor. I don’t want to see Dr Jones; he has known me all my life.
She is about my age, and gets up from the chair with her hand outstretched. ‘I’m Dr Fellows, I don’t think we’ve met. Come and sit down.’ Dr Jones never does that. She is obviously pregnant; at least she knows about sex. My visit starts well. I tell her I have come for my pill check. I have been on it since before my marriage and it has cured my period pains.
Do I have any problems? No? She takes my blood pressure, wrapping the cuff round my arm, blowing it up and letting it down with the deft movements of much practice.
‘That’s fine.’ She signs my prescription with a flourish. ‘You can see the nurse next time. You only need to come to me once a year, unless you have any problems.’
A whole year before there will be another chance. I can’t wait that long. I have almost reached the door and she is stretching round from behind me to open it. If I don’t say something it will be too late.
‘I…’ my voice falters.
‘Yes?’
‘There is just one problem.’ She looks at me, her hand in mid-air. ‘When I was married it was a bit painful when we made love.’ Not exactly what I want to say, but at least I have said something.
