The Seven Days of Peter Crumb

by Jonny Glynn

  ‘You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you?’ he said, stepping out of the shadows. He’d been lurking in the corridor by the front door, listening to us the whole time.

  ‘She’s going to want to talk to you now,’ he said, circling the room, and anxiously rubbing his hands. They were so cold.

  ‘And you know what she’s going to want to talk to you about, don’t you?’

  He was right. I glanced at Emma. A heavy dread churned in my guts.

  ‘She’s going to want to catch up. And you’re going to have to talk to her.’ He stopped and looked at me, meaningly, as if to let what he had just said sink in. I said nothing, put my eyes to the ground and pondered. ‘You’re going to have to tell her everything now…’ he went on, shoulders slumped, neck twisting, heckling paranoid jibes. ‘She’s got her ways and she knows how to work them. She’ll be on to you–she’ll have you under the microscope, she’s already got you in close-up–and she’s going to want to know, and you’re going to have to tell her. There’ll be no getting away from it. She’s already wondering what you’re doing here, and she has every right to–she hasn’t seen you in seven years–you’ve a lot to talk about, and she’ll get it out of you–she’ll start asking her questions–she likes to ask questions–asking is control, answering is chaos–’ And then he stopped, quite abruptly stopped, and held me–possessed–with a fierce and stern grimace. He was sweating. There was a pause. A long weighted pause. And then he said, very deliberately, he instructed me to ‘Tell her everything…Tell her everything,’ he hissed. ‘Confess it all.’

  My heart was beating, I was shaking. His face was close to mine, I could feel his breath, tickling the hairs in my nostrils. I could see the spittle on his gums, the tarnish on his teeth, the shine on his eyeballs. All the little lines, and little hairs. All the little details of his face.

  ‘You won’t be able to stop yourself,’ he went on. ‘You’re going to spill your guts to her, Crumb, like a blubbering child, and have every dirty word of it off your chest. Let her ask her questions–she wants to know–give her answers…This is your Hell, Crumb, and now you’ll make it hers…’

  He squeezed the ends of his cold and bony fingers, stared at me, and sniggered. ‘Bless me, Valerie, for I have sinned, it is seven years since my last confession…’ The carpenter’s son said nothing.

  She bustled back into the room. She was wearing an apron and carrying two place mats, some cutlery and two napkins.

  ‘I thought we’d eat in here,’ she said, crossing to the round table in the alcove and laying two places.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s all done now.’

  And then she disappeared back into the kitchen, returning almost immediately with a bottle of cold white wine–Pinot Grigio–two glasses and a corkscrew, already inserted.

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing me the bottle. ‘You can open that and pour us both a glass.’ I took the bottle and corkscrew and she smiled. There it was again–something familiar, but forgotten…She kicked her heels and bustled back into the kitchen…I put the bottle between my knees and pulled the cork, poured myself a large glass and downed it in one and then refilled my glass and Valerie’s.

  It was all too reminiscent. Far too reminiscent. The sight of the cutlery froze me. I recognized it immediately. It had been given to us as a wedding present. The memory of that joyful afternoon, fifteen years before, freshly wed, opening presents, giggling and kissing, replayed in my mind. My heart swelled and stuck in my throat. I wanted to cry. We were once so happy, and so in love. I thought it would never end.

  ‘How foolish,’ he said. ‘Do you remember what your response to this so-called present was on that so-called joyful afternoon?…You sneered at it and said, “What a cliché.”’

  He was right, I had mocked that fancy box of knives and forks and the vulgarity of its aspirant pretensions. Yes–and I had felt clever in doing so, but also ashamed. I remember how that little look of hurt furrowed Valerie’s brow. That fearful look of pain she used to wear. The cutlery service was a present from her parents. And Valerie loved her parents.

  They’ll be good for dinner parties, she said, do you remember? She was always so positive, and so enthusiastic–so lively and animated. You loved her for it…Her belief in people, her faith in humankind and her urge to feed them all in a never-ending round of dinner parties. All the life she had in her. That lightness and verve–such energy–do you remember? Like a force of nature, you used to say–it was your joke, another of your miserable jokes–just a forty-watt light bulb me, you’d bleat, but she, she was the sun. Full of zip and sizzle–the happy unembarrassed truth of her…Now all gone…Yes, I pondered, the melancholy burden of reflection heavy and aching inside me, she had some snap all right, lots of doing…The thought made me smile. People coming round to eat, jollying and getting drunk, the house crackling with chatter…Whatever happened to all those people? Friends, we used to call them…I finished my wine, sat down, poured myself another and waited…

  Valerie re-entered. She was carrying two large plates laden with sausages, mash and peas, all of it swimming in a thick dark gravy. It’s a traditional English dish–sausages and mash…S&M we used to call it. Not one of our jokes, more of a pastime, a sometime detour into sexual perversity…‘Do you swing?’ I’d enquire, the routine well rehearsed. ‘No,’ she’d reply, ‘I usually vote Labour!’ ‘Ah,’ I’d conclude, comically licking my lips, ‘a Fabian.’ And then with a wolfish leer I’d pull her over my knee, giggling and wriggling coyly, as I yanked at her moist little knickers and spanked her…But that was all a very long time ago…

  She placed the food in front of me and then sat down at a right angle next to me. We simultaneously reached for our napkins and our knees touched beneath the table. I took up my knife and fork and was about to tuck in when I noticed that Valerie was sitting with her eyes closed and her hands folded in her lap. Oh my God, I thought, she’s saying grace. Her lips were silently thanking the Lord for what we were about to receive. She opened her eyes and blessed herself, glancing insinuations as her hand bounced judgement between the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. I felt awkward and godless and rashly started to bless myself, but then forgot halfway through which way round you do it, and felt inept and fraudulent and trodden on.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, with a mean and bitter superiority, taking up her knife and fork and cutting the head off a sausage. ‘You don’t have to. I know you don’t believe.’ And then she shovelled and squashed her mash and peas into her sausage and onto her fork, brought it up to her mouth, and blew…Her lips were thin and grey and creased, puckered up into a tight little blow-hole, all the pink of Manon gone. Her tongue was darting, lizard-like, backwards and forwards, tentatively testing the temperature of her food. The memory of Emma, a toddler at the table being fed, returned to haunt, and a swollen amplified silence burped between us. I put my eyes to the ceiling and stared, pretending to be fascinated by the Artex swirls. The burdened prospect of polite conversation loomed…

  ‘I put a bit of mustard with yours,’ she said, merrily kicking off. I looked at my plate and saw a thick gelatinous dollop of mustard nestling between my peas and mash, and instantly felt sick.

  ‘Is it Colman’s?’ I heard myself enquiring without knowing why.

  ‘Of course,’ she cheerily replied. ‘I remembered how you liked your Colman’s.’

  And she was right. I did like Colman’s. It was something I had completely forgotten–my fondness for mustard. Colman’s traditional English mustard–none of that French muck, we used to joke. It made me smile. And then Valerie smiled, pleased with herself, and made a sweet little ‘humph’ noise.

  ‘You’re looking very well.’ She went on, relaxing, settling in and taking a large swig on her wine.

  I felt myself in Adrian’s suit, tight, with sweating armpits, and made a noise that signified acknowledgement.

  ‘H
ow long have you been wearing glasses for?’ she continued, her cold grey eyes enquiring. I put down my knife and fork and reached for Beth’s lenses. Something else I had forgotten.

  ‘Oh, they’re just for driving,’ I timidly replied, peeling them from my face and tucking them into my breast pocket. Valerie smiled wanly. There was a pause. I felt his breath on my neck.

  ‘So what are you up to these days then?’ she went on, taking another large swig on her wine.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, not knowing. ‘I’m just…You know, I’m…’ My mind was racing, sifting through lies.

  ‘Are you back at work?’

  ‘Erm, yes, I’m…’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I stared at my plate. The silence fell. I felt a quickening tingle, shivering through me. And then I heard myself say, ‘I sell tiles.’

  I have absolutely no idea where it came it from.

  ‘Oh.’ She chirruped, somewhat boggled. ‘Ceramics?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nodded shiftily.

  ‘That’s a bit of a departure.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and then paused to chew…Valerie emptied her glass and poured herself another.

  ‘I could do with some new tiles in that bathroom.’

  I didn’t respond, just smiled feyly, moved some mash around my plate and pictured grouting, covered in mildew.

  ‘Anyway,’ I sighed, affecting a nonchalant normalness, ‘how are things with you?’ It’s a standard middle-class conversational directive, but I timed it well, stressed the word you and gave it enough upward inflection to carry.

  ‘Oh…’ she said, as if flattered to have been asked. ‘I’m back at the local primary…’ There was a pause. She put down her knife and tucked a wayward strand of dark-dyed hair back behind her ear. ‘It’s nice, you know, with the kids…’ And then she reached for her glass.

  ‘Yes…’ I growled, slowly, with thought. And then we both fell silent, and remembered Emma.

  I remembered that day on the beach in Polzeath and the photograph I found in my pocket. I remembered her bucket and spade and her delighted, giggling squeals for ‘Ice cream, ice cream!’ And then I remembered that day spent dredging a ditch, and that smell of damp…I remembered her scattered pieces, mutilated, tortured, and chopped…And I remembered the torment and the sorrow and the rage…I stared at my sausages, hacked to pieces, their skin blistered, peeling and burnt…My breathing juddered, my chest began to shake and I realized I was crying.

  Valerie turned and looked at me. There was an awkward pause of some length, and then I felt her hand reaching out to me, gently touching my arm. I turned to face her, and she cradled my hands tenderly in hers and held me. We looked at each other for a very long time. We didn’t speak, there was no need, she understood, and a deep compassion shone in her eyes. I could hear my heart beating in the held stillness between us. My thoughts were reeling and jamming, stuck with tears and confusion…I felt quite out of myself, overcome and overwhelmed by memory…I crumpled inward, sobbing and helpless. Valerie’s hands were tight around mine, her eyes searching deep into my soul. She brought my fingers to her lips and gently kissed their tips, and then she pulled me close into her arms, and held me.

  ‘You’re a good man Peter…’ she breathily reassured.

  ‘I am in Hell…’ I moaned, baleful with woe. It was all very odd.

  ‘I have prayed for this, Peter, and at last you have been delivered.’ What was she talking about–had prayed for what? I pulled myself out of her embrace. She was smiling with such affectionate concern. Her hands were reaching and cupping my face, and then she leant in and gently kissed my mouth. My eyes were stinging red. I could smell the wine on her breath. I felt very confused.

  ‘There is nothing covered, Peter, that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.’

  What on earth was happening? What on earth was she talking about? I could feel my face contorting and twitching, the stuck gasps of broken sobs lurching in my chest. Her eyes were flickering backwards and forwards between mine, a pained, distraught affinity wrought between us.

  ‘He torments me…’ I whimpered, simpering on hysterically. ‘He torments me…His evil is in me…’

  ‘Cast him out, Peter. Cast the evil out. In God is love, Peter, find peace in God’s love…’ She fell to her knees with a gutsy resolve, pulling me down beside her. ‘We must pray, Peter, we must pray together now, and cast the evil out.’

  It was ridiculous and idiotic and humiliating. Valerie racing through an Our Father, warming up into a Hail Mary. Me on the floor beside her, snivelling, sobbing and gasping Amens…The carpenter’s son looked down on us both but said nothing. He was wise to stay out of it. The other lurked in the doorway, frosty with contempt, watching me, and in such a pointed way…It made me think of my mother, I couldn’t help but picture her, standing in my bedroom doorway, holding that plate of chilled chocolate digestives. Me in my pyjamas weeping, Dad looking stern, stinking of pipe…I felt so embarrassed and ashamed. I struggled to my feet and collapsed back into my chair. Valerie remained kneeling on the floor in front of me, watching me, her left hand delicately placed on my right knee.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, bumbling and sniffing, trying to pull myself together. ‘I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have come here.’

  I tried to stand but Valerie wouldn’t let me. She had both her hands on my legs, and was pawing me back into the seat.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all right…I’m glad you’ve come…’ And then she looked at me in that way again, full of forlorn appeal.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ I stammered. ‘I should go. I’ve got to go…’ I tried to push her away.

  ‘No–please, Peter…’ she was pleading. ‘Don’t go…I’m glad you’ve come…Please, don’t go Peter…’ A look of naked desperation settled between her eyes. ‘I’ve missed you, Peter…Please, don’t go.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I’ve often thought of you,’ She went on. ‘Often wondered what you were up to, hoped that you were well…I’ve tried to get in touch with you but…’ Her sentence trailed away into silence…And then she looked at me, very earnestly and said, ‘I have prayed for your return, Peter, and hoped that you would come. I have waited for you, Peter.’

  And then she rested her head on my lap and wept. I looked down at her, her arms reaching up around my body, holding me, needing me, her chest pressed heaving against my legs, her face buried in my thigh, and her tears wetting my trousers…It was all so reminiscent. The sight of her, collapsed in my lap, clinging to me, and sobbing…just like Emma, bawling, and kicking and crying, protesting bedtime, holding me tight, not letting me go. I remembered how I calmed her, and hushed her, and stroked her hair. The tender, gentle affection a father shows his daughter. I placed my hand on Valerie’s head and lovingly recalled those troubled bedtime moments…Shhh…Shhhh…Shhhh…

  And then the worm turned…He moved through the shadows towards me, that thin, sinful, conspiratorial smirk twisting the length of his lips, and a raw emotional depravity stirred in my loins…My penis was throbbing, and she could feel it bulging in my trousers and pressing against her cheek. She lifted her head and looked at me. A silent unchecked insolent stare, and a dark brooding sentient corruption surged between us. She moved her hand and placed it over my erection and pressed. I did nothing to prevent her. She unbuckled my belt and unzipped my flies. Again, I did not stop her. My cock rose up, its purple end burning. She took it in her hand, controlling its eager twitches, considered it for a moment, probably to say grace, and then put her mouth on it. She sucked it and licked it, her tongue working it with a starved and wanton ardour. I felt a sordid delirious revulsion pulsate through me. Why on earth was she doing this, I thought–what desperate humiliating loneliness was motivating this? The awful truth of being human seemed suddenly very clear.

  The carpenter’s son put his eyes to the sky, and said nothing…

  Afterwards, we lay on the floor, next
to each other, in silence, not moving, just listening. Regret was quick to take advantage, seeping in between us and oiling its sticky misgivings. Valerie broke first. She got up, brushed herself down, straightened her skirt, crossed back to the table, took a large swig on her wine, picked up the plates, looked at me, sort of smiled, raised her chin and then disappeared back into the kitchen. I got up, put myself away, tucked myself in, and considered my position. I could hear taps running, filling a sink, and the muted tumble of pots and plates knocking and bumping. She’s going to hide in the kitchen and do the washing up, I thought.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Well, fair enough, why not? I would–after that carry-on…Wouldn’t you? Huffing and puffing, squirting your seed all over. Dear Christ, Crumb, what kind of an animal are you?’

  I reached for my tobacco and started to roll a cigarette, but then suddenly remembered Valerie’s extreme views on smoking, and how the fags had killed her father. She’ll want me to go outside and smoke it, I thought.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘And then you can fuck off. Say you’re going for a fag and then just get back in the car and drive the fuck out of it. What are you doing here anyway? You’ve had your way with her–got things off your chest–now get the fuck out. Get back in the car and get the fuck out of it, Crumb.’

  He was right. And then she entered. I turned sharply and guiltily blurted, ‘I was just going to have a cigarette.’

  ‘Oh…’ she said

  ‘I’ll go outside,’ I said, and stepped towards the door.

  ‘Well…I mean, only if you think so.’ And then she nervously edged her way further into the room towards me. ‘You don’t have to go out if it’s just the one.’

  The cunning bitch–trying to cut me off at the pass. She knows my game.

  ‘No, it’s all right, I don’t mind,’ I said, reaching for my mac.

  ‘There’s no need to take your coat,’ she said, that look of desperate appeal lurching forward into her eyes.