‘I … I’m sorry, but I don’t quite …’
‘Oh, men always deny it. But it was a brilliant manoeuvre on their part – the perfect way of undermining women’s power and confidence. Every month our already shaky self-esteem receives another kick in the teeth.’
‘Look, wait a second,’ Penny interrupted. ‘What’s the point of attacking Daniel – or any man, come to that? We’ve got to make them understand, Corinna.’
She beckoned him closer, rewarded him with a smile – a patronizing, parental sort of smile, he felt, as he squirmed beneath their scrutiny. It struck him that he must indeed look childish, if not downright absurd, clutching a droopy bunch of flowers and with a rabbit’s skull bulging from his pocket.
‘Now listen, darling,’ she continued, ‘let me try to explain. All three of us started our periods today, and that’s quite important in itself. Women in primitive tribes used to menstruate together, at every new or full moon. Their periods were synchronized, you see, and the same thing’s happening with us. Apparently it does happen when women live in communities.’
‘Look, Penny, I … I’m …’ He was lost for words in such intimidating circumstances. He had already caught disturbing glimpses of pubic hair, bare and fleshy thighs, and felt like some shameful pervert gawping at forbidden sights.
‘Hold on!’ said Penny, sensing his desire to escape. ‘I haven’t even told you what we’re doing yet. This is a very ancient rite, a shamanic rite, in fact. Robin was explaining to us that the first shamans were women. The original form of the word actually means a female rather than a male. And he said they used their menstrual blood in ceremonies and rituals – let it flow on to the ground as an offering to the earth. And apparently some tribes still do it today. Well, we’re doing it ourselves, to regain our sense of power, and to re-connect with all those ancient women who were revered as priestesses or healers, rather than made to feel inferior.’
‘It’s a sacrifice which takes no life,’ Claire said solemnly, sitting back on her heels. ‘And,’ she added, ‘a natural fertilizer. You can put it on your house-plants.’
‘Don’t be silly, Claire,’ Corinna frowned. ‘That may be true, but it sounds plain daft. This is a really serious issue. The last thing we want is to trivialize it and make men still more hostile.’
‘I … I’m not hostile,’ Daniel-stammered, lowering his eyes again. The sight of his mud-caked shoes seemed infinitely safer than the terrifying prospect of three converging streams of menstrual blood.
‘The whole of society is hostile,’ Claire pronounced. ‘You only have to look at the word “curse”. I mean, I’ve always used it myself, but it’s completely negative. And when you think that we grow up in an environment which actually hates and fears women’s core biological function, is it any wonder that so many of us feel bad about ourselves?’
‘That’s because it’s a patriarchal society,’ Corinna said with a dismissive shrug. ‘In other, wiser societies menstrual blood was seen as sacred, the most potent healing medicine there was, and of value to the entire community. And when a woman had her period, she was specially honoured and respected. They believed that she had psychic powers and was more intuitive at that time – in touch with the cycle of the moon, and the ebb and flow of the tides.’
Daniel shifted uneasily. He could see they had a point, one he might find fascinating if he was ensconced safely in a library, reading it in an academic journal. It was quite another matter actually to be confronted with three half-naked women, squatting right in front of him, letting their blood flow on to the ground. He had no idea what was expected of him, nor what part mere men were supposed to play in such shamanic rites. Did they touch the blood, or taste it, or smear it on their faces, God forbid? He forced himself to look at it, as the first stage in his initiation. It had soaked into the grass, making a deep scarlet stain, with one or two blackish clots still glistening on the surface. He quickly looked away. Rick’s murky green concoctions seemed innocuous in comparison. In his fantasy at the Plough and Harrow, he had imagined these same women naked in the bath, but that had been soft-focus, an erotic panorama he could switch off if he chose. The reality was different: mortifying, inescapable, and repellent in its detail.
Claire was speaking again – something about the spiritual significance of woman’s menstrual cycle. He couldn’t really take it in; was wrestling with a sense of isolation. He had regarded Claire as his special friend and ally, yet now she seemed a stranger who had gone over to the enemy. Except even words like ‘enemy’ only went to show how basically aggressive he must be; his whole view of men and women conceived in antagonistic terms. He felt thoroughly demoralized, not to mention trapped. He couldn’t simply walk away after such impassioned homilies, unless he took his courage in both hands and confessed to all three women that he was driving back to London and had to leave forthwith. He could always stress it was for Pippa’s sake, and indeed he did feel more determined now to remove her from this company, before she, too, was pressured to take part in these distasteful primitive ceremonies. She was so excruciatingly shy about her periods, the very notion would appal her.
‘Listen,’ he blurted out. ‘I … I’ve decided to go home – now, I mean – this afternoon. My cold’s so bad, it’ll never clear up here. And Pippa’s not well either. I think she’s sickening for flu or something, so I felt it might be wiser for me to take her back for a week or two, then return here when we’re better.’
He was blushing again in confusion. He had seized on the first lame excuse which popped into his head, but only now did he realize how illogical it sounded. If he and Pippa were sick, then all the more reason for them to stay at what was after all a healing camp, not flee their chance of cure. And, still more reprehensible, he had failed to comment on their rituals, but simply interrupted them, behaving like those boorish males Corinna so abhorred.
‘Look, don’t think I’m not interested,’ he added desperately, racking his brains for something meaningful to say on the subject of lunar cycles or menstrual taboos. His mind remained a blank, so he muttered some excuse about having to get off before the traffic started building up; trying to imply that he would willingly hear more, if only he had the time.
‘Have you told Pippa yet?’ asked Penny. ‘I mean, does she know she’s leaving?’
‘Well, no, I suppose she doesn’t. Though I did sort of promise earlier on. I’ll go and tell her now.’ He was already backing away, terrified she might detain him, or that Corinna might begin some new tirade.
‘I’ll come and wave you off,’ called Penny, settling back on the ground. ‘Oh, and I’d better help you sort out Pippa’s stuff. Give me five more minutes, okay?’
‘Fine!’ he shouted, slithering gratefully down to the bottom of the slope. She hadn’t tried to stop him, hadn’t raised the slightest objection. He was free to leave, almost had her blessing – certainly the promise of a fond farewell. Extraordinary how light he felt. It must be that magical lake again, drowning not just his resentment but Penny’s ill will, too. My own minor miracle, he thought, as he ran towards the tent. Not quite in the same league as a tumour being spirited away, but a most welcome little favour from JB.
He traipsed back up the hill. Penny hadn’t budged; was still sitting between Claire and Corinna, fertilizing the ground. These shamanic rites were certainly long-drawn-out; the earth greedy for its full libation of blood. ‘Give me five more minutes,’ she’d said, and at least twenty must have passed – frustrating, fruitless minutes. Pippa had categorically refused to leave unless Penny came as well. He was not only disappointed, but severely shaken. Wasn’t this the final proof that he was that guilty ‘someone’ cited by JB? Pippa had been desperate to leave when he’d suggested that all three of them should go, but had done an instant U-turn once she’d discovered that her mother wasn’t coming, as if terrified of being left alone with him. He felt like some abuser, a dangerous, unpredictable brute, yet he didn’t actually understand in what way he was harmi
ng her. The business with Juliet was over, but perhaps she didn’t know that. If she had stumbled on some proof of his affair (and though utterly unlikely, the chance of it kept haunting him), she might well assume that he was still betraying Penny. Or maybe it was something less specific. She found him crass, as Corinna did, or just too self-absorbed, or …
He tripped on a deep rut and swore under his breath. Pippa had put him in a dilemma. How could he push off now for a week or two, as planned, and leave her to her own devices, especially when Penny seemed so supremely unconcerned? However much his daughter might resent him, he couldn’t simply wash his hands of her; make his own escape, while she sat moping in a tent, more or less abandoned by both parents. Yet it would be humiliating in the extreme to tell Penny and her fellow shamans that he had changed his mind, after making such an issue about leaving. He was only fifty yards from them, but still hadn’t worked out what to say. He edged a little closer, cleared his throat to catch his wife’s attention, then beckoned her towards him. He was enormously relieved when she got up – even put her pants back on and walked in his direction. He led her away from the others, shamefacedly admitted that Pippa wasn’t wildly keen to leave with him.
‘But I think I’ll still go home myself – just for a couple of days. It’ll give me a chance to check on the house, tidy up the garden, all that sort of stuff.’
‘Good idea!’ she said. ‘But why only a couple of days? Wouldn’t it be better to spend a bit longer at home – I mean, do some things you enjoy, for once, not just dreary old chores. The Proms are in full swing now, and there’s that weird Polish play at the National. And didn’t you want to see the new film about Van Gogh?’
He nodded miserably. She couldn’t wait to get rid of him; was offering him a whole menu of diversions to keep him away as long as possible. He glanced over her shoulder at the two still squatting women. How could he compete? They had periods – the most potent of all medicines – and they were psychic and intuitive, in tune with moon and tides. They were also bonded by this intimate rite itself, and by centuries of male oppression; by the fact that they had breasts and wombs, and were the very source of life. He saw that he might lose Penny, as he seemed already to have lost Pippa. There was no way he could counter these heady ideas of feminism, freedom, the sense of continuity with powerful ancient priestesses.
He took a hesitant step towards Claire and Corinna. He was still nervous of approaching them, yet felt it would be unforgivably rude to walk off without a word, when they’d been sharing a life for the last two weeks. He was just stammering his farewells when his eye fell on the flowers he’d picked for Pippa, lying wilting on the ground. He didn’t even remember putting them down. Although it was just as well he had – she wouldn’t want presents from a father she despised. It also appeared that Penny’s offer to wave goodbye applied only to him and Pippa as a pair, not to him on his own. She hugged him briefly and wished him a good time, but then went straight back to her companions, rather than accompanying him to the car. And when he turned to look at her from the bottom of the slope, she had shrunk again to a blur; even her distinctive hair drained of all its fire.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Daniel emptied the grass-cuttings and stared approvingly at the closely-shaved lawn. It hadn’t really needed mowing again, after only three or four days, but he had been looking for a job: something physical and practical, to stop him pacing aimlessly around. He wiped his sweaty forehead and decided to go inside for a drink. It had been uncomfortably hot all week, and today was particularly close, so that he’d felt sticky from the moment he got up.
He poured himself an ice-cold beer and took it into the sitting-room with The Times. Lounging in his favourite chair, he riffled through the Saturday supplement, looking for the film reviews. At least he could read in peace today, without that horrendous noise outside the window. They were digging up the street to lay a cable, and every time he settled down with a book or piece of work, his ears would be assaulted by the whine of electric drills, or by the pounding vibrations of earth-movers, snorting like great angry bulls.
But this afternoon, perversely, it was almost too deathly quiet. August was a vacuous month: most people were away, including the neighbours on both sides. He turned the page to the travel section, realizing he hadn’t taken in a word about the films. What was wrong with him, for heaven’s sake? In Wales he’d been frustrated because books were strictly forbidden, and in any case there was little time for oneself. Yet now that he had both time and reading matter, he couldn’t seem to concentrate.
He laid the paper down, drifted to the mantelpiece and re-read the postcards from his friends enjoying hedonistic holidays on sun-drenched beaches or palm-fringed tropical islands. All the locales seemed unimaginably distant – as did Wales itself now. He glanced out at the deserted street, wondering if he was the only person left in London. Every other living soul appeared to have fled across an ocean, or immured themselves behind a mountain range or coral reef, or some emotional Iron Curtain. Even his colleagues at the office had been rather unforthcoming when he had called in during the week, as if they suspected him of snooping, or of trying to reassure himself that they weren’t slacking in his absence. Although he had disarmed them over a coffee, he’d decided not to go back again before the official end of his holiday – still a fortnight away. It was something of an irony that this was his longest summer break for several years, yet secretly he was longing to curtail it. Last August, there had been complications (a colleague sick, another on compassionate leave) and he’d managed only a week away from his desk. This year, they’d made it up to him, yet he was chafing at the bit and would gladly forgo this enforced period of leisure to resume the challenges of work.
He replaced the postcards carefully on each side of the clock, surprised to see it was only five to two. Time was really dragging, and he resented the number of clocks in the house, all reminding him that an hour took twice as long here as it seemed to do in Wales. The first few days hadn’t been too bad, since there was plenty to keep him busy: sorting out the dirty clothes he had brought back from the camp, generally tidying up the place and dealing with his mail, then turning his attention to the garden. But now everything was shipshape (unnaturally so, Penny would complain); every letter answered, every message on the answerphone returned. Actually, he wished the phone would ring more, break the sluggish silence.
He mooched back to the paper, leafing through the pages until he found a piece which caught his eye, entitled ‘MORE SEX, PLEASE – WE’RE SPARROWS!’ Apparently sparrows were irredeemably promiscuous; in fact, according to the article, some thirty per cent of all birds were cheerfully sleeping around, and even so-called faithful swans frequently cheated on their mates. The piece went on to claim that there was hardly a single species of mammal, rodent, fish or insect which wasn’t adulterous, polygamous, or worse. He thought of Penny, his own once-faithful mate, now entwined with Corinna in the double sleeping-bag, or tiptoeing to JB’s tent to find comfort in the middle of the night. And what about poor Pippa? Would she be cowering in the tent alone, crying over the dog; or forced to participate in some outrageous communal rite which involved removing half her clothes? He really ought to get back to the camp, if only for her sake, but how could he inflict himself on his wife and daughter when both of them had made it clear that he simply wasn’t wanted?
He flung the paper on the table and went to find his keys. A bracing walk on the common would take him out of himself, put a stop to this fatuous self-pity. It was really quite pathetic to keep dwelling on his solitary state, when he’d deliberately chosen to be on his own. But now that he’d changed his mind – well, the common would be crowded on a Saturday afternoon, which would help to make him feel that he was still a paid-up member of the human race.
He picked his laborious way between the obstructions on the pavement. The workmen had left piles of earth and rubble, mounds of damply orange sand. Every few yards were deep and dangerous holes, each on
e marked by warning signs and a small battalion of red and white striped cones. Short lengths of plastic piping lay abandoned in the gutter, with a scattering of fag-ends and the odd Kentucky Chicken carton. The surface was so pitted and uneven, he was relieved to reach the common, yet even there he couldn’t keep his thoughts away from Wales. In fact, he was forced to admit that Penny had been right about the majesty of the Powys landscape, in contrast to this urban recreation ground. He’d always regarded it as an oasis – one they were lucky to have, so close to central London – always admired the oak and chestnut trees, the attractive pond with its flock of Canada geese. But today he was more aware of the noise and general scruffiness. A railway line ran right across the middle, with trains continually shuddering by, and planes droned overhead, effectively drowning any bird-song. The grass looked parched and brown, and several of the trees had been defaced by crude graffiti carved into the bark. And in whichever direction he walked, the greenery soon petered out and gave way to congested roads.
Doing his best to ignore the traffic noise, he struck out across the grass, smiling at an elderly woman walking her chihuahua. His smile was not returned. She stared coldly past him, probably assuming he was a potential rapist, or at least an unsavoury character. He strolled on past a clump of trees, noticing how many people were on their own: young girls plugged into Walkmans; lone foreign-looking students lying on the grass, engrossed in books or papers; an old man limping along on two sticks, and a few joggers panting by. Everyone seemed isolated in their own sequestered world, the faces shuttered or suspicious; reluctant to make contact or even exchange a few innocuous words – all strangers here in London.
He stopped to watch a tramp rooting through a litter-bin and extracting half a dirty sandwich; was tempted to invite him home for tea. Perhaps there was something to be said for living in a community, sharing food and conversation. Yet he realized how contrary he was being: he, the arch-critic of communal life, now felt nostalgic for it.
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