by Paul Magrs
What love have I ever had?
I trod across the landing, down the stairs, along the dark passageway, trying not to make any noise. I clicked on the lights in the kitchen, my flat feet slapping on the chilled stone floor. I pulled down the milk pan, threw open the fridge.
No, really. Think about it, Brenda. What love have you ever had in your life? Real love. Reasonless, loyal, unconditional love?
None.
Was that true?
Absolutely none.
I put a match to the gas. Watched the blue flames roar. Glugged the milk into the pan.
My father didn’t care for me. He looked at me with curious, scientific interest. That was all.
He recoiled when I first came to consciousness. While I was raggedly breathing my first he lurched backwards with a cry. I smelt formaldehyde, burning hair and fresh blood. I smelt brimstone. The first sounds I remember hearing were his strangled gasps of horror and dismay. He knew at once that he had made a mistake in bringing me to life. There was no compassion, no feeling in him for me. He wanted to have nothing to do with me, his child. But child is the wrong word, is it not? For I was never a child. That was something I never got to be.
I was born a mature woman. There was no mother, just my father and me, alone in the ruined castle where he had brought his equipment, all ready to continue his filthy work.
By then he claimed to hate what he had done. His first creation had been a ghastly mistake. A monstrous man-thing, he had escaped from his laboratory to wreak havoc in the surrounding countryside. He had warned that he would murder all those my father loved, unless my father gave him what he wanted.
A mate. That was all the monster wanted. A better half. A bride.
Me.
Herr Doktor had to be threatened and cajoled. He wanted to turn his back on what he had made. In desperation he fled abroad. The monster caught up with him. They chased each other round the isles of Britain and finished up in Scotland, where my father was forced to give in. He gathered together the gory contraband of his science - the materials that would bring me into the world . . .
I should never have existed. He brought me into the world only to settle a bargain. I was the result of blackmail. I had my husband to thank for my existence, my father told me. I was created to appease that wicked creature’s demands.
And my intended? What about him? What about our marriage? Well, the whole shebang never took off. I can still see him, the day that I was born. He watched the whole process from a safe distance, staring down at me through the high window in the stone wall as lightning lashed around him. He had clambered up there to watch the operation, to see that Herr Doktor was doing his bidding. His face was twisted and intent - one of the first faces I ever saw. His eyes were all monstrous greed. Desire mixed with horror.
I wanted them to want me for myself. Both of them. And they didn’t, not really. I was just another failed experiment. They didn’t want me at all. No one ever has.
My father looked upon his creation and saw that it was bad.
He imagined the horrible wedding to come. The honeymoon. The possible hideous children. And then he saw that he had blasphemed against nature. In those first moments of my life, as I blinked and struggled to sit up, as the storm raged about the castle, my father was picturing the army of monsters that might issue from me.
He couldn’t stand the thought. He had gone too far. He quailed at the howling triumph of my husband, and felt despair at my touching, trusting confusion, as I gazed up at the two men.
Then my father made a decision.
To put a stop to me. Before I went any further.
He took up his surgical tools once more - swiftly, savagely - and set about undoing his work.
He tried to destroy me as I lay there, scant moments after my birth.
But I survived, didn’t I? I fought back.
I was strong, even then.
The milk was bubbling, beginning to froth. I watched it boil over the lip of the pan, heard the satisfying sizzle as it put out the flames. I swore, and shook myself out of my miserable stupor.
‘Oh!’ The soft, surprised voice at the kitchen doorway jerked my attention from the milk. I dropped the pan almost guiltily, with a clatter, an intruder in my own kitchen.
There in the doorway stood Katherine Green. Her hair was pinned up and she was in a pair of striped pyjamas. ‘Brenda, I’m sorry to have startled you,’ she said, looking abashed.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. My voice sounded harsh, compared with hers. It sounded deathly and hollow. I had clapped a hand to my bare head. How pathetic - as if I could cover my baldness. As if she couldn’t see the gleaming scalp, its criss-crossing scars and old stitches. As if she couldn’t see me in all my nocturnal glory.
‘I was going to make some peppermint tea,’ said Katherine. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
I tossed the milk into the Belfast sink and left the dirty pan for the morning. ‘That’s all right,’ I said. Then I turned to her, monitoring her expression for any sign of a flinch. Would she recoil when I looked her in the eye? Was I so grotesque?
Nothing. She looked back at me evenly, with a pleasant, open smile.
‘Katherine,’ I said, ‘forgive me, but I must ask this.’
She blinked. ‘Yes?’
‘There’s nothing . . . about your family . . . that I should know, is there? Nothing important that you’d like to tell me?’
She swallowed hard and hesitated. Then she smiled broadly, meeting my eye almost defiantly. ‘Why, of course not. What could there be? You know us, Brenda. We’re as average as can be. As average as you are. There’s nothing more to tell.’
I nodded. ‘Yes. Of course. I’m sorry for asking. I’m not even sure why I did. I’ve been having silly dreams.’ I turned to leave the kitchen. ‘Well. Good night, then, my dear.’
‘Good night, Brenda,’ she said, as the kettle started to boil.
Bit fed up, the next day. Not at my best. Decided to keep myself to myself.
Not very professional, really. I left a note for the Greens, asking them to sort out their own breakfast. I lay in my bed, burrowed right down, and listened to them cheerfully seeing to themselves. They didn’t mind that I wasn’t very professional today.
I was disappointed in myself, though. We’re all meant to be professional, these days, aren’t we? Being happy when we don’t feel it. Being efficient when inside we feel reckless and hopeless. We’re all meant to put on a good show for the sake of others. Or what’s the point? And usually I perform well. I’m faultless. Just some days, things aren’t right.
The Greens fed themselves and then I heard them washing up and putting things away. I could hear the boiler running and the hot water thrumming through the old pipes of this house. They were treating it all like a big adventure. They were treating my house as if it was their own.
I listened to them go out. There was no rain on the roof. I peeked out to see the sun slanting through the skylights. It was a better day for them and their holiday. I was glad.
Perhaps later today I should pull myself together. I should go next door and make up with Effie. I had stormed out of Cod Almighty a bit melodramatically. It wasn’t the kind of thing that impressed Effie. She’d have thought it exceedingly bad manners. She wouldn’t see that it had been justified. I’ve heard her say, ‘Brenda, there’s never any need to cause a scene.’ I’d embarrassed her in front of young Robert and poor Jessie.
It was after midday, though, when I felt fit enough to get up and throw on some reasonably tidy clothes. I put on a headscarf over my least glamorous wig and tugged on my housecoat: the one that declared to the world, ‘I’m busy as anything today, and I haven’t got time to stop.’
I stared at myself in the mirror, piling on foundation and heavy concealer. The Greens would be gone soon. I’d miss them. I’d cook something special this evening to make up for my absence at breakfast.
Minutes later I was outside the greengrocer’s down
stairs, at the bottom of our building. I hefted up a basket, and inspected the fruit and veg. Everything was oversized, vibrant with colour: courgettes, aubergines and fat tomatoes. Rafiq tried to interest me in mangoes, four to a box, fleshy and yellow. I couldn’t see the Greens liking them: they wouldn’t want anything too exotic. I smiled at him, and waved him away, and he could see that Mrs Brenda from upstairs was in one of her taciturn moods so he left me alone. I picked up bunches of thyme, coriander and mint, all cool and dewy in my fingers. I weighed down my basket with plump fresh lemons and oranges and eventually I struggled inside.
Leena was at the till, as per, busy with a tall man in a hat and coat. I ducked down the aisle where they kept the biscuits and cakes to look for my favourite masala tea, but all the while I was listening to Leena. She was trying to get rid of the man but he was persistent, asking questions, not buying anything. She was too polite to ask him to leave, I realised. All of a sudden I knew who he was and what he was doing. Anyone else, I would have strode up to that counter and rescued her from his questions. But the sound of his voice made me shiver.
‘I’m going to leave you my card,’ the man was saying, ‘and my number at the Hotel Miramar. I want you to phone me if you see anyone fitting the descriptions I’ve given you. It’s very, very important.’
‘Lots of people come through my shop,’ Leena protested. ‘How would I know? I don’t keep tabs on everyone.’
‘These people might stand out . . . as unusual,’ he said. ‘And, as I say, you’d be doing a good thing if you let me know. They need to be brought to light. They have done something very, very wrong.’
He’s talking to her like she’s simple, I thought. His voice was cool and calm. But there was urgency underneath, which discomfited me. I braved myself, picked up my box of tea and my basket and marched towards the counter. I’d take a look at this Frank.
‘Well, I’ll see,’ said Leena, braver now that I was there. She could dismiss the man now. ‘Do you mind? I need to serve this lady.’
I perched my basket on the counter, pretending to find it even heavier than it was. I felt the man’s eyes on me. I returned his stare. Under his wide-brimmed hat he was pale and unhealthy-looking. His skin was damp. He seemed . . . green about the gills. His appearance struck me, like the Greens’ had on their arrival, as sickly and unearthly.
‘And this lady is . . . ?’ he said. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’
Leena was starting to weigh my fruit and vegetables, ringing them into the till. She rolled her eyes at me.
‘I live upstairs,’ I said. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m looking for some people,’ he said. ‘I’ve knocked at your door a couple of times and missed you.’
He went on to describe the Greens. My heart thudded and I kept glancing at Leena, who carried on working, catching my eye. She knew I had the Greens staying. I knew she’d seen them, met them. I knew she had covered up for me with this man, and what we both didn’t know was why the Greens needed protecting.
‘What are they meant to have done, these people?’ I frowned.
‘That’s between them, me and their people,’ he said curtly.
‘Their people?’
‘The ones they ran out on,’ he said. ‘That’s all I’m prepared to say.’ He looked me up and down again. ‘Does that mean you’ve seen them?’
He knew, I thought. I could see it in his thin, pasty face. He knew precisely where the Greens had been staying. He was just playing with me.
I paid for my groceries and shook my head at him. I knew I made myself seem even more suspicious, but I didn’t care. I hurried from the shop, banging my hip on a stack of boxes as I left.
‘Brenda?’ Rafiq called. ‘Is something the matter?’
What am I doing? I thought, as I nipped up the alley and let myself into my own place. I’m falling apart. Why am I getting so involved? Having fights and acting suspicious! Do I really want to spoil everything I’ve built up here?
I dashed upstairs, and put on some spicy tea to brew. The heady fumes helped me to think.
‘We don’t want to go, Brenda.’ He gave me a weak, self-deprecating smile. ‘We’re having such a wonderful time. We feel so . . . gathered in under your wing. We should have booked for more than four days. It isn’t enough. We’ve been talking this afternoon, and we all wish we could stay a little longer.’
Ted had taken me aside in the early evening. We were in the dining room, where I was laying the table for dinner. He was in a striped blazer - rather dapper - and he was petitioning me, almost wringing his hands.
That afternoon the family had walked up to the abbey. They had made the long journey up the many winding steps, and spent the rest of the day up there, among the ruins, at the highest point of the town. They had surveyed all the rooftops and picked out mine. They had realised how fond they had become of this place and they felt at home here. They had decided that they wanted to stay on.
‘We’re supposed to go home,’ he said, somewhat shiftily. ‘We’re expected back in our village. People will be surprised if we don’t turn up at the right time. That’s the done thing, you see. It’s unusual for any of us to leave at all.’
‘That sounds a bit strange.’ I frowned, setting out the condiments and thinking of the sinister Frank.
Ted Green shrugged. ‘It’s the way things are. We don’t like it much, but our village has traditions and ways of doing things that no one outside would understand. When you live there, you just sort of put up with it.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve no other bookings till the end of next week.’
‘Really?’ His face brightened.
‘Next Thursday,’ I said. My heart sank. That was when the TV people were arriving. They were coming for that silly show, ghost-hunting and manifestations. And it was all down to Effie. I still hadn’t confronted her about it. Effie, it was beginning to seem, was behind everything.
‘We’re running out of money,’ Ted said, ‘but we can manage a couple more days with what we have.’
Talk of money embarrasses me. He was gazing at me earnestly. ‘I can drop my rates a little,’ I said. ‘You’ve been good guests. No bother. I’ll do some sums,’ I said. ‘Stay till after the weekend, hm?’
Ted grinned, and I ushered him away so that I could finish cooking dinner. He dashed out, full of boyish energy, to tell Katherine. I shook my head, smiling, then heard someone yell outside. A sharp cry of triumph.
I hurried to the window and looked down into my garden. There was Gerald in a blazer like his father’s. He was dashing about and jumping, grabbing at something, trying to seize it. He let out another cry as whatever it was got away from him. Then I realised what he was up to, just at the instant he succeeded in doing something I would have thought completely impossible: catching a squirrel by its bushy tail.
Gerald held the poor, dangling creature and watched its legs scrabbling at the air.
I was about to wrench myself away and hurl myself downstairs, but then I saw his mother. She dashed into the garden, heading towards him determinedly, as if this was a regular occurrence. Gerald gave a sharp yelp as she seized him and smacked his legs. He dropped the squirrel, which dashed off at tremendous speed into the trees. His sister, Susan, had come out to watch, looking amused. Gerald was twisting in his mother’s grasp, complaining, and - to my astonishment - Katherine smacked him again, rather hard. At this point his beloved baseball cap fell on to the grass.
That was when I saw he had a third eye, burning bright red in the middle of his forehead. It was large, wild and inhuman.
I dropped the corner of the net curtain.
By the time I’d raised it again, Katherine had picked up the cap and plopped it back on her younger child’s head. She was still shaking and threatening him, but now she was leading him back indoors.
I knew I hadn’t imagined it. I knew precisely what I had seen.
The child was special. A mutation. That was why they kept him h
idden away. That’s why someone was after them. Surely that was what this peculiar business was about.
I was happy to have them in my home. I liked them. I’d say that to anyone. I was drawn to the Greens as a family. They were decent and sweet. I felt included in their tight little band. I would subsidise them, too, help them. That much I had promised. I was going to give them extra days in my establishment at less than the going rate. I was happy to cover my costs. Just to have a bit of life and laughter in my house . . . That was enough.
But . . . if I had to lie, if I had to fall out with Effie, my best friend, if I had to avoid detective-like men in the shop and the streets, if I had to evade and conceal for this family, well, what then? Was it too much? I had enough evasions, enough lies to keep up already. I was juggling too many balls.
The Greens would have to come clean. They would have to tell me more.
But I am, as you must know by now, a discreet woman by nature. I like to keep myself to myself. That good old working-class dictum. Myself to myself. I belong, of course, to no particular class. How can I? Or, if I do, it is to a very rarefied underclass. Or perhaps I belong to them all. Everywoman.
As I worked in my kitchen, on the final stages of that evening’s meal, I could hear the little boy, Gerald, crying out, protesting against his punishment. ‘I want to go home! I want to go home now! You have to take me home!’ And his parents were hushing him, shushing him. They didn’t want anyone to hear this. Suddenly they sounded shifty. ‘I want us to go home!’ Gerald shrieked, as if they were torturing him. I imagined him thrashing around, kicking and lashing out with his fists. I imagined his eyes squinched up, reddened, wet with tears. All three of his eyes. Would the third eye cry? Or would it be impassive and baleful through all the hysterics?
