by Ron Butlin
In a few minutes it would be the dawn of a beautiful summer’s day. Sunday. Clean, clear colours with a sense of space. Very faint light was coming through a gap in the curtains. You could see Mary beside you, outlined in shadows and blanket-folds. A good sleeper, a natural.
You had had a shower as soon as you had returned home from the mud-trap, then changed into the informal suit and shoes. Mary was in the bedroom preparing for the biscuit soirée. She had chosen green earrings, a sea-green that brought out a colour in her eyes you had not seen for a long time. She was sitting at her dressing table, her head tilted slightly to one side as she fastened the clasp.
A few heavy drops had begun falling as you came along the street, and now you could hear the downpour that followed rumbles of thunder. A wind had started up after the sultry day, and every few moments rain smashed against the window. Mary had not heard you enter the room. For several seconds you considered the image of her face in one of the side-mirrors, the old-fashioned dressing table having a set of the triptych variety. She was humming to herself as she fixed the earring in place.
Were you aware of how much it disturbed you to watch her putting the finishing touches to her make-up? It lasted only a few minutes, yet during that time you could feel mud from the ocean floor being stirred up inside you.
She leant closer to the glass to apply the eye-shadow, looking critically, then rubbing carefully with the tip of her finger until the effect pleased her. She smiled to herself, picked up the lipstick, and very delicately applied a faint red to her lips.
You watched, standing by the doorway; you felt excluded and even jealous, perhaps, of this intimacy she had with her appearance. Whatever, you could not remain a witness to it much longer – either you had to withdraw or else go up to her and, most likely, pay her a compliment, then kiss her bare shoulder. The mud was rising inside you, filling your chest until you could hardly breathe, and yet you didn’t move.
She was giving her hair a final, smoothing touch with a comb, almost a caress it seemed to you, when suddenly she started back – then laughed.
‘I didn’t see you there!’ she exclaimed, then smiled at you in the mirror. But as she spoke you could see her face already strained with the effort of making that smile and its reassurance. You went up and stood behind her; your eyes met hers in the mirror.
‘You look very lovely,’ you complimented her, then bent to kiss her bare shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
You turned and went over to the window. Though it was hardly seven o’clock, darkness seemed to have already fallen. The rain was even heavier.
‘I suppose they’ll hold it indoors?’ she asked.
‘They’ll have to – no one likes soggy biscuits!’
The side-light by which Mary was seeing to get ready was reflected in the window-pane – and so, rather than the street outside, you saw the image of the bedroom behind you detailed on the glass. She had stopped what she was doing and was looking in your direction. You thought you had managed to present yourself well, but the expression on her face – now that your back was turned – was one of pity. You paused for a moment, then turned away from her image to face her directly.
Pity, you thought to yourself. The more bottles you threw at the wall, the more she would overwhelm you with pity. Probably if you did break a bottle over her head, her dying glance would say, ‘I pity you, I pity you.’ Pity. The word is pronounced like the act of spitting.
‘Your tie’s not quite straight,’ Mary observed; you were standing in front of her now. Had she reached forward to correct it you would have knocked her hand aside.
‘Isn’t it?’ you responded, and turned to check in the mirror. The knot was a little high on one side.
You went through the movements of loosening it, then watched helplessly as all this sudden anger was squandered in positioning your tie more centrally. You pulled it so tight you almost choked yourself.
‘That’s much better,’ said Mary, and kissed you.
‘A quick drink before we go?’ you suggested.
‘Yes, that would be lovely. We’ve time for one,’ she answered with a smile, meaning, of course, just one.
Then you trotted off to make it, this special treat before the big biscuit-night-out.
*
Almost four-thirty. The party was long over – and the morning-after just starting. The bedroom was becoming brighter: the walls, wardrobe, dressing table, chairs; everything was more visible now. Mary was still asleep. Carefully, without disturbing her, you got up, dressed, and went downstairs to the kitchen. You paused for a moment or two, as if unsure of why you were there, then, smiling to yourself, you opened the back door and stepped outside.
First light was colouring in the trees, the garden and the neighbouring houses – the entire world. Every second became a stronger affirmation of things. Their glory. First light was piercing you through with joy, hope. You walked out to the middle of the lawn, and there, raising your glass, which you must have picked up in the kitchen, toasted: ‘Another day, another chance.’
The sun shone more brightly each moment. There was no mud. You could see clearly in all directions – and there was not a trace of mud. Not one smear.
And so, as the last stars disappeared before the mud began seeping in once more, you took your bearings from the early morning sunlight. Its clarity, its purity. Then you filled your glass again: a toast to everyone and everything on Earth – and everywhere beyond.
4
Elise was staring down at you. Outdoors. In the daylight. In the garden. The sky above her.
‘Daddy?’ she asked.
You were trying to keep your eyes open. You were lying on the lawn, your mouth too dry to speak. You were cold – the sun was shining. Brightly.
‘Daddy?’
You sat up on one elbow, feeling sick momentarily.
Elise was still looking at you. If you stood up suddenly she would be frightened. It was difficult to hold on to her expression – you had to keep refocusing your eyes, concentrating hard. Every few seconds.
She began turning away.
‘Elise . . .’ you managed to say.
She stood still.
‘Elise – Good morning,’ you smiled.
Then, having refocused, you smiled again.
‘Good morning,’ you repeated, sitting up completely to bring yourself to her height.
She looked to one side as the brandy bottle rolled from your lap.
You both looked at it.
‘It was empty anyway!’ you remarked with a laugh.
She didn’t reply.
‘I got up early to see the dawn,’ you went on to explain. ‘It was a bit cold, and so . . .’
You gestured vaguely towards the bottle.
Finally she asked, ‘Are you all right, Daddy?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Then, after a short pause, ‘I’m fine. Fine.’
You smiled at her again.
She didn’t move away, but looked in the direction of the house.
‘Is Mummy up yet?’ you asked a moment later.
She shook her head.
‘And Tom?’
‘No,’ she answered almost reluctantly, as if you had been trying to force information from her.
‘Let’s keep it a secret then, eh?’ you said, indicating the empty bottle.
She looked at the ground.
‘A secret,’ you repeated. ‘Do you understand?’
You stood up a little unsteadily. Again a momentary sense of sickness.
The two of you walked back into the house, you carrying the brandy bottle and glass.
‘Stay and play in the garden if you want,’ you suggested. ‘We’ll have breakfast later on.’
Elise didn’t reply at first; then she nodded: ‘All right.’
‘Would you like anything just now?’ you asked her. ‘Some cornflakes? Bread and honey?’
When she shook her head for the second time you began to feel anxious.
‘A piece of chocolate?’ Were you trying to bribe her?
She shook her head again.
‘No thanks.’
‘A secret, remember,’ you stated again. ‘Elise?’
‘Yes, Daddy.’ Then she turned and went back into the garden.
Quickly, you put the brandy bottle on the back shelf of the cupboard near the sink. That would do for the time being – the waste bin would have been too obvious. You wanted to get back upstairs and into bed before Mary woke up. It was still early.
You had just begun to climb the stairs when you met her coming down.
A moment’s pause, then you said, ‘Hello, I was just coming to wake you. It’s a lovely day outside.’
She stopped a few steps above you. She had already dressed, but she could only just have got up. Did she believe you? It wasn’t really a lie, anyway: it was a lovely day, and it would have been a good idea to have woken her, to have surprised her.
‘Elise is already in the garden playing – and I thought it would be nice to have breakfast on the lawn,’ you smiled. ‘Fancy that?’
Mary didn’t reply.
You repeated, ‘It’s a lovely morning.’
‘When did you get up?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Oh, a while ago,’ you replied. ‘An hour or so, perhaps. It was so lovely that I couldn’t stay in bed. I tried not to wake you,’ you added.
As Mary didn’t reply, you smiled again. The two of you stood quite still for a few seconds, you at the bottom of the stairs and she three or four steps above you.
‘Well then,’ you said eventually. ‘Petit déjeuner sur l’herbe? The kids will love it,’ you added after a pause.
Mary had begun to come down the stairs – and before you could stop yourself you’d backed away from her, but recovered almost immediately. You took a step forward while reaching confidently for her hand to help her down from the bottom stair, as from a carriage.
‘I hope you can do me the honour of breakfasting with me, ma’am?’ you declared in a gentlemanly tone.
There was a moment’s hesitation, then, smiling, she inclined her head graciously. ‘You are too kind, sir.’
‘A turn around the garden, perhaps, while it is being prepared? Everything there is in place. I have done what I could to arrange it to your comfort,’ you continued as you led her through the kitchen. ‘For the sky I have chosen a sea-blue with a few light clouds to relieve its—’ You paused theatrically for a moment as though searching for the mot juste, ‘its rather too-overwhelming grandeur. I trust this will suit.’
Mary was smiling.
‘The weather is perfect, needless to say.’
‘Of course.’ She was almost laughing by this time.
‘I have positioned a few stone walls to ensure we will not be disturbed, and some flowers, a lawn and a small tree. To promote a sense of place I have taken the liberty of suggesting a quiet suburban ambience – some houses in the background, birdsong, the sound of lawn-mowers and so forth. I hope it is to your satisfaction.’
You were standing at the back door now.
‘And the breakfast itself?’ enquired Mary, laughing.
‘I was just getting round to that,’ you replied with mock-peevishness. ‘I’ve only been up an hour!’ Then more briskly: ‘I’ll put the kettle on while you see the kids are all right.’
Mary went into the garden – and you relaxed.
As the breakfast preparations progressed, however, you went into decline – until by the time you heard the Shreddies rattling into the plates you were feeling very delicate indeed. Everything seemed metallic-grey, and you sensed that same colour inside you. So, before you served the family, you served yourself – and quickly. Brandy. And generously. Twice – skipping the toast (leave that until breakfast, you thought with a laugh) each time. The metal faded, and the kitchen and garden outside became coloured-in once more. Like drinking sunlight, almost.
After breakfast you felt well enough to go for the Sunday papers.
‘Fancy coming with me?’ you asked Elise.
‘Okay, Daddy.’
It was a good ten minutes to the shop, and on the way back you began to go into decline again. You kept going. Elise was telling you about the different pets in her class at school: a hamster, a pussy, two rabbits—
Suddenly you became aware that everything around you was even greyer and more metallic-looking than before. You felt on fire – as if the sun had set somewhere inside you, its light straining to burn through your skin.
All at once you longed to tear yourself open – spilling colour upon the paving stones, the trees, the fence, the pillar-box – then fall back exhausted to let the light from deep inside you flood the sky with brightness.
You gripped your daughter’s hand tightly. She was just coming to the end of her list of pets: ‘. . . and a hedgehog,’ she concluded. ‘Ouch, Daddy. That hurt!’ She jerked her hand free.
‘Sorry, Elise.’ You met her glance rather uncertainly. ‘I—’
‘Don’t you like animals?’ she asked, taking your hand again.
‘Some,’ you replied. ‘Lots of them really.’
You had to cross the road at this point – was that why she had taken your hand?
The two of you stood at the kerb while a van went past.
‘What kinds most?’ she asked as you began to cross.
‘Oh,’ you gestured vaguely. ‘You know . . .’
Would she let go your hand when you reached the other side? You had not meant to hurt her. You continued: ‘Different kinds . . . Some . . .’
Would she let go?
‘Big ones?’
‘Yes. Big ones.’
You had crossed the road and her hand was still in yours. A sense of relief.
It was a Sunday morning; you were walking down the street with your daughter, her hand in yours. You had just bought the Sunday papers and were taking them back to read with your wife. Everything was all right. Everything was fine.
‘Big ones,’ you repeated. ‘Horses, giraffes, elephants, but most of all,’ you paused, smiling, ‘hippopotami.’
Elise looked up at you.
‘Hippopotamuses you mean,’ she corrected seriously.
‘I know what I mean, young lady. Latinate plural: hippopotamus, hippopotami. And they wallow in the mud. You know the song?’
‘What song?’
‘The Mud Song, of course.’
You cleared your throat and began to sing loudly:
‘Mud, mud, glorious mud,
Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood . . .’
By the end of the first verse you were singing very loudly, and were disappointed that Elise didn’t join in. In fact she didn’t say anything at all – even after you had finished. It had only taken you a short time to cover her pets, the rabbits, the cats and the hamsters, with your mud.
‘See you later, Daddy,’ she called out as you went in the front door and she turned round the side into the garden. You had let go her hand long before you came to the end of the song – the better to swing your arms in time to the music.
During a spartan lunch of no-gin-and-tonic, no-wine, with no-brandy to follow (at your suggestion, to reassure yourself that no-drink made no-difference) you sat, smiled, and made jokes. Lots of jokes. The accusations faced each other, and you faced your wife. The sun shone brightly. The flowers were growing. The grass was green. The accusations were growing – and to prove it you had them measure each other every few minutes. They were laughing. Mary was smiling; you continued smiling and making jokes.
Afterwards you sat in a deckchair not-drinking, which was considered enough to keep you fully occupied. Every so often Mary glanced over to check that you were hard at work – which you were. Whenever you caught her doing this she smiled at you.
Mary, a great worker, keeps everything in the garden rosy. A few days after you’d moved into the house she began to lay a lawn lined with flowerbeds. Since then she’s always managed, even in the middle o
f winter, to have a bit of colour somewhere. When one part of the garden fades, another is ready to take over – a kind of relay-race to Spring. Six Springs have been reached so far since moving here, albeit with a few fumbles during the hard frosts. Whatever the weather, she’s out there gloved and galoshed if need be. Does she believe that if there is no green showing at any given moment then perhaps the race is lost and the entire garden ruined?
‘Come on.’ Mary had walked over to where you were sitting. ‘How’s about giving us a hand?’
You smiled and replied that you were very comfortable, thank you.
‘Remember the Holy Book,’ you cautioned. ‘Six days shalt thou labour and do thy work, and on the seventh—’
‘Don’t worry yourself, all I want is to show you something. You just have to look and say how clever I am, green-fingered. That kind of thing.’
Not much to ask. You answered that you would be over in a few minutes.
‘Oh, come on now,’ she coaxed.
‘What is it?’
‘A surprise. Oh, come on!’ she tried again.
She reached for you – and quite without thinking you pushed her hands roughly aside.
‘In a few minutes,’ you insisted.
Then, realising what you had done, you repeated more gently: ‘I’ll be over in a few minutes.’
You smiled and tried to take her hands.
She took a step backwards away from you.
‘You bastard,’ she said slowly.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ you demanded. The tone of long-suffering in that unspoken ‘now’ inflected your question quite pitilessly, implying years of patient understanding on your part set against her persistent capriciousness. But you knew that she would accept it.
She was angry: ‘I’m not asking much, am I? A few moments of your valuable idleness.’
Then, as you expected, she stopped.
‘I’m sorry, Morris,’ she began her apology.
‘It’s all right,’ you replied with a weary magnanimity. You smiled effortlessly as usual, then continued: ‘Let’s see your surprise, then.’
