Come Not When I Am Dead

by R. A. England

  “he’s an accountant”

  “Oh God!” and that is that, Joseph is apologetic

  “but there has to be a first one doesn’t there? Just to get the ball rolling” and we both laugh again, then talk about something else, fast, two bad mice squeaking over a piece of bread. We get distracted, ‘scatter brained’ someone called us both recently, and then something popped into my head “do you remember that night, last year, on the drive back from that Japanese restaurant, when we stopped for petrol and Gabriel got out of the car at the garage to stretch his legs, and he was standing by the boot talking to me and when I got the petrol nozzle to put it in to my petrol tank on the other side of the car, and the hose pushed Gabriel’s head really hard against the back windscreen? Remember? Remember the noise and the look on his squashed surprised face? That was so funny, I was thinking about it earlier” and we are both laughing again. “Can the next man be more suitable please? Handsome would be nice, well not really handsome, interesting?”

  “No” and then he is showing me his new trousers and I am admiring them.

  We are now heading in to serious to strangers mode as we try to make as little noise as we can, we tread the floorboards to the kitchen where the man is, treading on the very outer edges of the floor and creep in, trying not to bump into each other, trying to be quiet. And in the kitchen the man is standing trying to pick the kettle up off the stove, trying to make himself that drink “it’s stuck there” I say, and I tell him how my uncle super glued it there years ago to trick my grandma and no one ever unstuck it and Joseph and I laugh again, laugh too much and Martin raises his eyes away from his horrible shoes and sinks his hands in to his pockets, uncomfortable, our closeness is creating a distance for him, he steps away from the stove and mumbles “ah,” poor creature in the hyena’s pen.

  “We have to go, it’s later than I thought” Joseph looks up at the clock, he is a whirlwind tossing a leaf about in his wildness, he is a fly batting off the walls, bzz, bzz, bzz “see you later dear little creature” and he kisses me and I laugh again. He leaves and blossom falls from apple trees. And now I’m alone again and feel vulnerable again, not vulnerable, fragile, but not weak either, I feel tough, I don’t know. It is silent again and I say “pah” just to hear my own voice.

  Later on Charlie came and that was all very nice, but unsatisfactory. We talked about my latest painting, and went for a walk around the orchard, arm in arm, made love and I got over excited as usual by his presence and sad when he went, I want more than all of this. There is a big unbalance there but I am trying hard to make it perfect, it’s not what I want, having a relationship with a married man. I can’t have all of him, every single, devoted bit of him. But I do love him I tell myself. Or I just want to love him. And I’ve never felt guilty either. It just happened. I don’t ever think of his wife, unless she makes demands on his time and it gets in the way of my life. And then I spit out my fury. I don’t like his wife. And then thinking about how revolting she is makes me wonder why Charlie ever married her and I doubt his intelligence and question other aspects of his character and it’s not alright really. But I don’t ever feel guilty.

  After Charlie had gone I still felt I hadn’t done enough today, and so, in the dark, in the quiet of the night with just the waves frooshing about down below, I ran up and down from the gate to the edge of the cliff about 600 times until I was breathless, the kittens all watching me from the back door, bats dancing around above my head. Stars highlighting the tips of the grass beneath my feet and a fine cool damp in the air. And that did the trick. It has been an unsatisfactory day. Tomorrow will be more exciting.

  I go to bed and think about Charlie, I think of how he has my devotion and my utter cherished love and I would love to feel that back from him, I would take it, precious thing, upstairs now and put it safe in my treasure box, and maybe just peek at it a couple of times in the night, just to make sure. And I think that if I hope for it, it will happen. I fall asleep and one after another, all my nightmares follow each other, it is always the same.

  Chapter 3

  Uncle George came today to see the studio roof. I call him uncle George because I’ve known him all my life, but he’s no relation. I took him down the track to the studio, the ground is bumpy, I can feel every bump and lump and stick and stone beneath my sandals and I’m striding and swinging my arms in time to the tune in my head ‘up down, high low, anywhere the wind blows…’ the trees shaded us and we were a little cooler, and a lot quieter, but flies everywhere buzzing their bastard way through the silence.

  The way down is quite steep and I love walking up and down it and feeling my body work for me, feeling all my muscles connect with each other, I am fit and a mean machine, but that can’t be said for uncle George “slow down maid, my knees aren’t as young as they were” and I know I should slow down for him, but I carry on walking, I will wait for him at the bottom. “I can’t keep up with you Gussie” he calls from behind me and I linger for an instant, a heavy old sailor’s rope around my shoulders. But I hate walking slowly, even for him and so I stride on again, thinking of all the jobs he’d done for grandma as I lift my arms and touch the leaves in passing. I am thinking about how handsome and gypsyish he’d looked when I was a little girl, with his dark hair and his earring. Remembering how, by accident, he’d used my vest and pants set as cleaning rags because they were so revolting. I was remembering that awful wall he built in his own garden with bottles in it and his horrible daughter who smeared marmite on my bed sheets to pretend it was pooh. And wondering what he was going to say about my studio roof and knowing that it wasn’t going to be good and thinking that the whole experience will be demoralising and I just shouldn’t have asked him. I stride along and then wait for him, he catches up and I stride on again. I must be a pain I suppose, but that’s what I think of other people when they can’t keep up with me in any way at all, and really it shouldn’t matter, I’m not important to anyone and no one’s important to me anymore, apart from my nephews, apart from Charlie and Coningsby and a few others I suppose. I suppose. I watch him come down the track, he has two legs, two legs longer than mine, why don’t they move quicker?

  The quiet here is beautiful. I stand still and stare at the black shade and yellow-white sunlight on the rough and sepia ground, it makes me smile, it puts me in a daze and my eyes drift off lightly into space and my mind disintegrates. Choo, choo, choo, it falls to the ground. I’m distracted, I’m intrigued by hums of insects and hard twigs and rainbow colours in heavy warm air. I am in love with all this that is mine. And I would like to have a child and be walking down here now with him or her, holding my hand, toddling along by my side. I would hold their little fat hand in mine, wrapping it closely like the most precious present in the universe, a freshly caught trout in giant dock leaves, tied with grass. I would tell them that one day this would all be theirs and that our family has lived in this little house for over 300 years now and in this village since 1423, that’s a long time. I would tell them that whoever they are and whatever they are they should always be proud of themselves because you only have yourself and you should be strong. And I am still chattering away to my little imaginary child when uncle George catches up with me. I’m standing by the studio, I’m holding the nettles down with my left foot and kicking at the roots of them with my right and I’m staring at the gate. “You talking to yourself? Good conversation was it? That’s the way to madness they say!” but I ignore him, I always ignore people when they say stupid things they feel they should say and mean nothing. Uncle George goes in to the studio, through the door I hold open for him “now then, you let me have a look here” and suddenly he is golden and mine and lovely again.

  I left him to look and measure and stomp around and I walked down a little way more and got out a cigar, I am in love with them, I love the feel of the soft leaf and the weight of them on my lips, I let it hang there, guess the weight, the taste and the smell and the heavy smoke in my mouth like a fat man in
a washing machine, I swish him around, hold him there and spit him out. Pah! And it is instant satisfaction, instant luxury, instant calm without befuddlement. My head goes up to look at the sky and

  “Be about £800 more or less” and my head goes down.

  It is far too much, “£800? Can’t it be done any cheaper than that?” I’m thinking about the electric bill, food, cigars, cats insurance, cat food, petrol, new tyres….. I’ve made £40 so far this week strimming and that’s it. “You know I would if I could dear, but it can’t be done” and he told me why it couldn’t be done, he is sorry for me and looking concerned, his eyebrows meet in the middle when he looks like that. “I know, thank you, thank you Uncle George.” I am gentle now as I look up at his dear old face, “it’s just a lot of money, which I haven’t got. It’s just all a bit of a worry really and I don’t want to worry” but I also don’t want him to feel sorry for me, so I try and pretend it doesn’t matter so much. “It’s OK” I say, fooling no one.

  “Can’t be perfect, much as we’d all like it to be you know”

  “I know.” I am dismissive now, because it’s a stupid thing to say and turn around so we change conversation, and it works, we talk about his new girlfriend, about his grandchildren, about grandma, but then he comes back to it again. “You know what you should do, you should take a lodger, that would help out, you’d get someone quick as a wink in your little house”

  “I don’t think so” I am dismissive.

  “Your gran had guests”

  “Yes but they were guests”

  “they still paid though didn’t they? just a different name. You should think about it”

  “I’ll think about it” I said and thought that I wouldn’t.

  All afternoon I thought about it when I was killing pigs for the Rogers, he pays me £50 a pig so that’s good going today. “I’ve been thinking” I said to Charlie later on “what do you think, I mean, would it be a good idea, say if, well, what do you think about me, maybe, getting a lodger? Do you think that’s a good idea? Or would I hate it? Is it stupid? It’s probably stupid.” Charlie has been watching me talk, eyes narrowed, wondering what I was going to say, he is worried it will be something that will demand an intelligent response, something that will put him out, something that he won’t like, and I see relief in his eyes “sounds like an idea” he is glad it is about the house, about me, but not about us, he is so transparent “how long have you been thinking about this?” he can relax, and I told him about uncle George today “it would have to be a woman” he said

  “why?” I am looking up at him and I know that he is thinking how little and sweet I am, but if he thinks that, he’ll forget all those other bits about me and I don’t want him to do that, “because if it was a man, he’d be bound to fall in love with you”

  “do all men fall in love with me?”

  “well, most of them do don’t they? So it would be a distinct possibility that someone living in the house with you, spending all that time with you and seeing you every day would. It would be cruel, like watching a car crash in slow motion” he is pleased with himself “what about if I fell in love with him?”

  “You wouldn’t” he said looking levelly at me, from his thoughtful, fresh little eyes. Don’t be so sure of me I thought, but instead I said “you’re very sure of me aren’t you?” and he took that to be confirmation that he could be sure of me. You’ve had the snip I was thinking, looking at him while he sat back in grandma’s chair oblivious to my thoughts, lapping up my love. You can’t give me children and I want them, you shouldn’t feel confident. You are married, I am not, you can’t feel confident. My love won’t dissolve our problems and I thought about how scary people are and how you never know what someone’s thinking, and then my finger started to bleed again where Raffle Buffle had caught it earlier. “Shall I put a stitch in that with my horse needle?” and he smiles his long and slow and utterly beautiful smile. I do love him, I do, and I know he loves me, his love wraps me in golden paper, loosely as not to hurt me, my love starts at my groin and rises to my throat where I get a little stuck for words. “So, do you think it’s a good idea?” I am sitting on his lap now, stroking the back of his hair, rubbing his neck for him “should I get a lodger? What do you think?” I am fidgeting with a book now which is on the table by my side, stamping my dominance on it. I am looking at his tweed sports jacket on the floor by his chair ‘I chose him that’ I think, and it makes me happy that I cherish him and look after him in all the ways I can, even just making sure he looks nice “I think you should most definitely think about it” he said, and that was that.

  My time with Charlie is strange and fairy taleish. We spend hours together talking and making love, being close and I am so ecstatically happy, but only when he can make a good excuse as to why he’s away from home. Four years is a long time to spend with someone who’s already married and who has no intention of getting a divorce. I want his utter devotion and I want to marry him and I want to have children with him, but if he won’t, he won’t. “I know, I know” I say “you can’t risk ruining your children’s lives” and then I drop it because I can’t make him do something he doesn’t want to, and I couldn’t live with myself if I bullied him “I don’t care, it doesn’t matter to me” I say to him

  “but it does though doesn’t it Gussie?” and it does, but then it doesn’t. It does because I can’t have him and I want him, I can’t have him, all of him. But it doesn’t matter because I cut off my nose to spite my face sometimes and then I’m so fucking bloody-minded that nothing bothers me, I don’t let anything bother me and I’d rather be on my own, miserable maybe, than half someone else’s. I want him only if he really, really wants me. And when I say something I do mean it. I am lethally unpredictable, I won’t play games, I am serious about pretty much everything (except messing around) and I think that makes me a little scary. And I am tough, but in ways that no one suspects and I have a feeling that my love could easily turn to hate. I question him, I have to understand him, but he doesn’t question me in the same way, I throw him crumbs and sometimes he takes them up, but he doesn’t want to know where they come from. And I look at him again, naked, getting ready for me, still sitting on grandma’s chair, with his long, thin hairy legs open and his bollocks hanging heavily down on to the sage green velvet seat “that’s a very lovely sight” I say and shuffle over to him on my knees. I am the hunter, I am the predator, I will have him and I lick, one long lick, up the length of his penis. My hair falls down all around my face and he wraps me up in a puff of steamy deliciousness. “I could eat you” I just manage to say without taking my eyes off his erection and his eyes go dreamy and my head goes all steamy and our sex is very good and far too exciting. I’d miss that.

  Chapter 4

  I remember once telling grandma about a plan I had to do something important and she said “I should think about it for a couple of weeks first” and I said

  “OK” but I didn’t, and then two weeks later I told her “I’ve thought about it and I’m going to do it.” I am impulse and I will do what I like. And the next day, without any thought whatsoever I walked down to the post office and put an ad on their notice board ‘Perfect lodger wanted for perfect house/cottage. Must be female. Own room, kitchen and bathroom. Rural position, sea views. Must like animals as plenty in the house. £600 per month’. Charlie said he’d ask more, but after all, it’s only a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, not the whole house. And then, this afternoon I got a call.

  She has been and gone. Her name is Jo. I don’t like calling people by short names, but she said that was it, ‘short and sweet’. Not Joanna, not Joanne, not Josephine or Joker or Johanna, just ‘Jo’ but she looked away from me when she said it, I think there’s a mystery there.

  The bell rang, in my house, in my head and I pushed my dress down smooth over my hips, stood from the little soft nursery chair by the window and glided, as if on two sheets of cardboard on a polished wooden floor to the front door, that m
eans, I know that means that I’m not quite with it why does it have to be like this? I say to myself. I open the door, the mauve coloured dim light of the hall and the encroaching light from outside as the door opens wider and wider, let it in, shut it out. Don’t play games Gussie. “Hello” and my voice bursts from me into the hills and barns and skyline behind her, I see it leave my mouth and spread wider and wider and I cannot claw it back, my fingers are so many empty sacks. And in my head I am saying why do I have to let this woman into my house?

  Jo is altogether taller and altogether larger than me, but then I am small, I am only 5’4.” Her posture is bad, mine is good. I am comparing her to me. I mustn’t do that, she is not me. Her back is broad and she has on loose clothes. There is one of those e cigarette things hanging from her mouth which looks unmannerly but urgent. Her eyes are bright and alert, and her hair is dyed blonde and wavy, it doesn’t suit the dark of her eyes. I am looking at her and adjusting her, seeing how she could dress better, stand better, give a different impression. I shouldn’t do that. “Hello Jo, I’m Gussie” and I give her my hand. I am too formal. I know I am too formal, too stiff. A china dog against the wall. “Gussie? Gussie like gusset?”