No Small Shame

by Christine Bell

  Mary obliged, snapping off the wall switch, swallowing her agitation and fumbling her way back to the bed.

  With Liam now two months in Egan Street, she guessed he was feeling better because she’d recognised this night coming all week. He’d dropped enough hints, but he hadn’t tried to climb on top of her yet. She didn’t know whether to wish herself right or pray she was wrong. A small part of her hoped the very act might set things right with them. How many upsets went to bed between Maw and Da but didn’t get up with them in the morning?

  Lying rigid on her back, stiffer than any over-starched sheets, she chewed on her lips thinking back …

  Her one and only experience of sexual intercourse might have happened to a different Mary O’Donnell – a girl she wouldn’t recognise now. Still she recalled the soft kisses and the Liam who’d held her, made Conor with her, as a man gentle, wanting and needing her.

  The rattle in Liam’s chest grumbled irregular in the dark. He hadn’t rolled away to the wall as was usual but lay facing towards her.

  Her muscles tightened with each passing second and she begged herself to relax. He’s your husband. This is what’s meant to happen. Perhaps once it did, all would come right between them. Please, please, God, let everything come right.

  She was grateful the light put out, so Liam couldn’t see her face to know how terrified she was one moment, the next wanting him to reach out. To make things right. Her heart yammered faster than one of them new electric sewing machines at the factory. But the bed that once seemed big as a boat, keeping her and Conor safe from the world, shrank now to a hard, claustrophobic canoe with no space to escape the smell of Liam’s asthma powder, his ointments or boozy Friday night breath. Don’t think like that; just let it happen natural-like.

  She barely breathed when a slight tug on her scalp told her he’d picked up a length of her hair and was running it through his fingers. In the gloom she could make out his hand held up against one cheek, like he was holding her hair to his face. Such tenderness made her want to reach out and cup her palm to his cheek. No. She wanted to put both her arms around him and squeeze away the great gulf grown between them.

  Suddenly the mattress groaned under the weight of movement. A rough hand pushed up her nightgown. A man’s body-weight shifted on top of her, leaving her winded and panting in painful gasps. Hands groped and squeezed her buttocks, her breasts, tugged through her hair.

  ‘Oh, lass, how I’ve missed you,’ he moaned in her ear.

  She couldn’t answer for a sudden thrust inside her, tearing through the dryness. She could only stifle sobs at the resultant pumping, gyrating against her softest flesh. Four, five times, before he collapsed on top of her as if spent.

  ‘I’m fucking useless in every way,’ he rasped bitter in her ear. Then, as if desperate, he began to pound into her again, hands grasping her shoulders roughly, with no break in the motion, not even when a wounded cry broke her lips.

  He rolled off her at last with a tormented sigh, one she couldn’t guess if aimed at her or himself. He moved to the opposite edge of the bed without a goodnight. The strike of a match brooked a moment’s hope he might talk to her at least, but the turn of his back snuffed out any such chance.

  She lay in the darkness testing her bruised lips with her fingers and nursing her tender breasts. Where were the long probing kisses, or gentle talk of his need of her like last time? Stupid, stupid girl, he doesn’t need to woo you. You’re his wife. She swallowed the sour fact. Even a dopey eejit should know the tiny spark in a girl’s heart needed a wee bit of fanning to get it going. Instead Liam had taken her with all the savagery of a rutting animal. Mindless of her beneath him, her shame or her disappointment.

  The act repeated every night for a week, both of them suffering, Liam determined to prove his manhood.

  Each afternoon when the shadows began to stretch across the backyard, anxiety took hold of Mary. And, as much as she might call herself a fool for thinking it, she believed she experienced a similar dread to that soldier in the bed with his screams of, ‘They’re coming.’

  Some days she rose with the rooster’s crow to scrub the back step or weed the vegetable garden in the pre-dawn light, anything to get herself out of the bedroom and out of the sex.

  She wondered if it was her imagination, the next time, how roughly Liam’s hands groped and squeezed, but would not shame herself to say. If only he could be a little gentle, a little kind, surely they might make things work between them. You just need to be patient, is all, like the doctor said. You’re his wife.

  Instead, as time went on, it more seemed Liam was mocking her. It hurt worse though when his derision was aimed at their son. He made fun of the lad’s efforts to dress himself and, when Conor wailed in protest, called him a sooky lad, though didn’t he always insist later he were only teasing the child?

  Even Pearl began to snipe within earshot. ‘If the man’s hand found itself empty of a beer bottle on occasion, he might find a civil tongue in his head. Else …’

  Mary pleaded with Liam to stop drinking in the house at least, but his bloody ears might’ve been shot off for all the notice he took.

  She worried watching Pearl’s face crease in anxiety each fortnight when she handed over the shillings for their board from Liam’s pension, knowing it wasn’t enough to keep the three of them, but all she could give, what with Liam’s medicines and grog ration. Many an evening she took over the cooking and on Mondays she lit the copper before Pearl woke up, anything so she could feel them less of a burden. She always knew when the purse strings strained, because Pearl would remind her, gently, of course, that they could only stay until Charlie came home. ‘A man’s home is his castle and two men together …’

  Mary guessed Charles couldn’t come home soon enough for Pearl, whereas she prayed, yes, for Charles’ safe return, but always for a little more time.

  Time to find somewhere to go; time for Liam to be well enough to find a job; time for the pair of them to find some love in their hearts to make the days and, God forgive her, the nights more tolerable.

  MERRY BLEEDING CHRISTMAS

  DECEMBER 1917

  Mary knew Pearl mourned another Christmas with no Charles home, a third year in a row, as much as she herself lamented not going to Wonthaggi to see Da and Maw – again. Her sisters would be unrecognisable at twelve and nine. She was missing their whole growing up; Kate was lousy at letter writing – Hannah at least sent her drawings. But there was no money for anything so extravagant as train tickets and, as much as she cursed her sin of pride, she still held out the hope that Liam would at least have a job before they showed their faces to their families.

  Personal misery faded against the bigger fear that the allies were losing the war. Newspapers reported not enough men enlisting. Even those fit of frame and mind to do so hung back now. The second conscription referendum had been defeated on the 20th, the vote going against Mr Hughes. Even diggers overseas voted ‘No’. Polar to last time.

  ‘What does he bloody expect, their mates put under, or bloody cannon fodder for the generals and Huns?’ Liam swore, rending the newssheet in half.

  Shortages, rife around the country, continued. Ill feelings remained over meat, wool and wheat, locked up in cool-stores and warehouses marked for Britain.

  ‘Never mind if us poor sods in the dominion go hungry,’ fretted Pearl. ‘We’ll all have to bring extra cheer to the Christmas table in the shape of our own good selves, because at this rate we’ll be feasting on dry bread and dripping.’

  ‘Oh, Pearl, how could you worry?’ Mary gasped on Christmas morning. ‘Look at the beautiful table you’ve laid. I told you we never had such fancy Christmas dinners in the rows.’ She rubbed her fingers over the delicate crochet of the snowy cloth, overlaid with Pearl’s best silverware. She marvelled at the candlesticks in brass holders, red ribbons tied into bows around their middles and the centrepiece of fresh ivy picked from the sideway twining around Pearl’s mama’s prized crystal crue
t set. The same set Mary had refused to carry from the sideboard last year, until Pearl waved away her protests.

  ‘It’s only a bit of crystal, love, not the King’s coronation crown.’

  Still, Mary knew it was special the way Pearl washed each piece so carefully, filling the little salt and pepper shakers and setting them back on the wee tray beside the matching mustard pot and miniature silver spoon.

  The previous afternoon she hadn’t dared breathe while she’d carried them to the table and set them down. She and Conor had made paper crowns out of gay wrapping paper from Pearl’s bits-and-bobs box and stuck names onto each. Seven settings: one for Pearl; one for Tom, joining them this year, with his family gone to visit his sister’s new babe in Queensland; one for herself; one for Liam and one for Conor; plus two extra special places set – one for Charles Williams’ return and one to remember Nate.

  She grimaced noticing Tom’s crown more elaborate than some others, but really it was only because the green was Conor’s favourite and there no more to it than that.

  She fussed over each setting, teasing a sideplate a smidge across, straightening a knife here, a fork there, wanting everything to be perfect. The table sparkled with the good glasses and it wouldn’t have mattered to her if the plates were served empty to look upon such an extravagant sight when all was done and ready.

  She could hardly drag herself away to help with the cooking or suffer the airless kitchen, the oven baking more than the bird, the pudding boiler on the stove heating the small kitchen beyond stifling.

  ‘Don’t you lift that lid again, my girl, unless you want your pudding a soggy mess with custard on the side and the cook a puddle on the floor,’ said Pearl, waving her away from the range a third time.

  Mary ducked Pearl’s teasing hands, gobbed up with bread stuffing for the bird. A bit on the scrawny side, but they were lucky to have it at all. The newspaper reported hundreds of the poor creatures had died in their crates on the railway station platforms during the week gone, expiring in the heatwave Pearl swore would see them all out after seven straight days over ninety.

  And after Pearl insisting no gifts, the woman had gone all out knitting little singlets and sewing flannel rompers for Conor’s Santy stocking. Mary couldn’t believe the palest blue, striped cambric suit lying on her bed, made over by Pearl on the sly. ‘Put it on, love. Wear it for dinner, but watch out; it’ll heat your husband’s juices and he’ll want to eat you instead.’

  Tears pricked Mary’s eyes at Pearl’s generosity and she was thankful Pearl believed her tears all about the gift. She didn’t want to wear anything to heat her husband’s juices. She had her suspicions it wasn’t only the heat overcoming herself the past few days and making her lightheaded. Her heart hung heavy thinking her belly soon would too. Please God, don’t give me another wean yet. Not until my husband loves me again, or, more to the point, I can love him.

  ‘What are you doing out here all on your own?’

  Uncommon drowsy – Mary hoped only with a food-full belly – she opened her eyes and smiled up at Tom standing beside her. Her back rested against the wicker settee, her legs stretched out across the seat. At a small shove from his foot she swung them aside to make room for him to sit down beside her. The afternoon breeze beginning to blow cool on her face a blessed relief.

  Tom sat down in the companionable silence. Pearl was in her room napping, Conor alongside her. Liam had taken himself out directly after lunch without so much as ‘I’m going’. Mary could’ve dozed off but shrugged herself awake, happy to have Tom’s company since she saw sweet little of him these days.

  ‘I’m enjoying the peace, is all. What are you doing?’ Her eyes closed again and she felt, rather than saw, Tom’s gentle fingertips push aside a damp curl fallen over her eyes.

  ‘I didn’t buy you a gift, Mary, not a real one, but I came across something I thought you might like.’

  Her eyes flew open to Tom holding out a small package, wrapped in gaily hand-painted paper and tied with string. ‘Oh, it is a real present,’ she said, jigging in excitement. ‘Wrapped up and all, I mean.’

  ‘Call it what you like. It’s not much, but Merry Christmas to you, Mary.’ He kissed her on her forehead.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Tom. But I didn’t get you anything. Pearl said we weren’t to give gifts. Then everybody does the opposite. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’ She pouted a moment, before taking the parcel and turning it over in her hands – squeezing the hard, rectangular shape beneath her fingers.

  ‘Well, go on; open it.’

  ‘It’s near as exciting to look at.’ She grinned.

  ‘You’re mad, woman.’ Tom rolled his eyes. ‘It’s nothing grand. Go on; bloody open it.’

  Mary peeked up at him, shy now. ‘Okay, here I go.’ She took her time over the tiny knots and untying the string before she pulled the flaps of paper away and let the wrapping drop to the cement step beside her. ‘Oh, Tom. A book.’ She yelped with pleasure, turning over the cover of the small hardbound volume – The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling stamped in gold letters on the opposite side.

  In her excitement, she reached up and kissed Tom a smacker on the lips. ‘Thank you, I know this one. I read it back in school. I don’t even need illustrations to imagine it in my mind. That means the writer is pretty good, don’t you think?’

  ‘Hmm, yes, Kipling is considered “good”,’ Tom said, smiling. ‘I remember you said you liked it and I happened across this copy and thought of you.’

  Mary couldn’t be sure if it was the effects of the beer or the excitement of the day, but Tom seemed a little flushed. Or … was he embarrassed? She turned over the book’s bent cover and loved it more than a rich man’s first edition. Of course, she’d treasure it like a holy bible. Sorry, Lord, not quite as much as that, but you know what I mean.

  On the inside front page, she read the inscription in finely wrought copperplate:

  For Mary, who should one day have a house full of books, fondly yours, Tom Robbins.

  ‘Oh, Tom, it’s the best present I ever got. Thank you.’

  He was so close beside her, she could’ve kissed him again, but the screen door behind them clicked shut as if a ghost had stepped inside. Then Liam began hawking up a cough in the kitchen. She stuffed the book inside her apron pocket. ‘I’ll read it tonight,’ she promised, pulling herself to her feet. ‘And you can borrow it anytime you like.’

  Tom was on his feet already. ‘It’s only a book, woman. No need to get excited. I’d better go and see if Pearl’s awake again and get on my way.’

  Mary grinned, waving him off on the far side of the screen door, but she stalled, delaying the moment she’d have to go inside. Only one thing could have made the day more perfect – if Maw and Da and her sisters had been there with them. Perhaps next year the war would end and everything would be easier. She sighed. How long had they all been saying that? Maybe the war wasn’t ever going to end until both sides ran out of troops and food, and wool for their clothes, and then they might as well all give up and climb into the hole.

  She shivered, wondering where such misery thoughts sprang from of late.

  When Liam started to cough again and the cutlery drawer slammed shut in the kitchen, she called through the screen door, ‘Are you okay?’ She couldn’t hear any answer, if there was one, over Conor running down the hallway blowing his tin trumpet, a present from Tom, loud enough to herald the King.

  She counted the chimes of the clock striking four and supposed she should go and see if Liam was sickening for something, especially after all the heat and the sudden change in the weather. He was better than a bleeding barometer. His leg ached when it was going to rain. His chest played up when the weather turned dry. His frequent headaches needed nothing to start them off, but sent him out walking often. Not that walking brought him any relief or quieted the noise in his head, so he said.

  She braced herself before stepping into the kitchen, Liam swatting a mosquito that hard on
the window with a newspaper like he didn’t care if he broke the glass.

  ‘You’re back quick.’

  ‘Just going again now,’ Liam said, striking a match and lighting his fag. He blew out the smoke, then snatched his hat off the table. ‘Merry bleeding Christmas, Mary. Hope you liked your present.’

  ‘What … ?’ She called after him, but he was gone. Moody beggar. She rubbed her hand tiredly across her forehead, and picking the boiler up off the table, she carried it and the pudding cloth out to the washhouse. She scrapped the last of the flour crust from the rag into the compost bucket and turned on the tap over the concrete sink to fill the pot with water to soak the cloth.

  She tripped on something jutting out from down beside the trough – a slash of red and pink and green stalks. She bent to pull out a huge bunch of mangled pink geraniums tied with a red ribbon.

  ‘Someone’s lucky getting flowers.’

  Mary turned.

  Pearl stood in the doorway, Conor in her arms.

  ‘I don’t know where they came from. They were poked down in the gap there like a bunch of old rubbish.’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Oliver will tell you in top voice when she sees her geraniums have suffered such a pruning,’ Pearl said, peering over the top of her spectacles. ‘This looks familiar too,’ she said, flicking the ends of red ribbon tied around the stems with drips of candle wax dried on.

  Mary followed Pearl back into the kitchen and glanced across to the candlesticks on the window ledge, only one wearing its red sash now. Oh, God, Liam! Why didn’t you just give me the bloody flowers? Why’d you have to go and dump them like so much garbage as if something’s got up your nose – again?

  Her hand went to the pocket of her pinafore. Jings, did he see her kiss Tom? Aw, so what? It was only a thank you for a present. And Tom almost family. Oh, who are you fooling? She didn’t dare show her hands, in case Pearl saw them shaking. Sometimes she could strangle Liam. He behaved worse than an eejit with no brains under his hair, for sure. She didn’t know whether to be cross or glad he hadn’t gone out drinking like she’d assumed. Only now, she didn’t know whether to put the flowers in a jar or throw them in the compost. Either way, she’d pick the wrong thing.