Gwennie's Girl Page 17
She wrote to Sam who wrote a couple of times a week and telephoned often, but on a winter’s night they came again, the memories that had lain hidden under her happiness. In the refuge that she had created with silken carpets and soft cushions against hurting, in the little apartment that held her safe and warm, where she lived and laughed and loved, they slithered out, those memories and nightmares and terrors. Like a devil’s kaleidoscope, she saw the fragments form and shatter and reform over and over and over again. She saw that other self, the frightened woman who was a teacher and a wife and full of fear. She saw the angry woman haunted by the laughing loving ghosts of the two other women who had abandoned her. She saw that other Lizzie, came face to face with herself and watched the ebb and flow of her life as it had once been—or as it had seemed to be.
She was so safe in Geneva. In what other city could a woman today walk in darkness without the fear of attack? Once she locked the door of the apartment, she could even sleep safe. No need to try to stay alert, no need to resist deep sleeping, no need to sleep under siege. With all the blinds open, she could walk around the apartment without even putting the lights on because her building was the highest and she was on the top floor. If she heard a noise at night, she may just wonder what it was—a bird on the roof? A neighbour closing a door? The lift rising or falling? There was no contraction of her muscles, no pulling herself awake ready to protect herself. If she could. No smothering her own screams. If she could. If she could.
She was in a single bed in the guestroom of her home in Australia. She had left the marital bed a long, long time ago. She had woken herself with a scream, and now another was growing in her head and in her throat. She had woken from a dream of evil. Never before had she dreamed such a dream. In it, she wandered through a white brick room with heavy, dark wood beams and doors and hazy fixtures. She was afraid but didn’t know what it was that she feared.
Behind you. Turn. Nothing there. Turn again. Quickly. Where? Who is there? What is there? Turn. Catch it. There is a smell of something frightening. She can smell it. She can sense it. What? Who? Turn. Turn again, quickly. Her skin is shrinking. Her muscles are tight, tight knots. The smell. There is something putrid. She gags. Her chest won’t work. The breath won’t come. There is something here. Her skin is shrieking. Her muscles are tight, tight knots. Her chest won’t work. The smell. The putrid smell.
She begins to scream. She can hear the screaming. The walls are coming in on her. Coming closer. Turn to see what is behind her. Nothing. Turn again. She can still hear the screaming. The screaming is her fear, a fear that is engulfing her. She feels the evil coming closer. Yes. That’s what it is. It is evil. She can smell it. Her skin can feel it. Where is it? Behind her, around her. It is squeezing into her, invading her skin. She feels it. She smells it. The fear is inside her. She can’t control it. The fear. The fear. The evil of that fear.
Then she is lifted. She sees her body flying in faster and faster circles, out of control, out of control, out of control. She is battered against the dark, rotting the wood. Around and around and around in the ever decreasing space. She sees her body being battered. Feels the flying, the force of it. Out of control. She screams and screams and screams until she loses breath. Can’t breathe. There is a hand across her mouth. She is awake but her fear is still there. It is standing over her stopping her breath—and her screams. ‘You stupid, bloody bitch. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.’
In the darkness, she sees his figure, and she knows another fear. She has woken him and brought him into the room. Now, she will pay. Now she will be punished. But I didn’t mean to scream. I didn’t mean to wake you. Please. I’m sorry. Please, don’t let him start. Please. Please, not anymore. It hurts. It hurts and I hate it. I’m sorry I screamed. I didn’t mean to scream. I’m sorry. Don’t. Please, don’t. Please. ‘I’ll teach you, you bitch. I’ll teach you. Shut your mouth. Shut it. Shut it now or I’ll shut it for you, forever.’ I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t. Please stop, please stop, Please stop, Please stop, please. ’You bitch. I’ll teach you. You won’t sleep with me but you’ll call me in here. I’ll teach you, you fucking bitch. I’ll teach you. Shut up. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.’
Why? Why did I scream? I didn’t mean to scream. Please someone, make him stop. Please. Please. Please make him stop. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. ‘You bitch. You smart-mouthed fucking bitch. I’ll teach you. I’ll teach you. I’ll teach you. Oh yes! Oh, yes! Oh-I’ll teach you—you—you—fucking—bitch.’ Done. Roll off.
Instinctively, her hand went to her face as if to touch the blood and the bruises. Nothing. She was whole. She was safe in Geneva in her own apartment, and no one would do that to her ever again. She sat very still and waited for her breathing to settle, her pulse to calm, her muscles to relax. She was warm and safe, and it would never happen again.
Slowly, she sat back against the softness of the cushion. Slowly, she stretched her feet onto the silkiness of the carpet. Slowly she unclenched her fists. Slowly. Safely. Safely, girl. You are OK. You are OK. You are OK.
She ran a bath with lots of lavender-scented bubbles, wallowed in the calmness and the sweetness of the perfume. She was OK. She went to bed and slept, badly, exhausted from remembered fear.
But the memories still intruded next morning. She saw herself of that other time push the students’ books away from her and watch the corners dog-ear as they met the untidy piles at the back of the desk. She remembered the fear and frustration of those other thoughts. That earlier consciousness took over again and again as she had known she had to sort it all out. Later, she had thought. When she had finished this lot. She had better finish soon. All of it. The whole bloody lot. The thoughts came again. Teasing through the air, they flirted past nostrils and ears, played evocatively in her head behind the eyes closed fast against them. The seduction of nothingness. She saw the picture.
It pulled its legs up, knees against the chest. It folded its hands under its cheek and lay still. The twisted and smoothed root lay before its face. It made no noise, but seemed to be growing into the earth, drawing the soft flesh of its body into a contact so close that the movements of pulse and breathing were inhibited.
The Inheritors by William Golding was a beautiful expression of the vulnerability of innocence. Well she was no longer innocent so was she therefore no longer vulnerable? Mothers and wives are the stanchions of community. Stanchions cannot be vulnerable. Therefore, they could not be innocent. Therefore, the community rested on a lack of innocence. What crap she talked sometimes. No wonder she hated teaching “clear thinking”. She had never been good at it. She was always more influenced by those dreadful “emotive” articles than by coldly logical statistics and dull, sound syllogisms. She would never admit it, of course, at least, not in class. How seditious to teach emotions and instinct before reason and discipline. Forget the themes, allegory, the symbolism and all that intellectual stuff. See the tinsel in a pure, primitive pool, revel in a moon that races through clouds but stays in one place and feel affection for food. Wallow in darkness that curls in black tendrils about you; desire, need, be satisfied, be gentle. Or be dead. Mothers and wives don’t have that option. Put it away. Finish this study guide. ‘The Inheritors—We are what our forebears were. Discuss.’ Disgusting is more like it. That, of course, was what the man thought of Gwennie and Nanna. So many battles, so many useless, unnecessary battles in that house, and it was not just the physical battles she had lost.
She had won the fire though. It wasn’t electric, or gas, or oil, or convenient, or easy-to-clean. Stretching herself back in the chair, she had looked across to the glowing fire and been pleased there were still some good things in the world. The walls of the fireplace had been white, rough stone and as the sun was disappearing over the far hill, their walls glowed pink with its final smile. Each evening, she watched that transformation and was delighted. The copper disks she had brought from Greece and arranged above the flames of the fire pleased her too. This was symmetry t
hat delighted her eye as they challenged the intensity of the fire’s embers, glinting and gleaming with their own inner flame that had come from out of the depths of the earth itself. They had been bought in a small village and she liked to imagine the dark man who once mined the metal from Persephone’s winter quarters. Not bad winter quarters at that.
Pity Mum had never seen this place finished. What strength she had had left had all been spent on her own new little nest, her own house. At the age of fifty-one, Gwennie had finally had her own house, and then she died. There were funny rules in this game. A good mother couldn’t just choose to die, but a good mother who didn’t choose, who didn’t want to die, who wanted to live because at last she could see some hope of real love and happiness—that mother died. Bloody hell, if there were a pattern somewhere it must have been created by a man-god. Back then, Lizzie had heard the man’s car. Speak of the Devil. Oops, sorry. A mere slip of the metaphorical tongue, so don’t take it personally.
The man she had once been in the habit of thinking of as civilised had become a violent stranger, and he was turning her into someone she did not like. She had behaved stupidly, all that screaming, swearing and searching for words that could hurt. Why had she not just walked? It was surprising how savage she felt. Killing or hurting were so abhorrent to her intellectual being, to all her natural instincts, yet in her impotent rage she could almost have killed. The violence had been taking her over. She heard it in the throb of her pulse. She saw it reflected in the shock in his eyes. She trembled with it in her guts. She could kill if she let go. She could kill something as weak, as puny, as ineffectual as that man. It was really strange. She would even have understood killing in defence against something stronger, but she was surprised to think her rage could be so savage against one who was really so unworthy.
It wasn’t as if she even needed him in any practical way or loved him in any way. He had once been company and been there. There was nothing else. Never had been. How often had she joked about women who stared at the ceiling and thought of England? She had never admitted to anyone that she had never known the full joy of being with a man while she was married. What was the price of virginity and chastity? Married in white and had never strayed since despite having chosen someone with no desire to please. What a fool. Faithful to a man who gave her nothing for all those years and then tried to use her as a bargaining chip in an exchange. He did not have the guts to walk away—and neither did she. Lizzie was certainly Gwennie’s girl in many ways, and there was no genetic link with Nanna but sometimes she remembered those stories of Nanna’s anger. No one bullied Nanna.
Well, she had told herself she did not have much choice. Until Ahmed (don’t think about Ahmed) no one had made her an offer. She had salved her pride by saying that was because she appeared to be happily married. Perhaps she was frigid. Perhaps men could tell that. So why did she feel so frustrated? Why did she sometimes ache for a caress, a touch that would recognise her? Why did she catch herself looking at men with strong bodies and even wake at night with the memory of a dream and a passing acquaintance still on her skin?
Damn them all. Damn them all to hell. She wasn’t frigid. She had just settled for a comfortable life. A comfortable life? What a joke. No more dreams. Goodbye to Walt Whitman and his stallions and sailing sealing vessels to Iceland. Settle down. Time passed. The anger had exhausted itself slowly. It had faded. So had the dreams. Then the woman dreamt of a time when she had been able to dream. It was over. No more dreams. No special love. No one to recognise her with a touch. The hopes had just slipped away. She lived without them but she didn’t like it. Somewhere there was still resentment that she had never really experienced love or life. It wasn’t fair. The potential had been there. She could have loved. The ache remained. The only dream was an attempt to dream how Gwennie would make it all just a story.
I woke up this morning and put on the usual mask. I adjusted the mouth so that it was neither grinning nor sneering nor sullen. There that should be right. Now the eyes. Mustn’t glitter strangely. Mustn’t be glazed. Are you on drugs? That constant fear of his. Clean teeth. It would be shameful if they were false. Open the pores. Clean the skin. You don’t want aging acne, do you? I don’t want baby acne or middle-aged acne or senile acne either. Can pimples get the pension? Perhaps they get that dreaded forties-spread. Or even—shut up. Fix your face.
There. A wholesome, ordinary housewife. That should delight any ordinary husband because ordinary was a basic requirement. I wonder. Down the stairs through the hall—that amber glass looks like translucent crap—down into the conversation pit, up out of the conversation pit, into the silent noise of the kitchen. The electric jug is beginning to gurgle. Silly fool, what’s so funny about a plug up your bum and power shooting through you? Anything for a thrill, I suppose, but we are using you, Jug. I’m using you, Jug. The toaster squeals as the bread is dropped in. Some fun, huh? Toasting, roasting, scorching, burning. You little devil, you.
The paper scurries as those hands crease it and drag down its spine to press it into a convenient shape. Still everything is silent. The paper is dropped. It has served its purpose. The masks are in place now. Yes, she has done a similar job on her mouth, her eyes, the cheeks. That sure is a beauty. She almost looks human. Well, start the tape and say something, wifey dear, let’s pretend like a real family.
Good morning
Good morning
Did you sleep well?
Yes, thank you.
Did you sleep well?
Yes, thank you.
Have some breakfast.
I’ll have some breakfast.
It’s a lovely day.
A lovely day.
Have a good day, dear.
Have a good day.
We do get along well. It’s just like TV and TV is real. Reality matters. We all have to face it, can’t live in a dream world. That’s what he says, and he should know, that’s what he says. It’s a bit like being infallible. How do I know you’re infallible? Because I’m infallible and I’m telling you so. That’s how he talks when he’s wearing his God-face. It looks funny with tracksuit, joggers and grey, flaccid flesh, but still it’s his favourite at this time of day. At any time of the day. That’s because he’s old. He says that he isn’t, that he’s fitter than I am, in the prime of his life. He’s older, of course, but not old. Experienced, wise, in control. He can make things. Like me. He made me. Made me as I am now. With my help because I let him make me what I have become. Together we did it. Somehow I don’t think that pleases him any more than it pleases me.
But I must look satisfied. One fingertip almost touches another and a crumb falls out into space. I can see half a kiss on the side of my cup. What happens to all the other halves? Pack them in mothballs at the bottom of a trunk, save them for a rainy day, wrap them in blue ribbon and sell them at the church bazaar? Well-formed half-kisses. Never been used. From a good family. Neat. Clean. Sterile even.
I can see clouds through those other eyes, some sneak out of the nostrils and mouth hole. I bet there is only cloud when he takes that face off, only mist and vagueness and a cold sticky fear. I’m getting frightened again. I’m losing control. That’s not allowed. It’s a deadly sin. Hold on. Bite a bullet. Don’t lose control. You must never be frightened. Straighten your mouth, set your jaw.
That was close. Start the tape and say something, Husband, dear. Please, husband dear; say something this morning. Find some real words to say, look this way and we’ll talk. I’ll be good. It’s all in place and I won’t let it slip again. That only happened once and anyone can make one mistake. I was scared. I didn’t know the rules. I didn’t understand about your friends and being a grown-up, keeping up appearances and being absolutely the same but just a bit better. I didn’t understand. That’s why I told you. That’s why I cried. I was scared. People don’t like people who’re scared. That’s what you told me. That’s why I cried.
The silence is getting noisier. He decapitates a friendly
brown egg. She used to draw smiling faces on eggs for little kids, then take the hat off and dig inside the head to take out all the goodness. Of course, it wasn’t cruel. Children were so fanciful. It’s only an egg. Why does it have a face? Why does it smile? They just didn’t understand about pretends. She ate the egg. Then she smashed the smile. Nobody noticed.
I smashed something else the other day and nobody noticed that either. I thought I had found someone who was real. Those eyes looked as if they knew I was in here. I wasn’t using anyone. What a strange thing to say. I don’t use people. I was only joking, Jug.
God-face, my husband, likes me to joke like he does. He doesn’t like me to cry or to let my face crack or fall. So, I never do that, not any more, not out there.
He’s finished the egg. It’s gone now. Forgotten. That’s sensible. He’s dragging a knife across the hot toast. Cut and slash, chomp and crunch. Boiling water on coffee beans. Melt and hiss. All gone. All gone. I’m going soon. Please talk to me, Husband. Say something real. Notice me smashing my head against this face. Help me not to be scared. There’ll be something there in that other place and I’ll like it. I will—when I do it.
You’re not going to speak. It’s over. You wipe your mouth with the paper napkin and screw it up. You drag the legs of the chair until they screech and you leave them. Exit god-face to the world. Now everything is quiet. By-pass the conversation pit. The amber glass prints out my reflection. Up the stairs. I suppose it’s still this morning. I’m not going to change the mask. It wouldn’t fool him anyway. I’m taking it off. Oh, help me, please! Be quiet. I am quiet. Now. Now. That’s it, that’s me. I’m scared. I don’t like this. I’m sorry. I’ll be good. I’ll be still. See, I’m hanging up the mask neatly. It’s naughty to sleep in the daytime. We work in the daytime or we play in the daytime or exercise in the daytime or relax in the daytime. Really it’s all the same. We pretend in the daytime. I’m not pretending. I’m going to sleep. Yes I am. I am going to sleep. I wonder when he will notice.